Self Discipline

No.  Running wasn’t just about self control – although of course, that was satisfying; it was about inflicting his will upon others.  It was about ensuring that his routine became god in a family of five.

After all, his wiry frame and sinewed, distance runner’s legs demanded a concerted effort, a strategic campaign to guarantee that targets were met and coaching goals reached.  It was a spreadsheet head game that demanded family project management of the highest order. 

To his fellow running club members he was a driven and focused athlete; to his family he was an obsessive bully who had gouged his tally of running medals at their expense.

When the children were younger, it had indeed given the family a focus to be ‘Team Daddy’, and offer vocal support and Lucozade sachets at pit stops around an eclectic range of running meets.  They knew the vagaries of a 5k to a 20 miler and translated PB’s into an all too familiar currency of hours and minutes positioned strategically road-side, willing the circulation to return to their extremities and wishing themselves inside some warm cafe.

It had never occurred to him that their enthusiasm might wane over the years, and he certainly had no intention of inviting his by now strapping teenagers, or middle-aged wife, to take up the torch and start running with him.  He begrudgingly accepted their excuses to miss his race days and distantly acknowledged that they had replaced his schedule with a programme of rugby tournaments and hockey tours.  It never occurred to him to support his ‘team’ at these events.  Their sporting victories became his inconvenience.  He festered as he ran further away from his family.

He must have had some vague awareness of the subterranean existence and earthy pleasures of his former fan club.  The odd chocolate bar wrapper, or beer can stowed carelessly in the bin, belied the nutritious shopping detail that he demanded from the family club room. His stock pile of nutritious protein shakes and wholemeal pasta remained unplundered.  A carbo-loaded larder primed to fuel an athlete, appeared anathema to beef-steak young men on a testosterone charge, and their increasingly plumptious mother.  In fact, if he had stopped to contemplate the evidence – paranoia might have made the ludicrous suggestion that the scallops of lethargic flesh paraded by his wife these days were indeed fashioned to repulse his whippet – like form.  He consoled himself that peak performance demanded abstinence.

These days he kept his running diary at work, on his lap top – backed up and accessible by mobile phone.  Back in his novice running days he had written each session’s time and distance on the family calendar in the kitchen and chuckled to see the smiley or sad face some young hand might have added to annotate his progress. This new system was much more reliable of course, and compatible with the Lance Armstrong training schedule downloaded via his Nike trainers to his IPod.  Lance’s, ‘tough workout, well done,’ had somehow, over the years, replaced the, “You can do it Dad!” crayoned beside a weekend’s scheduled long run. Now he stopped to think about it, he realised that the windows on the kitchen calendar were these days all vacant.  No need for family negotiation or liaison: total freedom.

Running without an audience had overtaken him from behind.

Tandem

Bi polar opposites.  United, a team.  Individually, hard work.

Running partnerships are forged over time.  Few niceties, no room for falsehoods.  Built on the hope that in times of hardship your partner will hit a high as you hit the wall and that there will be room on their horse for two.

Our partnership is now totally equal, but we've both been forced to earn our stripes over time. 

One is tall and slender,  Amazonian, exuding pace and determination.  She was scientific about running and googled running academia in the pursuit of her goal.  The other is shorter and dumpier, and trades running trivia and marathon urban myths.  It is difficult for the latter to fall into the stride of the former - and vica versa – in more ways than one.

Alpha runner still finds Beta runner exhausting.  Although a formidable  career woman by day, when running, Beta is lapsidaisical about training dates and times.  She has knitted herself a warming tea-cosy of a training schedule with scant thought for fartlek and transition, and a large cup of focus is given to the calorific conversion of a longer run.  In her book, two hours of steady running translates to the daily calorie intake of most women,  or put another way, earns you 10 Kit Kats and two bags of yoghurt coated raisins to be enjoyed whilst lying prone on the sofa, toying with a copy of ‘Runners World’.

Alpha runner can be equally as taxing.  When agitated she is able to both talk faster and pick up her running pace without breaking sweat.  Any hill is there to be attacked, but she will, out of deference, wait at the top for Beta to catch up.  Any runner ahead of them is there to be overtaken, and particularly if they have a large backside – Alpha has made it a personal training target never to be beaten by a runner with more adipose than herself.  Beta has a sneaky suspicion that she could herself be that lard arse that other runners might be picking off. Alpha’s pedometer is more aggressive than Beta’s; calories burnt never sound quite so appetising after Alpha’s post-run conversion.

They had been brought together through marriage, but aside from the occasional comparison of wedding outfit, children or respective in-laws, they had never really crossed each other’s radar – geographically or emotionally.

Running has now become their shared interest, however.  They came to it via different paths, and with different training partners, but now they run together, and their shared family tree gives new grist to their treadmill.

Shared relatives necessitate firm ground rules before serious running can commence.  The Sisterhood demands that what went on tour stays on tour – or in other words, anything discussed whilst running is not for public consumption. Please note.

Thus, marathon training allowed Alpha and Beta to negotiate a divorce, navigate school changes, assassinate career rivals, discuss the available options for a over-active bladder, play parent poker and discuss the pros and cons of speed dating.  Running sessions become therapy.  Even Beta starts to warm to the long distance run, now there is a human element to enjoy.  If a weekend run is cancelled, respective families feel the strain. A weekly dose of catharsis is based on more than endomorphins alone.

They share their journeying to official races.  Beta begins to enjoy the streamlined pre-race organisation of Alpha – the synchronised eating of bananas, the carefully fashioned bin-liners and the home made gel pouches.  Alpha secretly enjoys the pre-race nerves of her partner, the verbal diarrhoea, multiple trips to the porta loos and acidic sarcasm that deflects long waits for the off.

And over time, they realise that true character comes from long-distance running.  They tune to each other’s mood to the point that a strident, ‘No, you go on, I’ll be fine,’ translates as, ‘I’m struggling, don’t leave me!’  PB’s became less important than ensuring that both team members cross the finishing line – if not together, with at least one waiting to cheer the other one through.

On cross country runs, Beta takes the lead in terms of organisation.  She navigates and splashes happily along muddy tracks.  For road training, Alpha is in charge; pacesetting, water monitoring and demanding negative splits.

Most importantly, spectators now realise that these ill-matched runners, tortoise and hare, are now a formidable team.  They are consulted for physio and podiatrist contact numbers, best running reads, and recommended footwear.  They are sought out for their irreverent dialogue and forgiving approach to coaching.  They have blurred at the seams.  Alpha has softened and Beta has flexed. 

The need to run together is no longer essential, but they save their secrets anyway, ready to fuel a weekend run. Comfortable in each other’s differing strides now, and smug in the satisfaction that they have indeed completed that marathon.  They held hands and smiled beautifully - a photo finish perfect for their shared family album.

Prat Falls

“Running is dangerous,” a plumptious colleague opined as she thoughtfully selected another chocolate from the open box and glided from the office to avoid further discussion.

“So are blocked arteries, “I mutter spitefully, but she has a point.

It’s not the minor indignities such as the blackened or missing toe nails, or even the unsightly blisters, it’s the big prat falls that really hurt.  The ones that happen when you’re long distance running, and inevitably a long way from home.

At best you can hope to be running with a friend when it happens.  At worst you can then wait to have the indignity recalled at any available opportunity, and to any available audience.   The most painful injuries, by some cruel slight of fate, visually look the most comical when they happen, and so provide the best fodder for that running ‘buddy’ you are so lucky to train with, who turns out to be appearing at the Edinburgh Festival that year.

Take the time I managed to knee cap myself whilst out running with a friend.  Ok, so I should have eaten a proper lunch before setting out after work, but I still maintain that the path was uneven.  So, I trip, fail to put my hands out in time and crack both knee caps on the path.  A slow motion prat fall. Happy to oblige.

I’m fortunate enough on this occasion to be running with a First Aid goddess, and as she sits me up and puts my head between my knees to combat my feeling of faintness, I remark, “Thank goodness I missed that huge muddy puddle”.  At least I think that’s what I said, and I say it again, apparently as I come round from my faint, and sit up, having in the interim, launched myself backwards into said muddy mire.  The pain from my knees was nothing in comparison to the pain felt - walking – back to where we had started the run; work carpark.  Naturally a big audience would be needed for this photo finish – plastered like a chocolate digestive biscuit, with gunk dripping from my pony tail.  Strange how many pedestrians seemed to be out that day, and lovely to see so many colleagues returning to the carpark after working late that particular night.

So you would think that this particular experience would have made me a safer runner -more alert, more nourished, at least more bouncy.  Not a bit of it.

Like a child bidding for a parent’s attention, I now boast a whole catalogue of prat falls to add to my repertoire.   The best ones now seem to be saved for lone running occasions, but always when wearing white t-shirts, and always when muddy paths and rambling parties are on hand to get involved.  I like to alternate the decision to bash both knees or just one and now keep a ready supply of ice bags in the freezer for self-medication afterwards.

 Running in ‘flow’ for me, usually means zoning out to the point that I forget to look to see where my feet are going.  I have, however, mastered the ability to return home from these falls past fellow runners or ramblers, pretending that my coating of mud, blood, or both, is of no consequence.  I prefer to close my front door before shedding tears of pain or shame and examining my bruises.

I do learn from my mistakes though, and feel heartened that my quick thinking on mile 8 of my recent trail path running fall prevented any further knee injury and saw me falling in style with both hands out to break my descent.  Two trips to Casualty, a tetanus injection, stitches and antibiotics for an infected hand wound, yes, but at least I can still get my trainers on and the mud washed out of my shirt easily with this new stain remover I’ve purchased.

 You do receive the best boxes of chocolates when you’re a patient and I’m in free fall training to become a plumptious prat. Danger?  What sort of soft centre is that?