We ran through snow blizzards, thunderstorms, hailstorms, gypsy campsites, car parks, cemeteries, and one time along the hard shoulder of the M62.
We were chased by goats, geese, bulls, drug addicts, every kind of dog, and even a motor cycle gang called ‘The Sons of Hell’
We ran at midnight in 2 feet of snow with temperatures below zero degrees, at also at times above 80 degrees. We ran in the streets, roads, parks, country lanes, dirt tracks, golf courses, up and down mountains, and along railway lines and canals.
During July and August we’d run without shirts or socks, and in the winter we’d run with two tracksuits on just to keep our muscles warm enough to move.
I was always faster going downhill whereas Brad was faster on the uphill bits. We met at a race hundreds of miles away from our homes and discovered that we only lived a mile or so away from each other. We became training partners, best friends, and competitors. We ran thousands of miles together and completed more than 50 marathons. But mostly we would run alone. Individually we would run seven days a week, twelve months of the year, year after year, after year.
We gave directions to lost drivers, pushed cars that wouldn’t start, returned lost wallets, and once called the police when a herd of cows were heading onto the motorway.
We ran in the London marathon before it turned into a fun run. Sports drinks, gels, heart rate monitors, fitbits and gore tex suits weren’t yet invented. Running watches and Nike were still in their infancy.
We seemed to eat and drink alcohol in copious amounts constantly but we never ever put on weight. I’d think nothing of drinking numerous pints of snakebite on a Saturday night and then run 20 miles on the following morning. And yet people said we looked thin. People thought we were ill. We measured our lives in miles rather than days, weeks or months.
Some people would smile and wave, some would wolf whistle. Once or twice girls from passing cars would shout that we had nice legs. Young boys in customised cars with wide wheels would yell obscenities and ‘moon’ out of the back window.
We saw shooting stars, a family of foxes, a farmers barn on fire, and we once accidentally stumbled upon a couple having sex in the back of a car down a country lane. We begged for water from petrol stations, garden hoses and once laid down in front of a lawn sprinkler when we were desperate. We carried toilet paper, change for the public telephone and sometimes a dog biscuit.
We were offered rides from bikers, old ladies, farmers, drunken drivers and once, a lap dancer. We never accepted a single lift although sometimes we were almost on our knees. We argued about the lap dancer.
We won trophies, medals, t-shirts, money, and once a bag of oranges. Often we didn’t win anything, although we didn’t look at it that way. Brad was always a strong started and ran from the front, I preferred a slower start and would finish strongly. When I passed other runners I pretenders not to look tired, and I would never ever look back.
I was always asked, did I get runners high? does it get boring? what did I think about when I was running? Why did I look so serious when I was running?
Sometimes. Sometimes. Running. I didn’t know that I did.
We had dogs that followed us all the way home, and dogs that attacked and bit us. I’ve been bitten by Rottweiler’s, poodles, geese and once I was chased by a Sparrowhawk.
We found pliers and purses, CD’s, magazines, a pair of handcuffs (no key) and a black bra (36C). I once found a wallet with more than five hundred pound in it and returned it to the owner on the same day. I got no thanks and no reward.
We ran further and faster than most of our friends. We’d sprint up Red Lane hill 50 times in one evening and our heart rates would exceed 220. People said that was impossible. We’d run 400 metres reps twenty times in one session. We’d get light headed, our hands and arms tingled and sometimes blood vessel’s in our eyes ruptured from the sheer effort.
We lost toe nails, pulled muscles, suffered from frostbite, hypothermia, heat exhaustion, sunburn, blisters, dehydration and tendonitis. Sometimes after a long run or a high intensity session, or after a marathon, my legs would be so sore and my Achilles so inflamed that I could barely walk. Some mornings I’d have to come down the stairs on my backside, one stair at a time.
We treated muscle pains with bags of frozen peas or heat pads and covered our legs in wintergreen. We tried medical doctors, surgeons, chiropractor’s, acupuncturists, podiatrists, sports physiotherapists, trainers, coaches and quacks. We were given cortisone injections, told to take ibuprofen or aspirin. We were warned that we were ruining our knees, our hips and damaging our feet.
But sometimes it was just like we were floating along, like sitting on top of a pair of legs that you didn’t think would ever get tired or slow down. It felt like the legs weren’t yours. It was like being part of an animal, a running, flying, floating animal. When we ran around corners we were like fighter pilots sweeping down in formation.
We had a resting pulse in the low forties, and body fat of seven percent. I was five foot ten, raced at ten and a half stone and went through a pair of shoes every six weeks.
Once I experienced chest pains, a sharp stabbing pain beneath the ribs. It was a Sunday morning, a twenty two mile run. We had seven steep hills still to conquer. We raced up the first hill to find out if it was my heart or not and when I didn’t drop we raced up the second and third hill. After six miles the pain eased off and Brad said it must have been a heart attack. It must have been a mild one because three weeks later I ran under 2 hours and 40 minutes for the marathon,
Although we ran faster and further we never quite ran fast enough but this didn’t stop us from driving from one side of the country to the other to get to races. Over two weeks we ran a race in Aberdeen and the following weekend in Penzance. We were pleased with ourselves for that one. And I once ran three marathons over three consecutive weekends. Turned out not to be such a good idea as I ended up in hospital immediately after the third event. That seems funny now though.
Eventually we began to slow down. We started looking over our shoulders and thinking about the races we had run instead of thinking about our next race. Our bodies would complain and it took longer to recover from a hard run. Sometimes when the weather was bad we took a day off. Sometimes we would just miss a day because we were sore or tired. We gained five, seven, ten pounds. More.
We now measure our lives exactly the same as normal people do. I moved house a couple of years ago and recently found out that Brad had moved, once again within running distance. He has grown up children now but we still keep in touch and reminisce about the old days. We still argue about whose fault it was when we got lost and ended up running on the motorway, or which one of us the lap dancer really wanted to give a lift to.
We complain that we’re running slower than we once did and make jokes about timing ourselves with calendars and sundials. Sometimes we fantasise about one more marathon, the fantasy seldom lasts for more than a day. Marathons and twenty two mile runs are things of the past.
And what did we learn from running more than fifty thousand miles and hundreds of races, sometimes not even crossing the finish line at all, those runs on the icy roads or begging petrol station attendants to spare a glass of water?
We learned that we were alive and it felt good. No.... it felt absolutely fantastic. Life is a gift that we often take for granted and if I had the chance to do it all over again I wouldn’t change a thing.
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