Paul takes a break

turned 51 recently. It’s a strange milestone. A friend said, ‘51 is a rubbish birthday. All it does is confirm that you really are over 50.’ He’s right. It all left me a feeling bit flat and compromised, on the slide. Vaguely old and stupid.

These feelings are exaggerated at the time of writing because, out of nowhere, I’ve gone 10 days without running. No excuses.

No injury. Just laziness.

It was the holiday that did it. Yes, I was one of those who dared to dream of foreign beaches and held steadfastly to that vision as quarantines spread. Greece had always seemed a safe bet, and so it proved.

In terms of running, I started off with decent intentions. First day at the villa, I woke early, slightly hungover, and immediately took to the rolling, empty roads of Paxos for a 30-minute loosener in the heat. It felt good, although it was boiling by 8am. The best window would be early evening, about 7pm, I reckoned.

But then the holiday took over and the rhythms of the days seemed to establish themselves – without the run. Morning was out. I’d wake up too late, the sun would be baking and, when push comes to shove, I’m no fan of real heat. I can do the British stuff, that non-confrontational mid-20s gentle glaze. I love to work up an honest sweat on a long, lazy summer run. But this heat was different, more of your mid-30s vibe – searing, dry rays that could scorch your skin in minutes. It’s one of life’s ironies, isn’t it? We go to the beach, but we don’t like sand. We go away for good weather, but we can’t stand the heat.

So I couldn’t run in the morning, and the afternoon was out of the question. I rarely even went outside. This left early evening, which had been the plan all along. But it just never materialised. The magic seven-till-eight running slot became the everyone-getting-ready-to-go-out slot, or the we’re-all-cooking-together slot. I never put on my trainers. You’d find me tucking into crisps, nursing a prosecco, gazing out at all the pinks and purples as the sun set, marvelling at the clear, smooth ocean, or taking in the aroma of oregano from the garden.

The holiday was doing its work. I was unwinding, sleeping loads, losing myself in bizarre dreams, napping constantly. I was feeling my way towards that profound reset that only a good break gives you. It’s bizarre that I needed a holiday after months of doing nothing, but it was obvious that I did. Maybe not running was part of the holiday? Maybe the running that had been so necessary during the previous months was not as necessary here? Maybe that, too, was something I needed to escape from?

At home, running is a release, a respite from the daily stress of life. Here, it felt a bit of a harsh endeavour to put myself through. So I didn’t bother. But by the end I found it nagging at me a bit.

There would be a reckoning, and it would be my first run back. The truth, I quickly realised upon my return home, is that running is not only a release for me; it’s also a spring, a platform. The hour in the woods is a physical and mental boost, but also the fuel I need to live the life I want to. If I want to do nothing, I don’t need it. But if I want to write and think and communicate in a way that’s more profound than the odd grunt towards a packet of crisps, running is as vital to me as ever.

So I set off, vaguely grumpy and portly, into the woods for a comeback run. Slow and stiff at first, lots of veering off route, stopping to stretch, shaking of the upper body. Towards the end, I was tired but feeling my way to some form of smoothness.

As I burst back through the door, I was making plans again. Order was returning. After a few months of no gigs and race cancellations, there are a few gigs in the calendar and a real, non-virtual race that seems to be still taking place.

I’m calculating now. Ten days off – it takes twice as long to get the fitness back you’ve lost. As luck would have it, my first race back is in 20 days’ time.