Christmas Run

I approached Christmas with a new trepidation last year. I wasn’t concerned about Santa Claus leaving me no presents for my numerous misdeeds. I wasn’t concerned about getting the Norovirous (although some of my relations were struck down by this malicious disease). No, what worried me was the knowledge that I couldn’t let my marathon training slip and slide down into the abyss as I gorged myself on turkey, roast potatoes and Christmas pudding whilst swilling gallons of beer, wine and port.

Not only would I have to cut down my usual festive orgy of consumption… I’d also have to go for a run or two!

So I packed my new running trainers in the car and we all headed westwards for Wales and Christmas in the Brecon Beacons.

My parents (sorry Santa Claus!) were very generous and provided me with swish new running gear – luminous shirts, ankle length lycra and more trendy running socks. No more running in old t-shirts and knackered shorts for me. I now looked every inch the professional runner (well apart from… the mild hangover – I couldn’t resist. It’s Christmas for God’s sake!).

Thusly attired, I strode out into the Welsh drizzle with my trusty Irish Wolfhound Gilhoolie for a Christmas run. Surely, I thought, if things get bad my gigantic dog can at least drag me home.

Off we went, Gilly tugging at the lead as we jogged past bewildered sheep and pausing suspiciously at a cattle grid. Before long we were running alongside the old railway line towards the village of Hirwaun.

Mud splashed up and slapped me in the face. My new running shoes plunged into puddles deepened by incessant downpours and proved themselves to be thoroughly non-waterproof. At least the rain started to ease.

Before long I’d reached the village and turned back for home, filthy but going strong. The same could only be half said for Gilhoolie. The dog was completely filthy but utterly exhausted before we were even halfway back. The last mile we walked to save his strength.

He barely noticed the sheep on the way back and, after a hose-down, lay by the fire all day like a furry mattress, bothering no one and scarcely expressing his usual interest in stealing any morsel of food at table-height. It was not long before my parents were advocating I take Gilhoolie on more of my runs!