A couple of weeks ago, I received a small parcel, postmarked Ireland. I didn’t recognise the handwriting, but assumed it was from my sister, who lives in Tipperary. I don’t know anyone else over there who’s likely to send me anything. I made a cup of tea and retreated to my small office to open the package. Inside was a book of Leonard Cohen poetry, and a card. On opening the card, I was perplexed. Who was this from? The message was quite long, covering both inner sides of the card, and ending with a woman’s name that didn’t ring an immediate bell. But then, as I started to read what was written, I remembered. I read the message – twice – before putting both card and book back into the envelope, and squeezing the package into the far corner of a rarely disturbed bookcase. I felt a sense of shock, and didn’t want to think about it for a while.
Today, in the early afternoon, I drove down to the canal again. There had been a couple of messages on the forum (here and here), posing the question of whether there was a “global vibe” today that was ensuring that everyone would have a surprisingly good run. I don’t disbelieve in the idea of a global vibe, indeed I think we’ll experience one in just a couple of weeks, when Barrack Obama is elected President of the USA. But a running version? I wasn’t so sure. The menacing sky didn’t hold out too much promise, but I had to give it a go. My training plan, if I can dignify my jumble of belligerent impulses with that title, says that I should alternate gym session with run, where practical. Last night was 90 minutes in the gym, so today was the run.
I’m trying to avoid planning too far ahead, though the temptation is formidable. I risk developing a common skin ailment called egg-on-face syndrome that manifests itself as uncontrollable blushing over an extended period. It’s a mistake I’ve made before. Another related one is to do too much, too soon. It was what scuppered me last time, when my knee buckled under the colossal burden of conveying my staggering corpulence across ten miles of bumpy Wiltshire countryside. I’m trying to mitigate the risk of this happening again through:
- Wearing new shoes
- Running on softer surfaces
- Losing weight
- Doing more cross-training to both strengthen and take weight off my knee
The new shoes are actually pretty old, but unworn. I heard of an English teacher, a Jane Austen devotee, who read and reread all her books except one. That one – Mansfield Park I think – remained unread as she wanted to store up some joy for her retirement. The pleasure of expectation, and the expectation of pleasure. Well about three years ago, I bought two extra pairs of New Balance 854s and hid them at the bottom of a wardrobe, knowing that one day these fine shoes would be discontinued, yet I wouldn’t feel eternally deprived of the glee of pulling on a new pair. Which is a pretty threadbare analogy with the Jane Austen lady, but… but I will keep it here as a monument to good ideas that end up not working. Which is possibly the raison d’etre of this entire website, now that I think of it.
NB 854s have indeed been discontinued, to the eternal shame of New Balance, so today I fished one of the boxes out, sat on the bed, lifted the lid, and felt myself beaming as I gazed upon the contents. It was like that scene at the end of Pulp Fiction, in the diner, where Pumpkin (the Tim Roth character), flips open the briefcase and gapes in wonder at what he sees.
Before I put them on, I marked each shoe with a “1” to help me track their usage. They felt lovely. I hummed a couple of lines from the great John Martyn song: “You’ve been taking your time, You’ve been living on solid air”. They weren’t just embracing my feet, they were making love to them.
I parked up, fired up the iPod, and set off down the towpath. As always, the first half mile, perhaps three quarters, was awful. I’ve been doing this long enough now to know that the start of every run is a penance; an advance payment for the sense of luxurious joy to be offered and consumed later on. Running itself is a pay-now-enjoy-later pleasure, but even within a run the same motif is seen. I’m trying to think of a name for it: this brief period when I think: “Why am I doing this? It’s horrible and unnatural”. I’m still working on it.
Through the headphones, U2 were doing their best. After a few songs, I decided that their early stuff is superior. With or Without You, I Will Follow, In the Name of Love, Sunday Bloody Sunday. Corking stuff. A shame that Bono went and became such a risible twit.
The phone rang. It was M.
Where are you?
Running.
Reading? What are you doing in Reading?
Running! Running!
Eh? Why are you running in Reading?
By this time, I was well into the final mile of what would turn out to be a 4.5 mile jaunt. I was pleased with that. It was another half mile further than I’d been recently, and quicker, and brings me ever nearer to the 6 miles I need to cross off in Brighton, 3 weeks on Sunday. Was I getting the global vibe? I certainly felt pretty good; better than I had done on any previous recent run. Just as I was starting to feel smug, something strange happened. I suppose U2 must have still been in my head, because I started thinking about Dublin, and Ireland, and people I had known.
Whatever it was, the Irish train of thought suddenly made me confront a more recent memory – the package I’d received a couple of weeks ago. For the first time since I opened it and read the card, I went through the story again in my mind.
In the summer, we went to see Leonard Cohen in Manchester. He played 4 nights. In the end, we went to the second concert, but I had also bought two tickets for the previous night, because I’d thought I might want to go twice. I would happily have seen the great man two nights in a row. But M wasn’t as keen as me, so reluctantly I put the tickets on eBay for their face value of £75.00 each. One went quickly, but the other hung around. Eventually, just before the sale ended, I had a mail from an Irish lady, enquiring about the ticket. She was keen, but by the time she’d agreed to buy it, the auction had timed out, and she could no longer pay with a credit card. I didn’t want to readvertise and incur the cost again, just so she could buy it through eBay. On the other hand, she was unwilling to send me the money electronically outside the security of eBay. We were at an impasse. She explained that she already had a ticket, but she now wanted this other one for her husband. He was, or had been, ill, and hadn’t thought he’d be able to attend, but he’d changed his mind. In the end, I suppose I was touched by her desperation, and felt sorry for her and her husband, who was willing to leave his sick bed and travel to England to see one of their heroes. Perhaps rashly, I told her she could have the ticket free of charge, and arranged to send it to Manchester for her to collect. She telephoned me from Manchester on the day of the gig, and was obviously overcome with gratitude. If I’m honest, I was still unsure whether I’d gone over the top in giving them the ticket, but it was too late now. I was glad that they were happy.
And then I forgot all about it, until I received this package. I can’t bring myself to read it again, and copy it word for word, but in part, the message went like this:
Dear Andy, Donald bought this book for you at the Leonard Cohen concert because he was so touched at your gift of the ticket. He also chose this card for you. He made so many attempts to write the card, but he just didn’t have the energy. Sadly, Donald died on August 20th. He kept the ticket by his bedside as a reminder that he had finally achieved his ambition. Thank you so much for giving him this final moment of happiness. It meant so much to him……”
Oh God. As I thought of these words, I couldn’t help myself. Reaching the car, and not caring who might be walking past, I leant against it and wept: sobbing my eyes out for a man I didn’t even know.
