This evening I sat in a hedge, ruefully recalling that in Ye Greate Wise Booke of Runninge Lore, Rule Number 427 states: "Tie your shoes, and tie ’em tight." I’d memorised the first half of the sentence, but that last bit had slipped away somewhere.
After last week’s episode, in which our man had turned up at the sports centre in time to see his running group vanish in a hissing cloud of rain spray, tonight I resolved to leave home a bit earlier. This was achieved (I realised later) by skimping on some details of preparation. Like tying my shoes quickly – but not very tightly.
We set off. The night was cool, but not really cold enough to justify the three layers and the gloves I’d thought necessary. But I’d have to put up with them. For a third of a mile or so, I strode along purposefully near the front of the group. I was enjoying this. Then I noticed a sort of regular, clicking sound and looking down, realised that one of my laces had come undone. Damn…
I executed an emergency stop and bent down to deal with the shoe. An easy operation, surely? But I was wearing those fluorescent yellow running gloves that M bought me. They’re effective, but I startle myself every time I catch sight of these spectacular items swinging by my side. Imagine trying to do up some buttons with boxing gloves on. Same sort of thing. First attempt was a hopeless failure. And the second. By now the group had vanished round the corner and I was panicking. Should I take my gloves off to do the job properly, or have another go as I was? I had to factor in the extra time that peeling the sweaty buggers off would take, and pitch that against the chances of getting it right third time, if you get my drift. I decided to gamble. With the gloves still on, I attacked the problem yet again, this time with increased vigour and determination. Yes! This time the lace disappeared through the loop, and with an energetic yank I was able to pull it tight.
I sort of leapt forwards, like a 100 metre Olympic finalist leaving the starting blocks. But what happened? I didn’t go anywhere. I sort of half-somersaulted, tripped over my own foot, and crashed into a hedge or large bush by the roadside. Why was my hand stuck to my foot? What was going on….?
It was my glove. I’d managed to tie a floppy finger of my left hand glove into my shoe lace. I’d become a one-man three-legged race.
Oh misery. I finally got myself sorted and hared after the other runners. A traffic light had delayed them at the next junction, but I still never quite caught them. They were there, 50 to 100 tantalising metres ahead of me, for the entire 4 miles, but I never reached them.
I ended the run feeling uncomfortable – overheated and frustrated. Was this because I’d struggled to catch the group? Or because I still hadn’t recovered from the excesses – good and bad – of last weekend? It didn’t matter. A bad run was overdue, and here it was. Move on.
Two items of note from this lunchtime’s visit to the supermarket, both while I was waiting to pay. First was an internal staff notice I saw by the till. "It has been reported that some team members are swapping their breaks without health and safety clearance", it said. "Any team member found doing this in future will be invited to attend a counselling session with their team leader."
Counselling? Bah! Whatever happened to good old "severe disciplinary action", not to mention "instant dismissal"?
While mulling over this depressing gem, I leafed through the TV magazines displayed by the checkout. So what’s happening in Coronation Street, I wondered? I used to watch it, but gave up a long time ago. So out of idle curiosity I turned to the "Soaps Summary" to find out the latest dramatic twist. What had I been missing? It said simply: "This week, Eileen continues to battle against her addiction to cheese and onion crisps."
Reassured that there is always someone worse off than myself, I paid for my bag of salad and fled back to the real world.
