Wed 28 July 2004 – Huddersfield

It seems like a long time since I lived in this town, and I’d taken it for granted that the people I hung round with then must have moved away or shrivelled into middle-age. But this morning I saw someone I recognised.

I was standing outside the George Hotel in my Reading Half Marathon teeshirt and shorts, waiting for my watch to wake up and find a satellite, when he shambled past me. I couldn’t place him at first, but I knew the face. A guy in his thirties now, red-faced, eyes bloodshot, hair awry. He panted up the final slope to the station, shirt hanging out of his trousers, puffing on a cigarette. As he lunged past me, coughing, he seemed to give me a slanted, vinegary look that betrayed a faint flicker of recognition, but also an acknowledgement that there was now some uncomfortable, inexpressible gulf between us. Too much time had passed. Our lives had somehow forked and spun off in different directions. I smiled, more by instinct than by a real desire to talk to him. He ignored it, and panted onwards to the station.

It disturbed me, and I continued to think about it as I set off on what turned out to be a good run, and yet another affirmation of one of my oldest rules, that the success of a run is in inverse proportion to the level of expectation. I’d fallen asleep at midnight, then woke up at 3am to the loud honking of a car alarm outside my window and the sound of a bunch of people having way too much fun for a Tuesday night. I lay awake for two hours or so, before dozing until just before seven. I felt unrested and cranky, and a run seemed out of the question. Perhaps I could postpone it till this evening. I lay there, chomping on an apple, fed up. Then for no obvious reason, I changed my mind, and decided to give it a go. Five minutes later I was standing outside the George Hotel in my Reading Half Marathon teeshirt and shorts, waiting for my watch to wake up and find a satellite… and you know the rest.

Wearily, I plodded away from the vibrant epicentre of Huddersfield, along John William Street towards Birkby, where I lived for 6 years. Just before my old street I took a sharp left up Birkby Hall Road, one of the longest, steepest hills in the area – and that’s saying something in this town. I got half way up before stopping for a breather, then fartleked the rest of the way, reaching the top just moments before the cardiac arrest was due to arrive. I knew it was a big hill, but I’d forgotten just how big.

It’s a little known fact that I tried a brief spell of ‘jogging’ back in about 1996, just after I packed up smoking. I would leave home wearing an ancient pair of trainers that would have been more use for gardening than running. I could have combined the two activities quite neatly if I’d carried through the scheme I had for stealing vegetables from the allotments on the other side of the railway line. It was sloth rather than a sense of civic duty that prevented me. Not to mention the terrible thought of having to eat vegetables. The few miserable weeks spent on the pavements that summer included many attempted ascents of this hill. In retrospect, the odds against me enjoying the experience enough to become a runner were as steep as the hill itself.

One remarkable aspect of today’s run must be reported. It was, admittedly, helped by the run starting slowly, then hitting a large hill before a downhill stretch and a long, flat finish, but remarkable nevertheless. I did 4 miles, and every mile was faster than the one preceding it. It’s a first.

The last section of the run took me past another house I used to live in, and I found myself following my old route to the station. Almost every morning I was late. Most nights were party nights. Most mornings I woke with a hangover and a sense of panic that I’d miss my once-an-hour train to Wakefield, where I was a civil service wage slave, doing bugger all work for bugger all pay. I could shower and dress and be on my way to the station in 5 minutes flat. Trotting along the same road this morning, recreated that desperate daily routine. Down the hill, past the municipal swimming baths and onto John William Street again. Hoping that the traffic lights would favour me as I raced across the Ring Road. Underneath the railway bridge, hoping not to hear my train drumming overhead. Round the final corner where the station clock would tell me if I would make it or not. I’d be in a frenzy of anxiety by this point.

I was in my mid-thirties then. It sounds young now, but then I felt old and haggard and spent. I must have looked terrible too. Red-faced, eyes bloodshot, hair awry. Panting up the final slope to the station, shirt hanging out of my trousers, puffing on a cigarette. Lunging past the George Hotel, coughing, seeing all those middle-aged deadbeats on expense accounts emerging from the grand entrance, looking far too pleased with themselves. Making sure I gave them some slanted, vinegary look. They might smile back at me, in the irritating way that smug bastards like that sometimes do, but I ignored that. Our lives were different. To me, there was some uncomfortable, inexpressible gulf between us. And always would be.