I hadn't decided on a plan to run. Instead, I just consider the possibility of running and, inevitably before I've had the opportunity to reflect, I find myself pulling on the shorts and T-shirt and course through the mental check list- is my phone charged, the rucksack dry, the drinks bladder clean, have I got the electrolyte tablets, will I take a banana or treat myself to chocolate this time?
After the commitment to the long run and its preparation comes the silent, reflective minutes, the hesitation, readying and steadying myself, reading my body and assessing my desires for a medium run, a medium/long run, a "proper" long run, maybe even a "long" long run (by this point there is no question that this is not one of my two short runs per week but is, unequivocally, "the long run"). Do I ache anywhere, recovering from any bugs, any blisters or sore areas on my feet from the last run?
Fluids and fuel in the bag (it is never "water and food" to us runners), GPS on, last thing before leaving the house is to slip on my minimal sandals- never trainers on the long run, only occasionally on a short run if it is dark or wet- which are as good as barefoot and provide the thinnest of protective layers against sharp stones and glass. The strongest reason for me to run near-barefoot today is that I will need to retain my energy levels for as long as possible which means running as naturally as possible. And that means relying on the depth of hominid history to help me use the tendons and sinew and muscle just as they have evolved to be used.
I stare at the sky through the open front door trying to second guess cloud formations, wind direction, humidity. I have no real idea what I am looking for but it always seems the right thing to do. Then I'm off, running immediately from the door. I don't practice any warm up exercises, I just go dead slow until my rusty hinges free themselves and my thigh muscles have eased their initial fear. It takes five kilometres before I am fully warmed up and they are the most difficult I will encounter today.
By now I have left the local town behind and there will be no more right-turns or traffic lights until I am home again.
A few more kilometres and I am halfway through. My joints are free and loose, my blood is the colour of the Japanese flag, vitality floods my muscles, litres of energy fizzes through channels in my calves and thighs. I am in perpetual motion. I am "in" the run and will stop only when I die. I am fuelled, hydrated, in charge, in total control.
Cars rarely use this road- there is an alternative and straighter short-cut from A to B, the beginning and end of this 10 kilometre section only 500 metres away- and the footpath is narrow and undulating at this mid section. It gently snakes left and right, respectfully leaving A-road pretensions well behind, providing just enough variable stimuli to maintain interest without feeling like an overbearing training session. The pavement is relatively new and in perfect condition, barely used. There are no walkers walking, no pushchair pushers, no-one popping out on foot.
This is the long middle section (totalling three quarters of today's run) of expansive lawns, modest farmhouses and their fields of sheep, forest corners, nursing homes, edges of a golf course. My run is edged with thick hedges of blackberry- I imagine them to be teeming with tiny lives, insects and rodents racing through these animal motorways- and deciduous skeletons spiking the anthrocene sky.
Running is essentially an introspective and lonely experience for me and these hours alone, in the flow, are some of my most valuable. My thoughts can drift and undulate with the path because my goal and my abilities are assured and because concentration is unnecessary. I think about the intrinsic versus the instrumental value of running, I wonder about homemade pizza and beer for dinner, I think about how my dad and sister are back in London, I wonder about Christmas presents, I wonder about that sore spot developing on my heel. Mostly I have no great depth or detail of thought which is a fundamentally intrinsic value of the run- any contemplation is shallow, dream-like and brief. I am free from intensity.
But every now and then, maybe one run in ten, a thought grows and develops and can begin to overwhelm me in its intensity. Today there started a flicker of an idea about Ruby and that last diabolical day of her life and her last few hours, not with me or Claire or anyone who loves her. Today these thoughts stole my breath like I'd jumped through broken ice into a wintry lake and I couldn't breathe or concentrate or escape and the only thing I could was stop and lean on a wall as if I was tired and cry and cry. Then, as is the way with seasoned grief, I stopped crying after only a minute, wiped the tears and sweat from my eyes, straightened my spine and shuffled on towards my goal.
By now, in the last quarter of my run, I am cruising home, slow "marathon pace". The final two miles are downhill and I welcome the site of the beginning of the descent as I round the last gentle bend prior to a sharp right-angle at the first traffic lights for miles and on through the final straight-lined, red-bricked town and then my front door of the last house at the end of the cul-de-sac where I live.
I don't stop running until I touch the front door.
The shower after a long run is a shower like no other.
And if my plan is successful I'll be celebrating with a guilt-free homemade pizza and a beer or two tonight.
Rest day tomorrow, no exercise allowed, and then back to a short run the day after.
