Eventually, I arrived in Windsor proper. I saw the castle towering above the high street, looking all ancient and majestic. Tourists were taking photos of the guards. I, on the other hand, was taking photos of the nearest public bench. I collapsed onto it with the grace of a sack of potatoes.
An elderly lady walked past and gave me a sympathetic smile. “You alright, love?” she asked. I wheezed back, “Just… commuting… via feet.” She laughed and offered me a mint from her handbag. Royal hospitality, right there.
I checked my watch: 16 miles. Sixteen miles to accidentally run to a castle. That’s the distance you do when you’re training for a marathon, not when you’re just “going for a stretch.” I texted my partner: “I’m in Windsor. Don’t ask.” The reply came instantly: “You absolute madman. Need a lift?”
The Aftermath and the Lesson
I waited in a coffee shop for the lift, drinking a flat white like a Roman emperor after a conquest. My legs were shaking under the table. The barista asked if I’d been for a run. I said, “Yes, an accidental one.” He nodded like he understood. He probably did.
Driving home, I realized that accidental runs are the best kind of stories. You don’t plan them. They just happen, like finding a £10 note in an old coat or walking into a pub and recognizing the song playing on the jukebox. Pure, silly, everyday magic.
So, if you ever find yourself jogging and suddenly the castle appears on the horizon, don’t panic. You’ll smell the tourist shops, you’ll sweat through your shirt, and you’ll probably buy a weirdly expensive sandwich. But you’ll also have a story to tell. Just remember to charge your phone. And bring a mint. You never know who you’ll meet.
Until next Saturday, when I’ll probably accidentally run to Slough. Don’t judge me.
