I didn’t think there would be another dedication after the first post, but since the shocking news this week that House Sparrows are in decline, I thought it only fitting to dedicate this post to our whistling friend. When I decided to start writing about the ins and outs of running ‘long’ distances, I knew that during tales of Deep Heat and fist size blisters certain aspects of durational exercise would come to light and be praised. The moments that turn a mind from treacherous cogitation to unobscured joy. The moments that unravel lead weighted pessimism, to knowing you're going to make it. Rustles, barks, glints, winks, squawks, shimmers, gleams and chirps are just a few of these moments. From microscopic twitches to atmospheric collisions they all combine to help sore limbs into those final miles, and the noisy chorus of hedgerow nesters never fails to perk up moaning knees. Apparently the over pruning, clearing and cutting of garden hedgerows has contributed to the House Sparrows decline, destroying safe habitats for the birds to thrive and feed in. I thought about this, and I reckon that for every 5 metres of garden hedge, there must be at least 60 minutes of work in the attempt to train those unruly shoots and clear up fallen leaves. For a garden with 3 average length hedges, this amounts to a lot of time and energy that could be better spent elsewhere. Like running, or writing a running blog, or sinking a pint of dark ale down the local. So I've decided to help our feathered freinds, and so could you. Dont worry yourself about cutting, raking, collecting and bagging. Leave those Sunday tools in the shed. Add some extra miles to your long run, and then wonder, even saunter, down to the pub. Pick up a paper, there's plenty of time to do the crossword. Sit back and relax. Ignore the tutting from the neighbours, ignore the twitching of curtains and prolonged stares, and definitely ignore the ever imposing tangled mess that surrounds your garden. Embrace this new found 'free time'. Embrace it in wonderful guilt free knowledge that House Sparrows, and many of their friends, are chirping noisily in unified chorus raising a healthy feathered salute to you, and your disorderly excuse of a hedge. Simple. Not a finger lifted. Live strong House Sparrow and continue to enrich the British hedgerow, and inspire the early morning run.
Crouching behind a small tree inside a black bin bag in the vain attempt to dilute gale-force slapping horizontal rain, bringing my bones back from a deafening brattle down to a mere chitchat, was, to say the least, an interesting introduction to marathon running.
Wide-eyed and full of rolled oats I jumped on the first bus up to the start. Having introduced myself briefly to the person sat next to me the bus stopped on the edge of the road, at the base of the Llanberis Pass to a uniformed ‘Is this it?’ This seemingly ungrateful cry was from the right side of the bus who could all see down a gravel track to the start of the race. Five Portaloos, each of which had 2 or 3 people inside hiding from the Parody of Welsh Elements, a few people dotted around, behind rocks, trees and shrubs, and one lone, slightly deranged (perhaps inebriated) elderly fellow in skimpy fluorescent shorts and running vest seemingly unaffected by the Snowdonian onslaught…Perfect.
The start to the race seemed strangely fitting for an event rated as one of the hardest marathons in Europe. It was unassuming, filled with running folk that stood shoulder to shoulder waiting for steep climbs and demanding descents. No fanfare. No nonsense. Just run.
And so we ran. My memories of the event are blurred. I forgot my gels and had to get over it quickly, I was both shocked and wired on going a long way up, and then down, then up again, then down, then flat, then up, oh and then up again, some more up, lots of down…There were of course the saviors at each feeding station with buckets of jelly beans, juice and isotonic drinks, also seemingly unaffected by the conditions. I have all of these people to thank, as I wouldn’t have made the run without them. There were runners I talked to on grueling inclines, slips and a tumble on a decline, a toilet break on a small stone bridge that shot up in all directions as wind managed to cause comic chaos. Droplets of urine exploded in every direction and hit a couple of passers. My sincerest apologies if you’re reading and if it’s any consolation I inhaled a whole load of it.
I think anyone who ran will remember the last 6 miles with both utter contempt and conquering pride. At the point when you think there can’t possibly be anything else, Bwlch-y-Groes clouts you in the face. Well, hamstrings, calves, knees, back, stomach, arms, shoulders, neck, brain, eyelids, fingers. A tear-jerking climb onto a kamikaze descent. A fitting end.
And then the finish, much like the start. A tap on the back, a cup of tea, collect your coaster and on your way.
There isn’t much else needed when surrounded by a community of people that are humbled by their individual bouts with the mountains and elements, all warming numb fingers on paper cups, and bodies pink as lobsters from stinging rain. Towel the head, jumper on, sink a pint, job done.
'Rain, wind, and glorious Snowdonia, what more could you want.' Kev Joyce
Photograph: Katharine Mac Daid, 'Walthamstow Marshes, London, August' www.katharinemacdaid.com
I would like to dedicate this opening blog for The Jogger's Nipple to one person. I have no idea what his name is, I've never met him, and I probably never will do. At around 5' 6", 60 - 65 years old, silver haired and a wiry build, he is a runner I see on one of my weekday runs on the canal system up to Walthamstow Marshes.
Yesterday, I went on my first proper run since completing a marathon two weeks ago, and got my creaking knees back into action. About 3/4 of the way through my route I saw the said gentleman, in the distance, making his way along the path in my direction - and I knew immediately what was to come. With my head held high and keeping pace he clocked my approach, made eye contact, and gave me a solid, definitive, nod. I immediately counter-nodded with a quick smile and we continued on our way into the evening rain. It made my run complete.
This simple, knowing acknowledgment from a fellow runner, out and about, clocking up the miles come rain or shine, has come to be my most treasured part of running. So I thank this person, whom I don't know but share a common obsession with, for giving me a grin whilst running through stiff legs and drizzle. Maybe next time I'll try out the old 'double big-thumbs-up'.
So for those that have the chance, flick the thumb up or the forefinger, 'Morning', 'Evening', lift an eyebrow, raise a salute, nod, doff, wink or smile, and if you feel particularly active, try all at once.
Next blog: Snowdonia Marathon 2008, A Weathered Tale
I didn’t think there would be another dedication after the first post, but since the shocking news this week that House Sparrows are in decline, I thought it only fitting to dedicate this post to our whistling friend.
