Keep on Running

For years I would bite the head off the first gin and tonic of the evening while watching The Simpsons and chuckle at the ashen-faced sweathounds who lurched past my window, looking haunted in their too-tight T-shirts and chaffing shorts, as if the Grim Reaper himself was running a foot from their shoulder. Then one day, for reasons I can't remember, I rolled my lardy arse off the sofa, tried a couple of exploratory knee bends, and stepped outside to join them.

Play-Dough not pictured

I'm not a runner. Runners are the impossibly wiry people who glide past me up hills despite being laden down with hats, goggles, personal GPS systems, litres of isotonic go-juice and more logos than a Formula One driver's helmet. I just bumble along for an hour or so three times a week, never going very fast, never quite coming to a standstill.

As mid-life crises go it's one of the milder ones. You learn to embrace lycra like it embraces you, although the first time you pull on those leggings you will look like a camp centaur or a glam metal bassist. There's no dignified way to stash your tackle in those things, so you can be hoofing up the High Street thinking you're Start Me Up era Jagger, when in fact everyone's just pointing and laughing at the pathetic squiggle of Play-Dough in your pants.

Music is a huge part of the ritual. I don't go for hi-energy beats or motivational cack about Being All You Can Be or Searching For The Hero Inside Yourself (I've looked; he's not there) or Punching Tigers In The Eye or whatever. Just put shuffle on and shuffle off. When the body is busy taking care of the mechanics of running, the brain can escape into the music. I don't think I listen to music with such concentration anywhere else, and occasionally you'll get a perfect juxtaposition of sound and vision; sunlight strobing through the forest to Midlake's Rulers Ruling All Things, for example. I stood in awe of the whole of creation.

On Sunday I got tricked into doing a nine mile race. My friend told me it was a nine kilometre fun run. That's me up there, pretending it doesn't hurt. As you can see, both of my feet are on the ground at the same time, a technique known in running circles as "walking". My chum left me in his dust after a mile and, having gone off too fast, I spent the next 40 minutes sinking through the pack, a strange sensation of going forwards and backwards at the same time. Without music, I had nothing to distract me from how bloody horrible it felt. I staggered to the finish, where I was given a plastic medallion, a Jaffa Cake and a patronising pat on the back by the manager of the local leisure centre, who I couldn't help noticing was an 18-stone pie enthusiast. Which is what I will be, the moment I stop running away from it.