I like running, and I like coffee (I also like many other things, but for the purposes of this blog, I thought I'd focus on these two). So I'll be writing about good cups of coffee, along with good (and the odd bad) runs.
I ran about five miles this morning, through air that was cold as death, its tiny pinpricks cutting into my exposed skin. In my years of running I've developed various irrational rituals - as such, I eschew tights, preferring to run in tiny, cut-away shorts because my knees seem to turn around better when they're not warm and encased. I realise this practise is contrary to what most runners do and believe, but it works for me.
Running in London in the winter makes you feel a little like you're a member of some exclusive club. The majority of those foolish enough to venture into the cold and dark on a rainy weekday morning will be training for the London marathon, while the rest of us are just addicted enough that we have to get our fix, whatever the conditions. As I pound the pavements, the cobwebs of drowsiness sometimes envelop me further, so that running through the dark streets, my thoughts meandering as my legs obediently turn, feels a little like sleep-walking (sleep-running?)...
