It was one of those mornings.
You know the ones. The ones when you’re so soundly asleep that you build the sound of your alarm clock into your dream. When you pour fruit juice into your tea. When you get three yards down the road before realising that you’ve forgotten your cycling helmet, head back into the house, search high and low for it and then realise that you are in fact wearing it. When you realise half a mile into your run that the reason you’re hot is that you didn’t take off your long cycling layer and so are running in both tights and capris.
One of those mornings when you turn up at a parkrun and are instantly in the company of not one, not two, not three but eight parkrunning friends representing Fulham Palace, Wimbledon Common, Wormwood Scrubs, Reading and Basingstoke parkruns. When you discover yet more people who are signed up for your next marathon. When marathon pace feels easier than it did the last time you ran it. When the post parkrun cup of tea takes you up until half eleven. When you stand around and chat for another half an hour after that at the point from which you’re all heading off in different directions.
It was one of those mornings. Those mornings when parkrun rules.