There is no interval programme, as far as I know, where you run as fast as possible for 3 minutes, then you walk a bit and then repeat 4 more times. So I invented it. I put on my new bright pink Kinvara (why? Why do they have to be pink?) and my girly girl running skirt (because it's warm enough for me to show off my pasty white legs) and walked with J to the woods.
There, I immediately shot off into the distance, like a light-footed doe or a muscular cheetah. 10 seconds later I was knackered. I glanced at my Garmin. Really? I have to keep this speed up for another 2 minutes 50 seconds? I eased up a bit. I mean, I didn't even have a clue how fast I was supposed to be running. I'd never run intervals before! Didn't make a difference, anyway; my breathing was already raspy, my heart already looking for the nearest escape route.
Predictably, my ”interval” times dropped more and more the further I ran, until I reached a point where my thoughts went something like this:
Screw this. Might as well jog the rest.
Jog? In this heat? How about a nice stroll back home? Where you can enjoy a cold glass of rosé on your sun-baked balcony?
Oops, runner approaching. Look fierce. You're a cheetah. Be the cheetah. Grrr.
And that's when I experienced the notorious taste of blood in my mouth for the first time.
I saw this little fella earlier today. I love hedgehogs. Love them. They're so fluffy and cuddly. Unfortunately he didn't seem too healthy, just lying there curled up on the pavement until I happened to walk by, whereupon he slowly crawled into the bushes. I read later that they can get poisoned by the stuff people leave out to get rid of snails. What a horrible fate.