October belonged to a cold, not to failure

Back on the road today after a few days off, and it was gentle. So gentle, in fact, that between the extended strategic walks I found myself watching funny clips on my phone. Which tells you everything about the effort level. There were faint signs that I’ve been away a little — very faint, the ghost of rust rather than rust itself, not enough to make me stop and scratch — but mostly it was just an easy, pleasant 5km. A good way back.

And then the harder, honest part.

The Soweto half-marathon is coming up, and I’ve had to sit with two truths about it. The first is logistical: the date moved, and I can’t make the new one. The second is the one that stung a little: even if I could, I’m not ready for 21km right now. At this moment, 10km is my level. And I had quietly hoped — back when I sketched this all out — that I’d be standing at a half-marathon’s start line by now, ready.

So the old familiar voice piped up: you’ve lost fitness. You’ve slipped. You should be further along.

But that voice is wrong, and I want to write down why, so I remember it.

I didn’t lose fitness. I lost a month to a cold.

Those are completely different things. Lost fitness means the body went backwards — and mine didn’t; just last week I ran for over an hour. What actually happened is that October got eaten by a virus that put me on my back for two weeks and then needed careful easing out of. That’s not regression. That’s a training month, interrupted by something entirely outside my control, that I handled the only right way: by resting until I was well.

So I’m not “not ready for 21km because I’ve slipped.” I’m not ready for 21km yet, because a cold paused a build that was climbing toward it. The half-marathon isn’t lost. It’s delayed by a few weeks. And the race that actually matters is still eight months away, with all the runway I need to climb from ten, to fifteen, to twenty-one, and beyond — in good time.

Missing this Soweto costs me nothing toward the real goal. There will be other half-marathons, when I’m genuinely ready for the distance rather than forcing it onto a body still shaking off a virus.

October belonged to a cold. That’s all it was. November belongs to rebuilding, and I’m already back out here, watching silly videos on an easy run, exactly where a sensible man should be after being unwell.

Not behind. Just interrupted. There’s a difference, and I’m choosing to remember it.