I’m sweating, and I really want the bathrooms. Legs are heavy. Brain is confused.

I just want to stop, you know. I want to stop that useless, meaningless hobby of mine, and start walking.

Why did I sign up for this again?

Why did I say yes, why did I train, why did I queue to pick my bib, why did I line up on the start line?

There is the adrenaline, the runner’s high, and that exhilarating feeling when you cross the line.

But that’s not all there is to it.

Oh, no. For every run I do, for every race I take part to, there is a fair part of suffering.

I’d sweat like a pig. I’d need to pee, or else. There are the days when my calves are tight, the days when my gluts don’t feel quite right. It’s too hot, or too cold, or it’s raining and I don’t see anything through my glasses. Chafing. Hangover. Lack of sleep. And I always look like crap.

I mean, no matter how much I prepare for it, I always look like a sweaty, wet, exhausted mess by the end of it.

What a shit way to spend your day off.

But today I crossed the line with Carla and Genny, and it struck me.

The dirt, the sweat, the poo talk, the misery of it all, a misery I chose – that’s exactly why I run, and why I’ll keep running.

In fact it comes down to a very simple thing. In a world obsessed by perfection, or its quest, it’s good to just run.

Move. Breathe. Sweat. Move some more. Cross a line.