The plan for Sunday's run was to do 14 miles at a very easy (low heart-rate) pace. Considering I did this very run at the end of August, and a half marathon at much faster pace just three weeks ago, it should have been fine.
Except, I guess we failed to take account of the 10 days I missed on behalf of my imperfect teeth and the fact that my legs had used that time to forget much of what they'd been taught.
By mile 8, I knew it was going to be tough; by mile 10 I was seriously plodding, and by mile 12, although I had plenty of breath left in me, everything between my knees and my hips had declared quitting time. It certainly wasn't a wall and I definitely didn't hit it: the good news was I was still able to make fairly painless progress once I walked and I was always confident that I could make it home, eventually. But it was my toughest run yet and worryingly bad.
Photo thanks: Robert Linder