My Two Left Feet

Whenever the word running was mentioned at school, my heart froze. My legs just weren’t designed for moving quickly, and my feet! Well, the less said about my feet the better. So why was it that after a lifetime of abstinence, I suddenly got the urge to run?

My friend took pity on me and lent me a wonderful book which gave me just the motivation I needed. It was full of accounts of ladies like me who avoided running, and yet suddenly became hooked on the idea. The one who convinced me told of how she would pretend to nip to the shop, complete with headscarf, coat and handbag. Gradually she shed the clothing, until finally she left her handbag at home.

Five minutes after putting the book down I decided to go to the supermarket for a loaf of bread. Pretending that I was in a hurry, I ran non-stop, purse in hand, the longest way round. I was elated. At the ripe old age of thirty-nine I had just run half a mile nonstop. I was pretty sure that this was the farthest I had ever run in my entire life.

The book gave clear instructions on how to start running which was gradually; learning how to pace yourself.   It would be foolish to go out every day and run and run, that way leads to tiredness and injury and I didn’t want to throw the towel in having only just begun.  With a great deal of impatience, I made a trip to the sports shop and picked out a pair of good trainers to run in.  Next, I clocked a one-mile circuit in the car from my house; then, under the cover of darkness I put on my shoes and ran.

What surprised me most were the side effects of all this activity.  I expected to be extra tired, even though I swam and did aerobics I hadn’t counted on feeling so healthy.  What I didn’t enjoy was the initial discovery that I could hardly lift my feet off the ground.  That took some time in coming and it’s the small things that hurt the ego the most.

I gradually widened my circle in the next few weeks to what I thought was two miles.   Once again, feeling proud of myself I measured the distance in the car.  The milometer rolled over, four tenths, eight tenths, one mile, one point three, one point five.  Can’t be?  One point five?  I was half a mile short.

I eventually reached three miles and felt brave enough to run with two of my friends who were seasoned joggers.  One particular Sunday morning saw me lagging behind as usual.  We had done three and a half miles, a long way for me and I was feeling as if I had two left feet.  The girls kindly rested for a moment to let me get my breath and I stood, arms akimbo, head down.  As I looked, my feet slowly came in to focus.  I shamefully bent down, untied my laces and swapped my shoes onto the right feet.

On the strength of attaining four miles, I entered a five-mile fun run which fell one week after my fortieth birthday.  I edged up to the starting line along with my friends; my heart was thumping; my hands were clammy and my throat was dry.  Then we were off; I had no idea where, I just followed the crowd, but it wasn’t long before the crowd were in the distance and we were in the rear.

I plodded stoically on fully aware of the disparity between me and my friends but thankful for their support.  They herded me like a lost sheep being driven to catch the rest of the flock.  I responded willingly, accepting their encouragement with smiles and all the while wiping the sweat out of my eyes.

The mile posts were clearly marked, and I looked hard at each one.  Surely I had done more than that?  Two miles?  Only three?  Ah four, just one more to go.  Total strangers lined the route, cheering and willing us on.  At last there was the community centre and, as with any homing animal my feet took flight and I pounded across the sports field.  My wonderful friends, still encouraging, ever tactful, hung back until I had crossed the line.  

What a thrill.  Taking my medal, I placed it carefully round my neck and beamed at everybody before collapsing with exhaustion on to a nearby bench.

Our children were all jumping up and down with excitement and my friend’s daughter was impressed that I had beaten her mummy, not realising that they would have been back a long time ago if it hadn’t been for me.

I learnt a lot from that experience.  Five miles is much further than four and that extra mile should not be underestimated.

It was about this time that the York Fun Run was being organised and with a lot more conviction than previously, I decided to take part.  My head was full of daydreams.  I would do really well in the five-mile run, then go for a 10k and before I knew it, I would be entering the London Marathon.  The cameras would pick up my tired, but happy face as I plodded towards the finishing area.  People would pat my back and congratulate me on doing so well for an ancient Brit newcomer.

I kept up my swimming, aerobics and five mile runs throughout Christmas and New Year, which certainly kept my weight down.  Nearer and nearer crept the time and I was surprisingly calm.  The big day was scheduled for Mothering Sunday, which I found slightly incongruous; probably arranged by a man!  We arrived at the Knavesmire and pushed our way into York Racecourse.  People were everywhere, jostling, stretching, excited and noisy.  The atmosphere was amazing, and I felt among friends even though I didn’t know anyone.  There were Harriers from here and Terriers from there, people with partners, spouses, children.  There was no going back. There was a bit of a commotion, a bang and the half marathon runners were off.  A sea of bodies surging forward and flowing into the open road.  Heads bobbed and people cheered as the buzz of runners slowly faded into the distance like a swarm of bees.

Next was the turn of the children who were to run a two-mile course and cheering for my own son and his friend helped me to forget that it would soon be my own event. The worst part was waiting for the gun.  I looked for a familiar face and with joy found one.  A cheer went up and we runners moved forwards on three thousand legs.  First walking, then trotting until finally we were off and running.  I had a moment of panic but calmed down as I got steadily into my stride.  It’s good to run with other people.  A kind of camaraderie builds up with those around you as everyone is aware of the effort that is needed to get through it.   I wasn’t alone; had several conversations with people I have never seen since and completed my run in the middle of the pack just before it started to rain.  I claimed my medal along with a Yorkie bar that immediately disappeared into my youngest son’s mouth!

Driving back, we caught up with the tail end of the half-marathon runners.  I watched with admiration out of the rain from the comfort of our warm car, glad that I was on my way to a nice warm home and a good hot meal.  I still swim and cycle regularly, but I will never be ready for the London Marathon, not with my two left feet.  Ah well, it was a nice dream whilst it lasted.