One of those mornings.
You know, when you seem to hit ‘snooze’ on the alarm a dozen times, knowing you’re already late for a busy day. Watery daylight snuck under the bedroom blind as I crawled from the wreckage. Somehow I just knew a run this morning would be harsh. The constant howl of anguished winds hammering the trees outside my window painted all to clear a picture of the fun awaiting me on the downs.
And yet I pulled on the Sauconys, under-used, definitely second cousins twice removed from my cherished ClimaCools and Mizunos. For starters the Sauconys have a cavity in the heel. What self-respecting off-road shoe has a place for storing mud and detritus? No, the Sauconys are not serious runners, but there again, neither am I; not today. I harnessed the hounds and staggered onto the rain-soaked streets like a condemned man. Ten minutes in and my worse fears were realised as every fibre of my hill-weary legs screamed to go back, the westerly gale pounding into my face and chest without mercy. I clung on, sucking on my lower lip, justifying this madness to myself. Look; you have great run after great run – you have to have these crap outings to appreciate the good ones, right?
Yes, but can’t I just acknowledge all that before I fall from under the duvet? I mean, I could have stayed in bed, told myself exactly how rubbish this was going to be and skipped straight to the next good one . . . Aww, come on now, you know it don’t work that way Bubba . . .
No, it doesn’t. Suffer, then rejoice. It’s like the old adage about banging your head against a brick wall; it’s great when you stop.
I plugged onwards and upwards, feet slipping on the loose, sodden soil, skipping around and then through murky brown rainwater pools. We’ve had three days of solid rain up here and much of the trail to BlackCap is part mud, part water with the occasional sharp flint rock providing grip and peril in equal measure. Mist – or was that low cloud? – shrouded the summits of Wicker Man Hill and BlackCap, blowing eerily across the gorse bushes like wispy grey battle-smoke.
On the way home I was treated (by Planet Rock) to some Joe Cocker. Joe, the original honey-and-gravel voiced crooner, asked me if I felt alright, because apparently he wasn’t feeling too good himself. Funny you should ask, Joe; I’m feeling a bit better. Perhaps it’s the firm shove in the back I’m getting from this westerly now I’ve turned for home, or perhaps it’s the crack of sunlight lacing the distant downland ridges to the east. My legs have stopped whining – in fact we’re fair flying along.
I like Joe Cocker. I’m no aficionado but I love ‘Help from my friends’ (and the fabulous John Belushi spoof on Saturday Night Live). I used to sing ‘You Are So Beautiful . . . To Me’, used to great effect at the end of Carlito’s Way, to Phoebe when she was tiny. She wouldn’t let me do that now of course; she’d rather have her own teeth pulled out by a tractor with a wonky wheel than risk any of her mates hearing her Dad sing.
Alice Cooper tells stories of Cocker on the road. Over to you, Alice.
‘Joe would belt out three tunes on stage, go off to the side, vomit, come back on, sing three more, vomit, and so on. He always sounded constipated to me. Do me a favour, go ahead and send Ex-Lax to Joe Cocker; you know, in the same way you send money for children in Africa, send Ex-Lax to Joe Cocker. It’s the right thing to do.’
Thanks Alice.
Just at this point, when life on the downs was getting a little weird, my mud-splattered entourage startled a pheasant. He (for it was a male) lurched from the cover of a gorse bush and scuttled across our trail, making for the long grass sanctuary of the adjacent field. His running style, straight back and bobbing head, brought to mind that unearthly Olympian Michael Johnson. I had watched in awe as Johnson destroyed a field including our very own Roger Black, then at the peak of his powers, to win the 400 metres by almost a quarter that distance. How a man running like a frightened chicken could be so far ahead of the rest of the world amazes me. Watching the Pheasant this morning I could appreciate the natural efficiency of the technique.
This lesson in the fine art of sprinting did little to improve my posture this morning. I resumed my trademark slouch, loping heavily into the last mile, dogs at my heels, head filled with thoughts of hot coffee and honey-smeared toast.
A ‘good-bad ‘un’, then, in a shade under 48 minutes. Soon it’ll be time to turn these fives into tens as the quest for mileage becomes all-consuming.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
