The Rushing Wind, The Shining Sun
The Rushing Wind, The Shining Sun
Everything's better when I can go for a run.
“It’s like walking, only better, because it’s faster,” is how I explain why I enjoy running to people who don’t. Extremely erudite of me. To tell them I don’t know how to explain it is wrong—I have all the words in my chest stored up, ready to burst into clouds of excited chatter. But I know they don’t really want my ten minute monologue. It’s a statement. I don’t know why you do it. It means: God it sounds awful.
There is so much emotional baggage wrapped up in my enjoyment of running that to separate it, to exploit it simply as a form of exercise, would be totally meaningless to me. I don’t just run to get fit, or to get my steps in—I run to see things. I run to feel the sky on me.
The best run of my life so far was around Derwentwater in Keswick. It was a beautiful early December day, it was quiet, and I could take all the time I wanted. I laughed and jumped around that lake, in disbelief at the scenery that I had all to myself, running freely through the best bits of the Lake District. That’s what I mean by “it’s like walking, but faster.” The scenery changes a little more readily, my endorphins cranked up to the max. Light on water becomes magical, crows circling lazily in the sky above gather meaning.
It isn’t easy, and I don’t manage all of my goals. Between injuries and illness, I’ve not managed to run a race since 2021. When I go out my ankles complain and my face gets red. I’m not an attractive runner, I don’t step lightly on the tarmac, ponytail swinging. But I get there, and that’s the main point of it all—to get there, the places I want to be.
Each run becomes a personal triumph. The day matters. The haze clears. I never get bored of my usual run through the lanes. I am in love with a certain dip in the road where an old woodland congregates either side of a humpback bridge. I feel Pendle behind me and watch as its western flanks follow my course. I spot siskins and chiff chaffs, and robins eye me suspiciously from inside hawthorn hedges. The first blossom is out now, white and frothy high up on tall Serviceberry trees. I pretend, after the first mile, that I’m nowhere near home, that I’m in the middle of the countryside and I’m just running, and running, for no reason, just for the joy of it. This is my lane, and I feel like I can tell it’s happy I’m back.
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