I got up at 6.30am. I made it out before 7 am, just as it was getting light. It was cold. It was raining. There was no pretty sunrise. The streetlights went out as I ran underneath, making me feel like a refugee from a Dirk Gently novel. I managed about three miles (if I’d got up when I’d meant to get up, it would have been four). I was all wet, cold, and my nose was streaming like a running tap. Not dripping, streaming. Thank goodness for sleeves.
And all this for a random half marathon in December. Thing is, though, I quite enjoy it. In a masochistic sort of way.