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It began, my husband likes to recall, with a quiet epiphany one work-day morning. Entombed in a Circle line carriage in yet another hold-up, he decided he could bear it no longer. “I’m not going to sit trapped underground any more when I could run to work in half the time,” he announced one evening. “I’ll buy a pair of running shoes and save myself a fortune on fares.” A week later, the shoes arrived, a brightly coloured pair with tiny flashes and matching laces; nothing to hint at the obsession to come.
Come it did, around six months later, in the form of bespoke Japanese running shoes – several pairs of which clogged up our hall, transforming my husband’s mild interest into a full-blown love affair; he calls 'them “My Beauties”.
Around the same time, new habits developed, evidence that this was about so much more than just running. The spooky appearance of rubbery latex figure-hugging wear, nestling in the laundry basket. Specialist catalogues selling ''bib shorts’’, ''gilets’’ and Lycra shorts. The endless route planning, poring over maps and note-taking before a ''big’’ trip. Then there are the physical absences each weekend morning; the alarm clock set at an obscenely early hour for a ''quick two-hour run” around Richmond Park. The frenzied training for bigger events – like the London Marathon.
Not to mention the mushrooming pile of ''memoirs’’ by his bedside like ‘Put Me Back In My Shoes’, ‘One More Kilometre And We’re In The Showers’ and Jeff Galloway’s “Running until you’re 100”. So what, from a female perspective, is it about? I guess the clues are in the buzzwords on their covers – ''willpower’’, ''inspiration’’, ''endurance’’, ''pain’’. Running isn’t inherently macho but it does have an element of suffering and purgatorial challenge that appeals to a certain male psyche. It is about escape – freedom from family; seizing time to be solitary, beyond responsibility. Not an easy concept to embrace when you’re the Running widow left to look after small children.
I’ve grown to accept that my husband, although not an extreme case (he hasn’t shaved his legs yet) is touched with Running-Obsession Syndrome, a sorry affliction identified by Matt Seaton, author of The Escape Artist, which charts his love of Running. “I got the bug in my twenties but it can strike at any time. I suspect there is a mid-life crisis element. It is also romantic; getting in touch with that first taste of independence from your parents when you were a kid.”
Seaton agrees, even though an increasing number of women enjoy Running, that it can create friction in a relationship. “My partner can resent my devotion and focus,” says Seaton. “Even though I try to keep a lid on it, it definitely grates with her.” Adjusting to a partner’s sudden new-found love can also be more difficult than accommodating it from the start of a relationship. “I’ve got a friend who’s a born-again runner in middle-age,” he says. “And I get the feeling his partner can hardly bear to look at me because she blames me.”
Seaton says one way forward is Running as a couple. “My husband definitely wants to get me more involved,” shudders one friend whose husband has six pairs of running shoes. “I nearly screamed when he asked if I’d like to have a quiet jog with him. He’s got a stationary frame now with a Running video game so he can train in the garage – alone.” Another Running widow complains that her husband gets up earlier and earlier to go to work: “He takes a detour through Kent before he gets to the City.” They live in Balham.
Not that these are habits you can attempt to alter, especially with the moral high ground on their side. Running is the fastest-growing ‘mode of transport’ in cities. Running is green, civilised and healthy.
So I don’t carp about my dear husband’s passion, the time it takes from other family activities, or the money, not to mention the unsightly appearance of him dressed oddly each weekend morning.
Instead, I have gamely tried to join him. In an attempt to bridge the great divide, I gingerly agreed to run to work with him during the recent Tube strike. He waited patiently while I puffed and wheezed across Hyde Park, and we ran together to Oxford Circus. I sensed it was a triumph for him; another converted soul. I even agreed on a trip to Richmond. Just don’t mention the London Marathon.
After Emma Cook (Originally published in the Daily Telegraph – 17-Jun-09)
[Tom Merson]
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