I was lying in bed this morning, later than usual, listening to the 5 Live sports programme hosted by Gary Richardson. There’s something admirable about the way this grinning rotweiller elicits information from the unsuspecting.
His line-up today included the insufferable GIles Clarke, who’s just been elected chairman of the England and Wales Cricket Board. This ghastly fellow used to be one of my bosses when I worked in the wine business. He tried to get me sacked once for “fomenting rebellion on the shop floor”, after I’d organised a round robin letter, complaining about having our usual Christmas break reduced. I could tell a few tales about this man, but of course I’m far too ethical for that. While sober.
But it was another guest I wanted to mention — Paula Radcliffe. Despite writing one of the dullest books of all time, she remains a hero to me. Olympic glory looks destined to remain beyond her grasp, but the series of heroic, record-breaking big city marathons she ran through the early part of this decade, are enduring memories.
I have a particular affection for the gal. We ran the London Marathon together in 2002, as well as Chicago in October of that year. She then popped up at the Great North Run in 2003, the year I made it up there. By this time we were virtually on speaking terms. Indeed, I did once meet her briefly, at the Chicago Marathon post-race shindig. She looked as radiant as anyone who’d smashed the marathon world record just a few hours earlier would, and was in a sufficiently good mood to shake my hand and grin at me as I effusively congratulated her on behalf of a grateful British nation.
As a result, I’ve always had a Radcliffe spot that’s a little softer, I suspect, than most people’s Radcliffe spot. So anyway, when that delicate, little-girlish home counties’ accent appeared this morning, I took note, and tugged the duvet away from my left ear.
She’s returned to the running community after nearly two years, so we have even more in common than I first thought. Her excuse — having a baby — is arguably better than mine — having an attack of midlife inertia. Today she runs again in the Great North, and spoke of her excitement at getting back to road running. It was enough to force me out of bed, pull on my running gear and pop out for a modest 3.5 miles.
Such a paltry distance, particularly on a weekend, is nothing to feel elated about, but it’s a start. And it’s a start that I need. I’ve run just once in three weeks, and it’s time to get cranked up again. It wasn’t a great outing, but I expected that. Slightly more worrying is the left ankle twinge I’ve had since returning, but I’ll assume that was just a lazy summer’s farewell jibe.
Running has many reasons. I get a bit race-centric on this website sometimes. And yes, Boston, Almeria, Brighton, and Reading are all stageposts I have to prepare for, and reach. But there are plenty more enrichments available, and I need a couple right now. Most pressingly, I start a new job tomorrow, and need to relearn the art of thinking. It’s not something I’ve had much cause to do over the past year or so. A run each morning is like a Popeye can of spinach. It’s the miracle pill… the silver bullet… the fabled boot up the arse that sends you on your way, eyes blazing like torches. I need to get those daily headfuls of fresh ideas back.
Running is where you get ’em.
