Running out of sense
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It arrived in a box that was big enough to hold a body. The cardboard stayed in the garage, though not for that reason. If the thing inside didn't get used, it would need to go. Since the idea was so new, there was a chance it wouldn't stick. The intention was that it would get a lot of use. The expectation was quite the opposite. The only certainty was that, if it got too much use, at least there would be an excuse to test my theory about the box.
The first time I used it was the 11th of September 2018. I'd never used one before. I'd never felt the need. It was pure coincidence that I had the right attire and pure luck that it still fit me. That evening, I came home from work, got changed and climbed on board. It didn't take me anywhere, but it started a journey of many miles. For the first time in my life, I was running by choice.
The running machine was just the start. The goal was to get fit, but that alone wasn’t motivation enough. I needed something more; something I could aim for that would give me an additional sense of achievement. Getting fit in and of itself is intangible. Yes, I'm healthier. Yes, I might live longer. But aside from a little extra energy, I wouldn't feel anything else from it. I'm driven by sensation, by feeling, by achieving. Being healthier—while great and good in its own way—wasn't a tick in a box. I needed more.
I'd heard of the Couch to 5K programme. I had the first part down. I knew broadly what the rest involved. I'd just never thought of trying it. Until that point, running was something that happened to other people. I didn't see the appeal. Unless you're being chased, or about to miss a bus, why else would you willingly exert yourself like that, only to arrive precisely where you started—somewhat sweatier and more out of breath than before you left? Again, I understood the goal of keeping fit, but did it have to be like that? There had to be something else. I just couldn't think of it.
I work with a bunch of gym nuts. They love it. I don't. I'm even less excited at the prospect of working out in front of people; not least because I'm built like the slightly less flexible version of a novelty pipe cleaner. Gym people—real gym people—tend to have a certain aesthetic quality about them. They look good in stretchable fabric and are at ease with machines that, in any sensible society, would be confined to dungeons and very specific kinds of establishment whose usually female proprietors tend to insist on being addressed exclusively by title. At least everybody looks a bit silly when they run. It levels the playing field. After the year I'd had, I wanted to get fit. A few years ago, I lost my dad far sooner than I should have precisely because he didn't. I'd spent the previous year working myself almost to death and didn't want to repeat that. So, in the absence of anything better, a running machine appeared.
Week one of the programme is fairly simple. You walk for five minutes to warm up, then alternate between running for one minute and walking for another minute. After you've run eight times in total, you do another five-minute walk to cool down and you're done. Eight minutes of running, spread out over fifteen minutes. It's designed to be easy enough that anyone can do it. And if you can't? Do what you can, then try again in a couple of days until you nail it. As the weeks progress, the running gets more intense. Gradually, it asks you to run for a little longer and a little longer still. By week nine—the final week—you're running for thirty minutes straight and have taught yourself a whole range of single syllable insults to gasp at whichever recorded voiceover you've chosen to accompany you. If you're quick enough, that thirty minutes is enough to do your 5K. It wasn't quite that much for me at that point, but it wasn't far off.
That's all it had to be. Start running. Get fitter. Complete the programme. Find something else to keep you motivated. Unfortunately, that last part came a little sooner than expected and turned out to be the stickler.
I was just over two weeks in when some friends came over and saw the machine. Two of them were runners. I'd never held that against them before. We all make choices in life, and real friends are the ones that are good enough to overlook the more socially awkward ones. I'd tried to do the decent thing and not mention it. I knew they did it, but I'd attempted not to let it be an issue. We all have our quirks after all—goodness knows I do. I'm very much a 'live and let live' type, so I never thought to call them on it. They had other redeeming features after all, and I'm open-minded enough to look past stuff like that. They had no such qualms. Suddenly they saw me as one of them: a 'runner'. I hadn't thought of it that way until then. I was keeping fit. I could stop at any time. It wasn't a problem. But they were right. I had the attire. I had a machine. I was using it. I couldn't escape it anymore. I'd become a thing of ridicule and shame.
That's when they hit me with the big one. You should join us for the Coventry Half Marathon next year. The bastards. In my novice state, never saw it coming. Just when I think I'm doing something for my own benefit, they go and hit me right in the goals. It was a cheap shot. Imagine having something big to work towards instead of just flailing about on a treadmill and hoping I don’t fall off. Something that would be a challenge. Something that would test me. Something that not only had a sense of achievement, but had lots of little goals along the way—not to mention a shiny medal at the end. I didn't stand a chance. Oh, I laughed it off pretty hard at the time, but the seed of the idea had already taken root. By the next morning, it had started to grow.
A few weeks later, when the application window opened, I was on the website, my cursor hovering over the 'submit' button. Then I clicked it. To this day, I'm not sure why. I had a confirmation email minutes later. Congratulations on signing up to take part in the half marathon. "Congratulations." Can you believe that? They actually used the word 'congratulations' and meant it. Not even a hint of sarcasm or irony. That's how I knew these weren't my people.
In case you're unaware, a half marathon is thirteen-point-one miles long. And if you sign up, they expect you to run it. You can't drive because they close the roads. You have to go on foot. All that way. And the best bit? The best bit is that the end is only just down the road from the start. You could walk it in a few minutes. But no. They send you miles out of the way first, up and down all manner of hills that—despite living locally all your life—you'd never noticed before. "Congratulations," they said. "That's a smashing blindfold you've got there," said the leader of the firing squad. Same thing.
I did my first outdoor run in January. Having conquered the Couch to 5K over a month earlier, I was confident I could manage the transition from treadmill to tarmac without issue. My ankles disagreed. It took a few attempts and an expensive footwear upgrade before I could set out and make it back to the house without stopping to walk at least once along the way. As the weeks ticked by, I gradually increased the distance; ably assisted by one of the sadistic friends who'd coaxed me into it in the first place.
Countless miles and even more swear words later, I'm almost there. The race is this weekend. Along the way, however, I've decided that 'race' is the wrong word. A race implies I'm in this to try and compete. I'm not. I know several people who are running it; friends old, new and, in the circumstances, former. More or less all of them are likely to beat me. I'm under no illusion there. Of the four-thousand-plus people running it, it wouldn't surprise me if most of those did too. At this stage, I just want to prove to myself that I can complete it. It's not a race. I don't know if I can call it a run either. Over that distance, what I do isn't really running. I'm too new to this. I'd be generous to even call it a jog. Given some recent setbacks, I might be better off calling it a limp, or maybe a hobble. In truth, it's only recently that I've started to believe I might survive it.
I've learned several things from this experience. I've learned that if I take how fit I thought I was, and how fit I hoped I was, I'd fall somewhere in the middle. I've learned that I have muscles in places I didn't think you could get them, and that you only find that out when you make them angry. I've learned that I'm very quick to rise to a challenge, and only slightly slower to realise that doing so was a very silly thing to do. I've learned that, having made a point of accepting said challenge, I'm too worried I'd disappoint someone by backing down, and too stubborn to do so anyway, because the person I'd disappoint the most is myself. And above all else, I've learned that, no matter what, you should never buy a bloody running machine.