By NATALIA HAWK
A couple of weeks ago, I made a decision that is starting to keep me awake at night.
I decided that I’m going to do a 9km run in September. A race with hundreds of other people. Across the Harbour Bridge.
A race that’s timed and everything.
Some of you might be sitting there reading this going, “What’s the big deal? I run 9km all the time. 9km is actually quite a short stroll for me, really.” To you people, I say: Leave me alone. Because when The Man Upstairs Or Whoever was handing out running genes, he skipped over me.
I am fabulous at snorkeling and I am also unbelievably excellent at memorising useless song lyrics. But running is on a different planet. I have dabbled with it many times – but I am to running what fish are to the Tour De France.
It is simply not meant to be.
But because I am impulsive, because I like signing up to things, because I think the Harbour Bridge is pretty, because I am a sucker for events that come with a free t-shirt, because I don’t have enough things to do in all the spare time I have between working full time and studying full time – I SIGNED UP FOR A 9KM RUN.
Hear that? It’s the sound of me heading into full-on panic mode.
I even started compiling a list of the ways I could get out of the running festival. Adult chicken pox seemed like a good excuse – everybody knows how serious that can be. I also had a parasite not so long ago, so maybe I could just resurrect the parasite for a weekend?