What I Talk About When I Talk About Running*

I always feel afraid beforehand. I always think the task is impossible. I have fantasies of being abducted, having a heart attack, falling over and breaking something. Or I tell myself that I am sickening and shouldn't go...

Half the battle is getting myself dressed. So I do it really quickly. If I'm dressed up like that I can hardly not go.

And then I'm out on the front step stretching. As I work with my muscles, clay under my hands, my heart flutters. It's something about the taper of my waist, the curve of my thighs, the shapes I've felt change over the months. My pale blue T shirt hangs looser as I stand up.

I don't run straight away. I walk to the end of my road with a serious expression across my forehead. But the first few trots surprise me, like laughter.

It takes about ten, maybe fifteen minutes to find my pace. Generally I spend that time thinking about all the accessories I don't have. A heart rate monitor. A watch that can record my splits. Some new trainers. And a couple of new sports bras (I can see this in the faces of the men I pass). I no longer want an mp3 armband though. I don't want to listen to music as I run. Part of the joy is hearing my breath settle into rhythm, and the peace.

At this point I'm still conscious of my feet. I look down past my legs, beating the pavement like spoons, to the little key pouch on my trainers. It's the cutest thing, a little bug that sits on my foot the whole way round. It makes me smile.

Finding my stride is a beautiful thing. It's sweet, relaxed, comfortable. It's what tells me I'm a runner. And that I don't need anything I don't have in that moment.

I pass other runners with a gentle, reserved nod. On the busiest suburban streets the prams and bus queues and loitering teens disappear. Runners occupy a different space.

Sometimes there are patches of dappled shade. Sometimes the sun flares across the pavement. Occasionally - deliriously - the clouds let go of a whisper of rain. I like it when I am joined by fat bumblebees, humming alongside my steady breath. At times I let out little happy sighs.

One of my favourite routes takes me across the brow of a hill. From the top I can see the City, Docklands, the Post Office Tower and the London Eye. The view makes me want to weep with pride.

And yes, the hills; I pull in my stride and my elbows and keep my eyes on the ground. The top is always a glorious celebration, no matter how steady or easy the climb.

Eventually I feel my legs change. There's a thickness that tells me I'm near the end. But with it comes a renewed energy and the ability to open out my stride for one final push. In the last few minutes I retrace the route in my mind and fill up with gratitude. What a privilege to have a body that can power me across the miles.

And then it's over. With one simple step (it wasn't impossible at all) I make the transition back to walking. I smile.

Back on the porch I stretch again, longer, deeper. My thighs feel like bullets. I'm wet and rosy.

"Mummy's run a long way!" I tell my cat as I shut the door to my flat. And she didn't get abducted, or break a thing.
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*With apologies to Haruki Murakami