by James Birk
Part of the reason that I was getting up so early was that I didn’t want to be seen by anyone in this ridiculous attire. The other main reason I was getting up so early was that regardless of my training gear, I would probably not be able to manage the act of running with a huge amount of dignity.
I felt dreadful. My body clock was used to a start time of around nine most days. Eight o’clock or eight thirty had been the norm for the last few weeks since I had taken on my new role in work but I was sure that no-one could be up and about at ten to seven in the morning.
I was wrong. As I walked up City Road and onto Albany Road I was surprised at just how many people were already opening up shops, delivering goods or just commuting to work. It wasn’t exactly bustling but there were enough people about that I felt an absolute tit as I made my way to the park. I turned up Welfield Road and reached the little community centre on the corner of Ninian Road and Pen-y-lan Road which marked the starting point of my chosen route. I was not going to be overly ambitious, I had decided. A marathon is roughly twenty-six miles, but for my first session I was going to run from the playing fields at the bottom of the park, up to and around the lake at the top of the park and then back again. It was around four miles, but I thought that for a first effort that would be enough of a stretch. I reasoned that I could always up the distance the next day if it turned out to be too easy.
I started with a gentle jog past the community centre and onto the dirt track that ran alongside the playing fields. It wasn’t too arduous to begin with, quite easy in fact. I surged confidently past a couple of middle aged women who were also out running but plodding along at a snail’s pace. For the first few minutes I was flying. I started to notice a slight ache in my calf muscles but that was surely to be expected, I would inevitably shake that off once I was properly warmed up. By the time I had reached the top of the playing fields and I was about half a mile into my run I was starting to breathe quite heavily and sweat profusely, but I felt no need to stop. I pushed on, into the Pleasure Park, the second of Roath Park’s four sections. I ran past the Bowling Green and the tennis courts, but my breathing was getting quite laboured now and my chest was starting to tighten. I could feel a burning acidic sensation at the back of my throat and the pain in my calves was spreading somewhat alarmingly to my pounding feet. I could hear the ladies I had just overtaken catching me up, so I stopped and bent down as if to tie my shoe laces in order to save some small amount of dignity as they overtook me. The sweat was getting into my eyes by now and I felt like throwing up but with a grim determination I drew myself up and made to start running again. My steps became stiff and the pain was really quite excruciating by now. By the time I got through the pleasure park I was only a mile into my run and I thought that I was going to die. I slowed to a walk and turned around. There was no point in continuing. I was more unfit than I had realised, more unfit than I had even thought possible.
Back in the playing fields, where only a few years ago I had regularly played Frisbee with Dave and Rob and run around with the energy and vigour of youth, I found a bench and stared at the vast green expanse in front of me. I wanted to cry. I’m not sure that I didn’t weep a bit. How had it come to this? At what point did I stop being young? By all definitions, surely I was still young. If I was a professional footballer, I might be reaching the twilight years of my career, but you would expect me to play on for a few more seasons yet, if I was a boxer I wouldn’t even have hit my prime, and how old was Steve Redgrave when he won his fifth Olympic gold medal. He was a lot older than twenty-nine, I was certain of that.
As I was contemplating where I had gone wrong, another runner loomed into view. He was a magnificent specimen of a man. Dressed all in black with insanely short shorts and a tight fitting vest made of what seemed to be a fairly hi-tech mesh, he looked everything I wasn’t. He was all sinew and muscle and he was running at a very fast pace indeed. There was a focussed, almost aggressive look on his face and as he shot past me, I could practically feel his power and strength. He stopped at the pull up bars that made up part of a fitness assault course on the periphery of the field and started pulling himself up and down rhythmically and almost effortlessly. After twenty repetitions, he landed and continued on his run, and if anything he seemed to be going even faster than before.
I sat there for a little longer, even more perplexed than I had been before. Here I was, not yet thirty, overweight, and unable to achieve even the simplest of physical challenges before my body gave up on me, and there was the ‘man in black’ who was able to demonstrate a physical prowess that I had never had, even in my prime (which was a hard period to place at that moment), yet he must have been at least twenty years my senior, if not more. I knew, even at my most optimistic, I would not be expecting to achieve what he had just demonstrated, but I should be able to do better than my recent effort. It would the easiest thing in the world to give up now but I realised that this was also crucial, almost pivotal moment for my self-esteem. If I gave up now then all the negative perceptions I had about myself, all the negative perceptions that other people had about me, all of them would be true. I really didn’t want that to be the case. I knew in my heart that I had to be back out training the following day and the day after that, and every day until it stopped hurting, because the pain in my body at that moment was nothing compared to the pain there would be in the core of my soul if I failed to see this through.
I stood up gingerly and started to make my way slowly back to my flat. There were far more people on Albany Road by now, although the shops were not yet open. I was attracting a few perplexed looks due to my outfit and I decided that one of the first things I should do was buy a decent pair of shorts, although the short shorts worn by the ‘man in black’ seemed a little excessive for the time being.
I got back to the flat and threw myself into the shower. After twenty minutes under the hot, although somewhat underpowered flow of water, I felt slightly refreshed.
I dressed and looked in the mirror.
‘Today was a positive step forward,’ I told myself.
In terms of marathon training, it was a laughable at best, but I had to start somewhere and I had made that start. There was further to go than I had anticipated, but I had at least begun the journey. There would be no backwards steps from now on. I was a changed man. There would be no more whining about the cards that life had dealt me. I would make my own luck. It was a brave new world and I was excited. I left my flat with a spring in my step and a glint in my eye, feeling more positive than I had in a long while that things were about to change.
The woman in Markbys looked surprised to see me.
‘You’re early!’ she exclaimed.
‘I’ve decided I’m going to be on time for work from now on,’ I said, ‘New Year’s resolution four months early.’
‘Or eight months too late,’ she countered, ‘so is it the usual?’
‘Certainly is,’ I replied, ‘One bacon baguette please.’
As she went off to make it, I had a moment of doubt. After all today had been a day of epiphany, perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to carry on having the same thing for breakfast every day. Perhaps I needed to make a change in all aspects of my life.
‘On second thoughts,’ I shouted to her as she sliced open a freshly baked French stick, ‘I’ll have a bacon and sausage baguette. I’ve been for a run this morning, I deserve it.’
