On Double Whoppers and Bikram yoga

As I flew the final mile of my second marathon, through the vale of Dartmoor and into the finishing sprint on the green sward of the Newton Abbot race course, I was singing. I run with my ipod on shuffle; either this is pure laziness, or the alluring idea of chance made audible. The inner ear dj had thrown up All That Jazz, and I had the lightest heart as I soared down the hill through town with the memories of performing the opening number of Chicago, with the spotlight making the world a little blazing bubble around us and the world beyond nothing but inky stillness. It had been a good run for introspection; the field was small, and I was alone on the quiet country roads for most of the time. I thought of my scattered family, now strewn across Canada, New Zealand and South Africa, and the friends I've made in England, and what it is that I want to do with my life. The hours and the road streamed away. My target was to run the race in four hours and take twenty seven minutes off my first time. As I came into the stadium, the clock was taunting me at the end of the straight and as I crossed the line in four hours and forty nine seconds with my lungs in flames, I burst into tears. It was one of the peaks of my life. I felt so proud and fierce and vulnerable and elated.

And the Double Whopper at Burger King never tasted so good...

But now I sit typing with ice on my knee, paying a high price for a simple folly; ignoring good advice. I took two days off before going straight out to run again, and went to Bikram yoga almost daily. And now, nearly a month after the event, I am forced to realise I cannot force this amazing machine through too many hoops at once. Sometimes I must stop and listen, which is a thing I find harder to do than almost anything else.