Me 3: Running boy, running man
I never had much doubt what the greatest moment in my sporting life was. The Under-11 School Sports Day 1500m, I won in 5 minutes 26 seconds, which was officially ratified as a school record by ten seconds. A real written down record, I broke one. A real official record, of sorts. I'm pretty certain that's the only time that happened.
5 minutes 26 seconds isn't mindblowing for a 10 year old to run, but it's pretty decent. I beat my long standing friend and rival John Willan, all legs and asthma, conclusively, with my red face and my bowl haircut, and I was a runner. I did run faster than 5 minutes 26 - I ran 5.18 next year and 5.23 the year after. 5.23 when you're 12 isn't so impressive as 5.26 when you're 10. And John wasn't in the race - he'd moved to the 800m so we could share the spoils. By that stage, this was probably a lucky escape for me.
Jeez, I loved running then. Loved it precociously and fiercely. Anything from 400m up, i was pretty good at, and we'd run wherever we can - large parts of long sponsored walks (21 miles one year, 27 the next, though I've a feeling the measurement was dodgy to wring more money out of sponsors), we started a running club, zipping round the reservoirs and towpaths of southwest London at lunch break. Truthfully, I once cried at the end of a football practice because we'd been promised (threatened!) a half-hour run at the end which we'd then run out of time for. I loved the running.
As well as the sports days, there'd been the yearly cross-countries. I remember it all - 1st year, me and James Bridge (both of the same house) promising to cross the line together (I'd read about that happening in the first London Marathon) and that vile dog breaking his promise and surprising me on the line. 2nd again the next year, winner the next, then losing by 10cm to John in 4th year. Maybe that was a defining moment in my life. Aren't defining moments fun? I almost broke him with 800m to go, but not quite and then, in the sprint, he just had it.
Not sure I was ever a winner again. Do you know the National song 'Mr November'? Coincidentally, its album, Alligator, will be the next album I write about on my music blog. I was Mr November by the time I was 12. "I used to be carried in the arms of cheerleaders" he moaned.
Next year's cross-country, the ignominy, I wasn't even 2nd, relegated to 3rd, the sheer shame of it. 12 years old and finished.
I loved running then, and I love running now, but there is a big chunk in between when I didn't love running. 5 minutes 26 seconds, I still remember it, because for so long between the ages of 12 and 30 I would be pretty certain that I was slower than when I was 10.
The slow disintegration of running legs. I still played loads of sport, I was even coerced into rolling out for the cross-country team one year, but I didn't love running much anymore. No more records, what's the point?
There was one painful time I had to do a 1500m as a 16 year old, in the Club Athletic Competition (at the big school, there was no glorious jamboree of a sports day with 100s of parents and picnics and what not, just a boring Club Athletic Competition) on the same track as my glory of 6 years earlier. As I lumbered round in just over 6 minutes, as John flew away about a minute in front, I could reasonably wonder where it had all gone.
I don't have one definite answer, but I do know I did love Mars Bars. And crisps. And (did anyone else have this?) as a teenager I actually took pride in the extra stones which appeared year on year - 9 then 10 then 11 then 12 then onwards ... of course, then the innocent bad living gets replaced by less innocent bad living - booze and fags do not a long distance runner make. I became, for the most past, the unfit, lazy, skilful footballer. What a waste!
I got back into running at last. There'd been a few brief periods in the 20s where I'd been pretty shocked at pushing 14 stone and done a few laps of Claphan Common, but, in the end, it was the shock of a DVT and the realisation I might not play football again. That was 7 years ago, and I've mainly been running since. With ups and downs.
Long distances, certainly not short distances and not middle distances either. Usually outside, pounding the streets. Red face, no haircut. A couple of years ago, after a few months running down and up the severe hills of Sevenoaks, I joined the local gym and was shocked to discover, on the treadmill, that I was quicker than I thought (running up hills will do that for you). Quicker than I'd been previously as an adult. Tentatively, fearfully, I decided to do a 1500m time trial on the treadmill. I managed a flat 5 minutes at the first attempt. I was quicker than when I was 10. Hurray! But was I happy or sad about this? Happy, just about. It was about time I stopped idolising my 10 year old self - better a solidly fit 34 year old with 2 DVTs behind him and a titanium rod up his tibia than a 24-year-long memory of unfulfilled potential..
Then, last year, as if a microcosm of years 13-28, I got super-unfit again. Not my own fault entirely, but at Christmas 2013, I was flabby and barely capable of running 15 minutes. Mars Bars again ...
This past Sunday, I did a half-marathon. I didn't win or break any records, I was 544th out of 2500ish, but I really enjoyed it. Having gained myself back a modicum of fitness in the intervening three months, I ran at my limit, couldn't have done faster, and proudly collected my medal and my goodie bag.
Amidst that throng of 2500, there were probably loads who'd broken their school Under 11 1500m record. Oh well.
5 minutes 26 seconds isn't mindblowing for a 10 year old to run, but it's pretty decent. I beat my long standing friend and rival John Willan, all legs and asthma, conclusively, with my red face and my bowl haircut, and I was a runner. I did run faster than 5 minutes 26 - I ran 5.18 next year and 5.23 the year after. 5.23 when you're 12 isn't so impressive as 5.26 when you're 10. And John wasn't in the race - he'd moved to the 800m so we could share the spoils. By that stage, this was probably a lucky escape for me.
Jeez, I loved running then. Loved it precociously and fiercely. Anything from 400m up, i was pretty good at, and we'd run wherever we can - large parts of long sponsored walks (21 miles one year, 27 the next, though I've a feeling the measurement was dodgy to wring more money out of sponsors), we started a running club, zipping round the reservoirs and towpaths of southwest London at lunch break. Truthfully, I once cried at the end of a football practice because we'd been promised (threatened!) a half-hour run at the end which we'd then run out of time for. I loved the running.
As well as the sports days, there'd been the yearly cross-countries. I remember it all - 1st year, me and James Bridge (both of the same house) promising to cross the line together (I'd read about that happening in the first London Marathon) and that vile dog breaking his promise and surprising me on the line. 2nd again the next year, winner the next, then losing by 10cm to John in 4th year. Maybe that was a defining moment in my life. Aren't defining moments fun? I almost broke him with 800m to go, but not quite and then, in the sprint, he just had it.
Not sure I was ever a winner again. Do you know the National song 'Mr November'? Coincidentally, its album, Alligator, will be the next album I write about on my music blog. I was Mr November by the time I was 12. "I used to be carried in the arms of cheerleaders" he moaned.
Next year's cross-country, the ignominy, I wasn't even 2nd, relegated to 3rd, the sheer shame of it. 12 years old and finished.
I loved running then, and I love running now, but there is a big chunk in between when I didn't love running. 5 minutes 26 seconds, I still remember it, because for so long between the ages of 12 and 30 I would be pretty certain that I was slower than when I was 10.
The slow disintegration of running legs. I still played loads of sport, I was even coerced into rolling out for the cross-country team one year, but I didn't love running much anymore. No more records, what's the point?
There was one painful time I had to do a 1500m as a 16 year old, in the Club Athletic Competition (at the big school, there was no glorious jamboree of a sports day with 100s of parents and picnics and what not, just a boring Club Athletic Competition) on the same track as my glory of 6 years earlier. As I lumbered round in just over 6 minutes, as John flew away about a minute in front, I could reasonably wonder where it had all gone.
I don't have one definite answer, but I do know I did love Mars Bars. And crisps. And (did anyone else have this?) as a teenager I actually took pride in the extra stones which appeared year on year - 9 then 10 then 11 then 12 then onwards ... of course, then the innocent bad living gets replaced by less innocent bad living - booze and fags do not a long distance runner make. I became, for the most past, the unfit, lazy, skilful footballer. What a waste!
I got back into running at last. There'd been a few brief periods in the 20s where I'd been pretty shocked at pushing 14 stone and done a few laps of Claphan Common, but, in the end, it was the shock of a DVT and the realisation I might not play football again. That was 7 years ago, and I've mainly been running since. With ups and downs.
Long distances, certainly not short distances and not middle distances either. Usually outside, pounding the streets. Red face, no haircut. A couple of years ago, after a few months running down and up the severe hills of Sevenoaks, I joined the local gym and was shocked to discover, on the treadmill, that I was quicker than I thought (running up hills will do that for you). Quicker than I'd been previously as an adult. Tentatively, fearfully, I decided to do a 1500m time trial on the treadmill. I managed a flat 5 minutes at the first attempt. I was quicker than when I was 10. Hurray! But was I happy or sad about this? Happy, just about. It was about time I stopped idolising my 10 year old self - better a solidly fit 34 year old with 2 DVTs behind him and a titanium rod up his tibia than a 24-year-long memory of unfulfilled potential..
Then, last year, as if a microcosm of years 13-28, I got super-unfit again. Not my own fault entirely, but at Christmas 2013, I was flabby and barely capable of running 15 minutes. Mars Bars again ...
This past Sunday, I did a half-marathon. I didn't win or break any records, I was 544th out of 2500ish, but I really enjoyed it. Having gained myself back a modicum of fitness in the intervening three months, I ran at my limit, couldn't have done faster, and proudly collected my medal and my goodie bag.
Amidst that throng of 2500, there were probably loads who'd broken their school Under 11 1500m record. Oh well.
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