Running in London is vastly different to running in the tiny island of Guernsey. Now, I’m not going to pretend I’m an advanced, marathon running pro. I run to keep fit, which means my willpower normally gives out on me come mile two and I just about manage to push on for an extra mile before I throw in the towel and vow never to run again. So, when moving to London I was excited to mix up my running regime and the prospect of city running with the beautiful parks, the exciting people and the fascinating scenery was enough to get me out of bed at 8am on a Monday (baring in mind I don’t have an actual job to go to which would most likely get me up before then).
The alarm sounds and off I pop out of bed, full of beans and full of promise. I was soon to embark on my first ever London run, the start of a shimmering and exciting running career in London and with a route planned, headband donned I was ready to set out onto Canary Wharf.
I immediately fell at the first hurdle. So frustrated by the road crossing process and blushing at being the only runner around I panicked and took a dreaded left tun instead of my planned route. It’s ok, I thought, there’s lots of people walking this way, I can’t be going that badly wrong. I continued on my merry way (the first mile is the only mile I get any decent pace) my next hurdle wasn’t far around the corner when I had two options, continue on in a direction I knew wasn’t the right one, or go back on myself. I opted for the former and found myself on the path less trodden in a maze of roadworks and shortly afterwards in an underground roundabout, I was committed now, I had to continue on… so after being spat out into the sunlight again I had completely lost my bearings and aimlessly trotted towards what I hoped was Canary Wharf. I passed a rustic abandoned car park, a homeless sleeping spot and an eerie looking alleyway and eventually I found myself in the centre I had been so desperate to find. The journey there was not quite the rolling cliff paths and sea views I was used to but I was happy to be away from the stink of piss.
That feeling of elation didn’t last long when I realised dodging rocks and cow pat in the road was quite the change from dodging rushing, angry looking commuters. They didn’t take too kindly to a brightly clad runner travelling against the tide. It’s no surprise I aborted my mission and headed back to the safety of my 16th floor apartment determined instead to scale the concrete stairs.
I gave up at the 9th floor, sought out the lift and enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Canary Wharf from my apartment balcony instead.
Until tomorrow bikini body.