I fucking love hate running. And. I never always thought I would.

Let me explain.

I was never a runner. I’m not sure I’m a runner now. I’m just a person who runs a few times each week. I was always a bike rider. My Dad was a runner. He was a long distance, marathon, and further runner. Sometimes I think he took up the running hobby just to spend long periods of time away from the chaos, mayhem and noise of our childhood home!

Recently though – well, recently in the grand scheme of things – maybe since late 2019 or early 2020, I started running. Short distances at first. This was mainly due to everyone only being allowed out to exercise for a short period during Lockdowns.

I started running around the field near my house. I remember thinking at the time, no one will see me running here. Inside, I was worried that I’d look a bit of a sweaty mess, like a giant, sluggish man-boy wearing shorts that didn’t fit and unsuitable shoes. In truth. Nobody cared. The other thing I remember was how much my fucking knees hurt. Christ. I worried about being able to run further, because they were both so sore.

Over time though, I did keep going. I eventually worked up the courage to run where other people – people I know – might see me. Falling forward, with a sort of stumbling momentum, keeping me going.

Why though? Why did I keep going? Honestly, I think it had something to do with the belt of cardio that running gave (gives) me. To achieve the same level of cardio intensity on the bike, I’d need to be outside for much longer, going further, with more faff and more gear, and all that takes more time. Time is of the essence. Running, even a short run, gives me a big whack of cardio – and – a huge big dose of feel good chemicals from my brain. Thanks brain.

I kept going. Finding that over time, with practice, I could run further. Really actually further than I ever though I could. Running solidly for 15 minutes. Then for half an hour. Then for 45 minutes. Then for an hour. Running for a hour? I mean, to the ‘old me’, that would just have seemed like an impossible task. Running for an hour. Even now, writing this, that still sounds like an achievement. Running. Distances grew and so did the length of time I found I could keep going for.

Life has a way of throwing shit at you. Just when you think you’ve got your shit sorted. It throws you more shit. The older I get, the more I realise that in order to deal with the shit life throws at me, I need to be treated like a big dog. I need to exercise regularly, I need to eat regularly and I need to sleep for long periods regularly. The more I do those three things, the more shit I can deal with.

Running has a full time place in my life now. Sometimes, I hate it. Like this morning. We’re in the grip of Storm Babel. But, I wanted to run. But I didn’t want to run too. It would be so easy to lie in bed and listen to the rain on the extension roof. Drumming and telling me to go back to sleep, that there was nothing for me out here.

I’m finding that discipline – or rather self discipline – around getting out of bed is hugely important to me. I go to bed no later than 10pm and get up at 6.30am. I, ahem, perform my ablutions, then I stretch. I do a set of stretches that a physio showed me several years ago after I had some back problems. I do them every single day.

But finding the motivation to keep the discipline of getting out of bed is hard. You’d think it would be easy, but I can tell myself any amount of lies to convince myself that staying in bed is a better option.

I swing my legs over the side. I drink some water. Then I go to the loo.

I lift my running clothes that I laid out the night before (in order to try and not disturb Her That Is Still Sleeping) and go downstairs in to the darkness. It’s Autumn in Scotland, and mornings are dark. I stretch in our front room, alone in the dark. Dress. Then go out and run. In the wind and in the rain. I feel like a fucking adventurer heading out on some dangerous mission, armed only with their wits and some basic bits of gear. I’ve started wearing my windproof jacket again to run in – a sure sign that the seasons are changing and a promise of the cold that is yet to come.

And it’s at this point when I hate running. There’s still the option to turn round and go back inside. In fact, this morning, my brain was saying to me, what the fuck are you doing, it’s WILD out here, go back inside. Make coffee.

This is the hump I need to get over. I keep going, and some kilometers later, I’m rewarded as I find that state of Flow that I sometimes get on the bike too.

Flow. When my consious self switches off, and the action I’m carrying out becomes automatic. My legs keep running, by themselves. And. My mind is allowed to wander. I find myself thinking about a fantastic variety of things. My childhood. A bike trip. An upcoming trip with a friend. My family. Food. Always food.

And it’s not until something, like crossing a road in this case, interrupts the Flow that I realise it’s happened at all. It’s wonderful. Magical.

I like to run. I hope you do to. If you don’t and want to try, fucking go for it. Stick your shoes on and run round the block. You’ll feel better for it, later on in your bed, you’ll be like – I went for a run today. Just start and then go from there.