A few years ago, pre-lockdown, I was involved in putting on a spoken word show with Alan McGee. At that moment in time McGee had decamped to Wales and had entered something of what you might call his Brian Wilson phase; tracksuits, unkempt beard, generous spare tyre around a once-svelte waist. It was quite an eye opener from the burned-in mental images of the skinny, ginger-headed, McLaren-esque string-puller of all that was great in British music and the suited ‘n trainered cultural envoy that shook hands with Tony Blair in Downing Street.
When lockdown arrived, McGee, by now relocated to the city, took to wandering the length and breadth of London, conducting business calls as he went. He’d saunter for anything up to 20 miles a day, walking and working, working and walking. Working and, as it happened, working out. The weight dropped off fairly dramatically. A picture of health, if you’ve seen any recent pictures of Alan McGee, you’ll know that he’s managed to sustain the weight loss. More power to him.
I can understand the appeal in this form of exercise. We’ve just returned from four days in London, the money hoovered clean from our pockets, our hair and clothes still dirty with all that the city has thrown at us, and we’ve also done more than our fair share of walking. Between checking in and checking out, we’ve walked combinations of Southbank to Borough Market to Elephant & Castle…Westminster to Trafalgar Square to Covent Garden to Soho…Embankment to Little Venice to St John’s Wood to Abbey Road to the Regent Canal to Camden…Greenwich to Waterloo to Brick Lane to Shoreditch to Pudding Mill Lane…the West End to St Paul’s to the Tower of London to Tower Bridge to the Tate…and back again. We’ve averaged 30,000 steps a day, which Google tells me is close to 14 miles each time. Not quite McGee levels of endurance, but it’s up there.
Walking upwards of 50 miles over a long weekend must do you good, you’d think. London has something interesting to see on every wall, on every street corner, standing at every bus stop or sitting at every pavement cafe, that many miles walking around its rich and multicultural environs provides more pleasure than pain. It’s certainly more pleasurable than running, I’ll tell you that. I’d a fancy notion that I’d maybe get some running in along the Southbank near our hotel. Each school summer break I run five days a week, aiming for that magical (and this year so far unattainable) 5K target. When I return for the new school year, my trousers fit better, my shirts don’t pull at the chest, I can button the collars…running works, it seems.
I set off on Saturday morning just as the city was waking up; early bird tourists with heavy agendas and places to be, the street vendors setting up stall for the day against a backdrop of haar evaporating from the brown murk of the Thames. Dirty old river indeed. Over the water, Big Ben was chiming eight times. It’s funny, but these days we’re that used to looking up – The Shard! Look up!, The Gherkin! Look up! – that Big Ben (or Elizabeth Tower, to give it its proper name) seems like a scale-model matchstick replica of the real thing. Have another look the next time you’re there – it’s really not that tall anymore.
So, yeah, the city, in all its manky old glory and juxtaposed modern construction thrills, but the runners here would burst you. Perma-tanned, perma-smiling. Not one bead of sweat on their baseball-capped heads. Arms pumping, sinews glistening as they and their expensive running shoes glide silently and effortlessly past immoveable objects such as yourself. More than one pack of runners emerge head on, wafting silently out of the morning’s heat like a well-drilled army pack; weighted vests, water packs on their backs, dark, sweaty University alma mater across the chest. These aren’t students that you’d expect to find face down in last night’s kebab. These are the elite of today, the Olympians of tomorrow, men and women who think nothing of calling on a few mates to get a quick 20km in before their guava smoothies and iced lattes. And they can do all of this while holding a conversation, nary dropping a single breath nor swallowing for much-needed air.
“Ten mins. Bosh. Job done, mate.”
“Ya. Pippa told me.”
“I’m thinking we do Clerkenwell then back.”
Now, I normally ‘run’ with music playing, but not today. That made it ideal for taking it all in, fellow runners ‘n all, but the panting! Jeez! I had no idea at all. Is that how loud I am?! The shame of it…and me in a public place, too. On my wheezy way towards the Oxo building and onto the Tate, I squeezed another slow coach gear from somewhere and, with jet stream pouring lazily from the heels of my Asics, actually overtook another jogger.
Only the briefest of stops outside the Tate’s Yoko Ono advertising flag allowed me to catch my breath before turning to head back the way I’d come to complete a lung-busting 3K round trip. I passed the same runner again, still on his gut lord marching, wobbly and knock-kneed way towards the Oxo building. I gave him a cheery wee nod. Which gave me a sense of enormous wellbeing.
Blur – Parklife (demo)
Plain Or Pan 