So Saturday 6th October turned out to be a big day. To the casual observer, nothing earth-shattering happened. In fact, to pretty much anyone but me, today was just an ordinary Saturday. To a point it was a very ordinary Saturday for me too. Asda shop, bit of dinner, bit of telly, put a wash in. Standard Saturday action in our house.
But on Saturday, I did something – and achieved something – because of a spur of the moment thought. Let me explain, with a bit of background.
If you’ve read any of my first few blogs or are a friend or colleague, you’ll know that April was true to T.S. Eliot’s words as ‘the cruellest month’ for me this year. In short, my health took quite a dramatic downturn and I found myself having a heart operation. Obviously this wasn’t in the plan. However, it was made all the more annoying by the fact that before it had all happened I’d felt fitter and stronger than I’d felt in years. I’d dragged myself back out running months earlier and, with the help of my kids, was going out regularly, losing my gut and generally enjoying the feeling of being fit. We’d got our own little running club – Team Crosby – and quite frankly it was absolutely brilliant.
And then, I started to feel rough. I really was having to drag myself out for runs and slowly but surely I stopped. I told myself it was just a succession of colds or bugs and that when Spring came, I’d be healthier and back out, feeling good. But it didn’t happen.
Immediately after my surgery, running was impossible. Apart from the obvious danger to my heart, I had huge black bruises from the surgery creeping from my groin down towards my knees. Walking hurt, and so I put any thoughts of running as far to the back of my mind as I could muster. And let me tell you, there’s a whole load of nonsense to get through once you’ve been parked at the back of my mind.
So for a while running and fitness in general was a no-go area. After all, I had an excuse to not feel guilty. But every time I opened my wardrobe my running gear seemed to be staring at me and so gradually the whole subject was cropping up again and again. I could feel myself getting a bit more of a tummy, but for a while, I was able to satisfy myself that there was no need to get my trainers on and no need to worry. After all, I was coaching my football team every Thursday and so jogging around a field while doing that was exercise enough. Running was slipping away from me and I was convincing myself that, at my age, I didn’t need to bother anymore. I was apathetic and, if I’m honest, I was a little bit scared. So I hid behind the fact that I’d been poorly and joked a lot about the fact that I could have died, you know.
If you don’t know, I’m a teacher, and this means that I have the pleasure and privilege of 6 weeks off work in summer. I won’t lie; it’s amazing to get up every day and know that I don’t have to pull on a shirt, suit, tie and shoes and go to work. What it does bring though is the time to think. And the time to get out and about and do things that I can excuse myself from while I’m at work because there’s never enough time. So I did a lot of thinking. And I started to take my son to the local football fields a couple of times a week for some football practice. And because of this, I did some tentative running. We’d warm up before playing by running around the fields and I managed to drag myself around and do just short of 2 kilometres a few times. It was never comfortable though. In fact, it was horrible and really quite embarrassing. I felt old, fat and unfit. So when summer ended and work started and I felt pretty much justified in quietly consigning running and Team Crosby to the back of my mind, once again. Perhaps forever.
So Saturday 6th October, with its Asda trip, telly, dinner and putting a wash in, was kind of momentous for me. Running hadn’t really entered my thoughts for anything other than fleeting moments since August. And then I read a friend’s post on Facebook – thanks Shaun – about Park Run. Something clicked. I have no idea why. I wanted to go for a run. We had some dinner and I mentioned that I might go out. My wife said we were going to watch some telly and have a coffee, so I decided I wouldn’t bother just yet. I’d go out later. I think my wife is quite frightened of me going out running again. She can’t see me. She doesn’t know I’m safe and despite the fact that I’m probably a right royal pain in the backside to live with, I know that my being ill had really shaken her. But I was determined to get out and run.
At just after 4.30 in the afternoon, I found myself stood by my front door looking ludicrous in running tights, shorts and a running top. If you’ve ever seen my legs, you’ll understand. But I felt calm and I felt ready. And at least if I get running the neighbours don’t have too much of me to laugh at. So off I went.
I live on quite a big hill so within 50 yards I was climbing. But I felt good. There were three people up ahead on my side of the road, so being the self-conscious, lanky, skinny bloke that I am, I crossed the road. I quickly caught and passed them. Someone might have commented – my tights are really quite snazzy – but I wasn’t going to give it much thought. Halfway up the hill and I was running well, travelling quickly. About ten yards further up the hill and I felt my legs turning to jelly! It had been a long time since I’d run up here! I focused, and reminded myself that the top of the hill wasn’t that far off and that once I got there it was a left turn, a stretch of flat and then, thankfully, a slight downhill stretch.
By the top of the hill I’d slowed a bit, my stride getting shorter. But I was still running. I turned left and ran around the bend. As I looked up I spotted another test. Two men were standing outside of a local pub. They were certain to comment on the deathly pale fella stumbling and wheezing past. I told myself to shut up, straightened myself up from being hunched over a little from the top of the hill, and ran on. As I passed there wasn’t even the slightest murmur. I concentrated on running again as the downhill stretch started. The paving stones here are a bit of a mess and the last thing I needed was to trip and fall flat on my face. Louise would never let me out again! On I ran.
At the bottom of the hill I turned right and tried to loosen my shoulders a little. I was tensing up, tiring. Suddenly the American lady that voices my running app told me that I’d run my first kilometre. I listened for the time and nearly fainted as she told my that I’d been running for just over 6 minutes. I was flying! This was just the boost I needed.
Another slight uphill section was followed by a second downhill, past a host of houses. I imagined people hurtling up to their windows as a man with a face the colour of a tomato stumbled past. I go a terrifying shade of scarlet when I’m running and it usually feels like my face is swelling up. Attractive, huh? It’s partly for this reason that I also run along on the far side of the road for this section. Partly that, partly because it’s slightly going the long way round and partly because for some reason running on the actual road makes me feel a bit like Rocky! I never do the shadow boxing, but I imagine a trail of children running behind me, smiling and trying grab at me.
At the bottom of this downhill section I’m faced with a dilemma. Do I go straight on and end my run early when I run out of flat or do I turn a sharp right where I can run a long flat section before being faced with a steady uphill climb that will inevitably end my run, having gone a little bit further? I’m still feeling reasonably fresh so I head right. I’m now on the bottom end of my estate, I know people who live down here, so I say a silent prayer – please don’t let me encounter anyone I know, not while I’m impersonating a tomato and pretty much head to toe in tight lycra. I run on, feeling strong, staying upright and trying to remember to relax. It’s quiet here and I can hear myself panting as I go. Maybe I should have had another blast on my inhaler before I left.
I’m just approaching the left turn that will see me head uphill and through a nice leafy part of our estate when I’m given a bit of a boost. In front of me, coming the other way are my wife and son, both out for an afternoon stroll having set off a few minutes before I did. I give them a wave – I know my wife will be worried, but I’m clearly still alive – smile and tell them I’ll see them somewhere at the top of the hill.
This section is all uphill and it lasts a few minutes. This is going to hurt! My app doesn’t seem to have told me how far I’ve gone and now I can see that there’s a couple of people walking dogs up ahead. Suddenly I’m not focused and I can feel my legs getting heavier as I begin to climb. Late last year, running on the same section, I’d been knocked off my feet by three dogs snapping at my ankles, leaving me caked in mud. I notice that, again, one of the dogs in front of me is off the lead. And it’s some kind of Spaniel – notorious mentalists those dogs. I quickly weigh up my options, but there’s not a lot of choice. I can turn left again and end up on one of the main roads going up a slightly steeper hill or I can keep going and get past this dog. I can’t face a steep climb, so there’s only one thing for it.
As I crest the hill I’m about twenty yards behind the woman walking the dog. The dog is off on the field to my right, sniffing at bushes, but the woman is right on my course in the middle of a narrow path. I get closer and closer, but she doesn’t seem to hear me. It feels like I’m wheezing and panting and my legs are heavy. Now I’m frightened that she’ll think she’s about to be set upon by some heavy breathing pervert. I leave the path and run on the field, risking alerting her crazy dog as well as slipping in the mud, but at the same time allowing her to feel safe from the lycra clad, tomato faced Geordie aerobics instructor that must be quite the most alarming sight she’s seen all day. As soon as I’m round her I veer back on to the safety of the concrete and compose myself. The dog hasn’t noticed me and I can’t hear her sniggering. I’m not caked in mud and everything is fine. The ground is flat and will be for a while. My legs have survived the climb uphill and on reflection, I don’t feel so bad.
I allow myself a glance at my app. It tells me I’ve done just over 2 kilometres. Now what? My path leads me directly to our football fields, but I don’t want to stop now. I’ll do a lap, see how I feel, despite the fact that I know running on a field will sap the energy out of my tired legs.
I’m flagging now. Clearly, my enforced rest has taken its toll. My lower back hurts, my left calf feels like it might cramp up and as I reach down to feel my pulse I can feel that my heart is racing. Reaching for my wrist to feel my pulse has become quite instinctive since being poorly and I’m slightly alarmed at how fast it seems to be going. In the past, I’ve often convinced myself I’ve ran far enough when these type of thoughts happen, but not today. I’m quick to snap myself out of anything negative. I can’t stop now. My back hurt beforehand and of course my heart rate’s up – I’m running. There’s nothing else for it but to press on. I’m settled – however much this hurts I’m going to run 3 kilometres, which will represent the furthest I’ve ran in a long, long time. Let’s get this over with!
I pick up the pace as I reach the path that goes halfway around the bottom football field. I’ll have to run halfway round on the grass, but I’m going to do it. I’ve just done my first lap and a half when my wife and son appear at the top of the path, across the field from me. I try to shout and tell them I’m keeping going, but I haven’t quite got the breath for it, so I just keep running on. My legs are wobbling a little and I’ve not got a lot left, but as I look at my app I realise that about another lap will get me up near my 3 kilometres. As I run down the far touchline I allow myself to think back a few months. I remember being disharged from a ward late at night and making my way tentatively through the hospital to meet my family who I know are outisde waiting in the car. I remember limping out through the automatic doors worrying that I’d cry the minute I saw them. I never did and much to my surprise, I still haven’t.
The detached voice of the running app snaps me out of my thoughts and back to today as it tells me I’ve covered 3 kilometres, averaging just over 6 minutes per kilometre. Wow, I’ve been flying. I’m bloody 46, you know. My son is up ahead, his hand out for a high five. I’m done. I slow up slightly, slap his hand and bring myself to a halt. My hands go to my knees and I double over, before I release myself, spin round and join my wife for the walk home. I want to punch the air. I won’t be able to stop talking about this for hours and she’ll get to hear about every step, poor woman.
It’s a small victory, baby steps, but I feel really, really good. Same again next week.
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