June 2009

[Sweder]

Forgive me Running Brothers and Sisters, for I have sinned.
It’s been far too long since my last confession …

So it’s come to this. A mere fistful of days away from the Moyleman memorial run at Bewl and a squadron of mean-faced chickens takes residence in my flowering pear tree. My good intentions lay along side others on that celebrated road to hell whilst my burgeoning belly sits smug, content and lead-heavy beneath an under-worked, flabby chest. Wither those summer evening runs of yore? The Firle 20 (demoted this year I see to a mere 10K), that fabulous parade across the western reaches of Alfriston and up the back-breaking Ridge of Firle? Jacksonian Sussex view-scapes and the promise of a keen pint of Harvey’s at the local hostelry when all good sweat’s expended …memories, memories.



Alas, and, indeed, alack. I sit, slothful, Jabba-like at my messy desk. Twittering, working, catching up with global sporting events between mouthfuls of Japanese crackers and doleful swigs of ale. If I choose to carry on they’ll have to retrieve my purple bloated carcass from a swamp of junk food wrappers, biscuit packets and plastic ale jugs, shaking their heads as they struggle past the faded race numbers on the wall …

Ah, but I sense you’ve sussed me, dear reader.
The stench of self-pity, last refuge of the Yellowbellied Cur.
‘Get out there!’ You cry, 'Strap on your runners and embrace your earth-bound passion!’
In truth I do feel a little sorry for myself, but only in part. Injury had her say, and Summer’s heat has scuppered more than one attempted recovery plod. What strikes fear into my very core though is the readiness of my acceptance of unfortunate circumstance, my capitulation. It must be the heat. In the past I’d’ve found some way to keep going; swimming perhaps, long walks, drastic dietary measures, even – gasp – a turn or two on the wagon. Instead I’ve let out a barely audible sigh, slumped back in my chair and said to myself ‘don’t worry; we’ll get this sorted out soon enough’ just before reaching for another packet of peanuts and clicking on the BBCi Player.

El Gordo, great exponent of the against-the-odds comeback, the man whose mantra, Running Is The Answer, resonates with so many of us here, assures me this is a temporary blip. He’s been in this saddle; bought the ticket, took the ride, confident no matter what misshapen devilment should come his way he’ll cross swords with vigour when the time is right. He has a point; the very act of this confession suggests reconciliation may be closer at hand than I'm prepared to admit. Perhaps a cool evening run, on the cusp of dusk, might offer the spark needed to ignite my dormant inner flame. To dance precariously around the rabbit holes and across random flint-traps as the downs-baking sun flees over the horizon is about as much fun as I can have with my clothes on.
Who knows? If the light is sufficiently diffused perhaps …

… but no. You don’t deserve the mental scarring that comes free with such gratuitous, horrifying imagery. We’ll see. I feel like I’ve chided a much-loved mistress only to now to seek forgiveness, desperate to win her back as the true cost of her departure starts to burn.

Will she have me? Perhaps if I lost a few pounds …