run thirty-six

Paul asks how I feel about running. The fact that it’s been a week since I last  ran might  be a clue.  I feel no spiritual or physical need to run. I only run because I make myself, when I can.  I do it  because it seems a good way of being less fat. The only way I’ve managed to keep up with. Because I’m vaguely embarrassed that I  spent all those years being paid to know something about runners, without ever running myself. Because  I quite like running down Oxford Street or Shaftesbury Avenue when they’re full of shoppers and I’m doing something completely different. Because I don’t want to be unable to keep up with my son when he legs it round the park. Because it seems like a way to stave off mortality. And because it’s hard. It’s not fun. It’s boring. It’s often painful. And yet it seems worth doing. And that seems like a good combination. Today was a good example. I’m just pleased that I didn’t put it off for another day and I went and did it. It wasn’t remarkable in anyway, but I still went and I’m still pleased.