What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

[Antonio247]

Being a little slow on the uptake, I have only just read this book.

I suppose it has its good points: the punctuation is pretty much correct and grammatically it holds up, and I quite like the cover.

But is it a good read? Is it a gripping, beautiful tale of running that inspires and warms the heart?

No.

But I'll tell you what is... much of El Gordo's writing is far superior to the stuff Murakami has published. (Come on EG, it's about time you seriously finished that bloody book!)

If you don't believe me, compare anything Murakami has written with this extract of EG's entry from back in Feb, 2005 (and this is just one of many examples of EG's superlative work) - it's wonderful:

===================

Thurs 3 Feb 2005

Three people stand on an isolated patch of Mediterranean beach, staring at the hundreds of flamingos preening themselves at the water's edge.

Behind them lie miles of mottled, lunar landscape. Over there in the far, far distance a sharp eye could just make out a line of cranes, marking the start of one of Europe's largest and most anarchic construction sites. Armies of foreigners, Germans mainly, seem to want to buy retirement homes here in Roquetas, and the skeletons of a thousand concrete mausoleums mark out the final resting place of their sunlit dreams. Se vende, se vende. Nothing exists yet, but it's all se vende.

It's funny that things that are only half-built can look almost identical to those in a state of decay. It's as though the process of construction contains some admonitory, portentous glimpse of the future - if only we are alert enough to catch it.

Here, we are far from the madding crowd", says Antonio suddenly.

I chuckle. "A good description".

"But not original, I know. I am a great reader of Thomas Hardy," he says.

"Well, I don't think he originated the phrase either", I said.

Antonio continued: "I once spent a week in Dorchester, the town that Hardy called Casterbridge". Then he starts to recite a long list of titles he's read. When the Hardy list is finished, he begins on George Orwell.

"Homage To Catalonia, Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty Four, Down And Out In Paris And London...."

Kerching.

Down And Out In Paris And London. It's a long time since I even thought about that book - perhaps decades - but I'm excited to be reminded of it. "Yes, hold on, Down And Out In Paris And London". I explained that it was one of the first 'grown up' books I ever read.

How could I have forgotten it? It was the book that put a bullet through the head of my childhood. One weekend. Bang. Everything changed. Suddenly, aged twelve or thirteen, I was a semi-adult. Down And Out In Paris And London made me want to change the world, or to change myself so that I could find this other world I'd discovered in Orwell. It was the book that made me restless and dissatisfied with the life I'd been allocated. It prised open the trapdoor to adulthood, and to writing, and travelling.

There isn't much conventional travelling you can do at that age, so you have to run away instead. I ran away four times. The first time was the briefest jaunt, and it's the only one I'll mention now. I was in Devon, camping with some school friends. One day I walked out of the camp without telling anyone where I was going, and hitch-hiked to Dartmoor. My destination was only 80 miles away, but to a kid on his own it seemed a very long journey. In my hand was a pamphlet I'd bought from the campsite shop entitled "Great Moorland Walks".

Arriving finally in Buckfastleigh, on the eastern fringe of the moor, at 9pm, I knocked on the door of Buckfast Abbey, a Benedictine monastery dating back to the 11th century. A monk in a brown habit eventually opened the door. And what a door it turned out to be.

I asked if I could stay the night. He asked no questions. Just said: "Of course. Come in". Brother Joseph was his name. He took me to the large dining hall and sat me at the end of a long, polished table. There were monks sitting at the other end, but they took no notice of me. I remember being given bread and cheese and a glass of cider. They weren't a very talkative bunch.

The bed was hard, and I must have woken every time the bell struck the hour. But I was so excited by the whole thing. I wasn't afraid, and I didn't wonder if other people were worried about me.

In the morning, there was freshly-baked bread and coffee for breakfast. Brother Joseph asked me what my plans were. I told him I was going to walk the Abbot's Way. There was a long pause. "It's a long path", he said. "Are you prepared?"

I wasn't sure if I understood the question. Was he talking about the walk? Or something more profound? I said yes thanks, I was. As I was leaving, I surprised myself by asking: "Do you have any advice for me?"

Without hesitation, he said: "Consider a career in dentistry. Dentists are in short supply, and the pay is good."

With that, we shook hands, and I set off to walk nearly 30 miles across some of the bleakest moorland in England, with no food or water to fuel the journey.

I was on the moor within minutes. It was love at first sight. I was a London kid, and I'd never seen landscape like this before. Bleak and pure, and utterly silent barring the... the wind in the rocks and the haunting, lonesome cry of the curlew.

Within a mile, I was lost, but I didn't mind. I liked it. Some gust of joy had appeared from nowhere, and filled the sails of my imagination. On a day of no food, and only occasional mouthfuls of stream water, it was all I had to propel me through the ten hours it took to reach Tavistock. I'd been on the earth for 15 years, and here was my first taste of liberation. Needless to say, life was never the same again.

I didn't mention any of this to Antonio. I just thought about it for a while, and carried on staring at those flamingos.

My Dartmoor jaunt was the first bit of real travelling I ever did. But there again, I don't really know what "travelling" means. I know that it's not much to do with distance and passports. It's something to do with exploration and moving out of your normal space. Just walking to the Co-op on the corner can be pretty exciting if you keep your senses open. Every time I run I feel I'm embarking on some kind of journey. For me, it's the antidote to rain and cold. It's why I see the weather as a lubricant, not an impediment. If others do see bad weather as an obstacle or an excuse, that's fine. It just illustrates my well-worn point: that we run for different reasons and with different instincts.

Yes, very beautiful prose. It brings me back beautful memories of the RC first trip in Almería. Looking forward to that beautiful book from EG.