I'm pretty much knackered by the time I hit Kingston bridge. That means I've been running for about three minutes now. I pass a couple of runners going the other way, bounding along like two legged antelopes, sleek and shiny in their body-hugging jogging suits and hardly a breath to be heard. I'm in an old Gap top and my swimming shorts, I sound like a dying Rhino.
No comments from the misery of emo-kids huddled at the end of Canbury Gardens, that's a good thing. I'm more stumbling than running at this point, my legs hurt like hell and I'm seriously regretting doing this tonight. Somewhere along the river path the background hum of human noise drops away, I lose all feeling in my legs and I hit my pace. It's not particularly fast but it's steady and I don't get too upset when those athletalopes goes springing past. The river reflects a peach and purple shimmer.
I realise I'm just about keeping pace with a small boat. To compensate for the bends in the path I speed up. I don't want to. It's neck and neck and I wonder whether I'd be impressed if I knew just how slowly it's going. We reach the foot bridge together; I'm going way too fast, there's still a mile and three quarters to go.
I try to slow down when I hit the pavement. Doesn't work. I almost fall over. I've forgotten whether I'm breathing or not. I cannot think of a single good reason as to why I put myself through this. And then there's nothing but keeping my legs moving. My head clears. All the unaswerable questions part in a Moses like trance. This is what I love most about running.
Passing the school reminds me I'm on the last stretch and I decide to stretch my legs. This is my second stupid idea of the evening. I'm keeping the same pace with a longer stride. This is not fun. I want to slow down, I'd rather stop.
Every time I see the railway bridge I get one of those extending corridor movie moments. I think no matter how far I run it will remain the same. Those last few hundred yards are the bitch of the bunch.
One last turn into the yard and drop into a walk. Three and a half miles of exertion career straight into the back of me like a car in a traffic safety commercial. I have a serious adrenaline hit and scare the shit out of Denise as she gets back from the allotment. My face burns with blood, my back is soaking, I can hardly breathe. I have three blisters, each on top of the other and I reek. I'm grinning like the idiot I am. I'll be doing it all again tomorrow morning.
Tunes: Brett Anderson: Brett Anderson
