A few days ago, I felt the urge to blog, but inspiration eluded me like a tiny goblin hiding at the back of the sock drawer with a blanket over it’s head. Luckily for me, three shining musketeers of running and/or writing came hurtling to my rescue…
Mitch Hawkins is many things. A great writer, an amazing runner and a gentleman.
But he has a confession to make… An addiction to reveal…
I have a confession, dear reader.
I’m a drug addict.
I know this may come as a shock to you, but I feel it’s time to come clean.
I can handle it. I’m in control.
Admittedly, I dose up more often than I used to. When I first started, I only had to do it a couple of times a week, and to be honest at the time it made me feel awful. But the more I had it, the more pleasure I got. I managed to stabilise myself on three doses a week, and everything became calm and controlled. Some had noticed I was a regular user, but as I wasn’t hurting anyone and it seemed to be doing me some good, they didn’t say anything.
Before long, I found a support group for other users; we would congregate a couple of times in the week, and occasionally at weekends, to get our collective high. It was great, I finally didn’t feel alone. As I become more and more dependant, I realised that with the right kit I could really push my buttons in ways I’d never thought possible. Backstreet pedlars furnished me with the goods and I was away.
Things got really serious when I got a dealer* called Nick. I send him money and he fixes me up with some massive hits. He says I can handle it, but sometimes he feeds me twice a day. The methods of delivery are often fiendish both in their complexity or their simplicity. Some of them are quick hits, over in less than 45 minutes, leaving you breathless with ecstasy. Others are almost karma-sutra like in their length, prolonging the pleasure over many hours. Birthdays, Christmas, Holidays – it matters not, I still need my fix.
My ongoing search for ever greater highs has taken me all over the country and indeed the world. Wherever I go, I meet fellow addicts. They are easy to spot, one flash of the heel of their shoe, or the glint of their wristwatch is all it takes. We give each other a knowing look, safe in the knowledge that we understand the consequences of our addiction.
Of course, there are prices to pay for this addiction. I don’t talk to my friends much anymore, just other addicts. My clothes that I could safely described as ‘snug’ now hang off me. My family and friends have begun to comment (a bit too often) that I was changing.
“You’re wasting away” one would cry.
“Why are you doing it to yourself?” would ask another.
“You’ve been at it again, haven’t you?” my work colleagues would say, with a disapproving glance, as I slumped at my desk on a Monday morning, weary from another heavy weekend of indulgence.
But it’s okay, I can handle it.
My drug of choice?
That’s good shit, man **
*In no way am I implying that Nick my coach is a drug dealer, although whilst doing some if his sessions I’ve called him worse.
** As is the crack cocaine I’ve been taking at the same time. There is an argument that Endorphins are just a chemical name for smugness. Discuss.
Mitch tweets as @trainandscoff and his ace blog is www.trainandscoff.blogspot.com