RATCHETING UP THE RUNNING

I went for a run today. I do this periodically, usually when the sun pops out and things feel a little brighter and warmer. I slip on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, dig out my trainers and pop on a baseball cap, ready for the jog around the village, the pumping of adrenaline, and the subsequent collapse of muscles that's inevitable when I puff back some time later.

Today I ran a magnificent 6% of a half-marathon. I was running for less than ten minutes and I was shattered, which just goes to show how out of shape I am. While a whole load of people I know will be running the actual 13.1 miles of the Reading Half Marathon tomorrow, I'll be moving stiffly around like an old man, with my spectacular lack of fitness. From my three-quarter of a mile ordeal today, I am in total awe of those people who can run for hours without giving up, and for great causes. Thirteen miles is a long way.

I got interrupted by a dog, growling at me on the pavement. We had a standoff - me trying to use soothing tones like some sort of sweaty dog-whisperer, him snarling and yelping at my bright white trainers. His owner was inside the house yelling at him to be quiet. I wondered whether running off down the road would encourage the dog to chase after me. In the end, he shuffled indoors and I ran away.

The last time I took up running, I twisted my ankle in a pothole. I hobbled home and wondered why I ever considered this a good idea. I had similar thoughts today; leaning exhausted against the fence, I coughed and spluttered as my breathing slowed and my heart pumped. This is horrible, I thought. What was I thinking?

Then I looked down at the roundness of my belly, unhidden by the stretched fabric of an old t-shirt. No pain, no gain I suppose. I jabbed an index finger into the soft fat. You're going down, fella, I said to it in between breaths. You are going down.