do you think we'll make it

I went running with my brother today. Hahaha! No, I really did. That sentence is weird, I know, in many ways. First of all the fact is that Paul and I don’t normally do things together that don’t involve some sort of screen – TV, cinema, computer. Actually I guess you could say we spend time together in the physical sense of the word, as our desktops are next to each other in the study. But even if we wanted to communicate, our voices would be drowned by the collective drone of Sufjan Stevens (my speakers) and orcs grunting/generals shouting orders/spaceships exploding/car thieves swearing (his speakers).

Much more shocking: I went running. Not “I ran to the bus stop in heels because I was late meeting someone” or “I listened to Snow Patrol’s Run 3 times” or any other more common statements involving me and the verb. I went running means that I actually deliberately put on running shoes; deliberately stepped out of the gate in the direction of SOTA with no express purpose but to turn around and head back again; deliberately moved by bending my knees more than 15 degrees while swinging my arms. There was no psychopath screaming coach this time, I did this out of my own free will.

If you know me, you know that I hate running. I was born programmed with a distaste for it, like my mother’s distaste for liver. There was a time, I suppose, when as a “competitive athlete” I felt somewhat guilty about my loathing of the activity. As if a normal person should want to sweat and be tired. As if there was something wrong with me. But then I realised that such guilt was pointless and unnecessary, much like the guilt of a gay person. It’s not my fault. I was made this way. This is who I am.

Since that epiphany I aborted all attempts at running. I blithely ponned Cross Country and cheated on NAPFA. I happily descended into the depths of unfitness, marvelling at how much easier it was to just let go. When friends speak of marathons I just smile vaguely and nod, because the concept of running more than 2.4 km is like the idea of infinity to me – meaningless. I just cannot conceive of it. I’d sooner write a concerto or a book about engineering.

Sometimes on the bus, I like to amuse myself by imagining a situation where, by some bizarre turn of events, I am forced to run. The most common scenario is there’s a wolf chasing me like in a movie. Run! Someone yells. Run for your life!! The central question I always ponder is, will my unfitness inevitably result in me being eaten by the wolf? Or will the will to survive be miraculously strong enough to grant me temporary fitness and agility, and allow me to outrun the feral creature, until I reach a police station or a tree I can climb up? What if it was a lion? Or a bear? Would that make a difference? I really do enjoy thinking about this. Such are the musings of a non-exerciser.

It was probably this curiosity that led me to this morning. I needed to feel that I wouldn’t be eaten immediately, that I’d at least give the wolf a good workout. The actual running itself started out absolutely fine. The first thirty seconds were brilliant: my breathing was inaudible and my ponytail bobbed jauntily in the sunlight. I looked for all the world like the top athlete I once could have been.

A minute later and the familiar ache of fatigue was creeping up through my legs. UGH! DON’T THINK ABOUT THAT! I do this thing when I run, I hope I’m not the only one, where I try to keep my mind off the thought of tiredness at all costs. It’s a complicated game of distraction designed to dupe myself into not feeling the pain, something like Lalalalalala, running lalala, ohhh look I’m finished! What dyou know? At least that’s always the plan. I seldom manage this for the whole shebang. The problem is, self-brainwashing is itself a very difficult process, hard to accomplish even when sitting still, impossible while supervising joint movements and looking out for traffic. No matter what the starting point, my thought processes find a way down the rabbit hole to the land of weariness, then actual weariness floods my veins, tsunami-style.

Nevertheless I still try. I have a well-worn selection of mental tricks that I still try to fall back on.

1) Pretend you are a superfit world-class tennis player. (eg. Vamos, Rafa! You can't lose this set to Andy Roddick!)

2) Pretend you are late for a movie you've been dying to see for months. (eg. Hurry! The trailers are over, the Joker's showed up and Christian Bale is shirtless!)

3) Play an invigorating song in your head. (This doesn't work because I get stuck on a single line and play it over and over to the point of torture.)

4) Pretend the end is nearer than it really is. (eg. OK, you can stop when you reach that signpost. OK just kidding, you can stop when you pass that dustbin. OK I lied, you can stop when you turn that corner. OK not really...)

5) Observe surrounding scenery to keep thoughts occupied.

I tried number 5 today, and the first thing I observed was a poster that said Help, Missing Dog, and then a picture of the dog. Oh no, I thought, poor little Fluffy, he must really be suffering, imagine being out in the rain all night and cold and scared and tired... Shit. That word again. I then observed that the whole world seemed to be staring at me; at least it felt that way. “What!” I wanted to say to my neighbours, if only I had enough breath. “What are you looking at? Never seen an unfit person run before? I’m not having a heart attack, my face is always this red!” By then I’d lost all the dignity I could handle in one morning and had to quit. Wheezing, I asked my brother how far we’d gone, and was thrilled to hear him say around 1km. 1km? Hey! I hit a distance that can be described in whole numbers and with the letter k! That’s respectable. So I slowed to a beautifully low-impact stroll and let Paul run on ahead.

You know my favourite thing about running? I love that moment when you stop. If I ever picked up running, it’d be just for those glorious ten seconds or so of transitioning to walk. Sweet, sweet relief. Perspective returns and it’s a moving experience. You realise that you’re a fool for putting yourself through this. You’re creative, an artist. Tim Burton doesn’t run. Man invented art so that he didn’t need to live off his sweaty muscles.

The morning suddenly seemed lovelier and I noticed the pretty dappled patterns of light through the tree leaves. Birds sang, like in a Disney princess movie. It was awesome.