People sometimes ask me where the pleasure is in running. It’s a reasonable question. It must seem more trouble than it’s worth, and if they’d been reading some of the recent entries here they would be even more mystified by why I bother. Over the last two or three weeks I’ve not enjoyed it much, and there have been times when even I have felt that it’s little more than a waste of good beer-drinking time.
And then, out of the blue, a great run comes along and I remember what it’s all about. I really wasn’t expecting it either. It’s been another fairly grim couple of days nutritionally speaking, so much so that by the end of this afternoon my thoughts were meandering dangerously away from the plan to get off home to run, and wandering instead towards that mecca of world football in West London, to the home of Queens Park Rangers, who this evening were taking on Huddersfield Town.
But folly got the better of me, and eventually I packed up my things and waddled off to Paddington.
I left a bit earlier than normal to try to get home in time to run while it was still light. And the first 20 minutes or so of the 5.55 miler did coincide with the final traces of daylight. I was still on the canal towpath as it got dark, but I pressed on. The flies are still around but do seem to be on the way out at last. Either that or I’ve just grown accustomed to swallowing mouthfuls of them, and no longer notice.
No wildlife to report apart from the odd slug. On Sunday there were loads of pheasants about, and I also saw something like an otter or a stoat: it was some sort of elongated creature about the size of a cat, and it ran across the towpath about ten yards in front of me and disappeared into the bushes down by the water’s edge. Also a couple of weeks ago I saw some fluorescent green glow-worms in the bushes along the towpath. Quite rare it seems.
For the first 15 minutes or so of tonight’s run I felt like i was going through the motions a bit. And then suddenly it happened; that moment of transformation when I could feel the bounce coming back into my step. I could feel myself running at last. This might seem a surprising way of putting it. The whole thing is running, surely? Well yes, but sometimes it’s a slog, and sometimes it’s a mechanical shuffle. The feeling of ‘jogging’ is surprisingly horrible. No one wants to jog. We want to run. Running is great. Running isn’t necessarily fast, though it is something to do with the energy in the legs, and the rhythm and, yes, the way that the feet seem to bounce along the road. It’s a great, natural feeling. It’s like being a child again. It energises and enthuses the mind, and increases your self-confidence and self-esteem, and gives you an appetite. You feel as though you’ve done something useful and worthwhile. It’s a catharsis.
I sometimes explain it as being the opposite of drinking. Nothing to do with healthy versus not healthy. And nothing to do with enjoyment. They’re opposites in that, for me at least, the real pleasure of running comes after the running is over. You have to make the effort and take the pain first, and enjoy the glow afterwards. Drinking is so easy to do because the pleasure comes first. It’s instant gratification followed by extended pain (depending on how much you imbibe of course). Running is all about deferred gratification. This makes it hard to do. Like saving money. Much nicer to spend it all now. Running is like making that investment. Perhaps the post-run buzz is the occasional windfall that comes in the shape of a dividend, but the real reward is in the much longer term.
I got back, feeling great. Had a shower and a bite to eat and felt even better. There was just one final thing that would make it a perfect evening. And sure enough, it happened. We won 3-0.
Hurrah!!!!!
