Too tired, probably. Too much beer and cider last night, probably.

I had planned out a 14mile route starting in Hyde Park, crossing the river, and then home across Blackfriars bridge. Decide to put this on hold and head out for the park again. 14 miles would be 12 laps-ish, plus getting there and back. I sometimes wonder if I miscount laps, so after some hunting around, I stick 12 little round stickers from some old wallchart to my bottle-belt buckle with the intention of peeling one off per lap. Prep, stretch, psyche up. Open the door, and it’s only bastard raining. Gloomy and miserable. I close the door and um and aah about doing it tomorrow morning. Weigh it up, and decide to go for it anyway, miserable conditions or not. Good idea? We’ll see. I’m not 100% sure I can make the distance, which probably helps ensure that I don’t.

The knees. The fucking knees. Start hurting after only three laps or so of the near-empty park. Damp and cold. Get stung by nettles where I’ve dumped my bottles. Sluggish. Flat. Grey. Five laps in, I push the knee supports down round my ankles; weirdly enough, my knees feel better. Are they doing anything? Helping? Not helping? I haven’t got a fucking clue anymore.

I limp home with six stickers left. 13k. 8 miles. Not enough. Not even close to enough. Ice my knees. Feel shitty and dejected. Drown sorrows, and seriously wonder whether I will be able to run this marathon or not.