A new season marks the end of the final burnout

When the universe sends you signs, like five burnouts, you should pay attention.

There is a story to this picture.

This morning I ran a 10k, which in itself is not amazing. I run 10k most mornings — I average five or six of those a week. But this morning I ran it much faster than the ones I was doing up until today, by which I mean, I was significantly below 7 minutes per kilometre.

My pace of 6’34” isn’t very impressive. Even at my best, I didn’t go much below 53 minutes for a 10k. Which I think I did once. Other than the 100-yard dash as a kid, I was never a fast runner. My regular running “standard” is to be able to run 10k under an hour without having to train for it. That’s the floor I don’t want to fall under. I want to be fit enough that I can just put on my running shoes and go run at that pace if I want to, at any time. In order to do that, my regular “running for fun” pace needs to be at 6’40” or under.

It’s something that had slipped away as I was going through a very difficult couple of years. Actually it was a fucking nightmare. I’ve been in burnout for the last 12-15 months. My fifth. You probably didn’t notice because among the things I learned during the previous ones (ages 19, 25, 30 and 42) is the importance of crying on the inside like a fucking champ. Because nobody cares.

If you want to prove me wrong, you can read more about the background in one of the two books I wrote about some of that nightmare — in French or in English. Yes, the rest of the story will get written, too.