Running for the hills

THE humiliation of almost always being the last to be picked for somebody’s team during PE and games lessons at the Grammar School remains an unpleasant memory.

My parents weren’t sporty, I am long-limbed and fairly uncoordinated, and I soon became resigned to the fact that I was rubbish at games, which made for a miserable afternoon at Les Varendes each week.

One sports day sticks in my mind though, when a friend and I, having been asked to clear away the apparatus at the end of the afternoon, were rightly punished for randomly chucking javelins around. We got the point.

My lack of ability at sport was on a par with my lack of interest in it, so when the sports editor commandeered me from the news desk on a few occasions early in my reporting career, I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory. In short, my report on the dinner boxing lacked punch and I was never asked again.

So, when I developed a penchant for running it surprised me as much as anybody else and is proof that anyone can do it.

I picked it up was when I was living in Oxford, where I made a New Year’s resolution that I’d go for a run as soon as I got out of bed on several mornings a week. The house in which I lived was ideally located for this, right on the tow path of the Isis, so I could pop out of the front door and trot along for a mile or so following the river without having to worry about traffic.

But this was short-lived as freezing Oxford first thing on a January morning left my ears, and a few other bits of me, burning with cold.

Then, back in Guernsey in my late 20s my office was putting together a team for the inter-firm relay. It was nothing too strenuous – coastal laps of around three miles each. I did some training with a colleague and really enjoyed the team spirit shared between our runners and the sense of satisfaction that I was doing something vaguely sporty.

At last my long legs were being put to good use, other than being able to see over people’s heads in crowds. I still remember feeling decidedly awkward when covering the visit of the diminutive Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, which gave me a privileged spot in front of the barriers in Church Square. A voice from the assembled crowd called out, ‘Oy lofty, can you move out of the way, we can’t see through you.’

I took a break from running for more than 10 years before I was prompted to do something I never imagined I’d achieve – run a half marathon.

It was in the year 2000, when there was something of a re-launch of the Father’s Day race. The sponsor was a client of the firm I was working for at the time and I did such a good PR job that I convinced myself to sign up, along with 1,000 others.

But, having notched up my first real running achievement I thought I deserved a break and a few weeks soon became a few months, a year, a couple of years...

In my mid-40s I returned to running, I now go out three times a week and I’ve clocked up around a dozen half marathons and one London Marathon.

And as I’ve got more into it I’ve discovered there’s quite a lot of science to running, if you like that sort of thing, including something called Fartlek – a speed drill, not the masterpiece of onomatopoeia you might first think. It’s quite safe to be downwind of a practitioner.

Two memorable half marathons were also in the UK, the first was the Basingstoke Half which includes a stretch of dual carriageway, happily closed for the occasion, and lots of country lanes, among them a very steep incline past a wonderful real ale pub, The Fox, near the charmingly named Farleigh Wallop. I was fairly walloped by the time I reached the top, having enviously panted past a bunch of thirsty spectators.

The other was the Bath Half, challenging because it consists of two laps so if you didn’t like a certain part of the route the first time round you have it to look forward to a second time. It doubles with a Battle of the Bands competition, with several groups positioned around the course and its fair share of inclines, so the hills are literally alive with the sound of music.

It is often said that a marathon is more than two half marathons and I would agree with that sentiment. I had a good London Marathon in 2019, the clever little computer chip on my shoe telling me that I was overtaken by 500 people over the 26.2 miles, but pleasingly I overtook 9,000. Tell that to the class of ’79.