A virtual race, what a good idea: a way to feel we are running
together when time and logistics would otherwise prevent such a weekly
event.
I would surely not be out here giving my best had I not a deadline to
meet. My 2-mile time must be submitted by the end of the day if it is
to be pooled amongst the times of others in the British Isles. A wish
to be a part of something bigger brought me to the start alone; a
little pride too at the thought of my name being absent from the list
of results when they are read out at Wednesday Centre Meeting.
It’s my first of the season. I remember the fun we had last
summer trying to better our own times through all weather and the
challenges of marathon training. I remember the funny stories,
excuses, and qualifications so often appended to the results. I
remember each stretch of that course and the ways I finely tuned my
pace to get an ever-faster time. The quick places, the bleak places,
the "Is it nearly over?" places, and the victorious finishing stretch
when it’s all finally worthwhile.
I’m out of practice now, without the edge of competition against my
slower time, for there is no time to beat. I’m most taken by the array
of spring scenes, which clutch at summer glimpses. Two men murmur in
allotments: a drone beneath the birdsong. Two little ones, still in
red school jumpers, scrabble and giggle in clouds of blown dandelions.
I breathe the sweet, green smells of tree blossom, as I say a silent
prayer and launch into the open.
You could not show me a dearer sight than my beloved Britain then: the
bristling sun calling to the plains, dancing on the whites of
cricketers, singing from the straight sentries of new trees in
Constable greens; the river muscling over the weir with gusto; the
dogs all skittish, half crazed at their sudden freedom in a field of
new smells and potential acquaintances.
Runners are out then in number: the rowing team at sprint intervals
between the speed bumps on the road; the self-conscious teenager
jogging stiffly on the grass; the businessman with slow determination.
I must be a funny sight: the happy girl in elite kit, yet barely
holding a ten-minute pace flat out on flat ground, earnestly urging a
sprint finish amongst invisible peers.
Stretching then beneath the horse chestnuts, amidst the flies
burnished dusky gold in the mellow mist. Who knows why they scribble
in the air, as nibs of pens invisible. Who knows why a run augments
the beauty in it all.
Sumangali Morhall
May 2005
