• Friday, October 29, 2010
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at the ponds edge, bikila’s, autumn, trail running, euphoria.
at the ponds edge, bikila’s, autumn, trail running, euphoria.

  • Wednesday, October 27, 2010
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we are all sitting in the staff room clutching mobile phones in one hand and coffee mugs in the other. usually the room is full of noise and buzz but today we are muted and dull. i think tiredness is setting in, half term is near and we have powerpoint fatigue. i leave the rest of the living dead and head for the gym with my group of lads, caffeine has failed, will endorphins work? today i have my brand new five finger bikila’s, cutting edge minimalist running tech named after abebe bikila. abebe was the first black african to win an olympic gold and he did it in the marathon running barefoot. today there is a different crowd in and the music is softer, more pop. a rap free zone. i briefly wonder where the muthafucka’s are as i get the middle treadmill and am soon joined by a lanky kid with mick jagger lips. in the far corner a sixth former works out on the weights whilst wearing a three piece suit. it’s kinda surreal. the kid running next to me puts zen ken from my club to shame in terms of looseness, this guy runs as if he is boneless and i am jealous as i pound away next to him. he is so loose he could be a puppet, if i cut his strings will he collapse in a tangle of limbs and slid off the end of the treadmill? will his eyes pop out and roll across the floor? i am quickly into the zone myself and am running strong and focused, jagger and i sync and develop a rhythm that eats two miles in a flash. i sense movement on my right and glance over, one of my guys has finished and his place is taken by another kid who can only be the twin of the bloke on my left. this one is just as loose and just as rubber lipped. from behind we must make an interesting study in symmetry, me solid and thumping, in parenthesis with fluid grace. at mile three i begin to feel the burn of a developing blister on the side of my foot. i am disconcerted, the bikila’s are supposed to be seam free preventing blisters. i decide to continue, i am flying and focused and it would be a crime to stop now. i get in another two miles before time is up. as i jump off the ‘mill jagger lips nods and says “good workout” he is right, it was wicked and i feel energised. not so good is my foot, my instep is raw and bleeding. i hope that my credibility as a hard man has been enhanced by the bloodstain soaking through the side of my shoe, i make sure that i am standing in such a way for the whole gym to observe it, it’s ok guys i imagine myself saying, i will slap some duct tape over the blister before my next run, it’s nothing to worry about.
  • Saturday, October 02, 2010
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Thursday and i return to running following my basketball injury. every week i take some students up to the high school gym where loud rap music teaches us that we are all hard muthafucka’s. because of this we assume faces of steel and stare at the peeling wall with psychotic intensity. this prevents eye contact with our fellow muthafucka’s, muthafucka’s don’t look at each other, it might spark a gang war. I get the middle of three treadmills. The boy on my left looks like he is in the wrong gym, he is not a muthafucka at all, more of a banker wannabe in new running shoes and co ordinated running gear. his hair is brushed and styled and he has grown his sideburns down to below his ears, he looks…nice. the muthafucka on my right has been dressed by oxfam. he has yellow shorts, xxl size and a much washed red cotton top with no sleeves. he runs in brown and white striped socks. his hair is a dirty yellow to match his shorts and his teenage face is a volcanic mass of angry red and yellow eruptions. i guess in his own way he is as co ordinated as the guy on my left. because i am a barefoot muthafucka i find myself relating to oxfam boy in his socks and my instincts are proven right when after just three minutes of running banker boy stops his treadmill and climbs off. the door creaks open and two girls come in. thanks to the music i know that they must be bitches or ho’s but to me they just look like ordinary schoolgirls in pink sweats. they each sit motionless astride exercise bikes and giggle into mobile phones. the muthafucka’s take no notice and continue their stoic study of the walls. meanwhile i run my first mile in six minutes dead, i’ve never run a mile this fast in my life, being a muthafucka works for me and i am doubly hard, barefoot and twice the age of the kids around me. i imagine their admiration behind my back as i enter the zone, are they nudging each other and marveling? do they hope that they will be as fit and hard when they are in their forties? do they wish the soles of their feet are like old leather that can withstand the heat and friction of the treadmill. i am the daddy of all muthafucka’s and they can all learn from me. banker boy chooses some light weights and is doing bicep curls in the middle of the gym. the girls leave. banker boy leaves. oxfam gets a punch bag from the corner and proceeds to kick the crap out of it using some surprisingly delicate and balletic moves. billy elliot. i run 4.5 miles and it’s time to stop being a muthafucka and go back to normal lessons. i don’t limp until i’m out the door and out of sight.