Today it all got a bit too much.
I headed out in full lycra, ready for a good nine-mile slog in my running shoes.
I skidded my way down to the riverside: the path was an ice rink.
I skidded my way back again and onto the main street: the path was a bumpy mess of slush, grit and thick, hard ice.
I went home.
For days there has been an energy raging around my veins, begging me to run or cycle. It's leaving me preoccupied and jittery, feeling almost like there is something wrong with me, almost like I'm addicted.
So today, I did the unthinkable; something that I swore I would never do: I went to the gym.
I got on the treadmill and started up. Only three minutes in and all I could think was "this is unbearable!"; there was no fresh air cooling my veins, the TV ahead of me was playing the most awful Saturday TV, and the music was pumping out so loud I couldn't even hear myself breathe. What's more, a little screen on the machine was telling me how many calories I was burning - almost insulting, I switched that off right away!
When I finished my 5.5 miles of running nowhere really quite fast, I felt nothing. No surge of joy, no aches in my muscles, no odd nausea, no will to carry on for a couple more miles.
I run to run away and come back again, I run to pause from life. I run in silence, to the pace of my breathing and my heart-rate, not to the beat of a drum. I want to ache when I get back, I want to feel slightly broken in the most wonderful way; so I can take care of my body and build myself up again. I don't run to burn calories or to spend energy. I don't run to improve my physique or to lose weight. I don't run because I should exercise for 30 minutes, 5 times a week.
Never have I loved running so much as I do now; I am more aware than ever of what I love about it. It's never a chore. When I go out for a run, I (usually) love every single step I take: it's not an enemy or even a challenge.
I will continue to wait impatiently for the snow to melt. That is all.