I started running properly after my second daughter was born. It was to get fit and shed a bit of baby weight and I thought it would be fun to do some fundraising for charity. All those good intentions. So I signed up to a few distances, got some money raised and felt really, really pleased with myself. Yay me. Training was no problem because I had an end goal, and there is nothing like the pressure of “what if I can’t finish in front of all these people” to freak you out enough to be ready for a race. And I run like the tortoise. A methodical pace, no stopping and maintain consistency. That was my key to success. Boom. I was rocking it.
But I haven’t run much for a while.
Aided by the miserable git who has stalked me in various guises nearly half my life, my black dog, who has been gnarling at my heels of late, I have found it difficult to even bend down to put on my shoes this last month, let alone get out of the front door and move in a forward direction at a speed. After the euphoria of skydiving, which now feels a lifetime ago, I have come crashing down to earth. You see, my darling sister-in-law recently took her own life. Lucy stole herself away from us in just the twilight of her existence. Eighteen and now forever young. It plunged us into a grief of the like I have never experienced in my entire life. I wasn’t even aware of her mental state before it was too late. And because of that guilt and shock and body smashing sorrow you cannot even breath properly. Lifting a limb feels like wading through road tar. And for weeks now I have been stuck in this parallel universe of tears and numbness and nothing. Neither withdrawing myself into my children’s arms, or sinking to the bottom of a gin bottle whilst they sleep tight in their beds, has helped. Not even a little bit. Not at all.
And then the other morning as I dragged my body out of bed, I concluded that enough has to be enough. I have to start crawling out of this terrible, tragic place. It’ll take forever, but for the sake of my children, for my poor husband who needs me now more than ever, I have to give it my best shot. So it’s time to pause on the (heavier) drinking. Do some cleaner eating and earlier bedtime with a more restful slumber. Please. Time for kindness and playing more and not giving a flying F about the state of the material stuff. All that jazz. AND I think it’s time for me to run again.
So I got back on it.. And ouch did it burn. The air bit the very bottom of my lungs, clearing the cobwebs, as the lactic acid needled my leaded calves. But it was really quite glorious. It was cold and awakening and at base level, wonderfully monotonous. I realise I am a bit keen on all this as I have marathons on the to do list and a 10K race this weekend, (which I am not in the teeniest bit prepared for of course), but if you don’t do it already, you’ve got out there. You must. You’ll get what Forest Gump’s mind-set was when he decided to start pinging back and forth across the american continent. I could do that if I had no responsibility and a lot of spare time, only without that enviable beard. I’d have to find a way of something similar NOT happening under my arms though, good Lord. But I digress.
Unlike Forest, who seemed to be blissful unaware of his mental shortcomings, I find it very difficult to acknowledge and talk about any of my noggin knotting. But I can tell you that putting your feet one in front of the other is ever so therapeutic. EVERYONE should try it. It sure as shit clears your head. And now I have had a thought. What if people could get together and do this? Not running in pairs, but running in great groups. Not as a mindful experience or therapy session, but just to be present and with like for like human beings. But the conundrum is that I do rather enjoy the solitude of running and the chance to just listen to music, feeling the air on my skin and enjoy the endless sorting and filing of thoughts in peace. I don’t want to run and attempt conversation. I can barely take in enough oxygen as it is. Perhaps that is not the case for every runner but it certainly is for me. And you know what, some people really aren’t comfortable moving that fast either. I totally get it. Runners are bugging. My husband and I used to leer out the window at Sunday morning joggers, whilst nursing excruciating hangovers. We’ll never be like them. We thought we were so cool. No self-preservation required in those days, just a healthy dose of hedonism. Idiots.
So what about walking? Walking and talking. Or not talking. Whichever. But mostly just being. Here I recall one of my favourite journos of the day, the deliciously honest Bryony Gordon, who discusses organising walking groups to literally keep her sanity in check. I can do that. This is not something I set out to do as a part of 40 for 40, but it is evidently important, and now I think it’s imperative I do this. For me, people like me and for the kids. Especially in light of a fairly hectic year and an even more traumatic month. This may be something for the memory of our lovely Lucy, who never got the chance to be helped, or even the chance to help herself, and it’ll go in a catalogue of thoughts to keep her ever-present in our minds. And I know it’s not life saving, or fire fighting or changing the world or anything, but if I could walk and talk with just one other person, a person who carries that dark weight on their shoulders, and help make both of our days a little better for it, then why the hell shouldn’t I? Thanks Mental Health Mates. I’m going to put this on the list. Now, how do I make posters…?
40 for 40 