Get Carter – on the run

Spiked, another great idea as Paul Carter learns his lesson about why he shouldn’t run

I can remember quite clearly the last time I ran. It was 1999 and I was still a student. I can’t recall exactly why I was running, though it can’t have been for a lecture or anything like that. Maybe it was nearly closing time or something. Anyhow, what I do remember is the wave of emotions that spread across my brain quicker than swine flu – first surprise, then a fleeting sense of excitement which quickly melded into blind terror as I realised precisely what I was doing. I made a solemn vow after that brush with exercise that I would never run again. A vow I stuck to rigidly for ten whole years. Until recently.

In a peak of utter, utter insanity, and possibly mild drunkenness, I signed up to do a 2.5km run to raise money for Scope, which seemed like a good idea at the time. One of the major problems with this is my utter ineptitude at conceptualising distance. If anyone had told me that 2.5km actually equates to 1.55 miles (thanks Google) I would have had second thoughts. In actual fact I probably would have third, fourth and fifth thoughts as well. However, after people very generously and graciously stumped up cash to sponsor me, largely I suspect out of Schadenfreude, I had to go through with it.

The biggest drawback with me running is that I’m not really built for it. My lil’ legs don’t much like it. Nor, as I quickly discovered to my extreme discomfort, do my back, hips, arms and complete respiratory system. At one point I thought I was having a massive heart attack. After the first 100m it felt like I had already had a stroke. I’d also not banked on the residual suffering – nobody thought to mention the fact that every sinew of my being would be aching for three successive days, causing me to hobble around the office like a geriatric, much to the amusement of the fellow occupants of Disability Now towers. It’s true readers, I’ve actually found an activity that makes me MORE disabled.

What really surprised more than anything though was the sheer number of people who were out running on a Sunday morning purely for pleasure. What’s wrong with these people? As of now, I’m starting a campaign to outlaw the use of the words “fun” and “run” in any sort of conjunction. The most enjoyable part of the whole experience for me was stopping running. The one upside to putting myself through such emotional and physical agony was the knowledge that I’d done my bit for charidee, which kind of made it worthwhile. Next time though, I suspect my fundraising efforts will be slightly more sedate, as I’m planning on leaving it another ten years before I run anywhere again. Ever. Sponsored sit anyone?