Life is good. Life is great.
Seven-thirty this morning. I’m in the kitchen, dressed athletically. Eight scoops, nah, let’s make it ten, of Sainsbury’s Finest Columbian. I’ve work to do when I get back.
What a morning. One of those last desperate throws of the summer dice. We know the game’s up, but how nice to go out like this. The sun is high and warm, but balanced on that crisp autumnal edge, I give you, lay-deez ‘n’ gennelm’n, the very very perfect day for the race. Yep, the human race. I know, I know, you heard that here before. Indulge me, please…
On my way out, I visit the small pond. Earlier, through the kitchen window, I thought I’d noticed a mild pondal kerfuffle starring one of those fat, monochrome flying items. I heartily dislike magpies. I spent almost my entire life bidding them good morning, as programmed, but then a couple of years ago, ralised they are nothing but ugly garden pests. None for joy and two for sorrow, three today and four tomorrow.
And where are my seven plumpening goldfish? These sociable, innocent creatures are always visible, but now I see none. Hang on, I see a single, solitary splash of vivid orange on the bottom of the pond. Utterly still. And no sign of the other six.
Oh.
I wait a couple of minutes, but nothing happens. So I prod the weeds. Nothing still. It’s like flicking through the channels and seeing the same test card on every one. Oh god. I’ve been expecting magpie trouble all my life, and here it is at last.
So a sombre start to the run.
Things brighten as I plod past the primary school, beneath the outstretched arms of the horse chestnut tree. A gust of wind arrives at the same time as I do, and a small branch drops at my feet, spilling its shiny brown gems. I stoop to conker-collect. How lovely these objects are. Objects? More like pieces of furniture. On I pant, rolling this mahogany beauty round my fingers as I go. There must be some use for the lovely, oily smoothness of the conker, surely?
How things have changed since I was a kid. Those branches would have been stripped bare long before now. I asked a teacher recently if kids were still allowed conker fights at school. “Oh yes”, she explained. “As long as they wear goggles…”
It’s my 4th run in 6 days, and the inconvenience feels bloody wonderful. But you have to run to understand that.
I started a new job this week, and already I know it’s been a great move for me. It’s not a good idea to talk work on the web, so I won’t go into detail. But let’s just say it’s like being released from prison. It’s like having some intellectual straitjacket cut off, just moments before the wilt would have turned fatal. My creativity and dignity have been locked in a box for more than a year — and they just busted out. Suddenly, I’m in control of my own life again. It’s Andy Dufresne all over again…
No one’s mentioned their track du jour (TdJ) recently, so let me revive this fine tradition. Indeed, typically, I won’t stop at a delicate half glass, but will invert the bottle and let the rich wine flood forth. Sorry for the mess boys, but this is blood gushing from the wound of a wasted year.
Perhaps I’ve never mentioned that I’m something of a Clannad fan. I’d once have been embarrassed to confess it, but no longer. In these liberated days, nothing much matters. They were first up on the iPod shuffle. And pleasantly ethereal it was too. Just right to get me in the mood for elevated pain. Could it be the TdJ so early?
Next up is His Bobness, and Simple Twist of Fate. It’s the first of three stupendous later-Dylan tunes today. I call them later-Dylan, because I think the real stuff is the 20 year old kid in Greenwich Village, corduroy cap and denims, clinging to Suzie Rotolo in the freezing winter of 1962. That and the next 4 years. It’s a terrible thought I have, but I’ll say it anyway. That the worst career move Dylan ever made was recovering from his 1966 motorbike accident.
Ah, who better to shake me out of the melancholy tree? It’s the Clash and I Fought the Law. A great running song. A great song.
It got me thinking about why rock music generally makes such an ideal accompaniment to this activity of ours. People will tell you it’s obvious — the driving rhythm. Yeah of course. But wait. That’s like saying the reason we like wine is the alcohol in it. Yes but… the glory of wine isn’t the alcohol, it’s the alcohol plus the richness, the flavour, the mythology, the variety. So rock music gives the runner more than throbbing percussion to move to. It flicks a switch. We put down world ordinaire, and pick up world cru classé. We are elevated.
And more than that. The rebellious dimension of rock music chimes nicely with the runner’s self-perception. That just for now, we are not of the community, but outriders. Outriders and outsiders. Just a millimetre or two beyond the reach of explanation and rationalisation.
Here’s Pink Floyd, ex-heroes of mine, and Brain Damage, from Dark Side. It’s painful, but I’ll be honest. I realised today that this is a nonsense song from a strangely pointless band.
As I moved off the main road and headed into the Berkshire countryside, something much more like it appeared in my ears. Johnny Cash, and I Walk the Line. There’s something primeval and authentic going on here, and I felt a sense of relief.
Back to the throaty later-Dylan and Tangled Up In Blue. The poetry on this album (Blood On The Tracks) was of its time. Idiot Wind, the greatest of his later lyrics. Among which, the words: “Blood on your saddle”. For some reason, these four words chill me whenever I hear them. They’re not a phrase, they’re an ambush.
The very same year that Dylan produced this literary glory, Johann Cruyff and Holland, and Stan Bowles and QPR, were shining a poetic light over football history no less piercing, and no less enduring. How honoured we must be to have shared a century with these icons.
But wait. Something yet greater this way comes… it’s the Beatles, and Ticket to Ride. Oh my. Panting past the deer park, I have to wrap my arms round my own chest, to prevent my innards from bursting with joy. Those harmonies, that gleeful lead guitar, Ringo’s revolutionary drum-bashing, the casual middle-eight, McCartney’s throbbing bass. All this, in 1965. The year that Shankly’s young Liverpool side beat Leeds in the FA Cup Final. A good year to have been a scouser.
Which reminds me. Nothing here yet about our final, astounding days in Japan. Hiroshima, Kobe, Nara, then back in Tokyo, the Sumo Championships, the Cavern Club and the brilliant Silver Beats. The final day in Shibuya, giggling alongside the wackiest, trendiest, most intriguing of people.
But another time, friends. Another time, another universe. If we do nothing else, let’s forgive each other our claustrophobic sins. Beyond these stiff paper walls, something great awaits us all. Just reach out. More than reach out: punch. Just punch. As I’ve discovered in my new job, it’s hard to beat the sensation of unscheduled emancipation. There’s no feeling quite like it: the cool breeze of freedom against a clenched fist.
You hurt the ones you love the best and cover up the truth with lies.
And one day you’ll be in the ditch, flies a’buzzin’ round your eyes,
Blood on your saddle…
Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb,
Blowing through the curtains in your room.
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth…
And I’m running again.
Four miles of dribbling liberation later, I arrive home. And as I turn into my driveway, there, right in front of me, is the smug magpie. The murderous git. We see each other simultaneously. As it raises its wings in fright, to flap away, my instinct hurls something at it. Believe me people, forget Dylan, Johnny Cash, the Beatles… the greatest sound this morning was the strangled sqwawk I heard as that conker bounced off the head of that magpie.
Life is good. Life is great.
