Haruki Murakami once penned a book for non-runners called What I talk about when I talk about running.
The title was a homage to Raymond Carver’s collection of short stories called What we talk about when we talk about love.
Both are good books and worth a read, if reading’s your thing. If you’ve read any of this blog before you could say that it falls somewhere into the category that those books try to capture – the constant orbit or circumnavigation of a subject or concept without ever crashing to earth in a ball of flames. Stories that in some way shine a light on the subject without ever fully illuminating it.
A bit like a moth in an eternal dance with a flame but never getting it’s wings burned.
Sometimes my stories about running are eternal and transcend the running or the race report itself and create that common understanding that allows you to identify with the universal theme underneath the mundane story about running.
This isn’t one of those stories……
Last night I had one of those trudging-to-the-single-bed-vacated-by-my-young-son nights as he had taken up residence in the marital bed and was in an Oedpial embrace with his mum. A threesome loses it’s fantasy allure when the other person is your son and you’re frozen ’cause he has all the duvet.
As I tried to drift off to sleep (not that easy after a good 5 hours) I thought, if I was Thomas I’d be out pounding the streets now. But thankfully (and said umpteen times before), when given the choice between a warm bed and a cold street I always take the bed.
Eventually, as the cascade of thoughts went from a southern European queue (a scrum) to something more northern European I started thinking about James Bond and him being chased in his tuxedo by a bad guy.
What in the name of Jesus got me thinking of this I hear you murmur under your breath.
Well, the stream of conciousness goes something like this:
I like to think about running when I want to clear my mind and allow myself to turn off all my thoughts. So, at 05:00hrs I started thinking of running.
Then, as I had the over-filled-hot-water-bottle-bladder syndrome from a bit too much craft beer the night before, I started thinking about a wee.
Then I started thinking about having a wee when out running and then I thought about the worry-piss you do when you’re nervous before a race.
Then I thought about James Bond again and how nervous he must be when being chased by baddies and then – the thought that kept me awake for at least a half hour – does James Bond ever feel the urge to have a safety-wee in his tux?
Little or no running to report – I’ve done something unconventional in the world of runners and given my body a break after the marathon two weeks ago.