Photo by Philipp Baumann on Unsplash
21 kilometres or 13 miles?
I did a half marathon at the weekend. 21 kilometres, 21.2 kilometres or so to be exact, or 13.1 miles in old money, which I was surprised to learn that many people still use for running. Though it is a very Irish thing to flit effortlessly between kilometres and miles as and when you feel or require, with little regard for whoever’s listening.
People get awful flustered when you tell them how far you ran, so I like to lean on the lower figure of the two. I didn’t do it to prove anything anyway. Not this time. It might have been the case the first one I did, in Hanoi a few years ago. I was at a bit of a low point mentally and I think I needed something to keep me going. The thought of accomplishing something as grandiose and impressive sounding as a 21 kilometre run gave me a drive, a sense of purpose and a sense of satisfaction upon its completion.
I’d never run 21 kilometres before then. I’d never even run more than 12 kilometres (7.45 miles if you’re sentimental, or modest) until a few weeks before it. I managed it though, with a combination of last-month training and on-the-day inspiration and that urge to prove myself at something. My time and placing were far better than I could have expected, though the exertion I forced out of myself left me in a hoop. I couldn’t go into work for two days.
First my legs, so stiff towards the last quarter of the race that when the route made us cross back over a footbridge across a motorway they’d become so locked in the oscillation of my running rhythm that I couldn’t will them to move out of that pattern by the usual means of brain-to-central nervous system; I’d to grab them around the thigh like I was lifting a bag of cement into the boot of a car and yank them up each step.
Running kills
Apart from the mischief I’d caused my legs there was a general sickness, partly from pushing myself mentally far beyond the training and limits of what my body should have been capable of on the day, and I’ll blame the other part of it on doing so in a city that occasionally holds the grim distinction of having the World’s Worst Air Pollution, the race being held on a typically grey winter’s day when the pollution would have affected the city worse. I’m not 100% on the science but it seems that in sunnier months the sun has an effect of burning the pollution off, the overall picture of that system I don’t particularly like the sound of.
Achievement unlocked anyway. Did it work? Fuck yeah it worked. I was on top of the world after it. The two days off sick feeling like a just reward in an unjust world, my satisfaction easing me into fitful slumbers in between trips to the bathroom to empty my stomach.
It was totally worth it, as far as I was concerned at the time. Sometimes your sense of self-esteem and psychological well-being can trump even the most potent of physical stressors. It must have, because air pollution has been shown to be linked with anxiety, and yet somehow the purpose running gave me trumped the physical injury the pollution was causing me, and the mental stress I was suffering from at the time.
Though as I rode home from the finish line, light-headed, sore-legged and exhausted, the main thing that struck me was how much I enjoyed it. Conventional wisdom has it that physical exertion like that is ‘hard’, ‘sore’, ‘painful’, or just ‘shite’. I stopped believing all that though.
Never mind what ‘they’ say
“How was the race?” people cautiously enquired in the days after, and still a relative novice to running I amazed myself with my instinctive answer. Not ‘tough’, not ‘difficult’, not ‘painful’ or any of the above – not that it wasn’t those things – but I found myself compelled to confess: “I really… enjoyed it I think?”
I suppose I also had to convey at work that I’d been lying in bed traumatised since, barely able to twist my legs out of the bed for trips to the bathroom, but yeah. Loving life. Maybe a part of me had died and I’d been reborn, maybe Jesus spent the weekend in the cave with his feet up, in a heap but delighted with himself all the same, before returning to his job of spreading the good word with renewed vigour and lust for life, death and rebirth.
So I loved it, but I also thought I could improve on it. I could do the distance, great. And I loved the experience for the most part – the actual doing of it, as well as the satisfaction of finishing. But I’d destroyed myself physically, for a couple of days anyway. And I’ve never been that competitive with other people. I never made much of a footballer, or even a swimmer, as those things are too focused on exerting your dominance over someone else’s personal space, which I never felt at ease with. Once I’d got a bit of experience my own training overrode the conditioning of the conventional wisdom, what ‘they’ say and so on. I realised I just liked running. And once I stopped believing what ‘they’ say I stopped believing all the other stuff going on in my head as well. Slowly but surely, at least.
Why am I running?
So I wasn’t that interested in trying to beat everyone else. Beat myself, maybe? Just go a bit faster than before? What’s the point in that? You’re going the same direction but you feel worse, and it’s over quicker. It mightn’t be good for you either, not in that air anyway. I need fresher air for starters. Away from the city. I knew where I wanted to go next: Space. Not outer space, but to a place. A beautiful place. Nature. Outside. A forest, or maybe even a jungle. Maybe even up a mountain. I wanted to recreate this feeling of enjoyment I’d inexplicably felt after running 13.1 miles – nay, 21.2 kilometres! – and play with it, refine it, modify it, and whack a spoiler on it, and make it as fun and enjoyable as possible.
I wanted to fly.
More nature, less traffic, less emphasis on competition and time and pace. Clambering to the top of a steep hill, caked in mud and sweat, an hour into my first proper trail run, I realised why I was the only one on the start line wearing them. There was no need to motivate myself to keep going through this thick enchanting jungle; no need to distract myself from were I was, even from the pain of what I was doing. It was bliss.
I nearly killed myself again in the completion of it, but my point was still proven, I think. Run for enjoyment, not competition. It was an expression of not just physical, but creative energy on a par with snowboarding, riding motorbikes or surfing.
Just enjoy the sunny days
Which brings me back to the Clew Bay Half-Marathon. A wonderful event, impeccably organised under the Current Circumstances, along a route which must qualify as one of the most stunningly beautiful roads in Ireland.
It’d want to, cos the hills were brutal.
About a third into any race you kind of know where you stand. How you’re feeling, and how well your body’s prepared for the event ahead of you. I felt good, if a little stiff in the legs from another last-minute (or couple of weeks) training programme. It was hot, but in a good way, the placement of water stations in perfect sync with my body’s needs, and the day the clearest you’d see all year.
You could see for miles and miles, and really absorb every inch of the hills and bogs and stone walls and different shades of grass, gently cruising past the rolling fields, the houses and cottages dotted along the roadway gently rising and sinking and twirling through the bogs of the Lost Valley, a Moebius strip through famine-starved lands – you’d almost forgive the bloody hills.
I said I’d give it ‘til halfway.
And then I’d a choice to make: to speed up, or not? To push myself just that little bit more, or to leave some in the tank to enjoy the rest of the rise In the end, I think the course made the choice for me, as I didn’t want to annihilate myself with the promise of more hills to come. And they came. I kept going at a steady pace, lifting it just a little but with the easterly wind on the last stretch pushing me back below my steady pace of the first half.
Who needs excuses with days like these
I didn’t beat my previous time, which I’d done on a perfectly flat Hanoi course through familiar lakeside streets, driven by madness and something to prove. I can always blame the hills. I didn’t really feel the urge though. Either way I’d have finished it, going steady or pushing myself. Still going the same direction. A fine excuse for a sub-standard performance – “I didn’t feel like it!” – but sure that’s neither here nor there, and you’ll just have to trust me on that.
The windy hills meant I’d no choice anyway. I guess it depends on where you’re at; at one point in my life, bursting my bollocks and far exceeding what I thought I was capable of doing was my priority, and the transcending effects of doing so were just what I needed. At the moment it seems I’m happier to cruise along and enjoy the scenery. For now, anyway. I’ll enjoy the sunny days. And running makes them a little bit better.
There were more important things at stake. A beautiful day in late September isn’t to be scoffed at. Why ruin it with over-exerting yourself? It was also an end-of-season event of sorts for myself and my social media-linked running companions, it only fitting that conclude our lockdown running season with an organised event together. It felt worth the wait. I can only speak for myself when I say I wasn’t as fussed about being competitive. Maybe others had something to prove. But they’ll learn.
At the end of the day, running through incredible scenery on a gorgeous Indian summer’s day, running yourself into a state of flow with a steady meditative breathing rhythm… it’s just a good way to spend a couple of hours, isn’t it? All the better if it’s an achievement for you. The experience has reminded me, along with recently dipping my toe back into the altogether different pace and mental world of trail running, what my running goals evolved into once I’d achieved my modest but personally relevant twenty-one-point-two kilometre race finish three years ago – just enjoy yourself.