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The loneliness of the middle-aged distance runner

For reasons I don't entirely understand myself, I ran ten miles this morning.

Well, I say "ran", there were probably a few points were "shuffled" would be more the mot juste, but nevertheless, I put one foot in front of the other for ten sodding miles without stopping and walking. Walking would possibly have been quicker, but that, for reasons that again I don't understand, but obscurely feel to be God's honest truth, wasn't the point 

And Lord, isn't my body aware of it now. Most of the left side has checked out for the day, and obscure shooting pains and spasms occur when I least expect them. I am very much favouring my right side as I type this.

I should explain somewhat, this wasn't a spur of the moment decision. I didn't just get up and decide to run ten miles. I've always been a runner, of sorts, but realised earlier this year that I was deteriorating quite badly in terms of form, physique and motivation. A mile was a struggle.

So naturally, I signed up for a half marathon, then told a bunch of people about it so I have to do it or else I'd look like a right tit. Because that's what normal people do.

And now I'm eight weeks into a twelve week program, and today the program said I had to run ten miles, so today I ran ten miles. For fuck's sake.

The problem I had before was that life has a way of getting in the way, a recurring theme for this blog, I know, but no less true for that. There was always something else to do other than lace my trainers up, but a few miles here and there every week or so weren't adding up to much. Or, indeed, anything. I needed to motivate myself, give myself something to work towards. I know I work better to deadlines, so I set myself a doozy. So now, if it's Wednesday, it must be hill repeats.

Annoyingly, it's working.

You know how people tell you that if you stick at things you get better at them? But in your heart of hearts you imagine you can somehow achieve the desired result by carrying on much as before, maybe wishing a little harder? I regret to inform you that people were right, and your heart of hearts is a moron.

So yes, as it turns out, sticking to a strict training regimen delivers results, this has come as a nasty shock to me, a man whose entire approach to life thus far could generously be described as "making it up as I go along". But ten miles doesn't lie. Not a cat in hell's chance I could have done that a few weeks ago. And while I am undoubtedly wincing a bit when I walk this evening, on Monday I will go for a run, on Tuesday I'll go to the gym, on Wednesday it'll be hill repeats and so on, and so forth and  oh dear Lord, I'm boring myself. But it's working. I know think of four miles as a short run. I'm getting slightly faster (from, admittedly, a very slow base). God help me, it's bloody working. And I'm an idiot.

The point of this blog, remarkably, is not to show off. Nor is it to pat myself on the back, I'm painfully aware that I cut a less than impressive figure as I hobble round the lanes of rural West Lancashire. It's more to give myself a clip round the ear for not thinking of doing it this way a long time ago. 

Because one thing the long run does is give you time to think, God knows you need the distraction. As the miles pile up the mind ticks over. I am aware that some people run in a sociable manner, that, as currently stands, is not for me. It's quite nice to have a bit of silence. And in that silence a few thoughts start to intrude, such as hey, how come you didn't take this seriously before? And, by extension, maybe things wouldn't have gotten quite so out of hand if had, hey?

But regrets are pointless unless they teach you something, and it the risk of sounding too pollyannaish, mine have. The regimented nature of the training has translated into daily life, into work, I'm somehow, without quite knowing how, getting more done. More around the house, more at work, some of you may even have noticed that the blogs are becoming slightly less irregular. Even as I spend more time running I somehow, miraculously, have more free time for other things. I am not quite sure how this works, but it does. I'm functioning better, and somehow, it's the extra running that's done it. With every painful mile, I get a little bit quicker and maybe, just maybe, a little bit wiser?

Well, maybe not, but a bit more knackered, certainly, which can look like wisdom, if you squint hard enough.




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