When the daily run is about the only constant left in my day I do everything I can to hold onto it.
It’s the one controllable that can ensure everything else in the day falls in to place. It’s probably more of a regulator too when I work from home and don’t have a place to go to at a certain time each day, a sort of reminder to ensure I don’t sit around and dwell on things, waiting for inspiration and some motivation.
Often there are not enough hours in the day to do everything I need to do. But for me, that one hour to myself can be the one that puts a few extra minutes in every other hour of the day.
There was time when I would rebel against a run, maybe annoyed or bothered by something I could throw a day away, not realising if only I could embrace the one thing I was good at, my lost day could so easily be worth so much more.
There were plenty of years when running was my full-time job. Still there were some days I just could not find the energy to run. I wasn’t injured or sick, just had a nagging in my mind that stopped me, or sometimes made me feel like I was carrying a heavy weight on my shoulders
I once went to see a sports psychologist, to try and free up my mind and she reminded me to think about what I loved most about running, or where was my favourite place to run.
Forget the times and the races, she said, and the medals and the prize money. The lowest common denominator, the love of running, had to be found again.
Often I remember these words when my head is in a tangled mess, and the last thing I want to do is lace up the shoes and run out the door, forgetting that this is the answer I am looking for.
I’ve always had a thing for running on grass. In Cobh I ran laps and laps of the school field, so many laps in fact that I wore a path around the edge of the playing fields. In Teddington, outside London, my favourite place to run is Home Park, the soft grass behind the Hampton Court Palace, around the perimeter of the golf course.
Dublin is as good a city as any for running on grass, Herbert Park for example, six minutes around, and I can easily while away an hour.
Desert island
In Melbourne it’s the Caulfield racecourse, best of all on soft dewy grass early in the morning, against the perimeter fence, with just the race horses on the inside for company.
These are all grassy areas in built-up areas where you can just escape the hustle and bustle and remind yourself how easy it is to escape.
Sometimes I run and listen to a podcast, it can be like having a conversation but you are just listening.
My current favourite is Desert Island Discs, the BBC podcast where all sorts of people are interviewed and asked to choose eight songs that have some significance in their lives, then they are virtually cast away to a desert island with one song, a book of their choice, the Bible and one luxury item.
As much as I enjoy escaping with this podcast, it’s the perfect mix of chat and music, though I still haven’t worked out my eight songs, my book or luxury item. It’s one of those things that I don’t have to decide as I haven’t been put on the spot.
Such are the pleasures of running these days, only against that backdrop came a more disturbing image as the Commonwealth Games concluded over the weekend with the marathon races. I didn’t get to see it live, as there was a run planned, so it was a game of catch up on the phone on the way home.
Following along online and Callum Hawkins had a commanding lead in the men’s race as they were approaching the final 7kms of the race. He obviously came to the Gold Coast ready to race and bring the gold medal back to Scotland.
Moments later and he just disappeared from the leaderboard, it was hard to comprehend what happened.
Then we saw the pictures that are so hard to get out of your mind; a strong, fit healthy runner stumbling along the road. This is not something anyone wants to see played out live on TV. The commentators were also at a loss for words, all everyone wanted to know why nobody had gone to his aid?
Then the Australian Michael Shelley, the defending champion, just ran past without even a glance to the side as Hawkins lay sprawled on the roadside awaiting medical attention.
It was one of those moments where everyone must have been thinking: what would you do in that position? Stop and help, but then what could you possibly do if you stopped still 2km from the finish line.
Finish line
At the end of a marathon, particularly one run in such extremely hot conditions, most runners were doing all they could to just get to the finish line and stop.
To stop so late in the race may mean you simply don’t get going again. Running at that level is a bit metronomic, just keep moving forward with the same steady motion for those last few kilometres.
Still that image kept coming back and I still keep wondering, would I stop to help a fallen competitor?
In recent times we’ve seen it at the finish of the London marathon, runners sacrificing their own personal goals to help a fellow runner across the finish line. Also during a World Cup triathlon race in Mexico last year, Alistair Brownlee gave up his winning lead to help his brother Jonny cross the finish line.
These selfless acts spring to mind when the image of Shelley running past without so much as a cursory glance at Hawkins.
Was it too much to sacrifice a Commonwealth Gold medal, in the very same week when cyclist Michael Goolaerts suffered a heart attack during the Paris Roubaix cycling event?
Still it is hard to lose that image, and just to think everyone could so easily stand back and not lend a helping hand.
Even with the fear of disqualification by helping an athlete, anyone looking on could see this was the end. Still no one was brave enough to end the harrowing pictures many were forced to endure as Hawkins fell and got up, ran a bit more, before finally crashing against a barrier .
Why was everyone so afraid of the rules and what to do? Maybe you don’t really know unless you are put in this situation. What would you do?
