So, it's confirmed: I will be competing (or at least participating) in this year's Great North Run.
But why? Isn't that the sort of thing that runners do?
Well, yes, in truth the prospect of just over thirteen miles of solid jogging is not one that has often crossed my mind. I've jogged to catch a train from time to time. I remember running home from the pub one night while I was still at school, convinced my bladder would burst if I didn't reach a toilet before the clocks struck midnight. I once even sprinted around five-hundred yards from a car stuck in traffic to Charlton's football ground, so as not to miss the kick off (we lost three nil, so it possibly wasn't worth the effort). But "real" running? No. A bit of football, yes. Tennis, badminton, squash: maybe, now and again. But, it's not really for me, is real running.
So why now? Perhaps I could put it down to an odd dream I had while on holiday in Hong Kong a few weeks ago. In the dream, someone was asking me what the point was of what I'd done in the last year. How sanguine I was in response! You fool, I said. Can you not see I'm at the starting point of the Great North Run? I'm going to raise a thousand points for a charity and how's that for actually doing something constructive with my year? And then a pistol fired, and I started my ecstatic progress through throngs of happy, smiling fellow runners. The trees were blossoming, and an elegant late Autumn sun was rising up over the hills.
And then the cramp in my calf muscle woke me up.
It's not all down to a dream, of course (I had a dream last night that I was going out, actually romantically going out, with Jamie Theakston, but I don’t intend to follow that one up). It's more that when I woke up that morning in Hong Kong, it still seemed a good idea. It was a beautiful sunrise in that dream, and particularly lovely blossom. And, well, why not?
One good reason, the brain says: you haven't actually run thirteen miles before. Fair enough: until a few months ago, I hadn't in fact managed more than three in one "sitting".
But, the heart says (a glutton for punishment, apparently), there are a full six months in which to get fit. With a bit of training and discipline, your fitness will surely be of Olympian levels by October (darts is not an Olympic sport).
A second good reason, the brain says: of the people you've mentioned this idea to who actually know a bit about running, the response has been the same. A quiet, pensive sucking in of the cheeks. Pfft. Like a kettle in reverse. And then, "You do know it's quite hilly, don't you?" Of course I do, I lied (the first time) or muttered touchily (the times after that).
Hills shmills, the heart says.
Then the brain plays its trump card. The most obvious good reason, of course, is that you don't like running very much. And nor are you very good at it.
Ah, but you will like running once you actually run, the heart says. Once you don't get a stitch and sore legs after ten minutes. Once you don't sweat so much you look you've arranged and starred in your own, rather wrong, wet t-shirt competition every time you finish.
It's this thought – the one that I'll get better, that I'll feel better – that's the most alluring mantra, and it's one that I'll be sticking to for the time being.
The training will be starting in earnest very soon. Tonight, however, it's mental exercise all the way: burger and chips, a few pints of London Pride and a pub quiz. And this week I'll know Madonna's first UK number one…
But why? Isn't that the sort of thing that runners do?
Well, yes, in truth the prospect of just over thirteen miles of solid jogging is not one that has often crossed my mind. I've jogged to catch a train from time to time. I remember running home from the pub one night while I was still at school, convinced my bladder would burst if I didn't reach a toilet before the clocks struck midnight. I once even sprinted around five-hundred yards from a car stuck in traffic to Charlton's football ground, so as not to miss the kick off (we lost three nil, so it possibly wasn't worth the effort). But "real" running? No. A bit of football, yes. Tennis, badminton, squash: maybe, now and again. But, it's not really for me, is real running.
So why now? Perhaps I could put it down to an odd dream I had while on holiday in Hong Kong a few weeks ago. In the dream, someone was asking me what the point was of what I'd done in the last year. How sanguine I was in response! You fool, I said. Can you not see I'm at the starting point of the Great North Run? I'm going to raise a thousand points for a charity and how's that for actually doing something constructive with my year? And then a pistol fired, and I started my ecstatic progress through throngs of happy, smiling fellow runners. The trees were blossoming, and an elegant late Autumn sun was rising up over the hills.
And then the cramp in my calf muscle woke me up.
It's not all down to a dream, of course (I had a dream last night that I was going out, actually romantically going out, with Jamie Theakston, but I don’t intend to follow that one up). It's more that when I woke up that morning in Hong Kong, it still seemed a good idea. It was a beautiful sunrise in that dream, and particularly lovely blossom. And, well, why not?
One good reason, the brain says: you haven't actually run thirteen miles before. Fair enough: until a few months ago, I hadn't in fact managed more than three in one "sitting".
But, the heart says (a glutton for punishment, apparently), there are a full six months in which to get fit. With a bit of training and discipline, your fitness will surely be of Olympian levels by October (darts is not an Olympic sport).
A second good reason, the brain says: of the people you've mentioned this idea to who actually know a bit about running, the response has been the same. A quiet, pensive sucking in of the cheeks. Pfft. Like a kettle in reverse. And then, "You do know it's quite hilly, don't you?" Of course I do, I lied (the first time) or muttered touchily (the times after that).
Hills shmills, the heart says.
Then the brain plays its trump card. The most obvious good reason, of course, is that you don't like running very much. And nor are you very good at it.
Ah, but you will like running once you actually run, the heart says. Once you don't get a stitch and sore legs after ten minutes. Once you don't sweat so much you look you've arranged and starred in your own, rather wrong, wet t-shirt competition every time you finish.
It's this thought – the one that I'll get better, that I'll feel better – that's the most alluring mantra, and it's one that I'll be sticking to for the time being.
The training will be starting in earnest very soon. Tonight, however, it's mental exercise all the way: burger and chips, a few pints of London Pride and a pub quiz. And this week I'll know Madonna's first UK number one…
Next time: A poor literary metaphor comparing a long distance run to the futility of life (and perhaps a bad, running-based punning joke).
