I am still recovering from achilles strains, while all this week my chest has beeen layered in mucus.
The canal is busy with others running. My best guess is that several of the other joggers are preparing for London in 6 weeks’ time.
I cross hoardings advertising student housing (“Do you want to see my room?”); mocked-up postcards reporting their senders’ identikit glee from similiarly ticky tacky houses in Bermuda, Dublin … to which itinerary can now be added my own ex-red light district of inner North London.
I leave the house hoping to run for 60 minutes but my left ankle stiffens and I settle for a little more than half my planned miles.