I am a grown-up now so I can run at night. I like the coolness. There are not many people on the footpaths. Those I do pass are on their way to pubs and I smile to myself, because they are off to the pub to poison themselves whilst I am making myself fitter. I am dressed in black, not very visible in the darkness. But I don't care. I am not going to get run over unless a car actually mounts the pavement. I like being almost invisible. The shadow. Tonight I am heading out of town, towards Biddulph. It's uphill most of the way, but that is good because it means it's downhill all the way back.
It's cold, so run faster to get warm. And I begin composing an email in my head. It's to my friend who's a runner and its subject is running highs and lows. Running is a good time to write. When running I write my leaving speech for work, bitter or touching depending on my mood. While running along the canal I write stories, poems about running. I revise and plan conversations. When I next see Caroline I am going to ask after her dog. I have to plan small-talk. I write jokes to tell my colleagues. I script out positive interactions ahead of time. I devise new games to play with my kids. I plan lessons. I run through my to do list. I cross things off as I cross the road.
Running Highs and Lows
When I was a fat teenager, my dad taught me to run. I played rugby, he was a footballer but we both ran. I remember the trainers I had then, no cushioning just some hard-soled puma shoes. The laces were really long and I looped them right under the shoe, like I did with my rugby boots; maybe that gave them a little more grip on muddy days. I remember the soles had little circles on them, almost like suction cups. I imagined them gripping the dirt as I ran. Dad led me across the fields to the park. We ran across the park's drive and past the farm, then on out past the tennis club until it was time to turn back. And doing that again and again I found out that running flipped a switch inside and made me happy. I didn't know about endorphines then, I just knew how it felt to run like an animal.
My dad didn't run with me very often. Now I realise that he had found an easier way to flip the switch. Beer did the job more quickly and conveniently. So I ran alone. I had a walkman, it was still the early days and I was so proud of my Sony Walkman. It was a bulky thing, mainly white with a smoked window through which you could see the tape. I decorated it with a sticker from some schizophrenic charity I gave money to in the street. I did it to be cool, because I listened to The Who and I'd read the word in the sleeve notes to Quadrophenia.
The walkman had two swivelling things on the back. Each had a slot through which you passed a piece of grey webbing. This was then made secure around the waist with a plastic thing with two slots in it. I pulled it tightly, squeezing it into my chubby flesh. I headed out the door, a key tied to my laces (a trick my Dad taught me – I've never liked to carry anything when running). The walkman flapped against my hip. The tape wowed and fluttered. The Dolby B Noise Reduction system was on and there was no hiss. I turned up The Jesus and Mary Chain and ran. I moved the walkman round, onto my hip, into the small of my back. As my stride altered there were different positions that worked best. I had entered a new era of running. I didn't know about associating and disassociating. I just knew I had to slip out of the door and run to the park. Then I would feel better.
Are all runners masochists?
Running highs. Just going around the park and feeling that it was my place. I run to make a relationship with a landscape, to take possession. I own this. I belong here. The muddy side of the field, the grand approach to the lake, the gravel track, parts that few people visit, birds, dog walkers. This is my place. That feeling of power as I approach home. I had never read a book on running. I didn't know about LSD or fartlek. I just ran like an animal. A wolf, loping along, prepared to do this for hours if necessary, marking his territory, circling the boundaries.
Once an alsatian bit me on the backside. I didn't care.
Running lows. I don't remember the first time I had to poo when out on a run. The running motion encourages it down. At first you think it'll be okay and you can wait until you get home. Sometimes I've made myself wait, forced to slow to a walk, rediscovering the meaning of “desperate”. The sensation is unlike any other. Mixed in with the extreme discomfort is a note of panic – will I be able to keep it in? You can experiment with different ways of coping: to clench up tight or to relax almost to the point where it's coming. Neither option is a solution. It's better to evacuate on the move. It's not a big deal. Find somewhere out of sight. Squat down. Find a nice leaf. Now run, it's easier now you've got rid of that excess weight.
After my dad died, I carried on running. I remember the first time I ran after getting back from that holiday. I was back in my place – the Biddulph Valley way. The dismantled train-track I'd been running on for eight years. But now something was different. And being here with him dead reminded me that everything is impermanent. Just being here in this place, able to run and commune with these trees, these contours of earth, that's a gift. U2's One came on my MP3 player. Bono sang: “Have you come here to play Jesus to the lepers in your head”. Yes, that's why I come here. And I wept as he sang about love. But I kept running. Tears, sweat, what's the difference?
On holiday again. Again running to avoid something. Just don't want to be in the house tonight. Don't want to talk. I am not contactable, even when sitting in the same room. No signal. We cannot connect you at this time. Something somewhere is down. So I head out. It's getting late, 8pm. I am going to be out for two hours, I shout through into the living room. They look up from their copies of Harry Potter and nod. So off I go, into the twilight. And I am just running. This is what I do. Let the feet move you, switch off, look at the scenery. Music is good. I have got lots of Interpol on my player. Run for twenty minutes and have a few sips of homemade isotonic drink (High Juice cordial, water and a pinch of salt). Now I am on the beach, by the Nature Reserve. I keep going. Switch off to thought.
Much later, nearly ten o'clock. It's getting dark now, really dark. I come past the castle, lit up in the night. I'm tempted to run up and have a look at the ruins at night, but my route pulls me on. Down to the estuary, past the weir where the swans have gathered. And it's flat here. I'm tired. I've been out for a long time. My leg is sore where I have injured it, but I can't let that stop me. I've got the sea beside me. Spoonman comes on. Underworld. It takes me back. The other kind of twilight. Coming back from nightclubs in the dawn. 1993. Putting Dubnobasswithmyheadman on the stereo. Now I am not tired. I lengthen my stride. Shouldn't do that, but I don't mind the pain in my leg. I'm flying along on a new surge of energy. It's not over yet. Here I am running in the near-dark. I feel so good. Body is tingling with energy. I'm excited by this music, by the cool air on my body. This is it, this is why we come out here.
No-one needs to get taught to run. It's a no-brainer. You run towards things you like – that pretty lady. You run away from things that scare you – the monsters. You run on the spot with excitement. If you hate home you run away – although a bus is your best bet. Or maybe you just run away from home temporarily. For an hour, let's say. Come back, shower and feel much better.
Blink. Stand. You are in blinkstance. We have crashed out of the time-construct. Every song on your player is your favourite song. Listen! Hear things you never noticed before. Feel the crunch of snow underfoot, the gurgle of a stream mixed with the music. Run like an animal now and you may escape the shadow. Pass under a streetlamp and the shadow is strong – a solid shape with the big head because you are wearing a fleece hat. A dense shape because you are so heavy, indestructible. If a car struck me, it would shatter against me. I am the shadow. But then the shadow fades. You are moving beyond the reach of the sodium glare, into a void, into blinkstance. As you near the next light your shadow re-appears behind you and edges round, like some runner riding your slipstream before powering past. You have no surge in you that can beat the shadow. He always catches you, just have to pound him out again in the no-space between the street-lamps. Or in that tunnel which means you are out of town. It's dark under there, so dark you sometime wonder if someone might be silently lurking there. If no cars happen to be coming it's a little scary to enter that tunnel. But the shadow must have no fear. And you don't stop.
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As I mentioned in my last post, I have been re-reading Christopher McDougall's Born to Run. However, I also have Laura Hillenbrand's Unbroken on my Kindle and I have ended up spending more time over the last few days reading this. I haven't seen the film and I haven't finished reading the book yet (I've just got passed the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki). Considering that I have been reading books on running and war recently, this is possibly the ideal book for me at the moment. I enjoyed the description of Zamperini's early running career and the story of his ordeal in Japanese prison camps is absolutely riveting.
