December Doldrums

[Sweder]

I struggled manfully with a monstrous duvet in the early hours, the bedspread a mythical beast wrapping its tentacles around my bones, dragging me inexorably back to blissful slumber in the Deep. Jack Frost had left his mark etched into the bedroom window, the town beyond cradled in a thick blanket of fog. It took me a while to extricate myself from the bed, my covers aided by the runners’ nemesis; apathy.

I’ve been in love with my running this year. That is to say, running has been to me like a loved one, a soul-mate, dare I say even a mistress. I’ve welcomed her embrace throughout the year whatever the weather. My heart has leaped at the thought of her, the anticipation of joining her in the mud-crusted valleys of Sussex crackling in my blood like electricity. We’ve achieved great things, my running and I. We splashed through Almeria, conquered Paris in the Spring, continued our affair through the balmy days of summer and skipped hand in hand across the Jog Shop Jog. Running travelled with me to Spain, to Russia, to China and twice to South Africa. She’s rejoiced with me and shivered with me, shown me things I’d surely have missed without her.

But this morning, with a gorgeous winter sun making the frosted boughs and hedgerows sparkle like diamonds, the thrill was gone. I knew something was up yesterday when I found no end of reasons to skip my Tuesday constitutional. Phoebe’s illness, seasonal duties, even the lure of a desk smothered in end-of-year detritus held more appeal. Wednesday morning brought us to a crossroads; get out and struggle through a chilly five miles, or fall sobbing back into the soft folds of warm cotton, beaten like a child. I thought about what running had brought to my life, both this year and in years passed; I owed her another spin around the block. I couldn’t face delivering the clichés – ‘it’s not you; it’s me’. Now or never you big dope.

The first mile was purgatory. Tired legs hauled my heavy carcass over crunchy, crusty earth. Air as crisp and clean as I can remember seared into my lungs. Below me the town peeped out from its smoky shroud, church spires and castle turrets like buildings in a Kingdom of Heaven. Before me Wicker Man Hill and Blackcap loomed from the mist like a pair of hairy, muddy knees poking through foamy bathwater. Plumes of steam snorted from my nose and mouth as I battled up the gleaming slopes. I tried so hard to take pleasure in this wonderland but all the while the demon on my shoulder whispered of the delights to be found in my nice warm kitchen. Past the stables and into the foothills of WMH and still no sign of enthusiasm. The climb sapped my will, it was all I could do to keep moving, yet the defiance lurking in the depths of my soul seemed to release something. As I crested the first of two summits my spirits lifted. A glance to the north revealed a whole county wrapped in cloud, the tops of trees and occasional chimney the only evidence of the world below.

Relief washed through me, warm and welcome, as I gathered speed on the down slopes; it was going to be alright. A thirty second pause atop Blackcap and the return run fed my enthusiasm, blood coursing, arms pumping, feet flying over the slippery hillside. I grinned, offering silent apology to my mistress. To have ever doubted us! For shame!

The truth is I’ve been slacking.
My recent reticence no more than petulance, a refusal to acknowledge and accept my recent slide, albeit not entirely of my own making. The form’s still there, hidden beneath a wobbly layer of indulgence perhaps, but it will return in time.

Here’s to Friday’s run.