The lobby thermometer inside my house reckoned it was 4ºC early this afternoon so the seafront must have been hovering somewhere below freezing. I may have to rethink these coastal plods. Or is it that there’s no such thing as the wrong weather for a cold coastal jaunt, only the wrong clothes for a cold coastal jaunt? There’s an awkward relationship between insulation and mobility which explains why, outside the London Marathon, you don’t see many runners dressed in thermal 4-layer polar expedition outerwear.
Being uncharacteristically practical, it’s probably helpful to reconceive what I’m really doing here. Instead of trying to fool myself, and certainly anyone reading this, that I’m going for a run, it would more accurate to describe my current activity level as spirited walking with a few odd moments of jogging thrown in for variety. If I do that, I can get away with another thermal layer.
Sartorial notes aside, I was able to tick off my Week 1 Day 2 task without too much inconvenience. It’s still only 8 minutes of jogging, interspersed with the same number of 90-second walks so completing the assignment shouldn’t be considered too shocking. Week 3, should I get there, sees the running component shoot up to 3 minutes at a time which is when I can reconsider my status in the athletic firmament. At least I convinced a sleek and strapping young runner haring past me in the other direction today. No smirking or eye-rolling, just a nod and a tap on the peak of his cap as he passed. It cheered me up.
I set out from the Redoubt, a small fortress built in 1805 to repel Napoleon. I don’t much like the look of it either. From there, I headed north-east along the bleak stretch of seafront towards, I suppose, Denmark. I stopped short of that point and returned, past the rowing club and lifeboat shed, the rusty beached fishing boats and the wall of lobster pots by the Fish and Crab Shack. There’s something desolate and authentic about this stretch. I like it. People work here. Sometimes, early on a Saturday or Sunday morning, when the weather’s warmer, I pop down and enjoy a crab sandwich and coffee on the beach. I stare out across the English Channel. Just me, alone with my thoughts and the few dozen seagulls whirling and flapping around, watching for a chance to nab the sandwich. So far I’ve avoided falling victim.
Onto Saturday, and another location perhaps.
