I know, I know, I know.
On a scale of all the horrors and misery that 2020 has thrown at us, my own concerns are totally unimportant.
I fully realise how privileged I am to have a home, and food, and good health (touch wood) and that my children are safe and healthy (double touch wood) and gainfully employed.
Of course, I know all this. And I do not take my privileged situation lightly.
Still doesn’t stop me – selfishly – feeling mighty pissed off that My Big Plan for 2020 has been scuppered by this horrid virus.
For, dear reader, 2020 was SUPPOSED to be the year when I became an ultra runner.
August was SUPPOSED to be the month when I became an ultra runner.
This weekend was SUPPOSED to be the weekend when I became an ultra runner.
Thanks a ton, 2020.
Having got into the running game very late in life, realistically I don’t have the luxury of years ahead of me, during which I can train and consolidate in a leisurely fashion, before I progress to my next goal.
I’m not being morbid or anything – far from it – but I need to crack on with my life goals.
But Coronavirus put paid to this year’s goal.
I think it was the nice number – 2020 – that made me so optimistic that this was going to be a good year.
6 months ago to the day, I posted this on my Instagram feed
Then, rather coyly, I added:
Just think, 25 weeks ago and here we are – the world is a totally different place, with no end in sight to this terrible pandemic.
So, yes, as I said, my disappointment is insignificant in the greater scheme of things.
But I’m still fed up.
But I’m already planning on achieving my summer 2020 goal in summer 2021 – by which time we HAVE to have found a way to rein in this virus…surely…?