I had intended this piece to be a nostalgic, romantic look back at how running has changed and shaped my life since I took up the hobby 10 years ago. Life, however, always seems to have different intentions.
Yesterday, about a kilometre into a planned 10km route around a gloriously sunny Stockport, I stacked it. It’s not the first time I’ve fallen over while running, and it won’t be the last, but this was perhaps my bloodiest to date. Maybe I shouldn’t have been out running at all; a couple of hours earlier I was locked in a ferocious internal debate about whether or not I was too tired or not to complete the distance.
This is pretty standard procedure for me before every run. I can’t be arsed to pull all the gear on, fill my water bottle, and select some sweets and snacks for when I inevitably stop to stare at a river, or some nice trees for a few minutes. Like with pretty much everything in my life it takes me a while to find the motivation, but once I’ve finally managed to convince myself I usually have a lovely time.
Unless, that is, my foot half-misses the kerb and I go from an upright, gentle pace to a crumpled heap on the floor in such a short space of time that I didn’t even have a moment to contemplate that I was falling over. Maybe, for once in my life, I should have paid more heed to that forever doubtful, internal voice. Maybe that’s a lesson learned for the next time I spark up the same discussion, but somehow I don’t think that’ll be the case. I love running, and I’ll keep doing it for as long as my body lets me.
I took up running 10 years ago. Over a decade I have run more than 3000 miles, some of them turgid and miserable, some of them among the most joyous moments I can remember. It all started not long after the 2014 FIFA World Cup when, after visiting my pal Leo’s house to watch a game, I borrowed one of his England shirts, which I pulled on just before kick off.
I’d recently turned 31, and my body was changing from that of a lithe, perennially skinny 20-something to that of a man reaching full adulthood who recently moved from retail to a cosy desk job. It meant that I no longer spent 12 hours a day on my feet, and by wearing that shirt I realised my fondness for beer and food had begun to catch up with me. Leo, one of my oldest friends and a keen ultra runner, suggested I nip down Sports Direct for a cheap pair of trainers, and get some fresh air. Fair enough, I remember thinking, it did seem like it was the easiest way to burn the maximum amount of calories in the least amount of time, so that’s exactly what I did.
I felt like an absolute plonker on my first run. Wearing running gear in working hours made me uncomfortable, like all eyes of those I passed on busy North London streets were watching every, painfully-slow stride. In my wisdom, I had also done absolutely no research on running before I started, so on my first run I decided to try and run five kilometres. I activated an app on my phone called Map My Run, and set off. My phone remained in my hand as I ran for several, excruciating minutes as I had nowhere to stow it. I had no idea what I was doing.
Nevertheless, I persisted, heading out once a week to have another go at 5km, and in a few weeks I noticed that breathing was a little easier, and my pace a little quicker. It wasn’t that I was totally unfit when I started running—I had been playing club cricket for the past few summers—I was merely naive. Soon I got the hang of it, and so began the masculine need to test myself.
First it was distance; trying to get to six, seven, eight kilometres, and eventually the magic 10. Then it was trying to run my first 5km under 30 minutes, which I failed at for years and gave up on, only to manage a few months later without actually putting what I considered to be any real extra effort in. After that, I started getting really into buying new trainers, and building a weekly training plan. Then I entered my first half-marathon.
Races have never done it for me. I find running to be such a personal thing, a chance to be outside and expend the copious nervous energy that stockpiles itself within my system. Not that I didn’t enjoy the ones I participated in, especially the Horsetooth Half in Fort Collins, which took place on a gloriously crisp Colorado day and ended with a pint of Fat Tire. But once I’d ticked a couple of halves off, and satisfied myself that I could run the distance, I didn’t seek greater challenges or distances. I had found my threshold, a place that tests me but I am comfortable to be within, by myself for a specific allotted amount of time. This is what running has become for me.
After the pandemic I even joined a running club for a while, which I loved. But the other runners were always doing it for reasons that, to me, felt like a box-ticking exercise. Another race, another time. The more and more I ran, the more this approach to the sport just didn’t do it for me. It was about that freedom of mind, to get sweaty and muddy and watch the seasons change year after year. It was about being outside.
So I’m back to running alone, no racing, no trying to run faster than before, but a lot more saying hello to particularly fine oak trees, or saluting every magpie I pass along my trails. It’s not even about my weight or my body any longer, it’s just about running. My scabby knee will heal, my pride will remain intact. I’ll soon be out running again, until I fall over. Again.