The wheezy alarm cough woke me at 5 a.m. again, just like it has the last 2 or 3 days. I felt unrested, and despite just the single glass of wine last night, felt faintly hungover. Maybe the tiredness and the medication, mild though it is, had turned it into a more potent cocktail than it deserved to be. Damn. How likely was a decent run today? I turned the radio on low. The news is all bad again, just as it has been for the last year. It’s like being in a war; or under siege, when you listen to the news in the hope that relief is on its way. But it never is.
Despite the unpromising start, I managed a productive day, and gradually started feeling better. Against the odds, by mid-afternoon I was reconsidering the chances of a run. My favourite running month of the year, March, is just around the corner. The afternoons are lengthening again. By 5.20 it was still light, and I decided to snatch the chance.
Sometimes I set off not knowing what distance I’m aiming for. Does it matter? Yes, it does. The route changes depending on the objective. A quick and easy round-the-block 3 or 4 miles means I head off left at the crossroads by the Co-op, up the quiet back lanes, through the calming, silent deer park and home again across the school playing field. A longer run, 5 to 8 miles, and I’m likely to take the right turn instead, towards the canal. Another beautifully solitary, contemplative meander. Crunchy underfoot too. It’s like hearing all your troubles getting crushed. Marvellous. The canal has its own, in-built range of distance options. After 2 miles I get my first chance to turn off the towpath and come back along the main road for a 5 miler. Sometimes I might go to the next junction and turn back the way I came, the total distance being precisely 6.2 miles, or 10 kilometres. Or I take my new route, coming off the canal at that point and heading home along the farm track for 7½ or 8 miles. The canal is daylight only though. The rutted, knobbly path is lethal in the dark. And anyway, at night, they do say the whispering bushes are filled with bellicose brigands.
If I’m seeking a longer distance, I go straight ahead at the Co-op crossroads, through the village, past the Chinese and its invisible, pungent cloud of sizzling bean sprouts and ginger, and simmering black bean and curry sauces. On past the disdainful smokers outside the Falcon, sneering at my treachery. I know most of them, but we never speak as I pass. And on again, right to the very end of the high street, and onto the overgrown, little-used path, until I reach the footbridge over the motorway. The bridge is the opposite of the Narnia wardrobe, or the door into the Secret Garden, and so I must take it with some reluctance. This village is no paradise, but the footbridge, and what lies beyond it, certainly seems like some kind of infernal nether region, a wild and undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller is likely to return unmarked. Over there, it’s all concrete and coughing traffic; the charm of the retail park, and herds of grunting, disfunctional teenagers with webbed feet. I hate it, but it’s a long, straight, well-lit road where you can run for anonymous mile upon anonymous mile.
And what was it to be tonight? I approached the crossroads by the Co-op, and slowed down, glancing first left then right… then straight ahead. In a half second, the decision was made, and I carried on, towards the ghastly gates of hell.
There’s almost nothing to say about the experience, except that I put one foot in front of the other for the next couple of hours. I entered that hostile land with nothing, and returned with 11.51 weary miles tucked into my back pocket. In a better world, it would have been 13, but this will do me, especially on a day that had started so emptily.
Tomorrow I’ll aim for an hour in the gym, before getting home to watch Juventus stuff Chelsea, then another 8 tempo miles on Thursday. This time the canal and the farm track please. Not sure after that. Saturday or Sunday I have to aim for the 14 mile mark.
