Tonky Talk Paul hopes running will take him back, even though he knows he’s been unfaithful

It’s easy to take running for granted. You get a glimpse of life without it when you get injured. Denied that daily jaunt, your mood quickly slips – colour fades, the default mode of existence becomes grouchy and forlorn. Running is my muse, my confidante, my best mate, my doctor. While running, I am lifted, in motion yet feeling strangely still. Postrun, I am buoyant, at peace, energised and relaxed. I love it so much and yet I’m starting to feel we’re in an abusive relationship. So I’d like to publicly apologise to running. And I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true – it’s not you, it’s me. Last week, I awoke hungover (nothing unusual in that), put on my kit and ran off into the morning. This particular run came at the end of a few days where I’d been overeating a bit. Lockdown life has left me with a chocolate habit. On nights without booze, the choc would take its place; on nights with booze, the choc would happen anyway. No worries; the run would sort me out, as it always does.

Just start slow, shake loose, get into the woods, run back, feel refreshed and ready for the day. So I start off very slowly. I feel chunky and ponderous, but there’s no problem; I’ll find my flow. This is the start of a hundred runs for me – by the end, I’ll be flying down the last mile, thinking of racing again.

But this time it doesn’t happen; I never get going. It’s that once-in-a- bluemoon run that fails to make me feel better. I’ve sweated a lot – that’s something – but I never found form. I transported myself over the ground, but never really ran.

It hits me that I’m simply asking too much of the run. For years, I have expected running to constantly save me and, on the whole, it has, but for this to work, for the relationship to meaningfully function, I have to start giving more back, honouring the run when I’m not running. We all know it’s good medicine but it cannot always be a miracle cure. It’s time to give something back.

Part of it is age. When you’re young, you can wake up hungover after sleeping on a pallet at a mate’s house, down a full breakfast and then run for an hour. This is a reality I no longer live in. I wonder whether, sometimes, I’ve overly embraced the slightly old-school, maverick notion of myself as a runner. The guy who doesn’t stretch, the fella who runs in the same trainers until they’re falling apart, who almost prides himself on how out of shape he can be and yet still run for an hour. The truth is, where has it left me? I’m overweight, slower than I have been for ages, I’m stiff all the time and constantly getting injured. Instead of just accepting this, why not try to change it? (Or at least take control of the things I can.) Sort out my niggly calf. Start some form of stretching programme. Plank. Drink less. Eat way better. Ditch the chocolate and stop acting like a child. Instead of asking running to constantly rescue me from my bad choices, how about meeting it halfway? Give more to get more. Set a new goal. Buy some new trainers. Engage.

I feel ready to do so. Somewhere in this lockdown, I’ve grown up, or, at least, I’m emerging from it knowing what’s really important: my family, mates, community, comedy. And running – it’s crucial.

Running, I’m asking for your forgiveness. I want a new relationship. I promise to listen more to what you’re telling me. You give me so much and I love you. Can we start again?