Mad Keen Runner

I've been a mad keen runner for a good 10 years now. I fell into it during a lonely year in northern Spain - even through the winter, the long siesta in the working day saw my colleagues lunch and snooze, but I never got the hang of that. Instead, every lunchtime I took myself off down the tracks that snaked along beside the river Ebro, to see what I might find. At first I just walked, but walking wouldn't let me get far enough in the time allocated. So I began to run.

Since then I've travelled lot. I've moved cities, switched countries, and worked and studied in numerous places within the UK. The same black and green rucksack has come with me on all these moves; much stitched, patched and emergency-repaired. No matter where I'm going or for what purpose, the first thing to be packed into that backpack is always my running kit. Trainers and a stopwatch are the crucial two items. Otherwise, kit has varied over the years and climates, though I have found that the sporty fabrics that are specially designed to wick and not chafe, are a mercy and a gift. I've never had all the sexiest latest gear, and I'm not immune to pangs of envy or inadequacy when someone jogs by who really does look the part. But as I usually choose to run trails and tracks way out the back of beyond, how I look is mostly irrelevant once I've got out there.

Running grounds me, and enlivens me. It ensures me a connection with the weather, seasons and terrain. Late summer comes and goes, and the lush greens in the fields gradually wither to husks and stalks... the first dustings of snow come... through the wild storms of winter... the arrival of frogspawn in the ditches... turning to darting teeming tadpoles... Cherry blossoms and daffodils burst into life... later raspberries stud the hedgerows, blaeberries nestle in the hills... This is an awareness and connection that I find is weakened to the point of irrelevancy in normal daily life in the city. Without running, the changing seasons and weather are reduced to scraping ice off the car, adjusting the thermostat in the house, deciding which coat to go out in...

Some of my best thinking happens when I'm out running. It seems to happen in the empty spaces - between the endless mileage calculations, the chanted mantras to stop me giving up when it gets tough, and the pleasure of being outdoors - there must be cogs a-whirring. Because out of nowhere, new thoughts materialise, problems are solved and clarity gained.

I often, almost always, experience moments of exaltant emotion: euphoria, invincibility, a gratitude and awe for the world. My running is driven by what must be a form of addiction, coupled with an urge to explore: always a little further, what lies round that bend, over that ridge, beyond those trees?

Running has carved a niche into my life. It's a passion. It's a form of bliss.