Mud, glorious mud

Run Dem Crew Met League men's team

I enjoy sport outside where I can pay homage to my hunting, gathering ancestors. So, when offered the chance to be one tenth of Run Dem Crew’s men’s team for a Met League cross country fixture I leapt at the chance. This is how I found myself lining up alongside hundreds of men in tiny shorts on a muddy field near Alexandra Palace to tackle 8 kilometres across undulating terrain against some serious looking runners. The atmosphere was one of nervous anticipation as we realised none of us had run cross country since school days.

My brand new Brooks running spikes looked like veterans of many races the moment I stepped off the tarmac and into the quagmire that had once been a wide stretch of grass. A day’s racing had churned the soggy turf into a runner’s Somme. That morning in Runners’ Need I had been reluctant to pay £50 for a pair of specialist shoes that would not see regular use but I was cheered at the counter when the sales assistant asked me if I was a member of a running club.

“Not so much a club.” I said. “More of a crew”

“Run Dem Crew?” he replied, immediately. It seems the name is known across the capital. “You get a 10% discount.”

Something for the weekend

Churning up the dirt on the way down - "Braaaap!"

So, with untested footwear I lined up to take my chances with the rest of the hardy souls who had chosen to pit themselves against hundreds of flimsy vested endorphin junkies as their weekend’s entertainment. A claxon sounded and we set off squelching. The race route led east across the lower slope of the fields below Alexandra Palace towards the space that is a cricket pitch in summer time. Soon, soft grass gave way to large puddles of deep mud and I felt a thrill at the madness of it all. I checked my Garmin and noted the pace of 4 minutes per kilometre, unsustainable across country. As the route swung north through the trees and began to climb I worried that I had started too quickly. We completed one lap of the cricket pitch and dug in to tackle the slope to the palace for the first time. The pace of the pack dropped dramatically. My heart was pumping at a furious rate as I leaned forward into the hill and sucked great lungfuls of air in a bid to keep my body running at peak power. The incline took its toll and my legs began to burn. I forced myself upwards past other runners, swinging my arms for extra momentum. The path levelled out for a time, a brief chance to recover, before plunging back down. All the competitors I had passed on the climb shot past me like mountain goats as I gingerly jogged downwards testing my new spiked footwear against the dual foes of thick mud and gravity.

I slid and slipped but stayed on my feet to be rewarded at the foot of the slope by a chorus of shouts from Cheer Dem Crew. This excellent bunch of loud-voiced Run Dem Crew supporters was made up of female runners who had completed their race and others along to show love for their crew compatriots in time-honoured RDC fashion.

My guardian angel

The adrenaline of race day made me go hard but I was feeling good as I plunged into what I thought was the final lap, mud-coated legs driving me on with my body literally steaming in the cool air. I thought of Mum a lot as I ran. Bringing her to mind reinforces my determination whenever things get tough and she lends me her strength to overcome whatever obstacle is before me. Every step on the crazy twisting path of life is now taken in her honour and each small victory helps me to believe that her struggle against disease was not in vain. I will make damn sure to extract every last drop of experience from this loopy mess before they put me in the ground, and Mum is going to help me do it. I know she will never be far away whenever I train or take part in a race. She is my lucky charm, my raison d’etre. Energy is not created or destroyed, it simply changes form. And I am attempting to turn grief into something positive by discovering what I am really capable of.

“Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.” – Helen Keller

In the excitement of the race I had forgotten how to count to three and I caught up with the guy in front of me to ask if this was the final lap. Through deep breaths he replied in the affirmative encouraging me to ‘go for it’ which I duly did, turning the dial and digging in for the last couple of kilometres. I leapt a fallen tree in the woods and then a strange paranoia gripped me.

“It’s a trick”, I thought to myself. “It’s not really the last lap. He wants me to burn out early. What a bugger!”

I had stumbled into a murky world of amateur athletes out to ruin those who they couldn’t beat fair and square. I enquired again, but this time of a trackside marshal, “Yes, it’s the last lap.”

Kicking for the line

The final slog up the hellish hill with lungs fit to burst and my thighs and calves screaming. Shouts of encouragement echoed in my ears as I threw myself back down the slope, feet planing in the thick slop, arms flailing to keep balance. I acknowledged the huddle of RDC supporters with a cheer which came out more like a strangled yelp and kicked for the line. The Met League scoring system is based on a runner’s position rather than their time so I was keen to ensure nobody overtook me on the home straight. And there was the finishing gate. With a burst of speed I crossed the line, lost my footing and fell straight onto my arse. It felt like a suitably inelegant end to a very primal experience.

As the rest of the runners came in one by one there were hugs and high fives all round. The excitement of the event sent me on an endorphin roller coaster, babbling noisily as I shared snatches of the experience with the other RDC racers. It was a pure, post-race high. I came 192^nd out of 400 but I felt like I had won the race. When you challenge yourself physically as part of a group the feeling of achievement is enhanced and it is as if you tap into a swirling pool of energy to which all have contributed. On completion you are free to walk away with great armfuls of the positive stuff and surf the high until the inevitable crash that will come later.

The first of many

I shared the Met League experience with a group of people who I barely know but it was a pleasure to spend a muddy Saturday afternoon with kindred spirits. There are more fixtures in the New Year and as the Highgate Harriers are scratching their heads and wondering who in the hell Run Dem Crew are, I will be washing off my spikes and preparing to do mucky battle once more.

Thanks to everyone at Run Dem Crew who organised and took part in the race. 

London Fields Lido

Dawn across Hackney

On the streets of London there are more clothes everyday. We are heaping layer upon layer until the human form is barely noticeable beneath swathes of man made and natural fibres. We resemble walking laundry piles, insulated from the cold and nearly all other sensory stimulation. Winter is now firmly upon us yet I am unable to break out of my swimming routine. Not that I am trying to escape the thrice weekly dips but I am surprised at how enjoyable I still find the whole ritual considering the subzero temperatures.

Kick start

When I get out of bed I am barely human. My need for coffee renders me Neanderthal until those first sips of black gold slip past my lips and begin to activate my system. As I stand in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil, like the first man yawning at the entrance to his cave, my impaired intelligence makes it possible for me to do all manner of stupid things. Here are just a few I remember:

• After filling the cafetière with hot water, stored the kettle carefully in the fridge
• Opened a fresh bag of coffee and emptied the entire contents into the coffee maker rather than the jar it was meant to go into
• Violently shook up a carton of Soya milk with the lid open
• While holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a roll-on deodorant in the other, ignored the coffee and put the roll-on directly into my mouth

 Let the world burn

I survive these perils and take care as I cycle through the early fog to the watery haven of London Fields Lido. The wintry weather ensures fewer crowds than in the summer months but the water itself is heated year round to a balmy 26°C. The Energy Performance Certificate pinned up in reception gives an indication of how much power is required to achieve this temperature when the air outside is reaching -4°C. There are volcanoes that are more energy efficient. But who cares? The Lido is a miraculous wonderment and I am deeply thankful for it.

The competition

I find an empty cubicle and peel off the upper layers before removing my cycling shoes and letting my bare feet touch the concrete. My body, shocked, wakes up from the ground up. I pad across the poolside area and size up my fellow H2O lovers. How many iron men are there to blight my swim with their surging flipper-assisted power strokes? And how many hardy bikini clad females for me to ponder striking up an awkward pool-end conversation with?

 Beginning of the world

This morning the air temperature was -2°C as I slipped into the water. The steam floating up from the lanes was so thick as to make all other swimmers invisible to me. It felt like the dawn of time and the future lay across a primeval swamp. I fastened my goggles around my head and began the first 50 metres of front crawl. The view beneath the surface was clearer than above and the sight of thrashing legs reminded me that I was not alone. A liquid environment is not one that humans are designed for. Unless highly trained, with patterns of efficient movement deeply etched into the muscle memory, we fight the water and move inelegantly through it. Our hearing, sight and breathing are restricted and there is a lurking fear that you will wind up lifeless on the bottom or come to spurting chlorine into the mouth of the 20 stone man who has been giving you CPR. I will always be more Eddy the Eel than Michael Phelps but with the help of Youtube my technique is improving.

The steaming lanes of the lido

Focusing the mind 

Swimming can be boring. I try to concentrate on my technique and the length number as a form of meditation. It requires discipline not to leave the pool as soon as I have had enough. But I know I will regret getting out early and conversely will always be glad when I stay the course. I felt good after 30 lengths and the thought of a blazing hot shower was impossible to resist. All the layers went back on and as I crunched across the gritty poolside on my way out I silently thanked the lido for offering me the perfect start to the morning. It’s like a return to the womb to regain strength for to tackle each day with vigour.

Later, I sat in the canteen at work eating a hearty cooked breakfast and I reflected on my life this time last year. A pre-work dip in December would have been the furthest thing from my mind but the legacy of my triathlon training is an addiction to this wonderful routine and now I can’t live without it.

If you live near enough to London Fields Lido to go before work, don’t wait until warmer months. Go now. You will not regret it. 

Check back in a couple of weeks and I will bring you a tale of Christmas kite surfing in Egypt. Happy holidays.

A pleasant surprise

At lunchtime I like to walk. I walk away from the office and through the bustling streets of the City of London. I find my thoughts are clearer with the body in motion – physical movement adds impetus to the mental journey. Unlike a stationary quandary ponder, where you can find yourself repeatedly circling a topic and harassing it like a snarling hyena, on a hearty march the sense of purpose in one’s stride translates to development in your understanding of a situation, ultimately leading to decisions which spawn action to implement positive change in your life.

I also like to look at stuff. There are many beautiful buildings to enjoy and amusing situations to witness. Things like the rushing man tripping on his way out of a coffee shop and dousing himself with hot cappuccino. Or the burly construction worker flexing his charm on the preened executive who strides passed on spiked heels like a prize pony and acknowledges his gruff compliment with a smile and flick of her lustrous locks.

And churches. There are many old and beautiful churches tucked into corners of London that are often overlooked in our evermore-secular society. So many were destroyed in the Great Fire of London and lots that were rebuilt then perished during the hellish days of the Blitz. But a good few survived the onslaught of explosive death from above, or were restored once the war was over, and now they sit between office blocks and designer shops, still proud, but with dwindling congregations and struggling for funding, paint flaking from their vaulted ceilings. I don’t subscribe to one denomination of organised religion but I do enjoy the peace and tranquillity of a grand old House of God. To sit on an honest wooden pew and be still for just a few minutes is a rare pleasure in this life that moves at the speed of fibre optic broadband.

It was on one of my meandering postprandial strolls that I came across St. Sepulchre, also known as the Musicians’ Church, on Holborn Viaduct. I paused at the door for a moment before stepping inside for brief respite from the whirligig of life. And I am glad I did because I then experienced the most pleasant surprise. There was a performance of classical music taking place. I took one of the many empty seats among the sparse audience of elderly and fingerless glove wearing types and happily received the pleasure of a hauntingly beautiful violin recital with piano accompaniment.  It was an unexpected joy for a weekday lunchtime. As the graceful melodies filled the imposing space, sunlight filtered in from the stained glass windows and through the bare patches in the aged union jack flags mounted on the columns of the nave. I noticed the metal plaques fixed to the chairs ‘in memory of fallen comrades’ and the poignancy of the scene actually brought a tear to my eye.

I was deeply moved and thankful for the chance encounter with this rich experience but one’s daily obligations don’t disappear just because you've heard some nice music so I composed myself, placed a donation on the collection plate, and headed back to virtual reality.

London is a bewitching lagoon of full of opportunities and mystery. I've got my Speedos on and I'm diving in. 

Lunchtime surprises - brought to you by the ever-popular Anglo-Japanese Society of Wessex

Run Dem Crew

Run Dem Crew

Since developing my love of, and need for, physical training I have expended most of my blood, sweat and tears alone. Swimming, running and cycling are usually individual events. There are exceptions; synchronised swimming, sprint relays and the professional peloton but I enjoy being alone and sticking to my own timetable. I run when I want, where I want and I don’t have to wait for, or be let down by, anyone. I am in control. But running down by the canal has become a bit miserable of late. Dicing with death, or the aptly named Weil’s disease, to pound the same stretch of towpath in the dark is losing its appeal in these winter months. So, I joined a running club.

But this is not an ordinary running club. I have no experience of others to compare it to (so please indulge me in my flight of fancy) but I knew straight away that this would be no stuffy Lycra Mecca for wiry hollow-cheeked obsessives to look on my battered trainers with pity and then turn away to discuss ‘pronation’ and ‘the wall’. The name for a start – Run Dem Crew. It immediately made me smile when I heard it. And everyone who I have told about it since has reacted the same way. Run, yes, I get it. This is a group for running. Dem Crew; bucking the trend and sticking two fingers up at convention. There is fun to be had here.

Run Dem Crew was recommended to me by a friend and his enthusiasm immediately led me to the website where I read about the “collective of creative heads with a passion for running”. I emailed the founder, Charlie Dark, explaining my love of running and writing about it and my desire to join. It was after receiving his warm response that I found myself chatting with about a hundred other endorphin junkies at the RDC HQ in Shoreditch on a chilly Tuesday evening. The welcome was friendly, the energy was strong and the Lycra-clad ladies were, as always, amazing.

I chatted with drama teacher Chris and fashion student John while we waited for the evening’s session to begin, a crowd of eager people thronged on tiered seating and a babble of voices filled the large room. That many people in one place wearing running trainers? Something good was about to happen. Charlie began the evening by handing out the race medals to all of the members who had recently taken part in an event. They had each submitted a brief account of the experience, which was read out before they came up to collect the symbol of their success, to much whooping and applause. And there were a lot of medals. Many different times and tales but each one a personal achievement. From one of the running stars of the group smashing a sub three-hour marathon to the guy who has endured 9 operations following a serious accident and is now back running again. It was uplifting stuff.

On discussing running pace with my fellow oxygen-addicts I was give the choice between running with the Cheetahs or the Cheetah/Elites. The name sounded impressive and I was slightly nervous as to the pace that was going to be expected but not one to shy away from a challenge, I opted for the big cat hybrid group.

We set off into the wintry night led by the Nordic-looking, square jawed, Ed and I wondered what I had got myself into. Had my running watch been lying to me these past few months? Maybe its age had rendered it inaccurate and my times were wildly different from those I had registered. But the pace was good and immediately I felt a sense of surging purpose as our crew of ten burst out of the side street and onto the main road, flattening pedestrians against the wall, and eliciting gasps from evening drinkers. We were a team of Lycra-clad commandos on our way to attend a serious crisis that could only be averted by the rhythmic pounding of the pavement with our hi-tech rubber soles. Maintaining conversation on the move was a new challenge for me and I found that I would slip back through the pack as I made introductions and chatted with each of my fellow runners in turn. And then during a lull in chatter I would replenish the oxygen in my system, refocus on my breathing, and begin to pick up the pace.

Down through the City we charged, wisely waiting for pedestrian lights to turn green - a safety essential for group running. Across the concrete concourse by the office near Moorgate tube where I work, towards St Paul's and the river. The streets were quiet and dark and cold. We were reclaiming the pavements from the thousands of workers who pack them during the day. This was our time and London was a playground.

We ran onto Millennium Bridge and the beauty of riverside London glowing in the dark hit me like a brick thrown off a flyover. Simply stunning. The wide waterway stretched out on either side of us as huge buildings, old and new, crowded along the banks to catch a glimpse of the majestic silvery serpent, Old Father Thames, as he slipped through the night. The bridge arched over the river and carried us safely down onto terra firma in front of the looming Tate Modern. We swung west alongside the river, paying attention to shouted warnings from the group leader “Stairs!” or “Turning Left”. Pedestrians obligingly made way for our speeding phalanx as we wove between the benches and trees dotting the walkway on the South Bank, diverging and re-merging after passing obstacles, like a bait ball of sardines flowing around a predatory tuna.

Having left the robots climbing up the side of the Hayward Gallery alone with their precarious scramble, the pace picked up and the group began to string out. We were going at a good clip and there was no talking now. I was quite comfortable sitting just behind the leaders and focusing on my breath and the beauty of the nocturnal metropolis. The excitement of this new route through places more accustomed to daylight was invigorating for the mind as well as the body, in the same way as scrambling through streams had been in the Welsh Mountains, or encountering deer in the forests of North Norfolk. It is possible to escape whilst remaining in the city.

And on we ran. To Vauxhall Bridge where we crossed the river to the north side and began our return journey. Through the heavy metal barriers guarding the Houses of Parliament, and passed two Bobbies freezing in their plastic observation box, “Evening all”. An admiring glance towards the ever impressive stonework of the Palace of Westminster where the elected representatives of the UK ply their trade and beneath the benevolent gaze of the Elizabeth Tower before crossing onto Embankment and a nice long stretch of unbroken pavement to really test the legs.

An interval training game called “Catchphrase” was set up. We split the group into pairs and ran in a column, military style. The pair at the back of the column were to think of a famous catch phrase (“At my signal, unleash hell”, “You talkin’ to me?” etc), holler it at the top of their voices and then charge to front of the group before screaming the line again, which was the signal for the pair at the back to begin their lung busting sprint. It was hard. Physically, with the sprints taking their toll on legs eight miles into a run, and mentally; I couldn't think of a single line! Luckily, the other half of my pair, an Australian called Matt, was feeling more inspired. Although this did mean we were subjected to the Antipodean classic, “throw another shrimp on the barbie” - an unusual thing to shout when running through a freezing December night. Even as I uttered the words I felt a spark of national pride and thought I might come up with a quintessentially British come back. But “Have another ten pints of Stella” didn't seem quite appropriate and the next pair beat me to it with the classic Michael Cain line, “You’re only meant to blow the bloody doors off”.

Trawling through the memory banks for specific information while the body is operating near the top end of its capabilities is not easy. Someone hit the nail on the head when they exclaimed, “I like running because it’s time when I don’t have to think.” But it was far simpler to ignore burning lungs with the brain busy and unlike when you are on your own, when running with a crew there is no opt out and you do the next sprint whether you like it or not. The pack fed off each other’s energy and we charged on through the darkness.

A sprint finish up the steps leading from Millennium Bridge to another iconic landmark, St Paul’s Cathedral, and we paused to let the stragglers catch up and the group reformed. Passing so many beautiful buildings as we had I wondered if there is a niche tourist market waiting to be developed; city running tours. A keen runner with the lung capacity of a Blue Whale leads a group passed the sites while sharing interesting historical trivia and doing their best not to expire from oxygen-deprivation. Dragon’s Den here I come. “I’d like £50 for some new running trainers please”.

We set off again and powered the final stretch back to Run Dem Crew HQ through the deserted streets of the Square Mile, at one point being subjected to wolf whistles from a group of businesswomen drinking outside a pub.

“Just makes me feel like a piece of meat”, remarked one of the group.

We really let fly for the final few hundred metres through Shoreditch, eking out the last vestiges of energy from tired legs, before arriving back where we had started to high-fives with the Elite group who had returned before us. What a run. As my heart rate subsided I felt the familiar sense of peace, calm, and contentedness settling over my mind and I thanked my body for performing well, like a jubilant trainer patting his steaming steed and whispering kind words after a successful race. It was half past nine at night and time for home and a hot shower and food. I thanked my fellow runners and Charlie, explaining what a rush it had been and how inspirational to meet such a diverse group of individuals who all share one passion. I felt like I had arrived somewhere good, somewhere I was meant to be.

As I write this now on a cold Tuesday morning, listening to the squeal of buses’ air brakes cracking the dawn like the plaintive cry of an abandoned infant creature, it’s much easier to think of cheesy catchphrases, with Google only a click away. And if I had to choose one to sum up my experience of Run Dem Crew?

“I’ll be back”

One day

Wildlife on Regent's Canal

My alarm is set for 6.50 but I wake up at 6 when the central heating kicks in. The fiery gas heart pumps hot water through the creaking pipe veins from a cupboard in my room. The house is coming to life and sleep is over with, another tick on the to do list. My brain quickly fades back into consciousness and I am excited for the day ahead. I lie in the warmth of my bed and plan the space between waking and leaving for a swim. As the earliest riser in the house I am very aware of disturbing my flatmates especially as one of the 3 bedrooms is a mezzanine without solid walls and a gentle fart would be enough to disturb its slumbering occupant. I creep across the hall in thick socks, the whine of a door hinge sounding as loud as a church organ across the peace of dawn. Safely into the kitchen and on with the kettle. A noisy beast but what’s to be done? Armed with the requisite paraphernalia to begin my caffeinated campaign on the day I slip back into my room.

This is a beautiful part of the day. It is a time that I feel is truly mine. I have an hour to write as I watch the dawn break across the roofs of Hackney and I bash away at the keyboard, each stroke like the fall of a sledgehammer, drilling into the brains of my unfortunate flatmates. A while later, I am shouldering a heavy bag containing swimming gear, work clothes and lunch as a bear with a sore head stands at the door to the bathroom and I whisper goodbye and have a good day, wheeling my bike out of the flat and into the corridor.

London Fields Lido is still busy despite the season. A mile or more of watery meditation in the steaming lanes is the way to start the day. Avoiding a face full of arse or size 12 foot from the obnoxious tumble turners I plough on in sensory deprivation until emerging, as if from the primordial soup, slightly more developed. The water is heated to a pleasant 26C so it’s only getting out and bare feet on early morning concrete that present any unpleasantness, soon alleviated by a blasting hot shower. Outside the swimming pool I look out across the carpet of leaves on London Fields. Dogs scamper this way and that and the sight soothes my eyes. I’ll keep the memory alive as I plunge back into the concrete Jenga.

The day is busy. My brain burns hundreds of calories processing information, thinking, planning and communicating. From my desk I look out at the 30-storey Citypoint building, home to thrusting businesses and an expensive gym. I have been to the top and the view is fabulous. From the 2^nd floor of my building you have to use your imagination. At lunchtime I take a quick bite in the windowless canteen before stepping out for some air and with my coat zipped against the elements I march towards the Barbican High Walk, a bewildering maze of interconnected concrete walkways, which allows the residents of the brutally beautiful Barbican Estate to move around free from the traffic below. From the Barbican Centre for some jazz on a Saturday to the residents only garden, and back to your apartment without stepping foot on the pavement. How delightful. The street is accessed at numerous points by discrete staircases that you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for them. In summer, and in winter too for the hardy, the outside space and water features adjacent to the Barbican Centre are a lunchtime playground for office workers in the know. Nearby, a preserved section of the original Roman wall around London stands testament to the long history of this city. The old fortification stands out starkly against the steel and glass towers all around. In the information age firewalls are more relevant than stone ones but I doubt very much if City Place House or City Tower will still be standing in 2,000 years.

My energy seems relentless but my eyes tell the true story. There are lines and shadows were a well-rested person has none. Take me out of London and put me on a wild beach or in the bosom of an untamed forest, or high on a snowy mountain, and then I can pause. Here in the city the swirling energy of millions of striving souls seeps into me and I feel connected. It is possible to be exhausted to the point of physical collapse but it seems a buzzing brain can drive its vehicle on across an extended period of sleep deprivation. And so I keep going. Where is the off switch?

The gasholder by Broadway Market

Home from work and quickly away for running respite down by the canal. Pavement pounding, pushing past pain. Who can predict how a person will react to grief? I am thankful that despite the deep sadness I have been able to respond positively to the challenge but I cannot imagine how I would have coped without exercise. I cast a silent prayer to the evening sky giving thanks to my Mum to whom I owe everything. She smiles down, telling me to slow down. I shrug – “Sorry mum, I’ve got shit to do”.

Once I am back in the warmth and showered the evening disappears in a parade of cooking, washing, planning holidays and hanging artwork on my wall. It seems I am challenging myself to fit as much as possible into each 24 hours but by half past eleven my bed is calling me. I feel I have given the day a good run for its money and have earned my repose. Tom Wolfe entertains me for half an hour or so with his tales of gross extravagance and hideous inequality in 1980s New York before I turn out the light at midnight.

Sleep comes quickly and most often dreamlessly. Perhaps that is not accurate because they say a person always dreams but may not recall their unconscious adventure when they wake. I rarely rise from my rest with a tale to tell, it’s like somebody ripped the plug out, system shutdown. Thank god. And then when my eyes pop open I know the day has begun. My mind is jolted back into action by jump leads running from a great engine and clamped directly into my grey matter. My brain whirs up like the death dispensing chain gun attached to an Apache helicopter and thoughts fly hither and thither like nuggets of lead ripping through the shroud of sleep.

I lie in the warmth of my bed and plan the space between waking and leaving for a swim. I am excited for the day ahead and what can be achieved. I wait for the boiler to burst into life and reassure me that, although it is still nearly an hour before my pointless alarm is due to go off at 6.50 am, it is okay to get out of bed and start the day. I lie and wait and think and plan. I wait and plan and think and become impatient. Perhaps the boiler is broken, it has been playing up recently. I wait some more before resigning myself to checking the time on my phone, which lies charging on the floor. It’s 1 am. 

And so it begins....

I would not have thought so

Running the Regent's Canal at night

Regent's Canal at night. Copyright Stefan Schafer.

It is never a chore to put on my running shoes and fly away for 10 kilometres or so. I can feel the post-accident creak in my right knee whispering that, sadly, a marathon is probably never going to be a good idea but 45 minutes of strong running can turn the worst day to a manageable 24 hours that you can process and move on from. And it can also be the icing on the cake of a really good day, leaving me babbling to my nonplussed flatmates as the endorphins course through my system.

The seasons have most definitely changed. It is dark when I leave work and by the time I get home the sunless hours have settled in firmly, a city shrouded in a starless cape. There is less lingering, more hurrying. No point to dawdle in shirt sleeves, taking the air, prolonging the day. Instead, button up tight and rush home to switch on sidelights and cook hot meals. Stamp your feet as you hang up your coat and feel the comfort of central heating. Or, to warm pubs, bars and cinemas. Inside is good; it’s light and warm, safe. Stay inside; outside, the wind whips and rain threatens to become snow. Faces turn down to slippery dangers, strangers don’t meet and eyes don’t rove. Where have all the pretty girls gone? They must be solar-powered.

But outside is where I want to be. Where I can feel the chill on my skin while my system pumps and my lungs burn. Propelling this bag of muscle and bone, cartilage, sinew, fat and blood forward. A human body is a natural mechanical marvel, capable of great things when encouraged and trained. Each body is a miracle. How often do we really appreciate the incredible creation of which we are pilot? It is so easy to take it for granted. Like family, always there, right? The processes that are occurring simply for me to sit at my desk and type these words could fill books when explained scientifically but we don’t give it a moment’s thought. The potential inside all of us is huge. We just have to unlock it. When I run I feel like I am taking hold of the handle on the door to that potential. I’m gripping it with both hands and I am beginning to pull open that big heavy door. A crack appears and something seeps out. It fills me with strength and energy and drives me on. It motivates me to follow my dreams and fosters in me magnanimity towards my fellow humans. My thoughts become clearer with the body under motion. I have always marvelled at the philosophers who pondered profound quandaries while sat in a room, and much prefer the idea of Wordworth’s roaming of the Lake District as an inspirational technique. The world is out there and it should be experienced because we, and perhaps the planet as we know it, will not be around forever.

To make an escape without leaving the city I have the canal. It is not yet so cold that anything more than shorts and t-shirt are necessary. That people can run in hoodies and rain jackets amazes me. I would expect to sweat an obscene amount and be reduced to a shrivelled sack of skin, found lifeless under a pile of Gore-Tex and nylon. I cross Dalston Lane, picking my way through the endless clog of vehicles, that stuttering procession making its painful way towards the junction. This queue so frustrates drivers that they regularly run the light when it has long passed turning red. A white ‘ghost’ bike is locked up nearby, a memorial to a cyclist killed by an impatient motorist. Down Queensbridge Road where the leaves shed from the trees are mashed into the soggy pavement and the headlights of cars are smeared across the evening gloom. Straight south towards the canal I run. I feel a sense of purpose and focus. I direct my energy into my stride and into my breath and feel the dreary details of a digital day trampled under my feet.

I cut a long diagonal path across the road when the way is clear and swing down the ramp that leads onto Regent’s Canal. Immediately there is a sense of change. The silver ribbon of the canal reflects the buildings all about as it slips silently by, drawn irresistibly by gravity towards the next lock. There are no cars, no traffic and few people. There are no advertisements or hoardings, or shouting shop windows. 

The towpath takes me on past collections of narrow boats, long and pointed, the friendly round portholes illuminated by generators, which emanate a deep gurgling throb from within. Wood smoke, or coal smoke, and in one case the pungent whiff of weed smoke, curls up into the air from these floating dwellings. I am transported by the smell to a wild moor with the boats like cosy cottages nestled in the valley. Their wooden walls enclose private worlds. All at once inviting and mysterious they speak of an alternative way to live in the city. For some it is a lifestyle choice, to live on the water and have the freedom to move around, enjoying the company of different moorings as the mood takes them, or not; choosing an isolated spot where they will not be bothered. For others perhaps there is no choice, the rent on a narrow boat being cheaper than a flat and offering an affordable alternative to the  ‘inspirational living’ available in the uninspiring half a million pound new-build apartments that loom over most stretches of the water.

The romance of being a gypsy on the canal is tempered by the effort required on a daily basis. You must offload sewage, take on water and fuel, chop wood and carry shopping inconvenient distances. But you are the master of your own destiny. Under what other circumstances can you drive away if you don’t like your neighbours? If you live in a motor home, yes, but that is just a bit rubbish. The different motivations for choosing canal living are reflected in the huge range of crafts moored along its banks. There are grand, double-width palaces with shiny portholes and fresh coats of paint. These monsters thumb their nose at the idea that living in a canal boat should provide less space than a conventional dwelling. Inside you have to cycle from room to room and maintain a strict curfew on the go-kart track so the kids don’t keep you awake. At the other end of the spectrum are the dilapidated wrecks; listing to one side, mouldy and inhabited? Tarpaulins are stretched over leaking doorways and paint flakes off all over their creaking frames. Some are not canal boats at all but motor boats, presumably once the playthings of the wealthy, but now fallen on hard times and taken to drink. Dirty and decaying, it must be a very cramped existence inside. They speak of desperate necessity rather than a chosen alternative.

As living in the crowded city moves ever skywards into identical boxes the floating homes on the water offer a chance to maintain some individuality. Your home can reflect your personality, not only on the inside, but on the outside as well. You can paint your boat, and adorn it with murals and plaques. One craft moored down by Victoria Park has been made to look like a Tudor cottage, an elaborate and completely bonkers project. Even the clutter on the roof speaks volumes about who you are; buggies and bikes, golf clubs, barbeques and tin baths. Living on a canal boat involves work but in summer, if we have one, there is huge fun to be had lounging on the roof with a mojito and shooting the breeze with your canal-side neighbours.

These charismatic buoyant abodes entertain me as I whip eastwards and then south towards the Thames, following the ribbon of the canal glinting under the low glow of light pollution in the night sky. The darkness cloaks me. I find it comforting to be surrounded by the shroud of evening but there is also a sense of danger, of some lurking unknown lying in wait to shatter the stillness. Just beyond the fence a boogie monster is waiting to leap out of Victoria Park and drag me to its cave to crunch my bones.

A more likely peril is taking an accidental dip in the dark waters. Dressed in all black running gear, I am a menace to myself and the occasional cyclist I pass. Some ride their bikes down the canal with no lights or bell to warn of their approach. If passing one of these invisible high speed death-traps in a narrow tunnel, disaster is only inches away. Without investing in the correct nerdy apparel and a head torch I think it’s only a matter of time before I have an unwanted encounter that ends up with me tangled in a shopping trolley on the bed of the canal or flying through the window of a boat and into someone’s dinner like some kind of flailing Lycra-clad wrecking ball, all limbs and sweat into a carefully prepared carbonara.

Avoiding a spaghetti face plant I charge onwards, past Millenium Park, and under Mile End Road. The tunnel beneath Ben Jonson Road is the halfway point in my run where I turn and head for home. Thinking of the disgraced Canadian sprinter, I looked up Ben Jonson and discovered he was an English poet and contemporary of Shakespeare. In London, inspiration lies all around, threads of our rich history woven into the tapestry of a modern metropolis. I wonder what folk in the 16^th Century made of running as pleasure. Did such a concept even exist? Probably not. I imagine they were far too preoccupied with peasant riding and wench hurling.

I run back the way I came, my hands now good and clammy under my gloves. Bare legs are fine but numb hands make accessing one’s home and removing trainers a tricky task, so sweaty digits it is. I pay silent homage to the looming gasholder that guards the stretch of water near Broadway Market, its imposing steel framework silhouetted against the night sky. And soon I am back on Queensbridge road and only a short way from home. I stop to walk the last few hundred meters in an attempt to free some of the lactic acid from my muscles and prevent stiffness the next day. I feel a sense of peace settling over me. The exertion affords a temporary respite from the plague of my busy brain and relentless need to be doing ‘stuff’. Running is meditation on the move. Each time I set out for a run, I make a deal with my mind; I offer it a willing body to drive on for a period of intense activity and in return I am rewarded with reduced mental static, increased clarity and an enhanced mood. I feel it is a fair trade.

Running in North Norfolk

The beach near Holkham, North Norfolk

Free from the shackles of the City, the beach is mine to roam under a wide sky. I will leave my footprints and sweat in the sand. From a cottage in Wells-next-the sea I set out, running shoes showing the wear of three months triathlon training. My big toes always burst through the thin mesh of Asics runners in the same place, frustratingly close to where a reinforced panel curves heel to tongue. I imagine changing the position of my foot inside the shoe with thicker socks or Chinese binding techniques, before accepting I just need to buy some new pavement pounders.

The air is cool and fresh with a brisk breeze whipping off the estuary mudflats where the meandering tributaries run wet and dry in an endless cycle, revealing subterranean morsels for the thousands of migrating birds who have come to winter here. Skeins of geese chatter above, jockeying for position and displaying the magnificent V-shaped formations from which wartime bomber squadrons borrowed so well. Old bunkers and pillboxes dot the farmland hereabouts, slowly crumbling reminders of that nation-defining struggle.

Down the lane and onto the harbour I run. Where the fishing boats are tied up sharp ocean aromas waft into my streaming nostrils. Young men in tracksuits and gloves heft crates of the sea’s harvest onto the shore. The air is fresh and clean. And there are views. I can see further than the next building, because out towards the sea across the marsh, there are none. I feel the space. I feel the air. I breathe into my body, drawing strong and true, expanding and strengthening with each crisp lungful. My pace quickens. I am filled with the rush of freedom and I make the usual mistake of setting out at an unsustainable pace. I always plan to run the second half of my route quicker than the first but with surroundings like these the excitement is irrepressible.

Jumping over the stout ropes securing vessels to the land, I pass around the small harbour and the rows of sweet shops and amusements arcades, swinging north next to the old lifeboat house and onto the seawall. Dinky sailing boats bob at their moorings, the ringing of their rigging like a whispered encouragement to un-tether and run before the wind. A large swell rolls in and the jolly pleasure craft nod excitedly up and down, like playful dogs tied up outside a shop, tongues lolling. I taste the salt in my mouth, my strides are long with eyes wide on the horizon, and the sea beckons. It is two kilometres or so before I reach the car park where day-trippers will later on stop to stroll and screech. Gaily painted beach huts and dunes lie just beyond, but that way is not for me. It’s no fun to run on thick dry sand, so I turn west, into the woods.

The last time I came this way I was lucky enough to see a muntjac, which is a type of tiny deer. It startled me almost as much as I startled it. I hope for another encounter. Through the kissing gate at the edge of civilisation and I am away into the glade. Soon the wide blue sky is just patches glimpsed through the thick stands of proud pines, straight trunked and reaching. The path takes me further in and up along a natural rise forming the back wall of the beach. And then there is not one way but many, my choice to follow whichever sandy track looks most promising and offers the least resistance through the trees and thorny bushes. I stretch my legs across roots and lean back to stutter down loose embankments, but always onwards, fuelled with cool, clean air and solitude, and the promise of the sea glinting at the edge of the flat beach, beyond the ridges of the golden dunes.

As I run further, the narrow, winding track opens out and I find myself flying along a smooth, forest causeway, carpeted with pine needles and all about the vibrant green sprouts of young plant growth tug impetuously at the sleeves of the stately pines. It truly is a magical place, of elves and spells and hide and seek. Up ahead, the fallen and twisted boughs of a once mighty tree lie blocking the way. I pick a path through the thick branches that curve to the ground from the trunk like the great ribs of a perished dinosaur. And on I go; deep breaths, eyes focused now near for ankle snapping dangers and now far, drinking in the beauty. Soon, another change in the wood and the trees begin to close in all around me, a leafy tunnel is formed, and I duck and twist past reaching tendrils like a boxer on the back foot, staying out of range.

When I was a child, we used to walk through these woods as a family. I have been coming here all of my life. Do I appreciate these places more now as an adult, understanding better how special they are? Walking was often a reason to grumble as kid and ice cream was the pinnacle of joy. Now I relish the liberation that comes with plunging into nature, it eases my soul and soothes my mind. Chatter, chatter, email, phone, plan, lists – STOP. I'm running now.

Not a soul do I see on my way until the green tunnel opens out, the stands of pines begin to thin and I am running on softer sand, right at the edge of the beach. The tide is far out and small waves break gently along the shore, the eternal greeting between land and sea. On the edge of my vision I can just make out the ghostly shapes of wind turbines, sentinels of the waves, hazy and mysterious in the distance. Soon, I am sprung from my reverie by the cheery salutation of a  dog walker, and I run off the sandy track and onto the boardwalk which signals I am almost at Holkham and the halfway point in my 10 km route.  I press the ‘Lap’ button on my trusty Garmin Forerunner so that it will record the pace for the first and second halves of my run separately, do an about face and run back the way I came, retracing my footprints in the sand until they disappear and I am back in the woods.

I thought of Mum while I ran. I felt joy that she had brought me to these places and that I will always be able to go there and be closer to her. And the joy was tempered by a deep sadness that I will never share the experience with her again. Tears filled my eyes as I ran, rising up from the profound wells of elation and sorrow that lie not even a stone’s throw apart, somewhere deep within.

These lines came to me while I ran. I’m not sure I am much of a poet but I hope they do convey some sense of the place and the emotions.

I run, where we used to walk

Short of breath where before we talked,

Of birds and sky, important things

Childhood fears and nettle stings.

Escape the city for a slower pace

Warm days, a sandy, sunburnt face.

Leaping logs I would have climbed

Of Cancer there was no sign

And now I run, but not a race -

To dry the tears from off my face