When I was a kid there was a feature on Radio One called something like "True Confessions". It was hosted by one of those sloppy DJs - Tony Blackburn, Simon Mayo or someone - and it featured listeners writing in with stories from their past to make a public confession. The only one I can remember was a guy who, at college, had got fed up with an acquiantance who would always have long lie-ins, then copy the confessor's borrowed lecture notes and catch up. By the final year, the patience of the guy who was getting up each morning had worn thin, and he started to make deliberate mistakes in his notes. The sleep would duly copy them, did his revision from them, and actually failed his final exams. By this stage, the originator of the notes had left it so long that he couldn't say anything. The other guy then studied diliigently for his retakes, and failed again, working as he was from duff information. The final line of the story was that the job that this guy had ended up doing - the one who hated getting up early - was a postman.
I felt a bit like that on Sunday. I am notoriously fond of my sleep, and very hard to rouse in the mornings. At 6am Sunday I found myself stretching in the cool breeze, ready to begin a long run. Come to think of it, I used to be notoriously shy of any run of more than about 200m as well. The strange part is that I am loving it. Chapmans Peak on Sunday was a great example - nearly 20km, the second 5km of which is solely uphill, but the scenery, the weather, and the run is beautiful. It's also amazing how many other people are out there running or cycling at that time in the morning. The best part is, I don't feel too bad this morning, just a bit stiff. Probably a good thing since I am due to run for 70 minutes tomorrow.