ILLUSTRATION:PIETARI^ POSTIunning remains a wonder to me. It is on my mind – sometimes
f luttering at the edges but other times bullying its way to the
front of the queue – and affecting my decisions from the time
I wake up to the moment I slide into bed, wondering if I should
run to work the following day. If so, get up earlier, walk dog,
skip breakfast, maybe drink a juice. Running does not govern
my life, but it has surely made itself very comfortable in it.
I wake at 7am, having left my kit out the night before. It’s
early, but I usually stir at 6.30, so I’m already too late to run to
work, shower, treat myself to breakfast (do your worst, bacon, I’ve been running)
and be at my desk on time. So I don’t. I do, however, run for the bus, when it
catches me unawares by careening around the corner earlier than expected. There
are few things so undignified in an adult as running for a bus, backpack swinging
wildly, as if it were trying to strike the wearer in the face. The pinwheeling arms
and high-kneed hysteria remind me of trying to get to school before the bell
stopped ringing. Oh, how that sudden colossal silence filled me with terror.
I find a seat on the upper deck, surprised I’m so breathless after a short sprint.
I curse my fast-twitch muscles, which sneer in response: Oh, so now you need us?
Look at the state of you! The woman beside you thinks you’re a wheezy weirdo.
Concerned by the impression I may be giving, I try to amusingly account for
myself. ‘Not as fit as I thought I was,’ I rasp wryly. The woman seems alarmed.
In the office, on the Shelf of Temptation, are treats galore, from Iceland (except
the liquorice sweets, which are a cruel and unusual punishment), Malta and
Japan. The RW team has been busy lately. I resist the desire for a 9.15am snack,
for I am strong, I am resolute and there are no crisps. Also, I have not run today
(so there can be no reward) and my running shoes are judging me from under my
desk. Later, I somehow accidentally kick one across the office.
At lunchtime, some members of the team go for a run, as they often do, and with
such good cheer. ‘Coming with us?’ one asks, to his – as ever – great amusement.WHAT JOHN...
Marvelled at...
...the runners
who came to the
aid of the guy
dressed as Big
Ben, who was
being blown
around the
course of the
Vitality Big
Half. The runner
dressed as a kite
has not been
seen for weeks...Finally read...
...Haruki
Murakami’s
memoir
What I Talk
about When
I Talk about
Running.
In it, he writes:
‘All I do is keep
on running in
my own cozy,
homemade void,
my own nostalgic
silence. And
this is a pretty
wonderful thing.’
I like that, but
I’m still not
reading 1Q84
(1,000 or so
pages).In other words...
BY JOHN CARROLLJohn Carroll tweets @jcarroll25I will not deny him his small joys; they
are all he has. But I do not run with
my co-workers, nor, to be clear, with
anyone else, except when I can’t help
it. And I can almost always help it.
‘I’m going to run home,’ I reply, the
unspoken suggestion being that, were
the case otherwise, I’d be happy to
join them. It is a crafty unspoken lie
and it works every time, I am sure. I
look out the window. The clouds are
moody and low, caught on the jagged
corners of the surrounding buildings,
unable to break free. But no rain is
falling and there is no wind. I will
definitely run home, a leisurely pace
along the Thames, and my fast-twitch
muscles can go to hell and hit every
broken step on the way down.
It begins to rain as soon as I step
outside and by the time I reach the
river it is falling steadily, though
lightly. Then, growing in confidence,
it falls harder, the drops ever heftier
and happily riding the recently arrived
headwind that’s blowing into my face.
‘Just think how virtuous you’ll feel if
you run home in the rain,’ a deluded
colleague had remarked just before
I left. I cannot imagine preferring to
be virtuously soaked than bone dry
and gleefully unscrupulous.
After four miles, and so saturated
that water sits on top of my clothes,
awaiting its turn, I put out my hand
for a bus. I sit down gingerly, to
minimise the squelching, and keep my
self-deprecating remarks to myself. At
home, I check the weather forecast for
the following morning. Dry and cloudy.
And so I pack my bag, leave out fresh
kit and reset my alarm.
Looking back on the day, I have to
conclude that running has insinuated
itself into most aspects of my life,
like a Soviet-era sleeper agent. And
tomorrow, at 6.30am, I will forget
the rain, the shame, the long hours
and the early starts. But I will not
forget the unfinished miles. And
that’s just the way running likes it.028 RUNNERSWORLD.COM/UK MAY 2019RUNNING IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN
YOU’RE BUSY MAKING OTHER PLANS
R