When I decided that running 5000 miles was something I wanted to do, it was because it was the most exciting thing I could ever imagine. The thought of combining all the things I love about travelling with all the things I love about running and all the things I love about home and England was just insane. It was going to be fun and great and all the good kinds of hard.
Over the past few weeks though, I’ve let the Jesus-Christ-I-am-so-petrified thoughts take over. People keep asking me about the run and, depending which day they catch me, they either get a vague and unenthused grunt or a ramble about how scared I am.
And I am scared, that’s not a lie. But I’m scared because I’m so excited and because this trip has gone from a bit of fun to something that means a lot to me. I’m scared because I can’t quite believe that I actually get to go and do this thing and, more than that, that people seem to actually be interested in hearing about it. That’s kind of overwhelming.
I am excited though, I promise. I spent the weekend at Yestival, the Say Yes More festival. Having that much inspiration in one field was bound to be quite intense, and it was, but it was the best possible place to go when you’re feeling a bit unsure about life and about yourself.
I got home on Sunday night, covered in hay and smelling like bonfire, realised I ached all over and fell straight into bed for eleven hours. And when I woke up yesterday morning, everything felt a little bit brighter. This isn’t some terrible ordeal I’ve been forced into – this is an adventure, a bit weird, kind of pointless and hopefully completely magical, and I need to stop forgetting that.
Five days to go and I’m excited again, good and proper excited. I’ll save any more gloomy rambles for when I’m 300 miles in, freezing cold and covered in blisters.