Having walked the cliff path at level 3 - let me explain: one foot immediately in front of the other as if on a tightrope, wiggle your bum, arms at right angles to your sides propelling you forwards (or that's the theory) - we then had to walk up and along a length of road as a caterpillar (not sure if that's the right term) in single file. The person at the back had to overtake everyone else to get to the front. At which point he/she was to slow down - otherwise it would have become impossible for anyone to overtake.
So there I am, bringing up the rear, and it's my turn to overtake. 'Go at your own pace,' Jules says at various times over the walk and then, when I'm overtaking, he says, 'Nick's catching up with you, Liz! Don't let him beat you!'
My head says, 'I don't care if he overtakes me; I don't care if everyone overtakes me. In fact I'd be quite happy to be left behind.' But my ... hm, what is it? ... stupidity says, 'Mustn't let him go past me. Must run to front. Now!'
This week it was described as a running circuit along the promenade. One thing in its favour: it's flat. And that's about it. I managed, I think, to do four 60 second running bursts - not consecutively you understand - plus another four 60 seconds walking/jogging. I thought I was going to die.
So convinced was I that my thought process went thus:
I can't get enough breath in my lungs. I am going to collapse. Paul is here; he's a doctor. He is a gynaecologist but he probably knows enough to resuscitate me. Oh oh, I think I have wet myself. I had better not die tonight. It would be too embarrassing to die with wet pants. Keep working, lungs.
I should point out two things:
1) Only Husband is older than me in the group. Most of the others are young enough to be our children. Not to mention the fact that some of them do marathons, triathlons and other stupid things.
2) Husband said it's been forty years since he ran as much as he did last night; I have never run as much as I did last night.
P.S. It turns out I hadn't wet myself after all.