Ready to run!
There’s that point, just after I’ve collected my race number, completed the contact details on the back to say ‘the other Akers way up front, he’ll wait for me, he always does’ and arrived at the start line that I find myself seriously questioning why on earth I want to run another race, at my age. I ask you.
Wiry, bald-headed men are whipping past me as they warm up, I’m convinced they’ve removed all visible hair to give them aerodynamic advantage. Even their shorts are like my grammar school gym knickers, skimpy and skin tight. They are serious runners, these guys.
I always make my way to the back, well, I might as well start as I mean to go on, and then remind myself that I’m here because I love it, I’m even paying for the privilege. And on this occasion, I’m expecting to be beaten…
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