MEMOIR
The Psychology of Running
The short history of a cross country runner
I don’t run for fitness. Or well-being. Or mental health. Or prestige. I run because I’ve always run. Like people walk their dogs in the morning. I do it without thinking.
On my first morning at boarding school as a seven-year-old, I was awoken at six o’clock by my housemaster. When I asked him what was happening, he replied, ‘It’s time for The Run.’
For ten years, I ran every morning, and sometimes every night. By the time I was 17, I could run in my sleep.
I played other sports at school, mainly football, cricket and rugby, but running was the one I was good at. Not that I cared about winning, it was the mental battle I always craved. Lining up with the other boys from the other schools on the starting line, knowing this wasn’t about glory, this was about freedom.
Most of us had spent most of our lives at boarding school. So for those six miles, or however long the course was, this was our race. This was our moment. Because out there on the run, we weren’t sickly school boys any longer. We were superhumans.
Take note! Running isn’t just about muscles and legs, and the tendons and nerves that control them. It’s a mindset. A philosophy. A meditation. And the reason I don’t buy into personal trainers who prescribe daily goals that have to be logged or shown off on Strava. That’s not running. That’s ticking boxes.
I’ve tried to teach friends how to run over the years, but they all make the same mistake. They think they have to get from A to B as quickly as possible, and that once completed, that’s their training done for the day.
That’s not running. That’s just another pastime to fit into their busy schedule. Sure, they might be able to do a half-marathon, or take part in their local 10 km charity run. But that’s all they’re doing: taking part, making up the numbers, ticking the boxes, posting it on Facebook. Which is cool, if that’s what you want.
But that’s not why I run.
The races we used to run were metaphysical battles with ourselves. Many of us had suffered in these places they called school (I’ve written about this on here) and we were there to sort our shit out. This was our meditation time. This is where it all came together. A confederacy of lost souls set free on the hills of North Wales.
It was always the same boys, and by the end of my time at school, I knew all of them. Foxy, Bullet, Muppet, Leather, Whippet, Bones, Mallet. We all had differing running styles and techniques. A few of us like me were tall and lanky, who could push on hard on the flat, our long thin legs chewing up the miles like lawnmowers.
Others, like Crouch and Ange, were small and squat, so when they got to the hills they could dance up the climbs like gazelles. But don’t get too close! Or you’ll get tripped up. Or pushed into a hedge. A quick shove in the back just before the hill, leaving you for dead.
Yes, we were all civil, obedient boys in the classroom. But out there on the moor, we were as crazy as everyone else.
The downhill sections were the worst, and you had to be fearless. Like a downhill skier, you had to put your head down and hope for the best. Let go of all the hatred and anger and run with it. Let it go!
Many boys fell, but no one cared, this was how it was, it was like a war — and what’s a bit of blood? Or a broken ankle? You’ve got another! So we just got up again and staggered on.
We never wanted the races to finish. When the races ended, we came back down to earth, mere pupils once again. Young boys in the meat grinder of a cruel system.
But it had to end, and someone always won. But the winner was never important. We had all won. And after the race, we ate sandwiches and drank tea together. Then later said our goodbyes until the next race. Until the next time. Until the next battle.