As winter sets in, as the
temperature in cold gloomy England
steadily drops, I find it harder to motivate myself for what has become my
daily run along the cliff tops and beach. Each morning, I try and put it off for
as long as possible–pray for rain, deliberately mislay socks, shorts or running
shoes. I stare at my in-box, hoping for an important message to drop.
Looking back now, I probably got into running through a combination of Haruki
Murakami and Ronnie O'Sullivan. I liked the discipline involved, the challenge
to self, and saw exercise as a necessary palliative against the depressing
times in which we live, something far better than a course of Prozac.
But as the years have passed, I've come to appreciate the parallels
between mental and physical activity, how the two very different disciplines
mirror and compliment each other in my daily life. Each morning when I settle
down to write, I know I'm not going to complete an entire novel, reel off 150,000
words in one sitting, that my efforts are but a step along the way towards the
completion of a longer-term project, one that must be tackled one stage at a
time. Equally, running is not a means to an end, but a progressive activity,
maintenance of physical well-being, a healthy weight, a level of strength and
fitness, peace of mind. There is, therefore, something Sisyphean about both writing
and running. When I come to the end of a story or a book, the metaphorical
stone rolls back to the bottom again–I outline another book, I start to write
another story. In the same way, cessation of physical activity, however briefly
or for whatever reason, a holiday or shin splints, means that essentially you
have to start all over again, building up stores of energy (putting credits in
the fitness bank, as I call it). It is an endless, self-perpetuating process, a
cycle.
For that reason (until my knees
or ankles or brain or typing fingers give up), I'll still write for a few hours
each morning and then go for a massive run along the cliff tops and beach (rain
or shine). Only now I realize that there is something more to it than merely
keeping fit; that it isn't just the commonplace, well-meaning pastime which
compelled me to write the poem below:
Vodka and Fitness
I ran up hills, along beaches,
did crunches and press-ups,
skipped and lifted weights,
training like a boxer.
but I wasn’t preparing
for 12 rounds against
a seasoned pebble-weight.
I was preparing for the next
6-day drinking binge.
there were no right hooks to
absorb,
only pints of strong lager;
no stiff jabs or body shots,
only bottles of red wine;
no fierce combinations or
upper-cuts,
only evil measures of Russian
vodka.
Because our own personal races are
never really run, there will always be another story to write, another cliff
top to conquer, another day to endure.
Latest release: the acclaimed short story collection TALES OF ORDINARY SADNESS:
Next release: the dark psychological thriller ISOLATION:
0 comments:
Post a Comment