In the Long Run

Enthusiasm is something that I have quite a lot of.

They refer to it as Passion nowadays but that has become a very overused term and does not really mean much.

In my mind if you are passionate about something it is just a roundabout way of admitting that you are pretty useless but have some undeniable entitlement to the prize and glory anyway.

Younger people use the word passion as a substitute for actually having any experience. In much the same way bullshit baffles brains, a particularly favourite phrase of mine.

My enthusiasm is now however tempered by my age. My brain, which is much younger in outlook than the physical body that ports it about, sends messages of encouragement down the neural receptors in a bid to reach muscles and sinews which are, I am sorry to say, showing signs of fatigue and not a little bit of atrophy.

There are moments when I still have an impulsive urge to quicken from walking pace into a run but it is not too long before those painful spasms seem to be trying to cleave open your shin bone and even in resuming a slow saunter there is no relief to be had.

In my athletic younger years I would often set off for a long run and think nothing of five miles or more.

Me and Dave, a longstanding mate from way back, took it upon ourselves in our early to mid twenties to enter a half marathon.

It was a spur of the moment decision in that we only had ten days from signing up until the actual event.

Planning a crash course in training seemed simple enough.

On Day One we would just cover One mile. Day two we would increase to two miles, Day Three, Three Miles and so on until by the eve of participating we would, logically be at ten miles in one go and leaving only a short natural progression on the day to the prescribed distance.

To minds and bodies of youthful spirit and with that feeling of invincibility that goes with it we were certain to thrive and perhaps even put in a good time and performance as well. The first couple of training runs went well but the sheer boredom and monotony of jogging kicked in quickly. We devised a circular route, in and out from a mutually acceptable starting point.

The terrain was flat. The route was through the town for maximum posing value and the weather, for June, was reasonable. It was very evident that our intended regime would never be sustainable. That was decided after a discussion in the pub over a pint or three of nourishing and vitamin filled Guinness, an essential part of the diet for an aspiring long distance runner.

On another day it just rained.

The squares ticked off on the calendar were advancing with relentless pace. As a drastic measure we opted for a ten mile run with two days to go. It was not a pleasant experience as we later mused back in the pub partaking of our now compulsive intake of the stout based restorative beverage.

We were soon travelling to the starting point of the half marathon which was on the wide Promenade of a resort town on the East Coast. Dave's colleagues in the Territorial Army gave us a lift in the back of the canvas topped Bedford Truck as they were also competing. I was wondering where their running kit was as they had no baggage with them . It turned out that they would be taking part in their full combat gear and heavy boots. I saw nothing of them for the rest of the day as they soon disappeared amongst the first groups up the road setting a fierce pace.

I was unsure of what speed to adopt and so just hung around with the runners that looked of similar attire and ability. I was soon left behind and settled for trailing within a few steps of the OAP's who were surprisingly spritely and quick footed.

The flat training course in my home area had not at all prepared me for the undulations of the seaside town. It was not a big place, just the two bays to the North and South, and the organisers had set up a tortuous up and down course on the better, wider roads to cope with the several thousand who were taking part.

Hitting the wall, as they call it, was for me after only 6 miles. it was going to be a long day. At a steady tempo I began to get my second wind and with a reasonable road side crowd my fabled enthusiasm retuned. In fact I would, with hindsight, call it passion because, yes, I found out that I was not very good at the half marathon.

The final stretch back to the Prom was the scene of cut throat manouvres and a jockeying for a better placing before crossing the line to be presented with a silver foil cape type blanket, a squeezy bottle of Ribena, a once over by St Johns Ambulance volunteers and a faux gold medal on a red, white and blue ribbon like the inside of a stick of novelty rock.

I was glad to have reached the finish and to be able to tick off something from my "to do before I am 30" list. The squaddies were already well established back in the army lorry with a few beers , fish and chips and looked as fresh as daisies.

I had thought of myself as being of reasonable fitness but as muscle cramps and stiffness set in to my already aching limbs I had to be physically lifted up and thrown through the canvas flaps onto the wooden slatted boarding below the bench seating within. It took some weeks to fully recover and even contemplate going out running again. I hardly ever take out and look at the commermorative medal as just the thought of it makes me feel quite ill.