Murderous March

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

OK I admit it – the positive vibes of my last post-run missive were woefully premature. And while the return of painful shin syndrome didn’t stop me running again yesterday, I am this evening reduced to consuming several rather delectable glasses of Sweder Brew to negate the pain and to think of something else actually worth writing about.
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OK so that didn’t work out either.

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[engage boring drunken rambling mode]

So, why run? Why actually am I doing this?

Stuffed if I know to be honest. Apart from the odd endorphin buzz, which I could replicate with far less expensive drugs (when you include the cost of running gear, treadmills, and physiotherapy bills that is), running seems an almost pointless and expensive activity.

However, as we all know, whether the reasons are valid or not, it’s bloody addictive, so we do it. Why the hell do we have to have reasons for everything anyway?

But I will say this... a funny thing happens when I am running. I get to thinking about the world and I see it through rather different eyes when I’m on the treadmill pounding out profits for Asics or Addidas. Now I’d be the last person to want to be considered conventional or conservative, but I find myself thinking things like this thought from my last run yesterday: Am I the only person to find kids’ television bizarre? I see things such as a pair of talking bananas wearing bicycle helmets, or strange, fat, inane, multi-coloured blobs prancing around my TV screen and I feel sure the world has gone completely surrealistic. I swear the '60s acid set is bland in comparison with children’s’ television of the 21st century. If you thought Magic Roundabout in the 1970s was a little strange, try watching TV about 4 o’clock any current weekday afternoon.

Actually surrealism seems to hit me in waves. In the space of one week recently I discovered a friend of mine has a morbid and uncontrollable fear of clowns (coloraphobia) – which also explained why she never went to McDonalds; I also met a bloke who set a goat loose in a house because he couldn’t get his bond back from the landlord; and even more strangely later found out that this is in fact quite common; and I discovered a workmate of mine can’t go out in the sun because it makes him sneeze; and even that the only candidate in my local government election that I thought made any sense is actually standing for The Whacko Minority Party.

So. Anyway. I told you all that to tell you this:

This morning I saw an astonishing thing – I actually witnessed a bloke helping an old lady to cross the street. What was astonishing was not the act itself, but the fact that I couldn’t remember when I had last seen this simple act of innocent kindness before. Many years ago it would seem. And I wondered why is it so? Have we become such an aggressive, cynical society, that people don’t help others to cross the street anymore? Or is it simply that old ladies don’t need to, or are afraid to ask for help these days?

And I got to thinking that perhaps there is some connection between surrealistic childrens’ television programming, bizarre minority political parties, old ladies crossing streets and my seeming inability to understand why I find this running thing so damn addictive.

But that’s stupid: there can’t be a connection. If Andy breaks 5 hours in Zurich, will the Telly Tubbies be moved to dispense with their lard suits and start telling kids things they actually want to hear? If Seafront Plodder gives in to his darker side and enters another marathon, will school kids wash out their fluro green hair dye and give up their seats on buses for the elderly? No, of course not.

And yet…

We live in an increasingly mad world. Often we fight it, but why? Perhaps insanity, and the total abrogation of responsibility is a kind of western nirvana? An existence free of the necessity to feel guilty about anything is immensely attractive in a society basically despairing for meaning. Syd Barrett, the genius behind Pink Floyd famously fled society after their first album, disappearing to live an anonymous life in a basement somewhere. When he unexpectedly reappeared years later during the recording of “Wish You Were Here”, he was incredibly fat and bald to the point where the band didn’t even recognise him. When he was asked how he’d gotten into that state he said “I have a very big fridge at home and have been eating a lot of pork chops” and then he left, not to be seen again for another umpteen years.

These are the things that I think about when I’m running. And then doubly so after a couple of beers. And trebly so if Andy’s also been writing his metaphysical stuff here on RC.

Running is a base thing. Brings us, or perhaps I should personalise this and say it brings me back to my core physical being. From that platform, I can impartially observe the world and its goings on without all the associated cultural bullshit that I usually use to filter everything. And so suddenly, I see kids TV as the surrealistic soul-destroying rubbish it is, rather than seeing it through my professional eyes actually working in the TV and radio industry. Interesting, but ultimately it raises more questions than it answers.

And in the end, there’s nothing for it but to go for another run. Running is relatively simple to understand compared to the complexities of modern society. It’s just something I do, and it doesn’t need any explanation or reason other than it’s therapy. And if I couldn’t run, maybe I’d go and live in a basement too.

[/disengage boring drunken rambling mode]

And that’s why I’m not going to let shin splints stop me running.

Thank you for listening.