Skip to main content

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.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Inedible

"He says it's inedible" said my front of house manager, as she laid the half-eaten fish and chips in front of me, and instantly I relaxed.  Clearly, I observed, it was edible to some degree. I comped it, because I can't be arsed arguing the toss, and I want to make my front of house's lives as simple as possible. The haddock had been delivered that morning. The fryers had been cleaned that morning. The batter had been made that morning (and it's very good batter, ask me nicely and I'll give you the recipe some time). The fish and chips was identical to the other 27 portions I'd sent out on that lunch service, all of which had come back more or less hoovered up, we have have a (justified, if I do say so myself) very good reputation for our chips. But it was, apparently, "inedible". When it comes to complaints, less is more. If you use a hyperbolic word like that, I'll switch off, you've marked yourself as a rube, a chump, I'm not g...
Post a Comment
Read more

Chop chop

I was completely ignorant of the fuss over the edited Trump speech in an edition of Panorama until, one moment later, I wasn't. And the reasons for my ignorance are instructive. I had no idea that the story was even brewing until the surprise Sunday night news of the resignations of Tom Davie and Deborah Turness. As I'm sure you are by now aware, this was occasioned by a clumsy edit in an old edition of Panorama, which has already been on the iplayer for a year. It's a non-story. Except people decided to make it a story. The reason I'd heard nothing of it until the resignations was that I'm not on X, where, apparently, it was all the media classes had been talking about for a week. It was an obsession of the unholy right-wing trifecta of the Mail, Telegraph and Times (who, given that they sent a bloke just last week to interview the wrong Bill di Blasio, you'd think would wind their necks in over factual inacccuracy). It was big news on GB news, all self-contain...
Post a Comment
Read more

Creepy old men

I note, somewhat wearily, that creepy old men are back in the news, being creepy. Creepy old men, and their apologists and enablers, who argue that their creepiness is somehow the natural order of things. Old men would have you believe that it is difficult to not be a creepy old man. That it is a task of epic proportions. It is not that difficult. It is a matter of intention. As yet more of the grimness of Epstein unfolds, creepy old men are, sadly, a flaccid topic once again. Whether it be pursuing students thirty years their junior, or simply not asking too many questions about the background of the probably legal young woman who you've just been introduced to by your good pal Jeff. To be clear, I am not referring to criminal creepy old men, the ones who actually committed statutory rape, the ones who fucked trafficked hirls. That is not something which is allowed to get away merely with the contempt of the observer.  That deserves prison.  No , I'm referring to the hinterla...
Post a Comment
Read more