Sore, finally

The day after the marathon I woke up proper sore but what a delight it is. Hobbling a bit, I made myself a coffee, reflecting on the Sunday.

Later, in the car, crossing the roads I ran, it seemed unreal that the marathon had taken place just here. I wondered if the crimp of gels or bottle caps would still be at the corners of swept footpaths – the telltale signs of a race.

Certainly the DNA of thousands of runners, our presence at a microscopic level remnants of a mass activity.