I am in that limbo between nearly moved and nearly homeless. My furniture is in storage, I still have a few bits to shift (plants, no-one wants to move big plants) but I am nearly there. I nearly have somewhere to go, but there is still a bit of paperwork and communicating between people who don’t see why they should. I feel like I am enticing shy woodland creatures (for which read solicitors and letting agents) out into the open to meet with each other and exchange hazelnuts. I really want to (very gently) hold their hands and lead them into the clearing, where they will find wonders. They just want to get on with their jobs, ignore my Disney metaphors and earn money. We will get there.
In the meantime, I have been running my routes for the ‘nearly-last’ time. Which is weirdly emotional. I have been here nearly seven years, and my regular routes (from 3 miles up to 20) are all engraved on my soul, more than any other part of the landscape (except my allotment). I have mental mile markers (the junction for 2 miles, layby at the top of the hill for 3 and so on) that have served me as measures of mental and physical fitness for years. Will I get that far, how will I feel, when was the last time I got that far, how long did it take, how did I feel last time.
None of this really fits into a running log, it is too marginal. Not really fitness, not really diary, not wholly running as so much of performance is a fusion of everything we are. But in retrospect, each run, each mile marker reached was indicative of everything that I was at the time.
And as a runner I will miss every inch of tarmac, pavement, track and trail that I have run while I lived here. Some days I will have resented every step, some days I will have fought for each step against apathy or tiredness or lack of training. Some days (like today) I will have desperately loved every step because I was sad and too full of energy.