I loathe running. At secondary school, the cross-country run was a fucker and I usually brought up the rear crossing the line well after the athletic kids were showered and probably on their way home. In the early 1970’s designer gear comprised of plimsoles and a standard white top and blue shorts. Think of the film Chariots of Fire to picture the type of attire then picture Dopey, the dwarf from Snow White, to frame in your mind how I looked on those particular days that were either blistering hot or conducted in monsoon conditions. With school cross-country there was never an in between. I wasn’t overweight in those days, quite the contrary being like a stick of celery, but for some physical or perhaps more likely a psychological reason, me and running were not good partners. Once I left School I thought that those days were firmly behind me until I joined the police and during the initial training at Ashford, Kent the asshole Physical Training Instructors (PTI) had us carrying fucking logs on our shoulders as we ran through the muck around the Police College. Even though I had completed some pre-training by running several times a week from my parents house in Bagshot, Surrey to Sunningdale and back without stopping (a more than credible 7.5 miles) my hang-up with running persisted.
On being posted to Bracknell as a raw recruit I was able to decide for myself how I chose to keep fit and when a fellow shift member suggested that we visit the nearby gym at the Bracknell Sports Centre my immediate thought was that it couldn’t be any worse than running so I was in! In my designer trainers and multi-coloured sports top I opened the large double doors that led into a small corridor which allowed a view into the nearby gym. The testosterone oozed from this chamber of horrors occupied by Arnold Schwarzenegger body doubles. I looked at my mate who suggested that we go for a pint and a game of pool instead. Gently closing the doors behind us I was confident that our presence had not been detected.
Some thirty odd years later and with the realisation that regular exercise was an important aid to keeping fit and living longer I joined a local gym. This one was open 24/7 and I was confident that I could train wholly unnoticed at 3am. A far fitter friend gave me some tips and conducted a few sessions at their local gym to map out a routine I would be able to duplicate. The treadmill involved running, but not through dog crap, puddles, and mud up to my ankles and I was able to listen to the radio too. The rest of the routine consisted of resistance training, selecting the appropriate weights, and pumping or pulling iron. This was OK until some guy nearly forty years my junior inevitably followed me and quadrupled the amount of weights. I could, however, still open the locker room door unaided. Even during unsociable hours, I was still overtly aware that whatever posture I adopted at the gym I would always look like Mr Bean.
By all accounts swimming is the most efficient way to work the entire body and cardiovascular system and I fully acknowledge the great benefits, from helping reduce the effects of pre-existing medical conditions to helping the recovery process following injury, reducing stress and boosting your feel good factor. Yet we have a problem Houston! I have an irrational fear of putting my head under water. Although I say it is irrational, to me it is totally logical as I focus upon the risk factors, especially that of drowning! I can safely swim above the surface but I’m afraid if you foolishly drop something heavy into a swimming pool proximate to me, if I have any say in the matter, it is staying firmly on the bottom. The crazy thing is that I actually passed a mandatory life saving award during my police recruit training days and this inevitably would have tested a modicum of underwater activity with no doubt the recovery of those bastard bricks that the PTI’s would lob into the deep end. Anyway, I am now a firm believer that this particular human being prefers to breath naturally. I gave it a go on the Great Barrier Reef last year, donning a facemask with a snorkel, before being unceremoniously rescued from the sea by a small boat that dragged me onboard like a harpooned whale when my facemask began to fill with water and I panicked.
As I turned fifty-five and seeking to maintain my health after I had achieved a sizeable weight loss I was introduced to the phenomenon known as ‘parkrun’. My immediate reaction reminded me of General Melchett in the series Blackadder, when excusing himself from the trenches of World War 1 by saying, “I’ll just have to sit this one out on the touchline with the half-time oranges and the fat wheezy boys with a note from matron, while you young bloods link arms for the glorious final scrum down.” However, anecdotal evidence reassured me that this method of exercise had some significant safeguards for a keep fit slacker like me. You could walk it, there were no requirements to actually finish it and there were no set targets. I had driven past the park in Woodley (close to Reading), the venue of my first foray into this global experience, previously and knew that there existed many exit points that I could simply disappear along if the going got tough.
On my arrival I was surprised at how many ordinary folk of all ages, shapes and sizes had turned up on a chilly Saturday morning. Some in designer kit, many not and some with dogs on leads and even a few with young kids in their buggies. I immediately felt reassured that I would easily blend into the background and if I couldn’t beat the ones with the extra burden of a pushchair there was actually no hope left for me. It was extremely well organised and a chap with a megaphone brought the humdrum of idle chatter to a close when he welcomed everyone, read through the do’s and don’ts and recognised several runners who were achieving key event milestones, birthdays, and those who had travelled from afar. It was time for the off and I built up a steady pace and took great delight in passing a few people. This wasn’t as hard as I had predicted and 5K was no more than a stroll wasn’t it? I guess about half-way round my pace had somewhat relaxed as a few people ahead were clearly walking yet I wasn’t making any ground on them. In reality my sprightly start had become a shuffle although I was still in the game. I summoned a little more power to my legs and with head down I was determined to pass at least one of those ahead. My spirits were slightly blunted when a runner whipped past pushing a young child in a buggy. It wasn’t his velocity that surprised me but the fact that I was being fucking lapped! I looked back and saw that at least I wasn’t last, and the humiliation would soon be over as I edged closer and closer to the finish line. Then I felt that something inside my leg had gone ping and I was unable to run due to a searing pain in my right calf. I was nonetheless able to hobble across the finish line to pick up my data tag which would be used to record my time. I had learnt a few important lessons on this first occasion: starting like an express train didn’t mean that I would stay at this pace throughout, a warm up is essential (as is a warm down) and there are several makes of buggy on the market.
In addition to the hardcore buggy pushers and those who run with their well-behaved dogs I have, since logging a few more parkruns, categorised a few others. The runners who pair up and talk to each other whilst negotiating the circuit really ought to be censored. Simply getting round and having enough energy to gasp like a 60 a day smoker and utter ‘fuck’ a few times under my breath is about as far as my narrative stretches. Then there are the professionals emblazoned with running club names. To pass one of those is legend if only for them to storm past a little later on. Then there are the golden oldies who we all politely clap when they are celebrating their 70th birthdays and beyond. Cracking folk who always take time out to wave as they pass me. Then you have the plodders who just like me are probably there under sufferance. The beauty is that parkruns do not discriminate and personally they are more than a little fun as I feel both pumped for the day and satisfied in the knowledge that this piece of regular keep fit is doing a whole host of good things for me. I am still no lover of running and the thought of leaving a warm bed, particularly on a grotty morning doesn’t fill me with delight, yet once the run starts my miserable bastard persona fades away and is replaced by a resolute and purposeful frame of mind that gives me a welcome injection of adrenalin fuelled drive. If I feel particularly glum or irritable, I can always remind myself that the pain will be over in thirty odd minutes. Whatever frame of mind I start with I always finish with a great sense of achievement.
So, if I have at least raised your curiosity and perhaps like me keeping fit has kept a distance then how about finding out some more? Search ‘parkrun’ and start the race that will, wherever you are in the fitness stakes, only improve your overall wellbeing. If you like people watching too then this is the place to be and who knows you may even enjoy it. If an old curmudgeon like me who started with a time in the late thirty minutes and celebrated a personal best (or PB as we seasoned runners like to call it!) of 34.44 then anything is possible.
In the meantime, don’t let this bastard COVID-19 beat you either as you can undertake your own parkrun around any open spaces close to where you live and with any of the numerous running Apps loaded on your mobile they will blurt out how far you have run or walked and provide all sorts of performance statistics if you are that way inclined. Recently I achieved 6K and who knows, and assuming that I get a little less miserable, I may one day do a 10K where I believe I may even receive a medal!
I may never encourage someone to shout out, “Run, Forrest! Run!” but that doesn’t matter to me since I don’t hate running, that much, anymore!
© Ian Kirke 2020 & photograph