Super Breathable Fibre....

... read a section on the specs of my brand new Asics that I picked up in the Jan sales. To be honest it wasn't something I really paid attention too at the time, I was more interested in correcting the quite horrifying overpronator running style that was played back to me after the shop assistant had recorded me on the treadmill.... that and obtaining the promised 20% discount. 'At £85 these'd wanna be able to blow me' I said to the advisor who barely stopped during his loving retelling of the sales spiel of his above-average priced shoes. Which is probably why I missed the part about 'keeping your feet cool'.

Fast forward 3 weeks to yesterday (Sunday!?!) morning at 7:45am and I was cleaning enough English mud from my trainers to send an Australian customs official into hyperventilation in anticipation of probably only my 3rd ever solo run. However I wasn't particularly dreading this one, as previously mentioned, this whole 'training regularly' thing has done wonders for my confidence, that coupled with knowing that the motivation of getting to my mates place (a 4 mile trot to Canary Wharf) in time for the cricket should be enough to see me through.

My major injury concern at the moment - and this will come as a surprise to those who I went to uni with who have an obsession with my right knee - is my left calf. It cramps up despite being well hydrated, twitches and tenses annoyingly whilst Im trying to get to sleep, strains when I'm charging up the stairs at the tube, and felt like somebody had drilled a whole in the bottom of it after Kinsey's Its a Knockout/Pikey Gladiators/Mudman Herefordshire Hot Pot Weekend. And sure, this was a little niggle as I set out, but it was a mere mosquito bite compared to the searing pain in my feet.

Barely over a mile in I was waiting to cross Homerton High street, and I'm sure I saw a smirk on the face of the driver of one the passing cars as he assessed the agony on my face. However taking into account that I thought I was just a pussy, throw in a keenness to never to see a repeat of my horror bleep-test result last weekend, and a healthy dollop of fear of stopping on the backstreets of Hackney, I forged on. As I navigated the few lingering crack addicts, it felt like each step was a fire-walking exercise gone wrong. My ipod packed in 3 minutes through the first song, so I could almost hear my feet screaming at me 'What the f*ck is happening here?!?!? What happened to all the f*cking lie-ins?!?!?'

Approaching Victoria Park about 2 miles in, I couldn't take it any longer and had to stop. A couple of well-placed swear-words (mostly starting with 'c') and I set off again. Each step producing grunts in the following formation 'nothing, very quiet, quiet, mid-level, loud, loud, loud, louder, louder, louder still, chewbacca, chewbacca extreme, mid-level, quiet...' - My grunts diminishing along with the feeling in my feet.

The oddness of my feet going numb and the possible dangers attached to this were quickly dismissed as all I could think of was the painless bliss I was in. Another mile down the road, with the HSBC building in sight, I'd regained my composure and hit a nice groove, allowing me to take in my surroundings and also ponder why I couldn't feel my feet. Drawing a blank, I forged on and seconds later the answer literally fell onto my nose. A solitary snow flake. Followed by a few more of its dandruffy friends. Had I checked the weather forecast? Nope. Turns out it was minus 1 and the super breathable fibre of my shoes were showing a major downside.

Another chapter to add to the 'things I would never have done' list. Up before the sun of a Sunday, of my own accord, and running in the snow.