Perhaps I should feel a little ashamed at this ongoing, compulsive list making. But I really don’t. In fact I’m enormously fond of the run record. I thought I’d accidentally deleted it once, and let out an involuntary roar of despair. Some extremely quick-witted iPad–iPhone trickery from my daughter saved the day, and now the file will continue to grow as long as I continue to run. It’s just there, a testament to my passion and my fixation. It makes me feel like Ozymandias:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Look on my runs, ye mighty, and despair!
Only you won’t despair; if you look closely, you’ll doubtless think, ‘that’s not much good’, or, ‘I can go quicker than that’, or, at the very least, ‘why on earth does he bother?’ Well, I’ll tell you why I bother. I run because running makes me happy, and I bother with the lists because they also make me happy. Simple as.
And like I say, all this looking back through previous runs has got me thinking. What are my top five runs of all time? Which, come to that, is my all time favourite?
I thought the answer would come easily but it turns out this is quite a competitive field. Trouble is, I keep changing my mind, remembering a long-ago dawn gallop on a Scottish beach, a jaunt through the stunning valleys near Rustenburg during the 2010 World Cup, a Norwegian marathon, Alpine adventure, jog through the jungle by the river Kwai... almost impossible to rank. But it does make me grateful that my trainers are the first things I pack whenever I travel anywhere.
So here’s what I’ve come up with – the top five Rest of the World runs in this chapter, with the top five UK Runs to feature in the next. It’s been tough, whittling these down. I reserve the right to change my mind in future editions...
All-time favourite Rest of the World runs, fifth place: Paris
I’d had some ‘previous’ running in Paris. The morning after I’d been to interview Usain Bolt, with a few hours to kill before boarding my Eurostar home, I’d happily set off for a run from the hotel, conveniently nestled at the base of the Eiffel Tower. I’d been listening to music whilst marvelling at how blissfully empty the roads were. I remembered a colleague once telling me that they shut some major Parisian roads on summer weekends, and I thought this is the life, these French have got it sorted. Cyclists having permanent priority, and now streets closed for runners. Wow. Through the music and my reverie, it took me some time to realise that someone on the side of the road was shouting. And not just shouting – but shouting at me. I removed an earphone reluctantly. Qu’est-ce que c’est? He pointed, and a glance over my shoulder told me the answer. The road wasn’t closed for the good of weekend joggers; the road was closed for the Paris triathlon, and the elite cyclists were bearing down on me at full speed. I got out of the way, just about, before shamefully scuttling off down a side street to continue my run.
That’s not the run that makes the top five. The run that does was altogether different. It was during a family weekend away, a happy, early morning canter along the Seine taking in many of the city’s prime tourist attractions before any of them became crowded. Amazing how much of a city you can discover when you’re running. In this case, the Louvre, Jardin des Tuileries, Notre Dame, Sainte-Chappelle, Champs-Élysées, Place de la Concorde, Grand Palais, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower... Nice place, Paris. Nice run.
All-time favourite Rest of the World runs, fourth place: Triigi, Estonia.
The morning after the first night of my friend Jockey’s bizarre stag weekend. I say morning; it may have been early afternoon for all I know. I woke up on the floor next to a fireplace feeling as hungover as it’s humanly possible to feel. We were the only guests in a country manor house hotel where we’d enjoyed a long boozy dinner and just when we thought it was high time to turn in, we’d been shown to a summerhouse in the garden where they’d cracked open the absinthe. That’s the last I remember.
The following morning’s (afternoon’s) run was memorable for three reasons: first, for the spectacular scenery, virgin forest interspersed with bogs and lakes – extraordinary; second, for the dramatic difference in how I felt before and after – I learned that day, fifteen years late perhaps, that you really can sweat out the booze; and finally, for the fact that I was chased (briefly, lazily, but still) by a wolf.
All-time favourite Rest of the World runs, bronze medal: Vancouver
The day before the opening ceremony of the 2010 Winter Olympics, and I was out by the harbour enjoying a brisk evening jog. Vancouver is a gorgeous place to go running. I spotted a man up ahead dressed in the distinctive red tracksuit of the Swiss Olympic team. He was out doing the same thing as me, running, and at around the same speed. I decided on a whim to try to overtake him, and put on a burst. When I drew alongside, he reacted by increasing his own pace to keep me behind. All of a sudden, I was in a race.
This sort of thing sometimes happens on my cycle commute to work, early in the morning, roads empty, and I admit I quite enjoy it – riding my trusty old hybrid bike with its flat tyres and clicking chain, and trying to keep ultra-light, carbon racers behind me as I pedal up Notting Hill.
But this was a whole new level. Racing an actual Olympian on the eve of the Olympics? Yes please! We were evenly matched, the Swiss jogger and I, and for a minute or two we were almost running side by side. At one point he accelerated alarmingly and I thought he had me beaten. But I somehow managed to stay in touch and the race continued. I was frequently tempted to sprint for twenty yards then turn off the seawall at the next opportunity, pretending that’s where I was heading all along, and calling it a win. But it seemed wrong. This was a proper foot race, and it needed winning, or losing, fair and square. Plus, I was constantly hoping that he’d turn off and I could collapse and call it a draw.
We continued in this manner for at least a mile, locked in a sweaty duel, neither of us knowing who’d win, neither of us wanting to lose, and neither of us knowing even where the finishing line was.
Eventually, some eight or nine minutes into this wonderful lunacy, I sensed he might be starting to struggle. I don’t know where from, but I found another gear and surged forwards, looking at him full in the face as I went by. I tried to sense from his expression whether he was beaten, but I couldn’t read anything into the grimace. All I knew was, if he didn’t slow down in the next ten seconds, I’d have to let him past. The whole race was up for grabs right here.
He suddenly slowed down and stopped. I was elated. A part of me wanted to turn around and shake his hand, but I feared it might come across as gloating so I continued on my way, merrily imagining I had just out-run a biathlete, a speed skater, a downhill skier…
I wish I’d never looked him up now. Turns out he was a curler. And his disappointment won’t have lasted long, because when he returned to Switzerland a fortnight later, he was the proud owner of an actual Olympic medal. And all I have is an imaginary medal of the same colour to arbitrarily award a run which he will have long since forgotten.
Oh well, at least I won.
All-time favourite Rest of the World runs, silver medal: La Croix Valmer, South of France
My home run through the parks, commons and towpaths of South-West London will definitely make the top five UK list, and here’s its Gallic sister. My fabulous in-laws have a small villa in the south of France, and they generously allow us to use it as our own. It’s probably my favourite place on earth. The pink stone walls, the views, even the sky itself, all ooze calm and charm, and in all the time we’ve spent there, I don’t think we’ve ever had a bad day.
This run can be anything from a quick half-hour round vineyards or along beaches, to several hours through some of the loveliest countryside, steepest hills and prettiest villages imaginable. And sometimes, when I’m out running there, I fantasise about moving to France and living a very different sort of life: a simpler life, smaller, maybe better, the kids attending the local sc
hool and becoming fluent in French within months, Caroline setting up an art business and becoming wildly popular and successful. And me? Well… um… Perhaps we’re better off in London after all.
Gold medal winner and all-time favourite Rest of the World run: Koh Yao Noh, Thailand
The final week of a blissful month-long family holiday in South East Asia. In no sense could we afford to put our lives on hold for five weeks and go travelling, but how often do you ever get the chance? I had a month and a half to kill between jobs, so re-mortgage the house, sell the car and a couple of kidneys, grab the children and galivant off to Thailand.
We went everywhere, saw everything, even spent a night on a raft in the middle of the River Kwai and camped in the jungle near the border with Burma. That was an interesting run, the one deep in the jungle, past indigenous people staring at the running man like he was completely bonkers, and then realising why, when I returned to camp 40 minutes later and promptly collapsed through dehydration. Running in extremely high humidity, not recommended.
My favourite-ever foreign run came later in the holiday, in the final week before we returned home, when we spent six idyllic nights in a beach hut on a beautiful, unspoilt and tiny island. So tiny that one morning I decided to run around it. I woke to the sound of the waves and set off as the sun rose over the exquisite rocks jutting out dramatically from the sea (the view reminded us of Scaramanga’s Island in The Man with the Golden Gun).
The run took around three hours in total. Following the coast clockwise, past people finishing a night’s work in rubber tree plantations, past fishermen starting out to sea, past people working in rice fields, through a busy market, through gently rolling countryside, and through rain as heavy as any I’ve ever known, but warm, pleasant, and which stopped as suddenly as it started. And most of all, past an island school where I got chatting to the teacher who in his faltering English invited me to return with the family, which I did, and all the island children performed a song just for us while my two, then aged five and seven, reciprocated by reading them a story and reciting a poem. It was one of life’s great moments.
Alistair Brownlee MBE
World and Olympic Triathlon Champion. He and his brother Jonny have been at the vanguard of the explosion in popularity of triathlon in the UK, and now run their own successful Brownlee Tri in Leeds. He’s so fast over 10km that he almost entered the Commonwealth Games 10,000m as well as the triathlon.
I can’t remember my first ever run, but I remember being really young, still at primary school, and being involved in a cross-country race around the school fields behind the school. Enjoying it. And then, even though I was about three years too young, wanting to take part in my first-ever serious cross-country race. It was a Leeds schools’ competition for all the primary schools in the area and the rest of the kids were under 11s and under 12s. I came in about 299th. I remember it being a horrific experience, but for some reason I still wanted to do it again.
And then one summer, at about the same sort of time, I started to do quite a bit of fell running. So I’d turn up at a country show and just join in at the start – head up a hill, over a couple of dry stone walls, and back down again. I’d win £1.50, which I’d then go and spend at the sweet stall.
Then I remember the first time I wanted to train for something. I decided that I would get up in the morning and run before school. I’d have a little route that I always did: up a hill from my parents’ house and back down through some woods. It was probably only about 15 minutes long. But I would get up earlier in the morning and be sure to do that before school because I simply wanted to train. That was out of choice, and I did enjoy it.
I always loved my running, and there were a few reasons for that. Firstly, I loved being competitive, and I knew that to be competitive I had to do some training so there’s that. I did enjoy it. I think this is probably an idyllic, unrealistic memory of it, but being up in the early morning as the sun’s coming up and birds are singing, I really did love that.
Later, when I was 11 and I went to senior school, running was a big thing there. We could go out running at lunchtime if we wanted and for me, as an 11 year old, to be able to put on your trainers and to just go out running with your mates from school at lunchtime was brilliant. I always associate running with a sense of freedom that was probably borne out of that. I think it was extremely important to me, and I’ve always kept that.
These days of course every training session is mapped out, but when I’m doing an easy recovery run, I just let my mind wander. And training for endurance sports is really good like that because you can just switch off and let your mind wander and take time to enjoy what you are doing. It’s true that there’s a purpose to a lot of my running now. But there’s still the steady run, or if you’re on a long run, it’s still a very pleasurable, switch-off experience – simply let your legs do the work. It does get kind of difficult for me to choose new routes, to run on moors, or to go somewhere to do a run that might be really nice.... That’s tricky because I’m on a tight training schedule and I can’t travel so much. But I do get a bit of a chance to do that at the end of the year and in the off-season, which is always nice.
My favourite running is at home in Yorkshire, moorland running, though it actually depends on the time of year. When it’s in the summer and I’m fit, I like running on smooth surfaces because you can just switch off and clock along. There’s no better feeling than just running really naturally without thinking about it. It’s fantastic.
But when I’m out for a really enjoyable winter run, then yeah, I love being muddy. I love being on the moors and in the elements, and then coming home afterwards and warming up.
Running is literally the simplest sport you can do. If you are starting, all you need is a pair of trainers and some clothes and you can go out the door for as little as 5 or 10 minutes and slowly, slowly build it up. Push yourself. In fact I challenge anyone not to be bitten by some kind of running bug if you can just set yourself targets and slowly improve over the first week or two. That is a fantastic thing. Almost everyone I know who has started running has at some point being bitten by that desire to do more of it and improve. It’s the simplest thing I think, in any form of life: setting a goal and improving.
And it’s as simple as putting on a pair of shoes and getting out the door.
15
Sophie Ellis-Bextor, Runaway Daydreamer
‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 15
I’ve made a pact with myself to make sure I keep running between water stations. Not that what I’m currently doing looks much like running, more a curious cocktail of stagger, shuffle and hobble, but in my mind I’m steadfastly referring to it as a run. I fear bad things will happen if I start taking walking breaks. To my ever-weakening resolve if nothing else.
But each time I arrive at a water station, I do allow myself to walk (limp) whilst drinking copious amounts of water and tipping equally liberal amounts over my head. I’m not alone in doing this; it’s extremely hot after all and we’re shattered, but it’s the reason the organisers temporarily run out of water. Nobody knew so much of the water would be doused, rather than drunk.
Whilst emergency water-buying parties are dispatched to rectify the situation, we’re only being offered gels and isotonic drinks at the feed stations. My stomach has long since been rejecting these, so I’m now having to cope without any fluid. Suddenly, a large part of me simply wants it all to end. I’ll wait until I see the kids, I think to myself, and then I’ll make the final call as to whether or not to stop. And until then of course, the only thing to do is keep going. Keep running. I pass a waterless aid station and don’t even bother to slow down.
Right then, back to Great Britain – and only GB I’m afraid, as I’ve yet to visit Northern Ireland – for the top five home runs (in the non-baseball sense.) I’ve spent an unhealthy amount of time pondering these. Trouble is, there are so many more to choose from.
All-time favourite UK runs, fi
fth place: somewhere called Shoal Hill Common, somewhere near the M6
I’d been stuck in motorway traffic for hours, hot, bothered, barely moving forward. I was in no particular hurry but even at the best of times, I don’t wear traffic jams well; it’s one of the reasons I cycle everywhere in London. Eventually the car crawled towards a junction and I made a snap decision to turn off and find somewhere to stretch my legs. That somewhere turned out to be Shoal Hill Common, a large expanse of woodland and heathland on the outskirts of Cannock, north of Birmingham. And stretching my legs became a fast, undulating 90-minute thrash in some surprisingly pleasant surroundings. This run makes the list simply for the wonderful contrast between sitting stupefied in a traffic jam and sprinting gleefully up a hill.
All-time favourite UK runs, fourth place: West Sands, St Andrews
The venue for the filming of the iconic credits of the classic film Chariots of Fire. How much more inspirational can you get? It was early on the Sunday morning of the Open Golf Championship, I was up with the sun and had the whole curving swathe of yellow beach completely to myself. I set off for a gentle jog and couldn’t help feeling that I was in the film myself... I was actually part of that happy, athletic group of white-vested 1920s Olympians splashing through the shallows: young, fit, glorying in the act of running. I was Harold Abraham, running to overcome prejudice. And I was Eric Liddell, running for the glory of God. And I was Lord Andrew Lindsay, running because I could and because I was good. I even had the Vangelis song to hand, on permanent repeat in the earphones. Dum dum dum dum went the insistent beat, the synthesised drum, my feet trying to keep pace with it, while the inspirational tune above it filled my ears and made my spirits soar. Der der der dee der der, der der der dee der...
And to top it all off, I was presently joined by some colleagues for the traditional – if absolutely freezing – BBC golf team dip in the North Sea. A breathtaking morning.
Don't Stop Me Now Page 13