The Blonde, The Brunette and Their Blisters
Amy’s running commentary around London.
PART 2
After an indulgent weekend in France, feasting on croissants and fine wines, it wasn’t just my conscience telling me to get active. My trainers had accompanied me to Paris, but remained sulkily in my bag for three days thanks to the exhausting heat. The normal ‘weekend run’ had been relegated in favour of holiday pursuits, and I found myself on Monday feeling the burn… heartburn. The brunette and me quickly hatched an ambitious plan to work off my European calories and compensate for the measly mileage of the last few days. The plan sounded simple enough… London Bridge to Greenwich and back … potentially impressive for a weekday and convenient for getting home afterwards.
We dumped our gear at the gym by the station and set off at a good pace, skipping along the north embankment, past the Tower of London, the cobbled streets of Wapping and the industrial maze of Millwall. Despite our practised technique of speeding through the more dubious territories of town – heads down, avoiding eye contact with passers-by, aggressive pounding of pavements and so on – the sun was going down more quickly than we liked. We sped through Greenwich Foot Tunnel, spurred on by the satisfying echo of our footsteps, but it was close to 8.30pm by the time we reached the Cutty Sark.
Panic.
We’d left work late, we’d left the gym late, and now we had 30 minutes in which to mission back to London Bridge before the gym locked its doors.The brunette (ever the optimist) believed it totally possible providing we ran a little quicker … until we passed a sign for London Bridge – 8 miles. We were not that quick … not with all those croissants slowing me down! As a compromise we decided to hop on a bus in the hopes it might take us within reach of our destination.
Bad decision.
The bus was a domestic service, seeming to visit every street in Canary Wharf . Dripping with sweat, successfully emptying an entire deck of fellow passengers, we assessed the level of damage should we fail to complete our mission. Hmmm, items in locker …shoes, clothes … so far, so good, plenty of reserves on that score … make-up …slightly more tricky, recent move to new office meant better lighting and possibility of scaring colleagues was worryingly high … mobiles … not ideal, although phone traffic had been disappointing of late, so being honest, it probably wasn’t as crucial as I made the brunette believe! … oh, and company laptop. Right, we needed to burn some rubber!
From the window of the bus we caught sight of Canada Water tube station shimmering in the distance. Mind started whirring… it was now 8.40pm with little time to spare. We abandoned the pedestrian bus, beeped through barriers and flew down escalators to the Jubilee Line and, congratulating ourselves on such inspired thinking, became engrossed in chatter, safe in the knowledge we would be cruising home in two stops. Several stops and many minutes later we were still trundling along. The night sky had replaced the underground tunnel and there was an unfamiliar feel to our surroundings. We were travelling in the wrong direction.
Panic.
Eventually (several escalators, carriages and jammed doors later) we pulled into London Bridge. The large digital clock read 8.59 and we sprinted through crowds of sleepy commuters, cramp burning through our legs, breathlessly reaching the gates of Fitness First as Big Ben started chiming the hour.
8.4 miles, 1hour 11 minutes, 587 calories.
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