Tonky Talk Paul takes a new look at running from the sidelines
It’s easy to forget how purely sociable running is. I tend to do a lot of running alone; it’s as much an escape from others as anything, but recently, when I was injured, and at a parkrun purely as a spectator, I got a totally different perspective. When I’m racing a parkrun, it is not particularly a social activity; I’m locked in to rituals established from youth and these can isolate me from others. I arrive 30 minutes or so beforehand, have a little loosener jog on my own and stretch a bit, and all the time I’m trying to get my head into gear, thinking about how I want to run the race. I’m not uncommunicative, but chatting is not primarily what I’m there for. Because this is my approach I tend to view all others through a similar prism – everyone ahead of me is where I want to get to, so I assume everyone behind thinks the same about me. Not so, I’ve realised – most runners have little interest.
Loitering near the start line, I saw it for what it is for the majority: a Saturday morning catch-up, a chance to see mates, have a chat and a cup of coffee. They meet to participate in a mutually beneficial habit, divorced from any kind of competitive endeavour. I wondered if I could ever see it like that. Let’s face it, I’m on the cusp of never running faster again. When I turn up at the club on Tuesdays, there are very few people in their 60s who are competing hard. The possibility exists but I don’t know if my body’s going to hold. I’m already having to stretch before I get out of bed in the morning: calf lifts, core exercises and so on. All to fix my crumbling, fragile frame. Watching the crowd milling by the start, I suddenly felt as if I was seeing my own future. It looked like fun.
They seemed physically warmer, as well, which added to the vibe of relaxation. Quite simply, they were wearing more tracksuits, gloves and hats. I tend to go minimalist for every race, even in winter, which means I’m inevitably freezing. No wonder I’m a bit tense.
I trotted up the course about 300 metres or so to watch the field come round the first corner. There’s a uniformity to the leaders in running style and apparel.
They are focused, light, eyes straight ahead, their strides light and prancing. As the field tailed out, I saw more variety in every respect. No fixed gazes, no annoyance with fellow park users. A lot of music was evident, the odd dog or pram. Released from an overarching time pressure, they seemed to be having a much more enjoyable morning. One fellow had his morning paper with him; it was as if he’d been waylaid coming back from the shops. This isn’t to say there weren’t people having to focus on just getting round – 5K is not nothing – but the number of runners running side by side, chatting 10 to the dozen, was stunning. What have I been missing out on all these years?
In a day of general revelation, I also realised how much fun I was having by just watching, being around runners, whatever their speed. I found it immensely cheering, so maybe it’s the mad optimism of it, the slight eccentricity. All these runners on a Saturday morning, all over the country like a huge, mobile church.
I thought of all those people who just hang around running events and clubs. I get that now. Something happens in the process of watching. There’s a transference of some kind. We feel this as runners and spectators at huge events, obviously – the roar of the London Marathon as you emerge from Blackfriars tunnel – but it’s here also, in the runners making their way to the finish. It’s a symbiotic relationship, inspiring to witness and inspiring to be witnessed.
And then, the glorious aftermath! The relief, the laughter, more coffee and running home, still chatting, and off into the day. And to think this is all actually good for you – the running, the coffee, the chat. It’s almost absurd.
Is this the purest fun possible?
Paul’s new book, 26.2 Miles to Happiness: A Comedian’s Tale of Running, Red Wine and Redemption, is out on February 6
(Bloomsbury)