What Marathon?

Sometimes I am amazed at the connection you can find. This is picture bizarrely contains a number of family relationship.

Running is a way I mark out my territory. If I cover a route enough times I get to know the landscape and feel an association. This is a photo from a familiar run it is therefore part of my territory. So that is me

The totem pole was carved in British Colombia and shipped out to a timber merchant who used to operate from this site in Berkhamsted. My sister now lives in British Colombia. So that is my sister.

In the background is a pub called the Crystal Palace, an area of London I know well, not only because my elder daughter currently lives there but because my mother's family come from nearby in Croydon. My mother was a girl when the Palace burnt down in 1936 and she once told me of her memories of watching the flames dominating the night sky. She also supported the football team. So that is my mother and my daughter.

What other relationships can I find? Oh yes... the totem pole was actually carved on Vancouver Island and in two weeks time I am going to visit my sister. She and my brother-in-law are going to run the half marathon, my wife is going to run the 8k and I am going to run the marathon in Victoria, Vancouver Island.

So that is it. There is no way I am in good enough shape for a marathon but I have to try. I have to follow the connections in the photo.

Looking More Closely

Today was one of those beautifully calm autumn days, clear and bright with a slight sharpness in the air - perfect for running. On days like this I want to see further, notice my surroundings more, look people in the eye and face the world. I keep my head up and my posture is improved. I look about me and reflect on the way the weather affects my mood and how much of the summer has been overcast or wet.

Recently running has been a struggle. The memory of the day when I was totally washed-out stayed with me for some time and all the gloomy days have made me feel – well … gloomy. Injury further lowered my spirits and so my only ambition has been to keep going - in whatever way I could, even if that was not much.

So days like this feel good.

I did not go for a long run and had no aim other than to enjoy myself. I ran at whatever pace I felt like, which actually varied quite a bit, so did not check my watch or hrm. If I felt like stopping to look around – well that is what I did. It was not a run you could categorise in any training schedule. All you could say was that I was out and about.

The picture gives some idea of the peacefulness of the day but for me it is another reminder about the need to pay attention and think about what you see. I have run over this bridge countless times as it is on my stock route, but never once noticed the mini arch. Why is it there – a passing lane for ducks? It is not as if the span to large for one brick arch.

I still do not know the reason but at least I have asked that question and have looked more closely at my surroundings

Running in Literature iii - That Memory Book

This is part of a very occasional series of posts about running in a non-running books. That Memory Book is onset of middle aged memory loss and what can be done about it. It explores the causes and the whole range of existing strategies. One of the key conclusions is the importance of keeping physically and mentally alert – always challenging yourself. This passage comes from the introduction:

One day I was walking the dogs at sunrise, on a bike path that ran along a nearby river. I was enjoying a full forty five minutes with nothing to do while I waited for my son to finish his session with his maths tutor, when I spotted an older man with an unusual gait. Every few running strides, he lurched forward, then caught himself and continued on his way. On each knee below the hem of his form fitting Lycra athletic shorts he’d wrapped an elastic brace, the kind you buy at the chemist. He caught up with me quickly and introduced himself as Zvi Dunenberg. He was eighty years old and he jogged between eight and fifteen miles a day depending on the weather. He’d run nearly eighty thousand miles in his life, in his own estimation, all of them since he’d turned sixty five, when the doctors recommended long, slow walks for a sore lower back. ‘To tell you the truth’ he said in an old country accent, ‘this walking, it bored me silly. So one day I ran a hundred yards, just to break things u, and that was it I was hooked.’

He was in excellent physical shape for his age but what was really important about the running, he confided, was the social life it engendered. It helped keep his brain in trim. ‘I know the names of two hundred and fifty people and dogs and some cats too, that I meet on this walking path’ he said, after ascertaining that the shepherd mutt sitting politely beside me was Rosie and that Radar was the little Havanese who was frantically trying to climb up his leg. ‘And you ‘ he said as if cementing the information in his mind ‘are Cathryn’. By now the sun was up and every few yards along the path, we stopped to greet another jogger or dog walker. He took pains to introduce me to everyone.

This passage is full of much that is wonderful and much that is strange.

What is wonderful is that the man is obviously a hero – anybody at that age who consistently runs that mileage puts me to shame - makes me feel like a dilettante. It is a vivid illustration of how running can not only be good for the body but also help keep the mind sharp. If you ever have to justify to yourself the value of time spent running, then this passage provides part of the answer.

The strangeness is in the culture of greeting and introducing strangers to each other in a public space, as if the people on the path are part of a club. I can perhaps imagine this happening in a safe neighbourhood in America, where there is more directness and openness to social interactions. Perhaps I can happen in a small community in Britain, where most people know each other, but I cannot imagine it in the towns of South East England. Here most people even avoid eye contact when they pass each other.

Mostly I don’t talk to others when I am on my runs. Sometimes I will meet someone I know and enjoy a short chat. At other times, especially when I am have a break wandering round to find a photograph, I might strike up a conversation with a stranger. The man and his dog is an example of this. We didn’t talk of much: where I had run from compared to his boat trip (I had gone quite a bit further as long boats are quite slow). But that was enough.

I will never be Zvi Dunenberg, with his enormous network of acquaintances but the occasional interaction is good – it makes the running feel better, as if you are part of the place.

P.S. The strangeness in this passage is not the runner but the author sending her son for extra maths at sunrise. I would guess there is a fair amount of pressure in that household.

Not Even The Centre Of My Own Universe

Last week the writer David Foster Wallace killed himself.

As part of a tribute to him the Guardian published a speech he gave to a graduating class at Kenyon College, Ohio. After talking about the need to look outside of yourself and pay attention to others, the conclusion is poignant.

I know that this stuff probably doesn't sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational. What it is, so far as I can see, is the truth with a whole lot of rhetorical bullshit pared away. Obviously, you can think of it whatever you wish. But please don't dismiss it as some finger-wagging Dr Laura sermon. None of this is about morality, or religion, or dogma, or big fancy questions of life after death. The capital-T Truth is about life before death. It is about making it to 30, or maybe 50, without wanting to shoot yourself in the head.

He suffered from depression and did not make it to fifty.

I am fascinated by the theme of his talk – the idea of stepping outside of your own viewpoint, so that you are no longer the centre of the universe. I had my own moment of insight some years ago, in the most mundane of circumstances. I was shopping in Sainsbury’s, and instead of focusing on the bread I wanted, for an instant, I looked at all the other people buying. I then thought of how many loaves this one store would sell in a day, then how many would be sold by Sainsbury’s as a whole and then by all the supermarkets in the country. I then thought of all the shipping and organisation needed to get the right quantitys of this one product to where it was needed. I marvelled at the complexity of it all, the number of people involved and the information processing. Yet it was something I took for granted. For me it was a simple transaction – just me buying one loaf of bread.

I then realised that no action was 'just me'. Everything rested on a huge platform created by thousands, millions of others - not only that, there were thousands, millions of others wanting to do the same thing at the same time and that above everything else there was a fascinating network of activity.

Nevertheless most of the time I see the world as if I am the centre of the universe. However running plays about with this outlook. It might not stop me seeing myself as the centre but it does mess it up in pleasing ways.

On the one hand there is no other pastime that is so self-absorbed. We all meticulously log our runs, monitor progress, examine how our body feels and whether twinges are serious or trivial, and worry about nutrition. (The number of runners who don’t over think in this way must be very small). On the other hand the act of running empties you out. You loose large lumps of you normal concerns as physical activity takes over and your personality is stripped down to the act of moving. Unlike most other sports there is not a high level of skill, requiring constant concentration. You can allow you mind free play to wander about and in itself this provides a pleasant background burbling. However some of the time you think about nothing at all and these are the treasured moments because you have lost yourself.

You have lost the 'you' at the centre of the world trying to negotiate your way through a network of tasks and responsibilities. Running has given you a few moments of freedom from that burden and opened the world up so that you can see it slightly differently. However it does not take you to that next level of understanding others and seeing things from their point of view. When you meet dog owners with long extendable leads, who look on indulgently as their dogs runs at your ankles, or when you meet a group, taking up the whole path, who do not give you any passing room, you just want to shout ‘Get out of the way! Runner coming through’. At such moment you are only thinking of your own needs.

Tangled Up And Blue

Mostly running injuries are stresses and strains bought on by overuse. In other words you get carried-away in your training regime then random parts of the body start to complain. As they make their point by hurting, you have to pay attention. It happens to most runners and there is a well trod path. We ease back, get better, learn our lesson and vow to be more sensible next time. We are for a bit, but then the over-confidence demon pops up and another body part gets sacrificed. The thing that keeps us going is that this cycle can be quite long and we can run injury free for long periods.

However some injuries fall outside the normal spectrum and are the result of good old-fashioned stupidity. That's me at the moment old-fashioned and stupid.

It happened last Sunday. I was running near the edge of the pavement, which was bending round to the right. I landed with less than half of my left foot on the curb. As a result my ankle twisted down and I followed – splat! Laid out in a very inelegant heap.

Result: bruises and grazes on my knee, elbow, and shoulder, a hand that has swollen like a puff-ball and a broken finger. It is all very inconvenient. I can't grip anything with my left hand and all sorts of simple tasks become complicated

After three days off I had to give myself a talking to: “Just because you feel a little beaten-up, there is no excuse for not running” was the gist (except that I added a few more insults and expletives).

So today I went out for an easy 35 minutes. And you know what ... I still feel beaten-up.

At Play but Looking At Work

One of the great pleasures of running by a canal is feeling close to Victorian engineering, which is solid, wonderfully tactile, displays strength through mass. In addition there is often a little bit of decoration, just to show that it is not all earnest utility.

This is a detail from the turn-back bridge on my last long run. The cast iron pattern is not particularly ornate but it breaks-up what would otherwise be a uniform railing and the intertwining of the climbing plant shows how the functional can become picturesque. .

Now I make no great claims for this as a piece of ironwork, but my eye is taken by the nut. It clearly shows how it ,was fixed together, the size of spanner and the amount of physical force required. I can imagine the muscular effort and can almost picture how it was originally assembled and the hard, hard work that went into the making of the canal.

I compare my physical effort, which is done for recreation and a sense of wellbeing to that of a navvy who would have a life expectancy of about 40. Not for the first time I feel immensely privileged.

Isaac Newton said “If I have seen further it is by standing on ye shoulders of Giants”. I can only run here by standing on the backs of thousands of workmen.

Anyway this bridge is at a place called Cow Roast. What an odd name that is. I wonder how many cows they had to roast over what period of time before it was fixed in the local imagination that this was the place to do it? But of course that is rubbish speculation. The place is on an ancient drovers route and the the best guess is that the name is a corruption of 'cow rest', where there were pens for grazing cattle to be held overnight.

Again that is work and the history of work making the landscape.

Running Does Not Upspeak

The Internet is a bit like Jack Horner's Christamas pie, you stick in a thumb and pull out a random morsel. In this case it is a poem by Taylor Mali about upspeak that you can listen to here .

Now it is the job of this blog to relate things to running, either directly or as an exercise in convoluted reasoning. I have quite a lot of scope with this game because one of my core assumptions is that running keeps you honest. You cannot fudge how fast, far or how easily you can move and so you have to come to terms with your own abilities and look objectively at both what you can do and what you do do. In one small area of your life you can say this is what I am and this is what I know.

Running can therefore be a yardstick to be placed against other things that are messier and more confusing. In that way you can relate it to almost anything.

So can I relate it to a poem about a style of speech? Well it is possible because it ends with this plea:

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.

Well what else is running but an expression of your convictions, determination and your own authority?

Running is a straightforward activity: a deal you make with yourself that the more you put in the more you get out. It is not a matter of subtle argument or intellectual complexity. You do something and you can measure and describe the results. It is declarative and therefore relates quite well to the theme of the poem.

The Dangers of Golf

I regularly run near to three golf courses: The Grove, Berkhamsted, and Ashridge. The Grove I have already written about.

The Berkhamsted course is particularly attractive. It is carved out of the Common and actually adds to the recreational feeling of the land. It is criss-crossed with footpaths and is not therefore a privileged enclave, fenced off and private. In fact it was the Golf Course in conjunction with the National Trust who preserved the land as a Commons and for that reason I feel warmly towards it. However footpaths crossing the fairways can be dangerous.

Running out from behind some bushes I heard the metal crack of a driver. Better stop I thought. At the same moment I looked round I heard the shout of 'Fore!' and a ball flew past me, about an arms length away. “That was close” I thought and then carried on. It had been the merest pause; I hardly missed a step and didn't think any more about it. Only afterwards did I think that I had been rather sanguine. Another couple of feet and I could have been laid out on the grass watching stars circling above my head. It would have been no ones fault. The golfers could not see me when they hit the ball and because I was running I came into its path sooner than I would have done if walking.

There is only one conclusion: 'pay more attention'. That is an interesting problem when running because sometimes it is good to disassociate and let your mind wander somewhere else. So the conclusion has to be specific: 'disassociation is fine but not near the golf course.'.

It might be a little indistinct but this the photo with this post looks out to one of the greens of the Ashridge Golf Course. I had a look at the club website and took particular pleasure in their dress code. Apparently tailored shorts are allowed but only if they are worn with long socks, turned over at the top. Brilliant! Grown men basing their rules for dressing on the Boy Scouts.

Even if I could afford it (or even if I played golf), I would never join a club that thought dressing as a Boy Scout was a way of keeping up standards.

The Problem was Mainly One of Timing

I wrote earlier that my runs tend to be temperate. Although they can be a bit better or a bit worse the variation from the mean is not that great. Yesterday however was horrible. So unpleasant that I started to wonder what on earth I was doing.

As is the as in all such stories It all started so well. The plan was for a longish run and I set out at an easy pace feeling relaxed, Although the sky was grey and damp the air was still and the temperature was pleasant. It was perfect weather for running and I started to think about the differences between good running weather and the general definition of good weather: cool is good as running in the heat is sapping; still is excellent as I hate battling the wind; damp is OK, as soft rain or drizzle can be quite refreshing.

Most of the run was unremarkable. I passed a number of fishermen and wondered what was good weather for fishing. In season they are always out. Even if it is raining hard they will continue to sit patiently by the banks, bundled up, under an umbrella. Nothing will stop a keen fisherman but when is it most enjoyable? This is another area of life of which I know nothing.

I reached my turn round point and it started to rain more heavily but not unpleasantly. The sky though was very, very dark. About 4 miles from home everything changed – a sheet of lightening, a rumble of thunder and an enormous downpour of heavy rain i.e. big droplets that stung when they hit you. I sheltered under a bridge hoping it would pass over but as I got colder and a bit shivery the rain showed no signs of stopping so I set off again.

This was not at all pleasant. Not only was I a bit stiff, I couldn't get a rhythm because I was dodging puddles, trying to find places to land my feet and all the time the rain was getting harder. The towpath eventually became completely covered with water and it was increasingly difficult to run. I had the bright idea thatt the road might be a better surface but this was a mistake. I had no idea how completely the drainage system had been overwhelmed. The roads and pavements were a mixture of fast flowing rivers and lakes with water up to or over the level of the kerbs. The manhole covers had popped up and were gushing water and every time a car passed it sent up an almighty whoosh of spray.

It was impossible to get any wetter - my clothes were stuck to my body and my trainers slurped every time they moved. After struggling along for a couple of miles I suddenly admitted to myself that I was not enjoying this at all and I lost all heart. I had no desire to go on and stopped running. All that was left was a long trudge home. The sky was still gunmetal grey, the rain was still hard, there was still thunder and lightening. My limbs felt heavy and my spirits felt even heavier.