Sunday, 14th February - 70 days to go

I’m setting off for what Mick’s plan terms “2 hours 10 mins easy.” Apart from the obvious (how could running for 2 hours and 10 minutes ever be described as easy?) I’m much more content with aiming to run for a set time than for a set distance. I can break it down into manageable bits without getting intimidated. I haven’t got the jargon fixed yet, so I’m not sure what “easy” means. I set off up the A660 towards Leeds and the first few steps are awful. I’m running like an old man. Remind myself I am an old man so running like one is ok. It takes about half a mile and I’m into some sort of rhythm. Start to notice my surroundings. Wow, it’s a cracking morning. Sunshine (no warmth) and crisp, cold air. It’s a good-to-be-alive day.

Pass the house that Liz has told me is exactly 1 mile from our house. Check watch. 9 minutes 30 seconds. For the twentieth time I wonder how accurate this mile mark is. Start a tortuous piece of mental arithmetic to try and calculate how long a marathon would take at this pace. Curse primary school teachers for not beating the 26.2 miles table into me when they were beating catechisms into me. Would have been much more useful. Two cyclists heading out of Leeds, one speaking very loudly. Only catch a snatch (snigger) of their conversation. Twelve words and two are swear words. Well really, there’s no need for that. Make a mental note to cut down swearing. It’s not funny and it’s not clever.

Into the park, nobody about. Think about Simon and blame him for my swearing even though I was well into my forties before I worked with him. Brief moment of regret for his failed marriage. Childhood sweetheart & two kids. Make mental note for millionth time to thank Liz for putting up with me. Think about Simon’s ex – have seen her name in the lists for the last couple of community runs, but would only recognise her if she was wearing pyjamas. Long story. Seems unlikely that she’d be wearing her pyjamas for the Chevin Chase. Get back on the tortuous calculation. Onto the bit of Leeds Country Way. Silently congratulate Council on doing an excellent job with the path. First uphill slope; no problem. Feeling good. Finally work out that I’d do the marathon in 4 hours 9 minutes at 9:30 pace. That would be ok if worse came to worst and I had to run at “easy” pace. Cross King Lane, up the hill and onto Eccup Lane. No cars.

Kennels are eerily quiet. Wonder if dogs have been sedated. If I was manager of the kennels I’d sedate the dogs from time to time just to get some peace and quiet. Recognise that this makes me morally reprehensible but am comforted by the unlikelihood that I’m ever going to manage a kennels.

Bugger – first moral dilemma of the day; sheep in crop field eating crops. Should I alert the farmer? Ignore moral dilemma by chastising myself that I don’t know what breed of sheep they are or what crop they’re eating. Pass golf course. No golfers. Lazy.

First spit of the day and over two miles done. Don’t approve of spitting. Dirty. If I was a footballer I’d never spit on telly. Resign myself to the likelihood that I’ll probably never be a footballer.

Decision time – clockwise or anti round the rezza. Decide on clockwise because the sun would be in my eyes if I went anti. Big slurp of water then stash my bottle in a gap in the wall. Check watch. 26 minutes. Run the up and down bit, past the farm and do a mental check of the body for ailments. Check round the usual suspects (right knee, left calf, right ankle) and everything feels ok.

Yellowhammer (Emberiza citrinella) not singing. Tree Sparrows (Passer montanus) in hedgerows. Up the slope and off the Lane towards the rezza. Dogs. Big (bad). Two of them (double bad). On leads (good). They struggle to get at me. Owner holds them back with some difficulty. Young and friendly (dogs not owner). Forget to say hello to owner. Past converted farm. They’ve done a grand job, but they won’t be getting a visit from Kevin and the camera crew anytime soon. Still can’t see any activity there. Looks like an institution rather than residential. Make a mental note to mention it to Liz; she’ll probably google it cos she’s nosier than me. “Grand” reminds me of “champion” and “gradely” and Yorkshire ….. vernacular? dialect? Wonder if Liz has finished God’s Own Country yet. Keen to get her views on (a) whether writer is master of misdirection or I’m a dullard (took me 175 pages of 200 page book to realise central character was a sex monster not a victim of society) and (b) whether Yorkshire vernacular is spot on or just a little off.

Kestrel (Falco tinnunculus), not hovering. Down to the rezza. Hear Wigeon on the water. Can’t remember latin name. Wonder if this is another sign of creeping senility. Start to make mental list of top ten favourite bird songs. Get distracted by thinking of atmospheric soundtrack on Woman in Black TV version from a few years ago. Make a mental note to dig out book and read it again. Make another mental note to check Amazon for availability of TV version.

Another runner. Heading my way. Bloke. About my age. Good upright style. Check him out to see whether he’s more time ravaged than me. He isn’t. Bastard. Consider whether my more worn look can be put down to some sort of Dorian Gray misspent youth. Conclude it probably can’t. Just luck of the draw.

Sod it. Moral dilemma number two. There’s an alarm going off inside the house on the corner. Weird sounding eighties alarm like the phone’s off the hook. Should I stop and investigate? Run on. How guilty will I feel if there are reports of a murder at this house in the local papers? Make a mental note not to read local papers for the next few days.

Back on with list of bird songs. Decide it has to be bird sounds not songs as top two aren’t vocal. Wonder whether other people compile lists of favourite bird sounds. Conclude they probably don’t. Decide not to wonder what that says about me. Remember that latin name for Wigeon is Anas penelope. How could I have forgotten that? Anas (snigger). Penelope. Momentarily dejected that I think first of Lady Penelope from Thunderbirds, then of Penelope Pitstop. Only then do I think of Penelope from the Odyssey. I really am a philistine. Start listing racers from Wacky Races. Get seven, can’t remember who drove the Arkansas Chuggabug then decide I can’t cope with two different mental lists at once so complete my list of bird sounds.

Hear a Great Spotted Woodpecker (Dendrocopos major) drumming. Number two on my list. Sign of Spring. Yippee, can’t come soon enough for me. Approaching scary stile thing, metal, narrow at the top then widens at the bottom. Must be to keep something off rezza path, but can’t think what. Momentary panic. Hope nobody’s looking as I do series of stuttering steps followed by ungainly twisty thing to get through the gap.

Into fields and there’s a crunch underfoot. Frost. In the corner of the field where the sun hasn’t reached. Walker. No dog. Friendly greeting. Geese flying over and calling – think it’s Branta canadiensis but maybe Anser anser. Can’t decide. Not flying in approved V skein format. Sloppy. Decide that I now need to add contextual element to list; proper wild geese calling at Welney, Martin Mere or Slimbridge type place worth much more than scabby geese flying round Eccup. Skylark (Alauda arvensis) singing as it soars. Number four on my list. This is turning out to be a good run. Think of A Curious Incident .make a mental note to read it again. Worry about where it might be. Knowing us it won’t be on the shelves in alphabetical order of author (surname), in chronological order. Any of the four of us may have read it last. I’m definitely not going to look for it in the boys bedrooms - they’re like war torn Beirut (is Beirut still war torn?). Would it be frivolous to buy another copy? (My copy). Yes it would be frivolous, but not if I got it second hand. Specially not if I got it from Oxfam. Make a mental note to go into Oxfam & buy Curious Incident.

Over the style and down the slope. Shit. It’s muddy. I’m going too fast. Alright, not too fast, just out of control. Do a slalom, skippy thing until I’m back in control. Hope nobody saw me. Over the stile at the bottom. Ouch. Pillock you know you can’t get over this style in one step without consequences in the groinal area (groinal?). Up the muddy slope. Yuk. Its claggy and hard going. Wet socks. Bugger, I‘ll have to wash them. How could I possibly think I could get away without washing my socks after a long run? Must be a man thing. Gerry would understand. Only wash your kit when it needs it. Think of the Villa. They’re on TV this afternoon. How can I get myself in front of a TV at the right time? May need some careful diplomatic manoeuvring. Decide to leave plotting until later.

Logs. Well, more like horizontal trees. Piled up really neatly, I like this forester. There’s a sign, a proper printed bought-in-a-shop sign that says “Please do not climb the timber pile”. I wasn’t going to. But now I’ve seen a sign telling me not to I’d really like to climb all over it. Resist the temptation. Momentarily wonder where you’d buy a sign like that.

Back onto Eccup Lane. Check watch. 60 minutes exactly. This is the half way point. If I do the second half in the same time as the first I’ll be home in 2 hours. Ten minutes short. I’ll run past my house to the Dyneley Arms and back. Extra mile and a half in about ten minutes. Look for water bottle. Bollocks. I know it’s round here somewhere. Eventually find it. Make mental note to take a better look around the next time I stash my water bottle. Up the lane. Do another mental check over body. Beginning to feel it now. Abdominal muscles are aching. Maybe that’s a toilet thing not a running thing.

Must take my mind off my body. Haven’t seen a Red Kite (Milvus milvus) yet. Scan skies for one now. Nearly fall over. Decide for the thousandth time that multi-tasking isn’t for me. Look in hedgerows for signs of Spring. Find none. “April is the cruellest month”. What an arse. February is clearly the cruellest month. They should make a pile and burn his books. Consider compiling a mental list of most overrated literary figures and start with Eliot. Decide against, can’t cope with any more mental lists. Enter some sort of trance like state for the next few minutes.

Doing the body MOT thing was definitely a mistake. Oh no, the alarms is still going off in the house on the corner. Moral dilemma number two part two. Run on. Can hear the barrister’s voice in my head “So Mr Jones, let me get this clear” (pauses for effect). “You ran past the house of the murdered householder without stopping to help. Not once, but twice.” Distract myself from guilt by trying to remember whether I’ve ever seen a barrister at work except on telly. Seem to remember a trip to the courts when I was doing British Constitution O Level, but cannot recollect anything. Remember my week of jury service. Can’t remember a barrister at all, but have momentary feeling of guilt that I may have been responsible for freeing up a kiddy fiddler. Calm myself with reminder that it was a unanimous decision. They should never have brought the case to court. He was clearly not guilty. Why ask me to decide?

Three people on the path. They’re all separate. Cyclist. Listening to music. Vacant expression. Walker. Having a bad day already. Birdwatcher. Nice Jacket. Friendly hello. Move on. Catch a glimpse of my shadow. Check out my running style. Can’t come to any conclusions. Throw my shoulders back, make myself more erect (snigger), lengthen my stride. Makes absolutely no difference to my shadow. Conclude that using your shadow as a guide to running style is bobbins.

There’s a song playing in one part of my head; I can’t stop it and don’t know how long it’s been going. The Tender Trap. Can’t remember who sings it. From the old days. From a show? Sinatra? Seem to remember all the words, not necessarily in the right order. Not proper verses. Consider asking Liz if it’s from a show. Decide not to. If she doesn’t know she’ll just make something up. Will have to google it myself if I really want to know. I recall James Nesbitt singing it in Cold Feet. Go through the lyrics in my head. God, this is awful. At best arrogant at worst deeply misogynistic. Can you like a pop song if the words are as offensive as this? Yep, no problem. Play Under My Thumb by the Stones in my head. Follow it up with The Spider & The Fly. No problem. Make mental note to have debate on this with Liz.

Pass same lady walker that I passed earlier. She’s going round the rezza in the opposite direction. We don’t say hello but give each other an awkward knowing look familiar to those who regularly circumnavigate the rezza. Try and do some sort of helicopter perspective of rezza and rewind memory to work out where we passed first time around. Conclude that I’m running faster than she’s walking. Phew.

Come through horrible stile for second time. Make first involuntary middle aged noise of the run. A strange grunting sound. Check watch. 1 hour 27 minutes. There will now follow a series of bizarre noises until I finish the run.

Approaching the muddy slope again. Start to not exactly panic, but become anxious. Decide to take the slope very gently. Twist my ankle. Hear loud crack, yelp and swear simultaneously. Hobble down the rest of the slope whilst making pathetic keening noises. Take a quick look round for assurance that nobody has witnessed this. Crawl over stile at bottom. Two walkers and two dogs coming down slope. Grit teeth and lurch into grotesque lumber in stiff upper lip British kind of way. First dog big (bad). Second dog small (good). First dog loose (bad). Second dog on lead (good). First dog picks up speed and runs towards me. Won’t be intimidated. Decide to make eye contact with it. It seems to have bloodshot eyes and very strong shoulders. It’s giving me evils. I fight back by giving it Paddington’s Hard Stare. It runs straight past me. Oh yes, Chris one Dog nil.

Continue on towards lane with ankle hurting. It’s the one I twisted at PECO Ilkley in that horrendous, foul smelling ditch/moat thing. Decide to take my mind off the pain by inventing moral dilemma inspired by my yelp. I’m on a boat with one life belt ring thingy. Ronaldo and Drogba are in the water floundering. Which one do I save? Weigh up pros and cons for a minute. Decide I’d shuffle off to the other end of the boat and leave them both while I have a crafty fag. Am genuinely shocked that I could ever contemplate smoking. Have secondary (minor) shock that I could leave two human beings to drown. Remind myself that this is just theoretical and it doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a Bad Person.

Reach the lane. Check watch. 1 hour 38 minutes. Bugger. I’ve lost 4 minutes. I can’t get to the Dyneley Arms and back in the time allowed. Set off up the slope. Three golfers at the tee, one about to hit shot. He does this curious jumpy thing as he addresses the ball. Give a quiet chortle. How does he expect to play well like that? Consider how my running style must look to them and feel suitably humbled. Keep head down and plough on. Past the kennels again. Dogs are voluble as usual. They weren’t sedated then. Down King Lane and onto path towards Golden Acre. Ankle is easing up. Play back incident in my head. Did I really yelp (probably); did I really swear (definitely); was there really a loud crack from my ankle (dunno). Try to come up with a contextual description for yelping. “Yelped like a …..”. Can’t think of anything that’s pc. Give up.

Into the park. It’s busy now. Oldsters, families, prams the whole nine yards. How much bread can those ducks eat without sinking?

Back onto the A660 and I’ve decided to run on past my house regardless of my sore ankle. What a wounded soldier. Pass the one mile marker house. Wonder for the twenty first time why they’ve marked their drive pillars with green paint rather than white paint like the house next door. I get the white paint thing; it’ll show up in the dark. Surely the green paint won’t? Maybe it’s some special luminous paint that really glows in the dark. I’d have noticed that though wouldn’t I? No, it’s just past the entrance to the park. We’ve got into the habit of saying either “They’re dogging again” or “Nobody dogging tonight” when we drive past the entrance to the park depending on whether there are cars in the car park with their lights on. Liz and I don’t really know what dogging is – we have an idea (Stan Collymore) and that’s enough for us, thank you very much.

Gosh I’m knackered. Decide to toss water bottle into my garden when I run past the house on my way towards the Dyneley Arms. I’ve already decided I won’t actually go as far as the Dyneley Arms, but I’ll go towards it. Another runner. On the other side of the road. Only the second of the day. Bloke. About my age. Going very slowly, but very stylish. Avoid eye contact. I’m now definitely shuffling with ankle pulsing and abs aching.

Decide I won’t run past my house after all. I’ll just run five minutes short.