Several years ago – back when I was, if not precisely in my prime, at least substantially less old, fat, and mentally ill than my current shambolic state - I had the idea of running a marathon. In December. Along Liverpool’s windswept Docks. While praying the rosary non-stop, all the way round.
If that sounds a silly idea, just imagine how silly it felt 12 miles in, when the recurrent knee injury that had dogged my training kicked in with a vengeance. And how silly it felt as I limped painfully, step by agonizing step, for the next 14-odd miles. Oh yes, and how silly it felt when I spent several hours the next day in A&E.
