Helen Croydon swapped partying hard for running hard and was pleased she did
Two Thursdays later, and I was perched on a wobbly wooden stool in a windowless room in an old schoolhouse in Hackney, east London, sipping a beer and eating a ham bagel, even though I felt sick and was shivering.
My body had gone into mild shock. I’d just done my first ever 10-mile run. We’d apparently run at a pace of 8.50-minute/ miles. Whatever that meant. I only knew that because I heard someone say as much as they studied their fancy sports watch.