It’s been a day of firsts. The first day of November, and with it, this morning, the first hint of frost — a gentle reminder of what’s to come. Despite the mild autumn, they say it will be a long, harsh winter. The coldest for 40 years, according to some reports.
The thought of winter might be daunting, but there’s excitement there too. Non-runners will wonder how we can feel a thrill at what’s ahead, but runners know that our affair with this season is more intense, more private, and more tempestuous than with any other. Winter is the runner’s best friend and worst enemy. Early on a frosty, sunny Sunday morning in January, the season is an utter joy; an experience to justify every negative. But after a day’s work, when all you want to do is sit in front of the fire and the TV, few things will match the profound misery you feel when stepping outside the back door into a blustery, frozen, pitch black night.
This morning’s was the third outing in 3 days, and at last, I might have seen another first — the first sign of renewal. Just a hint of green shoot perhaps, but it was there alright. A slight strengthening in my plodding stride, and the needle on the pantometer gauge just beginning to fall back slightly.
I was up at 5:30 to take M to the station, and at that time there was a dusting of frost on the windscreen. By the time I came to run, a couple of hours later, I had to decide what to wear. Could it really be the first time this season that a jacket or gillet was needed? The latter would have been better, but it’s not a flattering garment at the best of times, and emerging from a slothful, gluttonous autumn, I’d have looked like a Christmas pudding in cling film. I settled instead for a long-sleeved, bright yellow running top that appeared from nowhere the other day when I was clearing out the back bedroom. It set me thinking.
When I first started running, in 2001, the acquisition of quality items of running gear was an occasional thrill. I remember clearly those trips to Easy Runner in Bristol for Thorlo socks and lycra undershorts and my first technical tee and the Brooks Adrenaline shoes that I ran the London Marathon in. Each item was cherished, and welcomed to the fold like a new child in the family. But now? Now, just rooting around in the bottom of a wardrobe reveals not just this pristine (it still had its store tags attached), long-sleeved, technical running shirt, but (get this) a brand new, boxed, unworn pair of New Balance 854s. How can you buy, and forget about, running shoes? I must be going doolally, or getting too rich to care.
The former seems rather more likely. I recently started to take a belated interest in pensions, beginning the painful process of pulling together the odd scrap of money that’s been sitting round in ill-managed pension funds for the last 15 years or so. It doesn’t amount to much, believe me, so I took the decision to start a Self Invested Personal Pension (SIPP), a newish goverment scheme that’s both tax-efficient and allows you to invest your money much more widely than traditional schemes (OK, so perhaps I did read some of those FTs after all… Anyway, certain that I could outperform the average managed pension fund, a few months ago I distributed my meagre pile of pennies round a variety of equities, then sat back to watch the graph shoot up like a neighbour’s leylandii. Hmm. Rather against my expectations, not to mention hopes, the value of the fund immediately plunged. Everything I touched turned to something pretty unpleasant.
But then today, another first – it’s actually edged into the black for the first time. Who knows? I may be able to retire before my 80th birthday after all.
On the subject of retiring, it’s time for bed, and I’m laughing. I just heard that Chelsea lost this evening for (of course) the first time this season. Ah! A good day indeed.
Tomorrow I’ll take a rest, or at least wait till the evening to run.
