I was always the fat kid. I was the fat kid who had asthma because he was basically too heavy for his own lungs to cope. I even had an inhaler that did essentially nothing. I had a natural aversion to sport because all the other kids were so much better at all of them than me. Aggressively so. While their muscles were developing in normal directions as a reward for their efforts my body pooled around my midsection like ugly rainwater around an overflowing drain.
When I was in secondary school I became adept at forging my mums handwriting and wrote myself notes excusing me from PE. I did this so frequently that eventually the teacher, a leathery middle-aged man with bulging biceps and a pregnant belly, gave up any hope of me ever taking part and just stopped asking. The idea of me ever getting involved in physical activity more strenuous than the very act of wheezing became laughable.
Last week I ran six miles through central London. And it was easy. This is a significant goalpost in what is (hopefully) an ongoing hobby Ive discovered in running. I say discovered, I mean have come to cling to desperately to stave off premature death. A couple of years ago I had a blood test after my doctor became concerned by the fact that I had ludicrously high blood pressure, and when it turned out my blood was mostly syrup I decided Id rather not die before middle age when my heart would finally decide it had had enough and force its way out my body via the mouth. So I started to bludgeon myself with exercise. After almost a year of regular running the opportunity to take part in a 10k run through London and prove nothing to anyone other than myself appeared.
The strategy guide that came with the runners pack before the actual run suggested checking with your doctor to see if youre actually in shape enough to run six miles without your heart, or possibly your entire body, exploding messily all over the shop. I didnt do this. How dangerous could running six miles be? Turns out it wasnt, but that doesnt mean my body wasn't still my most bitter enemy.
For whatever reason (getting up at midday) I had a hard time getting to sleep that night when everyone else retired at about 10:30pm, ready for the 5:30am rise the next day. I eventually managed to get about four hours after dropping off, dozing in a frustrated sort of way, waking up, being sweaty and uncomfortable and trying to will myself back to sleep again. I dont know if its just me (it is) but when Im tired liquid passes through me as if my esophagus is connected directly to my bladder, bypassing all the regular pit-stops on the way. That morning I made the mistake of drinking anything at all.
By the time we had trekked the 200 or so miles to the starting line, listening to BBC Radio Somethings Reggie (I dont know either) talk a lot and having Heather Small serenade us with newly-divorced-but-empowered-single-mum anthem Proud from the top of a double-decker bus, I desperately needed a piss. I kept an eagle eye out for portaloos as we were herded like cattle to the actual start, sure that the race organisers would have thought ahead to cater for twats like me. They had not thought ahead to cater for twats like me, so I had to start running.
Ive never experienced such a strange physical sensation as having to run with a painfully full bladder before, as I usually check myself before I wet myself before I leave the house to jog. The image of a lot of people jumping on a bouncy castle except for one who had to hold a pan full of water perfectly still kept swimming around in my brain. Once again, I was sure that the race organisers would have thought ahead to cater for twats like me and put toilets at several points around the track. They had not. I was smart enough, however, to pick up and drink more water from the venders on my way around.
Just when I had finally accepted the fact that I was either going to have to put up with my discomfort or have my bladder rupture and my body give in to toxic shock, the toilets real ones, not a piss-retention induced mirage appeared on the horizon. The toilets and their queues. Ten minutes I stood in that bloody queue. Ten minutes of shifting about on my feet so as not cramp up severely enough to turn into one of those creepy living statues. Ten minutes to find out that the guy in front of me, who had been locked in that blue box for so long, had had a horrible experience and no paper to help himself out with afterwards. The rest of the way around I kept thinking of what a terrible time that poor bastard was having.
That queue, that need to pee, cost me ten minutes of my finish time. I would have done the thing in under an hour if Id subjected myself to nil-by-mouth for 24 hours before the run. I wouldnt have been dehydrated since we were drenched by angry, stabby rain most of the way around the course and I assume that in times of desperation the human body can absorb what it needs through osmosis. Dont correct me, I find this an oddly pleasant fantasy. All the same, actually finishing the run is an accomplishment considering that only a couple of years ago my head would have fallen off at the thought of such exertion. Despite my lack of forward planning I enjoyed it. I particularly enjoyed the ancient man charging through everyone with a gait like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. And the guy dressed like a giant tap.
Its still weird to hear myself say it, or see myself type about enjoying running, but its now something I have to do, every day if I can. It still takes a bit of effort to get myself to go to the gym and lift heavy things, mainly because theres a lot of tedious standing around, preparation and stretching involved that running isnt hindered by. If I dont get the chance to run I get edgy. I feel pent up and irritable. I might call you a name or punch a cat. Going running means disappearing, pelting up or down a road in a state slightly separate from the real world, at least until youre bouncing off the bonnet of a car. There are also no other, sweatier, meatier men running with you. Well, maybe with you, but not with me.
This newfound appreciation of actual movement might mean that I get to live past the age of 40, assuming I dont run into oncoming traffic or a volcano. If I lapse, if I end up being The Fat Kid with The Inhaler again, then you have my permission to kill me. Something fitting, like the guy who is murdered via food in Seven, or, perhaps more appropriately, filled with liquid until I drown. Pepsi rather than Coke, please.
When I was in secondary school I became adept at forging my mums handwriting and wrote myself notes excusing me from PE. I did this so frequently that eventually the teacher, a leathery middle-aged man with bulging biceps and a pregnant belly, gave up any hope of me ever taking part and just stopped asking. The idea of me ever getting involved in physical activity more strenuous than the very act of wheezing became laughable.
Last week I ran six miles through central London. And it was easy. This is a significant goalpost in what is (hopefully) an ongoing hobby Ive discovered in running. I say discovered, I mean have come to cling to desperately to stave off premature death. A couple of years ago I had a blood test after my doctor became concerned by the fact that I had ludicrously high blood pressure, and when it turned out my blood was mostly syrup I decided Id rather not die before middle age when my heart would finally decide it had had enough and force its way out my body via the mouth. So I started to bludgeon myself with exercise. After almost a year of regular running the opportunity to take part in a 10k run through London and prove nothing to anyone other than myself appeared.
The strategy guide that came with the runners pack before the actual run suggested checking with your doctor to see if youre actually in shape enough to run six miles without your heart, or possibly your entire body, exploding messily all over the shop. I didnt do this. How dangerous could running six miles be? Turns out it wasnt, but that doesnt mean my body wasn't still my most bitter enemy.
For whatever reason (getting up at midday) I had a hard time getting to sleep that night when everyone else retired at about 10:30pm, ready for the 5:30am rise the next day. I eventually managed to get about four hours after dropping off, dozing in a frustrated sort of way, waking up, being sweaty and uncomfortable and trying to will myself back to sleep again. I dont know if its just me (it is) but when Im tired liquid passes through me as if my esophagus is connected directly to my bladder, bypassing all the regular pit-stops on the way. That morning I made the mistake of drinking anything at all.
By the time we had trekked the 200 or so miles to the starting line, listening to BBC Radio Somethings Reggie (I dont know either) talk a lot and having Heather Small serenade us with newly-divorced-but-empowered-single-mum anthem Proud from the top of a double-decker bus, I desperately needed a piss. I kept an eagle eye out for portaloos as we were herded like cattle to the actual start, sure that the race organisers would have thought ahead to cater for twats like me. They had not thought ahead to cater for twats like me, so I had to start running.
Ive never experienced such a strange physical sensation as having to run with a painfully full bladder before, as I usually check myself before I wet myself before I leave the house to jog. The image of a lot of people jumping on a bouncy castle except for one who had to hold a pan full of water perfectly still kept swimming around in my brain. Once again, I was sure that the race organisers would have thought ahead to cater for twats like me and put toilets at several points around the track. They had not. I was smart enough, however, to pick up and drink more water from the venders on my way around.
Just when I had finally accepted the fact that I was either going to have to put up with my discomfort or have my bladder rupture and my body give in to toxic shock, the toilets real ones, not a piss-retention induced mirage appeared on the horizon. The toilets and their queues. Ten minutes I stood in that bloody queue. Ten minutes of shifting about on my feet so as not cramp up severely enough to turn into one of those creepy living statues. Ten minutes to find out that the guy in front of me, who had been locked in that blue box for so long, had had a horrible experience and no paper to help himself out with afterwards. The rest of the way around I kept thinking of what a terrible time that poor bastard was having.
That queue, that need to pee, cost me ten minutes of my finish time. I would have done the thing in under an hour if Id subjected myself to nil-by-mouth for 24 hours before the run. I wouldnt have been dehydrated since we were drenched by angry, stabby rain most of the way around the course and I assume that in times of desperation the human body can absorb what it needs through osmosis. Dont correct me, I find this an oddly pleasant fantasy. All the same, actually finishing the run is an accomplishment considering that only a couple of years ago my head would have fallen off at the thought of such exertion. Despite my lack of forward planning I enjoyed it. I particularly enjoyed the ancient man charging through everyone with a gait like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. And the guy dressed like a giant tap.
Its still weird to hear myself say it, or see myself type about enjoying running, but its now something I have to do, every day if I can. It still takes a bit of effort to get myself to go to the gym and lift heavy things, mainly because theres a lot of tedious standing around, preparation and stretching involved that running isnt hindered by. If I dont get the chance to run I get edgy. I feel pent up and irritable. I might call you a name or punch a cat. Going running means disappearing, pelting up or down a road in a state slightly separate from the real world, at least until youre bouncing off the bonnet of a car. There are also no other, sweatier, meatier men running with you. Well, maybe with you, but not with me.
This newfound appreciation of actual movement might mean that I get to live past the age of 40, assuming I dont run into oncoming traffic or a volcano. If I lapse, if I end up being The Fat Kid with The Inhaler again, then you have my permission to kill me. Something fitting, like the guy who is murdered via food in Seven, or, perhaps more appropriately, filled with liquid until I drown. Pepsi rather than Coke, please.