Back in April/May 2023, I was doing so well. Running had just "clicked" with me. I was knocking out 10k runs without too much effort and setting my sights on doing the Malaga Half Marathon in 2023.

Sadly, it didn't last.

Over the Summer months, all fired up with my new ability to run reasonably long distances. I started training for the Marathon in earnest. Of course, I had no clue what I was doing. I just ran.

I figured I'd train for the run the same way I trained for long-distance cycling, which I did a lot of in my 40s: First build in distance, then work on pace.

I was doing OK. I regularly got 15k runs in the bank, and after a while started to increase the speed too. But pushing past 15k proved a problem. As soon as I tried to go further, things began to hurt.

My left hip was the first thing to decide I really was too old for this shit. It cried. Then so did I. My knees, which are usually the weak spot for stuff like this, had held up OK to this point. But once the hip started to whinge, not wanting to be left out, they soon joined in.

Every run became a grind. Running, which for all my life wasn't fun, but had recently started to be fun, was now not fun again. But me being me, not wanting to be beaten said "fuck this! I've never given up on anything, this isn't going to beat me".

And that's how it went for a few months. Anything over 15k hurt, but it was manageable until the pain stopped when I stopped running.

Around September, it got so bad that I had to lay off almost all exercise for nearly a month. And when I got back out, the pain didn't wait until 15k was in the bank. It appeared almost immediately. But I, foolishly, kept going until around November.

The Marathon was now just weeks away, and by now doing 10k was proving challenging. How the hell am I going to double that and a bit more in four weeks? Well, I wasn't, was I? It was obvious to anyone there was no way this was going to happen.

By mid-November, with a buggered left hip and a box full of new running shoes that I was convinced were going to fix things (they didn't), I accepted reality and concluded I really am too old for this shit.

It wasn't the blow I thought it was. By now, I really wasn't enjoying running. I'd got into the frame of mind that every run had to be better than the last. Even if I couldn't build in some distance, I could at least increase the pace. Running had become a chore.

So, I pulled out of the Malaga Marathon 2023. Gutted, but not as gutted as I thought I'd be.

A few days later, I decided to go for a run. But this time, I wasn't training. I was running for fun. How far and fast no longer mattered (it never really did, except in my head). And just like that, I was loving running again, just like I did back in April when the whole Marathon idea occurred.

I'm now back to running two or three times a week, generally around 6-7k, with a comfortable pace about halfway between my fastest and slowest speeds. My hip is still buggered, but I'm old, so that's a given.

Anyway, Malaga 2024... Hmmmm. Nah!