I made a promise to myself.
One of those subconscious moments of optimism that just stick, no matter how much you try to ignore it. I’d promised myself to get healthy and start running.
Nobody ever enjoys running. And if someone tells you they enjoy it, they’re lying. Running’s just something smug people throw into conversation to remind you that they’re healthier than you.
Context is important here: I made this promise as the clock left 3am having polished off yet another bottle from the kitchen. That gives me an out, doesn’t it? No good decision was ever made drunk, so why would I even attempt to disprove it?
Anyway, I’d gotten used to a cocktail of comfort food and bingeable documentaries. A home-bar with no closing time and late night living room discos. Whilst outside was a no-man’s land, the hermit’s life was the perfect medicine – my promise of running can jog on…
Knock knock.
10.30am. No chance of a lie-in. I pull myself out of bed to find my fiancée, D, closing the front door behind her. She’s holding a rectangular box sealed within black-and-white packaging, surprise and expectation on her face.
'What did you order this time?'
It’s a fair question: I’d gotten quite accustomed to online shopping in-between Zoom calls. I take the package from her but D hovers closely behind with anticipation. If she thinks I’ve bought her a present then she thinks too highly of drunken me…
I rip open the parcel – not with the same childlike enthusiasm as a wean at Christmas, but with a prising tug at the sticky fold. Unsheathing the brown box inside, I open the lid.
Brand new gutties.
A pristine white tick shone proudly on the midnight-black mesh and the thick sole was reassurance that I’d be protected against runner’s knee.
'You. Running?' The tone of a police detective trying to get under the skin of a criminal. 'I thought you said that "running’s just something smug people throw into conversation to remind you that they’re healthier than you"?'
She’s very perceptive, my fiancée… But my foolish pride makes me determined to prove her wrong – even if that does mean putting myself through the physical torture of actual exercise.
'I’m proud of you. You’ll feel much more positive getting out of this routine.'
This "routine" is what’s keeping me sane through lockdown! But before I could take in the view from my high-horse, D asked the million-dollar question:
'When are you starting then?'
I’ve always felt shameful when it comes to my body. A skeletal torso and a visible spine like a stegosaurus, held up by two fuzzy toothpick legs.
At 22, I had made the decision to cover one of my shins with a gothic-skull tattoo, thinking people would look at my legs for the artwork and not because they’re skinny. I still remember the tattooist sizing up how to fit the drawing onto a postcard canvas.
My appearance has always hindered my enthusiasm for exercise – so when my alarm buzzed the next morning it felt like I was being summoned to walk the green mile.
I stumbled out of bed to get dressed: a mismatching t-shirt and shorts combo, like the dregs of a PE lost and found box. I’m mindful enough not to wake up D, but disorientated by the fact I hadn’t woken up this early since the final day in the office: 23rd March 2020. I delay the inevitable with the obligatory morning scroll through social media.
But I know what I have to do.
I lift the lid of the box and remove the right shoe for the first time. I slip it onto my foot and tie the fabric laces securely. I repeat the process with the left shoe and stand to test them. Light. Comfortable. Disconcerting. After a few half-hearted stretches copied from a video online and I’m… ready…
I could tell I was going to struggle when I took my first steps into the sticky, humid Summer morning. But it sure feels good to be outside… I had mapped the journey in my head – flat, to Pollok Park, run round it and back home for breakfast. It looked manageable enough from Google maps.
But I was out of breath by the first set of traffic lights. Barley half a kilometre in and I was desperate for the finish line! I’m conscious of the passing cars occupied by people revelling in my failure: their fleeting image of the sweaty, specky "try-hard" succumbing to a stitch.
'You’ll feel much more positive getting out of this routine.' D’s words motivating and taunting in equal measure. At least it takes my mind off of feeling my toothpick legs turning to jelly. Before I know it I’m making my way underneath the railway bridge and into Pollok Park.
Despite being a stone’s throw away from my enforced hibernation, the park felt like a whole other world, removed from the bustle of Glasgow’s Southside: gentle birdsong a more soothing soundtrack than the urban soundscape nearby; the swaying trees and colourful foliage tempting people to look up from their phones; hipsters with oat latte’s replaced by Highland Cows, the guardians of the park. I could get lost exploring the various routes, but for now I took in the wonderous Pollok House – feeling rewarded for my endeavour.
I even received a fleeting wave from a fellow runner, quashing my preconceptions of "runner’s smugness". Had I been accepted as one of their own? On the home straight I had the spring in my step of someone who had just learned the value of "if you can’t beat them, join them".
Disguised behind the ugly heavy-breathing was a feeling of tranquillity. I’d battled with claustrophobic mental exhaustion and stepped outside, enduring what seemed like a mountainous challenge. But I know it’ll get easier.
I’ll give my toothpicks a rest tomorrow, but I made a promise to myself.