I run.
I run because I am a runner. That may sound obvious, but like alcoholics need to drink, so I need to run. I’ve tried giving it up, I really have, but the need to run is rooted so deeply within me that I just can’t stop.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an athlete. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I don’t thrive on the adrenaline rush of finishing top of the pack (or even in the top half). I’m a plodder. Never once have I had to push my chest out to break the finish line tape a few milliseconds ahead of an Ethiopian ultra athlete. I plod. I just get in my groove, switch off, and run. My body becomes a machine. It’s like mobile meditation.
I first started running when I was at school because, relative to my peers, I WAS good at it. I was the tall lanky kid who always got put in goal because I was all arms and legs. Who kept falling over his ridiculous size 11s. Who got put in second row at rugby just for the line outs and not much else. Then I started to run. I could beat most of the other kids at school in the long distance stakes. Result. After school came college and girls and smoking and beer and life and running kind of became less important. But it was always there, like a mad woman locked in the attic, frantically scratching at the loft hatch trying to break free.
These days I run for lots of different reasons (and definitely NOT because I am good at it). I run to think about things, I run to forget about things, to make decisions and to put off making decisions. I run to see my Downs covered in snow, in sunshine, in mud (usually mud to be honest). To be with people. To get away from people. I run to get rid of hangovers. To prime myself for a night out drinking. Sometimes I even run to try to get fit, because there is no embarrassment like the embarrassment felt when you get beaten over the finish line by someone dressed as a stormtrooper, or giant furry bear carrying a bucket full of charity change. Lots of reasons.
But mainly I just run because I am a runner.