I USED to run all the way to school and back again. I was either a Wells Fargo rider bringing the mail or a Border Reiver escaping the English. Sometimes I was a British Marine running from the Nazis. I was unstoppable. I just loved running, not to ‘get fit’ since that concept hadn’t occurred to me. I did it for the joy of movement and the exhilaration of wild self-expression – like the religious one in Chariots of Fire. It felt like something I’d been gifted, uniquely from everyone else. I had been granted wings.
Of course this was all done in school uniform and Start-Rite leather sandals. Nobody wore sports gear on the streets in those days – you’d be laughed at if you’d appeared off the rugby field in white shorts - unless you really were an athlete like Jack Knox (if I recall) who was a dedicated competitive roadrunner in the town. Even he, though, often jogged in tackety boots to build up his leg strength. I had a dark blue cotton track suit completely unencumbered by corporate logos which I used when training with the local running club. I was very young but showed promise so they entered me in a mens’ mile at Hawick.
That was where reality blunted my spikes. I was left standing by the power and aggression of these big blokes fighting their way forward to win the £20 prize money. I jogged round dejected, suffering the jeers of the crowd. I wouldn’t try that again. The irony was that, as it was classed as a professional race, my name was added to the list of competitors who ran for money which automatically debarred me from schoolboy amateur competition…
There I am, slick as a guddled trout in a tight Lycra suit and green reflective track shoes