The last few attempts at running have been a little difficult, and I must admit to have been getting a bit dispirited by this whole 5k thing. That race that seemed so very far away is now looming closer and closer, and I am still being overtaken by people taking their dogs for a walk.
Last night, I had a dream about the race and it was a bit of a revelation. I thought these kind of dreams only happened to religious types, but there you have it.
I turned up on race day, nervous about all the people that would be there, but they were still setting up. Turns out I was really early. I was so early, in fact, I got to pick the number I would wear for the race. 8 people had been assigned, but I said I wanted 13.
I chose 13?? I mean, I can’t say I suffer from triskaidekaphobia, but I don’t normally go about actively seeking out the number.
There I was, warming up and bouncing around ready for the race, and I realise that the whole thing is being organised by Jennifer from The Archers. She was panicking about not having any biscuits for the end of the race, and I was trying to tell her that it probably wasn’t a good idea to serve biscuits anyway, you should probably serve something healthy, like carrots.
She told me to shush and to go to the newsagents over the road for her to pick up a packet of Bourbons. I did this, and the guy behind the counter in the newsagents took so long that I missed the start of the race. I was just jogging across to the start line when I woke up.
I have no idea what it all means but I’m going to interpret it as thus:
Do not give up, because even if it all goes horribly wrong, you can blame The Archers. Or the biscuits.