Tonky Talk
H R
Paul is in the autumn of his running career
Alife in running involves different seasons – not just the annual ones, I’m talking about the whole journey. Spring is the beginning, the discovery of running. The sport is simple, life- enhancing and readily available. For most of us this segues into a glorious summer as we embrace improvement. We want to run faster, and realise that the more we run, the faster we get; and the faster we get, the more we want to run. This uncomplicated relationship between endeavour and reward propels us to hitherto unimagined feats: PBS, even longer distances. It’s intoxicating. We are recalibrating our reality. There are moments when we might think our summer will last forever –running will be a process of ever-increasing speed and constant improvement.
Alas, no. Autumn comes – farewell to pace, the shedding of an old identity and the forming of a new one. It is the season I am cresting. It will, I hope, be a time for experimentation, longer distances, adventure races, quirky events involving the drinking of alcohol, foreign trips. But for now, as has often been the case recently, I am engaged in a fairly tiresome process of recovery. The last year has been a saga of back problems and hernia complications, culminating in the operation I described last month ( possibly in a bit too much detail).
The advice for returning to running varied. Most experts prescribed caution and some cross-training. The general idea was about a month before proper running could be attempted. But 10 days in and I was struggling. Every day I’d gingerly walk the dogs as runners sailed by. It’s amazing how many runners you notice when you’re not one of them. The feeling was one of disconnection, of missing out on half my life. ‘ I’m not one of the walking people,’ I wanted to cry. ‘ I’m a runner. I run!’
I prowled the house like a moody wolf. The woods were calling me, but I couldn’t enter. Compounding my torment was the fact that working on my forthcoming book had sent me on a mission to find old running photos, in the
process of which I had unearthed dusty running diaries. The most bittersweet were from when I was about 19, back from university in the summer holidays. I wasn’t really running much at this stage but was still, it seems, shockingly fit. Here’s an entry: ‘7 miles easy with hills, middle mile in 5:35, felt good’. Two days later: ‘14.5 miles cross- country – smooth/finished strong’.
I don’t keep a diary now, but if I did, there would be few parallels. The only way I’m doing a 5:35 mile in the middle of a seven-miler now is if I happen upon zombies, and 14.5 miles cross-country would not be smooth. Of course, this was the height of my summer. The irony is that now, when I want to give it full beans, I can’t.
Two weeks after the operation, I crack. I have to run. It’s either that or go mad. So I venture out onto the Parkland Walk, a woodland path linking Finsbury Park with Highgate Woods. The area of the operation is tender and it feels weaker. That’s the thing with operations – you’ve been cut. You’re better, but you feel you’ll never be the same. It feels absurd that I’m going to run but, bracing myself, I do. Very short steps at first, stepping as softly as possible. No pace at all, I just need to move, wake myself up.
Runners pass me constantly. I’m off to the side, it’s like I’ve hit the wall in the marathon and am just plodding. I’m jogging for two minutes, walking for a bit and then off again. But I feel back, so back. Off the pace, certainly; tentative, yes, but my axis has tilted. I am running now. I have crossed back over – my body floods with relief.
From a distance I must look strange, an extremely slow middle-aged man jogging down the side of the path giggling to himself, close to tears.
This, I think, is autumn. Check out Paul and fellow comedian Rob Deering’s running podcast, Running Commentary – available on itunes and Acast. @Runcompod