Super athletes of the Sierra Madre

I found this video of the Copper Canyon ultra-marathon via Caballo Blanco's web pages. It has beautiful scenery, images of the local people and (of course) lots of huaraches. It also has one of the most wonderful evocations of running as sharing, friendship and simple joyfulness that I've found anywhere.

Time for a run

I've been in the habit of wearing a watch when running. It's the same mechanical watch that I wear most of the time. I like it, not only because it never needs a battery but because it's only accurate to within a few minutes a day. Such good-enough timekeeping makes it seem a lot friendlier than the authoritarian, microsecond precision of a quartz watch. But lately the watch has become a bit too much like its owner, prone to unreliability and frequent stopping, and so it's sitting on the shelf waiting for me to get round to putting it in for a service.

This prompted me to think about buying a running watch. Not a GPS one that nags you about running too slowly, but a cheap one with big, easy to read numbers. Also, since I've had a few falls while running lately, the most recent one being a swan-dive over the dog who, up until that point, had been trotting very politely by my side but had caught sight of a small brown pooch to our right, upon which she swerved in front of me to say hello to it (which she subsequently did, seeming quite unconcerned that her owner was lying on his back, gasping, whimpering and bloodied next to her), I was worried about breaking my much-loved mechanical watch.

I had a look at some Timex running watches but they didn't seem to be for me. What's the point of having a 100 lap recall function when there's no chance of me ever running 100 laps of anything, or 10 laps, or even 2 to be honest, being someone who closely equates the word "lap" with the word "pain".

I considered going to the local shopping centre to find a cheap digital watch since the only thing I really wanted to know was how long I'd been running for. But after doing a few runs without a watch I began to wonder why I even needed that ? I'd slipped into the habit of noting how long each of my day to day runs were, but I didn't actually do anything with that information other than forget it after a day or two.

Then I read a post on Barefoot Ted's mailing list where someone was ruing the fact that they'd recently got injured after letting themselves be seduced into going a bit too fast, and doing a bit too much, by focussing on their running watch more than their body. I could imagine myself doing that, even with a K-mart cheapie rather than a Garmin, being lulled into competing with time. The last skerrick of interest I had in buying a new watch disappeared there and then.

Getting faster despite my best efforts

I think it's already safe to say that this has been my best running year so far in terms of actually feeling like a runner. I'm still slow but now I'm slow and comfy rather than slow and gasping for breath. Sometimes I've even caught myself enjoying running up a hill.

There's no special reason for this new found runner-ness, no magic training regimes or nutritional supplements or motivational mantras have made the difference. And I haven't bought a Garmin. It is, I suppose, just the very gradual improvement that comes from running regularly over the last couple of years. This is all very nice except for one thing: I'm no longer always at the back of the pack.

I'd grown very used to being somewhere near last in every race, whereas now I find myself flirting with the slower middle class and reaching the finish with, or sometimes in front of, people who I've always thought of as much speedier than me. I know you're supposed to be pleased when your times get better. On the CoolRunning Australia forums it sometimes seems that the only topic of conversation is one's Personal Best Time and the endless quest to lower it, but I've never felt much affinity with this. I've always been more interested in how much I enjoyed a run rather than how long it took me. And since I started running to manage depression, the last thing I wanted to do was obsess about time targets, race placings and Continuous Improvement.

At the recent Sri Chinmoy Centennial Park half-marathon I finished in a bit under 1hr 55min - the first time I'd run the distance in less than two hours. I've absolutely no idea why I ran that well, especially since I woke up feeling particularly sluggish and unathletic. But during the run everything seemed to come together and it felt good to push a bit harder than I normally do. Afterwards however, I felt distinctly uncomfortable about people commenting on my time and suggesting I'd have to change my running name from 'slowmo' to something else.

John Bingham, author of one of my favourite running books 'The Courage To Start', wrote about this same discomfort. Despite years of deliberately run-walking at a leisurely pace in his races, based on the notion that more time means more fun, he found himself getting faster. For someone who had made a living out of his public image as a very slow but happy runner, no longer being at the back of the pack was something of an identity crisis.

Where is all this leading ? I don't know yet. Running takes one onto surprising and unknown paths inwardly as much as it does outwardly.

Why does running help depression ?

A number of studies have found that moderate to vigorous exercise can benefit people who have clinical depression (follow this link for a Google Scholar search on the topic) and in Australia exercise is commonly recommended in public mental health campaigns and by health professionals. Although research published in the British Medical Journal found that shortcomings in many of the studies make it difficult to draw any firm conclusions about the benefits of exercise (see a summary of the paper

here).

At an anecdotal level, I've talked to many people, in person and via the CoolRunning Australia forum, who find that running helps them to feel better and avoid, or at least temper, the effects of depression. This has been my experience too.

Running hasn't been a cure-all for me: several attempts to dispense with medication have ended with depression reasserting its hold. On the other hand, medication without running provides stability but also casts a sort of dull pall over everything, as if not only the lows but also the vibrancy and colour of life are being suppressed.

For me, running seems to complement other measures in some way, but I'm not convinced that this is wholly due to the effects of exercise. In my twenties and thirties I used to do a lot of cycling and was much fitter than I am now, but I was still prone to panic attacks and episodes of depression. So why does running help ? Here's what I think are my reasons...

Being outdoors

Running gets me outside. I find that, on a sunny day in particular, that's often enough to get a definite lift in my mood. Even when it's cold, windy and pissing down I still feel better for getting out into the elements - though perhaps in that case it's the slightly eccentric and ludicrous aspect of it that appeals to me.

Races

I don't think I'd continue running for very long if I was only ever doing it alone. Regardless of the physical and mental benefits that it brings, and even the mild addiction that it can become, I'm sure my inherent laziness would prevail. This is where races come in. John Bingham, in his book The Courage to Start describes races as a public celebration of running. It's always exciting to turn up to an event, whether big or small. Each race provides a clearly defined challenge. You know what you have to do and, for the longer events, you've probably had to work through a structured preparation for weeks or even months previously. Races provide structure and purpose.

You don't have to be a great runner, or even a very good one, to enjoy races. I'm a slow, back-of-the-pack specialist but I find reaching the finish of a race is always a deeply satisfying experience, especially if I feel that I've done my best. There is also the pleasure of being part of an event, of running a particularly nice course, and of seeing and chatting to other runners. Some of my slowest races have been my most enjoyable for these reasons.

Being part of something

There is a community of runners. It's a broad church and includes people from all backgrounds, walks of life and points of view. Some runners are motivated almost solely by competition, be it against others or with their own previous best times. Others, like me, are in it for different reasons. All of us, fast or slow, are runners. We have a shared enthusiasm, a hoard of anecdotes about our successes and disasters, ambitions of races that we'd like to do or results we'd like to achieve, and an anatomists esoteric knowledge of running injuries !

In a nutshell...

Perhaps all of the above can be summed up very simply as: nature, purpose, and friendship.

Learning to be better at not running

Despite soaking up the blessings that were thick in the air at the Nun's Run, the little 4km trot turned out to be an instance of enjoy now, pay later. I'd had a particularly unpleasant bout of flu for the previous fortnight but by the day of the run it seemed to have faded to just a sniffle. However, on the way home ominous feelings of crumminess started to swirl in my innards and these turned out to be the first signs of the flu settling in for another two week season.

I remember someone commenting to me once: why don't life's inconveniences stick to the times allocated for them ?

To which I might add (in my most peevish tone): And why can't they stay in single-file rather than bustling in all at once ?

The flu had arrived at the same time that I'd finally weaned myself off anti-depressant medication. I thought perhaps this might be to my advantage in a perverse sort of way. The general line of reasoning was that if you already feel ghastly then whatever withdrawal symptoms arise will be drowned out like hecklers at a bad, but loud, concert. Actually, that didn't work. It turned out to be more like being trapped in a very bad concert where the hecklers get up on stage and join in.

Given all of this, running has been off the menu, replaced by feeble and pathetic shuffling around the house. I have noticed its absence. So have those around me. I've slowed down and an old black dog has caught up with me again.

So, it seems that as well as learning more about running I also need to learn how to be better at not running: because life is always going to be punctuated by stumbles and falls of one sort or another.

I've a way to go with this.

Don't worry, be happy

Sydney Morning Herald Half-marathon - May 17th 2009

Wakey-wakey

This year's Sydney Morning Herald Half Marathon was a significant event for me, being the anniversary of my coming out as a foot-flap wearing freaky-footed runner. I remember how nervous I'd been last year. Not only was it the first time that I'd worn my huarache sandals in a race, it was also my first really big event with thousands rather than hundreds of runners, and only my second half-marathon.

As it happened, I had a great run last year and I was looking forward to an even better one this year. Not only did I now have several more big events under my belt, but I would be wearing my high-tech sandals. Admittedly, to the casual observer, they still resembled pieces of vandalized door mat tied to my feet with string, but to the minimalist-running afficionado they represented the epitome of traditional practice combined with space-age materials. Or so I liked to tell people anyway. Then again, I also liked to tell them that my circus pants are a new breed of compression wear.

But I digress...

The night before, I assembled my gear for the morning, checked the train timetable and carefully set my alarm. I felt organized. I felt confident. I completely failed to register these as warning signs.

I woke next morning to a quick succession of thoughts:

"I'm awake before the alarm - that's good."

"It's unusually light for this time of morning."

"I wonder what the time is ?"

"!!!!"

Later I was to work out that not only had I set the alarm the night before, I'd somehow managed to set the time so that it was wrong by hours. My train had already gone. The race was going to start in 45 minutes. I was not there.

A few minutes later I was in the car with my partner driving us into the city at quite impressive speed. We made it to the Elizabeth Street side of Hyde Park just in time to hear the race start. I bolted across the park trying to work out where to go, spotted the gear stowing area and ran as fast as I could towards it. I will be forever grateful to the wonderful lady at the table who was already writing my number on a plastic bag as I approached. She even kept a straight face.

College Street was still packed with runners shuffling towards the starting line. "I've made it" I thought and relaxed, only to lapse back into panic again when I couldn't see how to get through the %#$@ fence separating the park, and me, from the race. Another minute of frantic running and I made it onto the road. To my relief, the back of the pack was still there, inching forwards. Also there was my brother Paul, who didn't make even the slightest effort to keep a straight face.

The race

The course seemed packed compared to last year. It also seemed to have much more life and excitement. After last month's Canberra Marathon, with its wonderful spectator support, performance artists and cheer squad, I must admit that I'd been expecting this event to be a bit ho-hum in terms of atmosphere. With the exception of the City to Surf, Sydney doesn't seem to get excited about its major road races. So the buzz on the course was a nice surprise. For the first few minutes there were cheering spectators rather than empty streets. We were entertained by a troupe of super-heroes with enormously wide shoulders and red masks, some of whom bolted along with the field shouting encouragement like deranged running coaches, whilst others performed bizarre body actions and pantomine gestures from various perches. It turned out that they were advertising some chain of fitness centres (this was Sydney after all) but they added colour and movement and hilarity, and I got a high five from one of them for being freakier than he was in my sandals and star pants.

It was great to run with Paul. He is one of the few people who can out-chat me in a race. We kept up what felt like a good pace, running steadily up the hills on Argyle and Hunter Streets and Mrs Macquaries Road while trying to keep a bit in reserve. On the first lap, half way up the Hunter Street ascent, we met the wonderful LuckyLegs, looking very comfortable trotting up the steepest section, smiling and chatting and being her inspirational self. Just as inspiring was seeing the race leaders up close, one of the benefits of a loop course, and admiring the grace and fluidity of their movement.

During the second lap I started to feel a little tightness in my chest from the snuffle that had been lurking for the previous couple of days, but it was easy to ignore this on such a perfect morning, with the sunshine, cool still air, and the buzz of being part of such a great event. When we reached Mrs Macquaries Road for the second time Paul asked if I'd like to have a go at finishing in under two hours. I hadn't been following our pace at all, content to just run at what felt like a solid but sustainable clip. But I felt comfortable and the idea of getting in under two hours for the first time sounded great. Paul said we just had to pick up the pace a little bit and offered to lead me out. I agreed. He darted through the runners in front of us and was gone.

Er...

I tried to work my way through the field, then skipped up onto the footpath and peered ahead, finally spotting Paul. a rapidly disappearing speck in the distance. I ran faster, ducking and weaving, but soon realized it was pointless. The last thing I wanted to do was spoil a good run by knackering myself before the last stretch. I dropped back down to my former pace. A couple of minutes later I met Paul, who was generously waiting for me (or perhaps he couldn't find anyone else to talk to). We rounded the turn at the bottom of Mrs Macquaries Road and headed back up the hill, picking up pace as we neared the top.

The last stretch was fantastic, running at speed into College Street, around the turning point, up the last incline (who put that there ?) and then flying (or so it felt) into the finishing straight and sprinting to the line.

How was it for you dear ?

I finished feeling that wonderful combination of fatigue, exhilaration and satisfaction that comes from a run where everything has gone just right, and from being part of a great event. I knew from the 'gun time' on the finishing clock that this had been my fastest half-marathon so far, doubly satisfying on this testing course.

Wandering around the park, I met several CoolRunning friends, including the lovely TKR who was there with her family enjoying the achievement of having run her first half-marathon. I wandered back into the city, still wearing my huaraches, and caught the train home feeling tired and happy.

The next day, my race-day snuffle had developed into a grotty head cold and was on its way to becoming a dose of flu, but I was still on a high from the race. I logged into the CoolRunning forum to read everyone's race reports and post my own. To my surprise the race thread was a litany of unhappiness and disatisfaction...

The field was too large. The course was too narrow. The drink stations were too crowded. It was no longer a race for real runners (so what did that make me ?).

Someone railed against those idiots who were dressed up as super-heroes (I thought back to the Canberra Marathon with the 'Shower Scene from Psycho' on the sidelines and the 'Ghost riders' cheering the runners on Parkes Way).

Limit the numbers ! Ban walkers ! It went on and on.

In amongst all the sturm und drang there were some posts from people who had enjoyed the race as much as I had, but they were a minority. My sails sagged. I switched the computer off.

I'm mindful that I can be vulnerable to feelings of depression during the onset of a bout of flu. But on this occasion I don't think that was all that was going on. Look at our world. Listen, watch or read the news on your favourite medium: war, disease, poverty, tragedy. Here in Sydney we have the good fortune to live in a safe, prosperous place; to have free time and the opportunity to spend it doing something that we love, like running in a great event. Reading reports of how unbearable, how truly unacceptable it was to be held up by slower runners on some part of the course or other, I wondered how it is that running can be so fraught for some.

2008 Sydney Marathon

After all the training, the wondering and the worrying, the day had finally arrived.

I caught a train into the city, which was very quiet at 6am, and walked down to Circular Quay and then up onto the Harbour Bridge walkway in time to see the half-marathon cross the bridge. Two police motorbikes, which I guessed would be a little ahead of the lead runners, came into view and stopped in the middle of the road, opposite where I was standing. One rider shouted to the other "you know where we're supposed to go mate ?" to which the other replied "no f***ing idea mate". This got a loud chuckle from everyone on the walkway. Then they set off again, hopefully in the right direction, followed shortly afterwards by the lead runners. It's always exhilarating to see athletes of that standard, but on the Harbour Bridge on such a beautiful morning it was especially good. Next followed the huge half-marathon field which seemed to go on forever. I looked for friends who I knew were in the event and managed to spot MissPinky, though she was too far away to cheer.

I continued on to the northern end of the Bridge and joined the throng of runners heading down to the start area. I was very pleased to see Crabby just ahead of me and caught up with her for a chat. I also met another CoolRunner, Ewoksta, for the first time after chatting to him many times on the forum pages. I got out of my tracksuit pants, laced on my huarache sandals (having chosen the thin Cherry soles for the day) then threw my plastic gear bag up into the back of a large truck where it joined a growing mountain of other bags to be transported to the finish area.

All of the nervousness that I'd felt the evening before had subsided and I was really looking forward to the race. I wandered over to the starting area and was pleased to see that they'd signposted my end of the field (the back) with snail signs ! I strolled down the road a little, taking in the water view and feeling relaxed.

Perhaps it should have occurred to me at this stage that this unaccustomed quiet confidence was a warning sign, but it was only after a few more neurons had switched on that I realized my timing chip wasn't attached to my ankle, instead it was in one of a squillion identical plastic bags in the back of the gear truck...

PANIC !!!

This felt a lot more familiar. I bolted back to the truck and, with the amused permission of one of the race officials, climbed up the bars on the side and frantically started digging into the pile of bags. A voice on the PA asked runners to make their way to the start area. I burrowed even more frantically. There it was ! A bag with my number 5976. Yes! No... it was 5967... aaaarrrgghhh!!! Finally I found my bag and recovered the timing chip. With a huge sense of relief, and after spending a minute unwedging myself from the side bars of the truck, I thanked the grinning race official and headed back to the snail section with the chip firmly velcroed to my ankle.

The race

There were still a couple of minutes to go until the race so I did my best to calm down. I hadn't yet seen my brother Paul who was going to run the marathon with me, generously sacrificing his own record of sub-4 hour finishes by doing so. But I was very pleased to be joined by a CoolRunning friend Emjay and shortly after that by Paul who reminded me that I had been supposed to meet him at the Black Dog Institute stall near the start (another neuron that hadn't switched on). Then, all of a sudden, the race began and we shuffled forwards, then walked, then slowly jogged onto the Bridge.

I loved the first half of the marathon: running across the Harbour Bridge, along Mrs Macquaries Rd, Oxford St, around Centennial Park... I met lots of CoolRunning folk, including UpAndAtom for the first time, and the number of "Go slowmo" greetings that I got was overwhelming. With the warm weather I wasn't wearing my habitual fancy pants - instead I had a brand new pair of loud, Circus pattern shorts from RunningFunky to add a spot of colour to the event and symbolize stepping out of the shadow of the Black Dog. The huarache sandals felt perfect and with the heat I was pleased to have my feet free of shoes and socks.

The course headed back towards the city and it was at about this time that I started feeling a bit light-headed. I put this down to the warm conditions and perhaps needing a bit more sugar. I had a cache of honey sachets and apricot chews in the pockets of my tri top. I'd been careful to drink a cup of water at each aid station so dehydration didn't seem like a worry.

We continued on, across the old Glebe Island Bridge and onto an unfortunately boring and uninspiring section of the course - the Westlink Road, a barren wasteland of bitumen and concrete sidings. I had been walking the uphill sections, trying to get rid of the increasingly woozy feeling within but just before the 33km point, I started to see white fog and decided to sit down for a couple of minutes until I felt better. Paul stopped with me and many passing runners asked if I needed help. One very nice fellow thought I must need a little more sugar and gave me some jelly beans. I nibbled a red one and then spent a minute emptying my stomach contents, as neatly as I could, into a road-side drain. After that my head felt much clearer but I couldn't stand up and Paul summoned the first aid folks. My race was over.

A wonderfully friendly paramedic came and found that my blood sugar was fine but that my blood pressure was low from dehydration. She and Paul stayed with me until an ambulance arrived and I was put on IV fluids and taken to hospital. The two ambulance paramedics were terrific and had an endless stream of jokes while they were fixing me up. They had a great time making comments about my sandals and pointing them out to everyone at the hospital - "look what this guy has on his feet !!!". With some extra fluids in my system I felt much better physically, but I couldn't help being disappointed and embarrassed about my race ending like this.

After a couple of hours at the hospital for some more checks, Paul joined me again and drove me home. He had run the rest of the marathon, but had had his timing chip confiscated by a stern and unrelenting race official at the 34km point, despite only being a minute over the cut-off and having one of the first-aid people confirm his explanation that he had been helping me just down the road and could easily finish the race inside the cut-off time (which he did).

I slept like a log overnight and woke the next morning feeling more at peace with myself than I had the day before. My barefoot-running friend Sharene (Runbare on CoolRunning) had left a phone message the night before and called again in the morning to see how I was. I appreciated this a great deal and was very cheered by her advice that you're not a real runner until you've got a DNF. She also suggested I could count the kilometres I did in the ambulance and chalk it up as an ultra :-)

Shortly afterwards I spoke to Paul who reminded me that my legs had still been working well at the end and this showed that the training had built up my strength and fitness. On the computer I had a swag of messages from CoolRunning friends checking to see if I was OK and encouraging me not to let this experience put me off.

Most of all, my wonderful partner Annie told me to remember that it had been my longest run so far and that I'd raised a lot more money for the Black Dog Institute than I ever expected to.

And the moral of the story ?

Numerous studies confirm that physical activity can help many people to recover from depression and either prevent its recurrence or at least lessen its impact. Running has certainly done this for me, but I've discovered that it's racing that has been the biggest help. Even for a slow, non-competitive runner such as myself, races provide challenge, force me to get my act together enough to prepare properly, and give me the opportunity to do more than I ever thought I could. Until recently I never imagined that I would attempt to run a marathon. The fact that I bombed out, probably because I neglected to drink enough fluids before the race, just means that I will be that bit more experienced at my next attempt. If the marathon was easy it wouldn't be worth doing.

Taper worms

I picked up my race number yesterday and, as soon as got home, pinned it to the top that I've chosen to wear for the marathon. This is not typical behaviour for me. I'm usually pinning my number on just before, or sometimes even just after, the start of a race. No, this is a symptom of taper worms - an infection that can beset runners in the days leading up to a big event, giving rise to an uncomfortable squirming sensation in the bowels and a host of nervous ticks and twitches.

I've been thinking about the words running to help manage depression. I've often told people that that is why I began running last year, but now I wonder if I haven't so much used running to manage depression but rather channelled the search for meaning, the overwhelming obsessiveness and the needs for structure, achievement and catharsis into running rather than into other forms of eccentric behaviour. To put it another way, perhaps running has become my craziness of choice.

I suppose that it's all in the eye of the beholder. Obsessiveness expressed as, for example, really needing the colours of the pegs to match when you hang your clothes out, is viewed as slightly loopy. But obsessiveness expressed as running through the cold, wet, gusty nighttime weather, as per the training program's dictate for the day, is labelled as commitment. It might cause a few heads to shake and a few comments to be muttered, but it won't get you carted away.

I heard a wonderful interview with the novelist and scriptwriter Hanif Kureishi on ABC Radio National. He talks quite a bit about psychoanalysis and his opinion that therapy isn't so much to do with curing people of their craziness but more about helping them to use their symptoms creatively. This rings true with me, though I'm not sure how creative I'm being adjusting the safety pins on my race number for the hundredth time...

A year of running

According to my running diary, a spiral bound notebook with anarchically formatted notes in pencil, I have just reached my initial 1000km of logged runs. I started this diary when I bought my first, and as it's now turned out, my only pair of running shoes at the beginning of October last year.

My very first run was a couple of months earlier, at the start of August, when I set out for an 'easy jog' from which I returned fifteen minutes later, breathless, exhausted and tragically dismayed at how far I'd fallen into sluggish middle age. Through August and September I plodded and gasped my way around the local streets twice a week as part of a beginner's triathlon training program. My mood would swing from doom-laden pessimism, through amused self-ridicule, to occasional short spikes of now or never, who dares wins, stubborn and slightly desperate determination. I was running from the familiar, but no longer bearable shadow of the Black Dog towards some new, better, but as yet wholly unknown way of living life.

I didn't record how far I ran in those first couple of months, partly because my sessions were based on time rather than distance, and partly because my sole focus was the triathlon at the end of October and it didn't really occur to me to think past that. In any event my total distance covered must have been miniscule. But somehow, buying a brand new pair of running shoes seemed to symbolize how important the whole effort had become. It was the beginning of something new. Hence the diary.

For me, reaching the end of my first year of running and my first 1000km, marks something special. It means that for once I've stuck with something long enough to feel that I've truly started.

Do what you don't do well...

...as the old song doesn't say.

Running is teaching me that there's a lot to be gained from doing something that, not only am I not very good at yet, but most likely I'll never be much good at it. By 'good' I mean able to run like those who are at the front of a race pack, those who run with a fluid grace and poise that is beautiful to see. I'm usually trying to catch up with the back of the pack and I've yet to be accused of running gracefully.

Because I know I'm going to be slow I don't worry about watching the clock. Saying that runners are generally interested in their times is a major understatement. Time, for most runners, is an obsession: time per kilometre, average pace, target time, personal best time... and all this monitored, tabulated, graphed against heart rate and distance data from the well-wired runner's armoury of strapped-on devices.

Don't get me wrong - I can well understand the fascination with time and measurement and I find it easy to relate to running gear-freaks who lust after the latest Garmin. I'm a geek loud and proud in other contexts and I love gadgets. But somehow with running I got onto the Luddite path and discovered that I like it: how it feels and where it takes you.

Time is just one facet of the everyday runner's experience and there's nothing wrong with measuring it, or challenging yourself in terms of it. But, as Kenneth Slessor says in Five Bells...

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels
Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.*

There are so many other facets to running - pleasures and experiences that don't slip away with age, as one's pace inevitably does, but actually come into sharper focus. The simple satisfaction of doing something for its own sake. The vividness of moments. The physicality of movement. The awareness of the natural world as we run through it. The opportunity for child-like joys, such as running through puddles, that most adults bar themselves from. These and many others, some that I would find hard to put into words adequately, are there to be had from running. Even from my slow, chugging version of it.

* For more on this great Australian poem visit ABC Radio National's Book Show web site

On the road again (really, truly this time)

After the buzz of running in the Bay to Bay 12km event I got back into training for the marathon, only to be foiled by achilles soreness after just two runs. Do you ever have the feeling that bits of your body are out to get you ? Just lying in wait, lulling you into a false sense of security, only to leap out... Yes, well perhaps that is a tad paranoid, but I felt dejected about the having to have yet more time off, especially having got the support of so many people who have sponsored me.

There was a topic recently on CoolRunning (Australia): 'what keeps you running now', ie. although you may have started for fitness or weight loss or whatever, what is it that motivates you today ? I posted a completely off-the-cuff contribution which, like spontaneous words sometimes do, expressed things in a way that surprised me, but that seemed right...

sanity
to feel part of something
pancakes

These are my reasons for running. 'Pancakes' refers to the pancake breakfast served up to participants at Sri Chinmoy running events. I guess they also speak of the spirit of generosity that you find in the running community - although to tell you the truth, the only reason I mentioned them was that I really like pancakes. As for the first two reasons, they sum up what running gives me. When I can't run life is harder.

But this week things are looking up. Two days ago I did a very tentative 3km run. The achilles complained a bit at first but not too much and the next day it felt alright. Today I ventured out more confidently for a 5km run, including some gentle long inclines. There was nothing more than a dull ache from the achilles, and that was soon obscured by relief and pure pleasure. I think it's the closest I've got so far to experiencing the fabled runners' high.