fig. 1 - terry saunders in running gear
I have just discovered running, as in running for physical exercise not that you can walk quick.
Before Edinburgh I was running daily, then I slowed to every other day, then in Edinburgh not one run, I barely broke into a canter.
But now Edinburgh has been laid to rest again I am trying to lose the excess beer/weird fried kebab month by keeping fit.
I live near Greenwich Park, which is where I go running, this is also where they start that marathon thing (which, the last time that happened was on the day of my third run – I thought it was the biggest practical joke ever).
My running apparel is not quite correct (see Fig. 1), I don’t have the leggings or the breathable Nike runvest. I wear some old swimming shorts, an International Herald Tribune tshirt (mainly because it makes me think I could have been in À bout de souffle – even though in that the girl is selling the New York Herald Tribune and she’s a girl, and in black and white). I do have proper running shoes though. So ner.
Today my running confidence has reached a new high, I’ve nearly managed a lap of some of the park (not quite the whole park, but nearly). Yesterday I got three quarters of the way round the lap of not quite the whole park, which gave me a brimming sense of achievement. I’ve no idea how far this is in miles, but I fear it’s not long enough to be measured in miles, I’m probably still on inches.
As I was heading down the side of the park there was another runner in front of me, he had all the kit on but, crucially, he was old, possibly up to 60 years old, and slow. I knew I could have him.
This is my biggest problem in life, stupid competitiveness. It happens on escalators, busy streets, bus stops, I’m always racing people, maybe it’s to do with my love of formula one that from a young age, when some kids are pretending they’re Geoff Hurst or Paul Gascoigne when they’re kicking a can round the street I’m pretending I’m an F1 racer.
That’s fine when you’re nine, but at 28 it is frankly pathetic as I came up from behind this old man pretending I was in car, and not pretending I was Lewis Hamilton or some other big name. I imagined I was an old champion falling on hard times like Nelson Piquet when he drove for Benetton, and the old man was some upstart, like Vettel, in a car punching above his weight, I wanted to take him down.
All this whilst my ipod played The Clash in my ears, firing me up.
I lined up behind the man/Vettel and (this is so embarrassingly true) imagined I was in his slipstream, getting a tow. I came out, with a speed advantage and overtook him with ease. Take that Vettel, I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve, I’m a three times world champion.
I carried on with my run, looking in my mirrors (turning round) showed the man had slowed and was far behind, I was truly a winner.
By the time I got to the end of the run, there’s a big slope that always finishes me off, I was thinking of not even attempting it, I was too knackered, I’d ran far too fast after overtaking the man, but as a song finished I heard a panting, it was the old man, he’d caught up with me and was too running up the slope.
I dug in and carried on, he was alongside, everything was hurting, but I had to do this, for my pride, and vital championship points.
But I couldn’t. I expired on the grass and he sailed by.
Hair and the tortoise and all that.