“All I do is keep on running in my own cozy, homemade void, my own nostalgic silence. And this is a pretty wonderful thing. No matter what anybody else says.”

Haruki Murakami

A question popped up on the @UKRunChat twitter feed the other day; ‘Which Running books changed your life?’ It’s the kind of question that most people have to really think about before giving an answer – a bit like ‘what’s your favourite album?’ or ‘why is there a turd on our kitchen floor?’ For me, this was an easy answer: Murakami’s ‘What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.’

It’s not only my favourite running book, it’s quite possibly one of my favourite books ever. I re-read it once a year, usually when I’m going through a phase of shite running or shite life events.

What makes it so good? It has to be Murakami himself. He’s normal. He’s likable. He doesn’t fill the book with deep bullshit waffle. His love of running – the why and the when – is scattered subtlety throughout. His pros and writing is chilled to the point I can physically feel my blood pressure dropping as I read. Then again, this is a book written by a Philosopher with a giant Jazz collection.

The question not only got me thinking about the book, but also my version of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. How did I start, and how did I get here? On with the bollocks…

The Beginning

In the beginning, there was this fat kid. I know this is all starting a bit Hollywood, but this is going to be one of those stories of weight. Isn’t it for lots of runners? The point is though, it’ll evolve beyond that. I’ve always carried extra poundage, it’s in the genes. I’m not making ‘being fat isn’t my fault’ excuses but a fair bit of it truly isn’t. My old man played a lot of football and was skinny as a rake. As soon as he had to retire due to dodgy knees, he piled it on. Not from eating tonnes of shite either, just from not doing exercise anymore. It was his genetics, which the swine then gave to me.

So, when did the running journey start? Well, there’s a long and a short answer; it involves death and injuring my knee.

Like many children of the 80s and 90s, running was punishment. It was bestowed upon you in PE when someone had acted the knacker and you were all forced to lap the field instead of playing football. Not great for someone carrying extra timber. So, I hated it, and it was never going to be something I would do for ‘fun’. It can fuck off over there. Once it has, it can then fuck off some more.

Then in the middle of the noughties, in my mid 20s, a couple of big things happened. Firstly, in 2005, my dad suddenly died of a massive heart attack. Being northern and a male I dealt with it the way you’d expect, bottling things up and consuming quite a lot of alcohol. And when you get a beer belly on top of an already belly, well, that’s quite a belly.

Then, whilst playing 5-a-side (in goal, not much effort required) I cracked my knee and went from minimal amount of exercise to fuck all amount of exercise. I was given a strapping and told to rest. Belly belly belly. As part of my ‘rehab’ I went to see a lovely Physio who recommended that I should go swimming. It would be a good gentle way of building the knee up again she said. I mumbled ‘whatever’ and pissed off to the pub.

It was whilst in that pub that I bumped into my cousin, who also hamstrung by the family genetics, was just so happening to go swimming every Saturday morning as part of her health kick to get pregnant. I should come along with her – if nothing else we can chat shite in water. So that weekend, hungover as a bastard, I got up early and reluctantly dragged myself to meet my cousin at the pool. It was hard work, I was hugely unfit, but I kind of enjoyed it..

So I started going every Saturday morning. And then every Sunday. And then I started with the odd weekday morning before work. And then I was going 7 days a week. I felt amazing. My knee felt great, I had more stamina, and lost a little bit of weight. My cousin also managed to fall pregnant – the two are unrelated.

I was feeling so good I decided to crack out my bike and start cycling for the first time in years on the weekends. My knee had completely healed and I lost a little bit more weight. It was on one of these bike rides that I had an epiphany. I’ll never know this epiphanies name, but she was hugely important.

Cycling was getting easier, I was completing a fairly decent local loop at quite a quick pace and without really putting in the effort anymore. One sunny summer morning I was cycling along the coast at Tynemouth on this loop, when coming towards me I saw a runner. Not a fast runner. Not a slim runner. Not a young runner. A short, stocky lady probably in her 50s. She’s ambling along, slowly, sweaty and grimacing.

Three different emotions evolve in my head during this brief encounter.

1. Christ. Look at the state of her. What does she look like? Snigger.
2. Actually, you know what, bless her, she’s out here and trying. Good on her. Patronising pat on head.
3. Hang on a minute, you’re being a dick. She’s out running and she doesn’t give a fuck. What are you doing hiding on your bike? This lady has balls. She’s amazing.

And that was that. If she could do it, not care about what other people thought, not built like a runner, pushing herself to do something hard, then what was stopping me? So I made a decision. Tomorrow morning I dump the bike, and I go for a run. Again though, harping back to that being Northern and Male thing, I wouldn’t do it from my door. I didn’t want to be laughed at – ‘lol, look at the fat bastard going for a run.’

So I drove down to Tynemouth the next morning at 6am, and I ran. And I was shit. I think I did about a mile, and it was painful, and I hated it. But I did it again the next morning, and then the next, and the next and kept going. Within a few weeks I’d worked out a 5k route and the rest dear reader, is history.

So, what do I talk about when I talk about running? A story, a slightly wanky X-Factor ‘journey’ from nothing to Half Marathon. I think all runners have a story, a journey, whether similar to mine or not. Look back at yours. Look at what you’ve accomplished. Be proud.

Right, enough of that sloppy shite. I’m off to write my next blog about why Zwift is both fantastic and full of arseholes.