I think I’ve been running from something for most of my life. Memories, shitty home town, relationships, reality…you name it. The move from the UK to Australia is testament to how far I will run!
Motherhood changed that. I had to focus on raising the two beans. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t hide.
Presented with Joseph’s diagnosis and the challenges and stresses it put on our family, I found myself with the urge to run again.
Of course, I couldn’t run away. So I did the next best thing. I took up triathlon.
When we moved here I joined a club and I set myself a serious goal.
The Murray Man. A long course triathlon. 1.9km swim, 80km bike, 21km run. Not for the faint-hearted.
I threw myself into the training. I had a PLAN.
I was happiest when I was out on the bike, running long or thrashing out laps in the pool. I was out of the house at 6am for pool sessions, then running during the day. On the weekends I was away for hours on the bike.
The Saint looked on. Supportive, but as time went on, concerned.
An iron infusion. My levels were so depleted there were negative numbers in red on the Doctors screen. Apparently, I am secretly Wonder Woman as I shouldn’t have been able to walk around, let alone anything else.
2 weeks later…
A simple case of road rash after being knocked off my bike. Which 5 days later was actually a fractured elbow.
4 weeks later…
A chipped talus.
Yes, Calamity Jane had ridden into town.
I was forced to stop.
My pause button was well and truly pressed.
The Universe had spoken.