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If I was in World War II they'd call me Spitfire

I went for a run this evening. Granted, this in itself is not extraordinary; three and half miles, which for those of you whom completing a triathalon is a Saturday well spent, it is not a remarkable achievement, but I should point out that it was raining. Three-fifths of the way round I was flagging, but two things helped power me through: the first was The Prodigy, and the second was my burgeoning understanding of just how fortunate I was to be able to go out for a run at all. The use of our legs, and their innate ability to move at speed is something most us take for granted, and there is nothing inherently wrong in doing so: by and large we know of no other reality than one in which Two Legs are Good, and to spend time giving thanks for generic anatomical processes is, frankly, time that could be better spent. But occasionally it does no harm to take stock and this is precisely what I tried to do as I puffed my way around the the streets of Islington.

I once watched a documentary about three disabled gentleman who, with great difficulty, embarked upon a trip to Spain (to visit a specialist brothel, but let's gloss over that) and the one moment that has stuck with me since involved one of the men, now bound to a wheelchair after a freak accident left him paralysed from the waist down, sitting at the edge of the beach, saying that he missed simply being able to feel the sand beneath his feet. What a heart-wrenching sentiment it was, and one that made me determined not to take the use of my limbs as given. I did, naturally...until I was left unable to run myself. I love running. I have run on and off since I was sixteen when the discovery of this most basic sport very literally saved my sanity; sometimes I have run far, sometimes not...sometimes I couldn't shift myself from off the sofa, but on almost every occasion I have I was glad for it. Recently, however, my haemoglobin level fell from the "you-look-tired" percentile down the to the "how-are-you-standing-up?" range. The hospital only tests my blood levels monthly, and I had no idea it had fallen so low, having put the dizziness, shortness of breath, racing heart and unbelievable lethargy down to the simultaneous re-boot of both work and my Masters after the lengthy summer holiday. I tried to go for a run just once during this period: I made it round, just, but it felt like I had a fridge strapped to me back and I was so demoralised by my apparent lack of fitness that I couldn't bear to try again. In retrospect I'm relieved, because I can't confidently say I would have made it home again. With getting out of bed proving something of a challenge, running - let alone any form of exercise - was out of the question, which left me feeling a heady mixture of guilt, failure and loss as a result.

This is why tonight's run was so monumental. The hospital finally cottoned on to my falling haemoglobin and reinstated the medication they had stopped; I have gradually felt it increase over the past few weeks and tonight I was gratified to note just how far it must have risen. Running tonight felt phenomenal - truly fantastic. I could have run further, and I might have were it not for the need to get back in time for Homeland. That which precluded me from running was temporary, and easily rectifiable given time; I simply cannot fathom the awful tragedy of losing the use of any part of one's body on a permanent basis. I can't wait to put my newly bolstered haemoglobin level, not to mention my trainers, to good use and get back out there to pound the pavements. I feel very grateful tonight; living life on The List can be treacherous, but from time to time, for as long as it takes, I have the privilege of being able to run away, as fast as my legs will carry me.

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