Last night was my work’s Christmas bash. No expense spared in this year of recession. To Wetherspoons in Inverness we went for cheap turkey and trimmings, and even cheaper drink.
Hence the reason I woke up this morning feeling considerably worse for wear. A run will sort me out, I reasoned. Fresh air, that’s what I need. Hangover runs are normally disastrous. How else is the human body meant to react to eight hours of abuse?
I headed along the Caledonian Canal and began up Craig Dunain, the 288m hill overlooking Inverness, waiting for my legs to wilt. I expected it to happen on a hill appropriately known as Vomit, the nastiest, steepest part of the ascent.
But something was wrong. I actually felt good. My senses may have been dulled by alcohol, but my legs moved almost effortlessly. There was no vomit on Vomit, and once at the top of this stretch, it’s not far to the masts on the summits. Easy.
Such is the perplexing nature of running. Drink yourself into oblivion and you’ll run a blinder. Live like a nun and you get to race day feeling like you’ve run a marathon in your sleep. Maybe Mo Farah should have had a couple of large drams before going to bed last night?