I'm complete rubbish at maths. Especially when I run. So, while I intended on running 20 km yesterday evening, I did 30 instead. Oops! Oh well. It could happen to anyone.
I started by leaving the car a few kilometers away from the AIK meeting place and then tried to run there with a little detour over what strongly resembled the impact crater of a medium-sized meteorite. They are taking huge bites out of our beloved Vitberget, you see, to build expensive houses. Where there used to be dark corridors of pine and fir forest, there are now mud and tall fences and cranes and men in reflective gear working these premium lots until they look like every single other premium lot in the country. Our beloved white mountain is bleeding, its open wounds not only an eyesore but an ugly indication of where our society is headed.
Put off by the sight of dead trees thrown unceremoniously across what used to be a forest path, I tried to find other ways to get to my destination. More fences, more strict warnings of planned explosions in the area to level the ground from a mountain to an ant hill. I tried to concentrate on the podcast I was listening to. Managed to leave this so-called progress behind and get to a less civilised trail. The clock was ticking and I had to get to my running buddies.
The debate among us lasted all but a second: we would skip our usual Wednesday run on Vitberget and try Kraftloppet's route. Kraftloppet is an 11 or 20 km- trail race, and this year it is scheduled for this Saturday. No one seemed too keen on negotiating, or facing for that matter, a deeply scarred environment. So Kraftloppet's route it was.
Some of us did the 11 km-version, but most of us picked the longer one – myself included. That was when bad maths came into play. I had already run 6 km. My brain somehow succeeded in translating 11 + 6 km to a little over 10 km and decided the short route was way too short for my intentions, therefore I had to run the 20 km one, which would obviously bring me closer to my goal of running a total of 20 km. Yeah. I told you I was rubbish at this.
Hey, I'm good at other things. Like procrastinating, or pretending to be bad at maths so that I can run further than I had planned.
Not once during those couple of hours I spent running with these guys and girls through the woods did I regret my decision. Not once did I feel bored or tired. I did start recalculating how long my run would turn out to be and got it (almost) right this time (when it was – conveniently - too late to turn back), and then wondered briefly if my light, wholesome dinner consisting of a piece of nectarine pie and ice cream an hour earlier would suffice to see me through it. I skipped with energy, chatted away, looked forward to my watch showing those double digits that would make this a really long run instead of just an ordinary long run. Those double digits are, of course, completely arbitrary, as what a really long run is is vastly different from one person to another. I've had friends log ultra runs as distance dittos. I'm not quite there yet. Don't think I'll ever be.
I took an extra detour on the way back to the car, despite the fact that I suddenly felt really tired, as soon as I left my friends. Is it a little crazy to want to round up the numbers to that magical limit of 30 km? Then I'm bonkers. I may have been dropped on my head as a baby. I collapsed into the car with all the elegance of a drunken one-legged pirate. A really satisfied drunken one-legged pirate.