Monk Quixote

(NB My user­name on the run­ning site I log my train­ing on is monki)

I’m run­ning. Well, some­where between plod­ding and run­ning. Prun­ing, that will do. Yes, I’m prun­ing the air. I approach the steps down to the Thames Path on the unmen­tion­able side of the river. Must avoid the fourth step on the sec­ond flight going down. ‘Poten­tial death­trap’ as Lynn Faulds-Wood would say. I’ve lost count of the num­ber of times I’ve imag­ined myself trip­ping over at this point, usu­ally lead­ing to at least a shat­tered ankle, if not full on runner’s breakdown.

Ah. Safe. Once again I out­wit you Mr Step. That is because I have oppos­able thumbs. Ok. Don’t wag­gle thumbs in pub­lic while run­ning again. Unless run­ning towards Bobby Ball doing his Rock-on Tommy thing. God! Did I really used to watch Can­non and Ball. Yes, I sup­pose I did. Right, that’s the steps done, let’s rejoin the path.

Curses! Who’s this joker who’s cruis­ing up on the right? He appears to have pipe clean­ers for legs and arms. He’s milky white, accen­tu­ated by an all black kit. His scraggy back­side is enhanced by a mahoosive bum bag. So. We meet again Mr Bean.

No time to laugh. He’s about ten feet in front. We both have head­phones on, so I’m not sure if he’s heard me or not. I’ll catch him up. Hmm. Or not. Both doing exactly the same pace. This is tedious. I should drop back, give him some space. Or just run up his arse the whole time. Ok. Not lit­er­ally.
Annoy­ing. We’re still ten feet apart. Oh, I see. He’s speed­ing up is he. Well, we’ll see about this. Hmm. Or not. Tired. And still seven miles to go. Let him go. He’s not worth it. Let his bum­bag bob grace­lessly into the distance.

I switch off for a while. I do that some­times. It’s like hav­ing a hol­i­day in your head. But for­get­ting where you’ve been. I hope it wasn’t some­where expen­sive. Any­hoo. Wind’s pick­ing up. Oh. Nerd-man is com­ing back to me now. HA! You don’t like it windy, do you string­bean. Although it should be me that suf­fers more in this head­wind. More sur­face area and all that basic physics. Physics, man! Get a grip. Prune the air!

And then some­thing mag­i­cal hap­pens. The Goth Mix arrives unbid­den on my iPod. My feet are sud­denly thump­ing in time to a dis­torted drum machine. I can feel my eye­brows sharpen. I have to resist the urge to fling my arms about and stu­diously avoid eye con­tact with every­one in the bar, I mean Thames Path. But for the greater glory of emo, fill me with your bari­tone speed. Or some­thing. I mean.

Who lis­tens to goth lyrics anyway?

It’s work­ing though. I’m catch­ing him. HA! Hear that Beany-boy? That… is goth. Here comes Wayne Hussey to mow you down. All over this wasteland….Dum dum dur­rum. Amphet­a­mine buzz. Etc. Catch­ing him. Less than half a mile to the tree. The Tree At Which I Must Turn. I will catch you, sonny. I will catch you. I am a run­ning black metal machine.

I’m catch­ing him. I’m going to make it. He’s gone. Shot. Dust. HA! Look! It’s easy. I’m fly­ing. Straight past. Grind him into dirt. Eat my back­side, loser! Ha. Made it. With fifty yards to spare. I rule! I am the Monk­i­na­tor. The Great Monkitron wins again. I rule! Who’s the King of the Nerds now, Geek­boy? Eh?

And then, sec­onds too late, Jesus Built My Hotrod comes in the mix. And I feel blood­lust in my nos­trils. I swear I’d have ripped him limb from limb and eaten him for a pro­tein shake. All hail the Monk­i­na­tor! Grrrrrrrrrrrr.

Oh. Happy trance. Five miles back now.

Where was I? Oh yes. Funny what you think about when you’re running.