Chinese rollercoasters and death.

So David and I have snuck onto a race that's being held in the Chinese countryside. We've been given illicit running numbers by a shadowy individual, and now we're running through the fields.

The next thing I remember is that we're queuing at the foot of a huge rollercoaster, but I have my concerns because it's a Chinese rollercoaster, I can't explain why I'm concerned, I just am.

I wake from this dream and look around my room. The light shining through my paper thin curtains suggests it's about 7am, it isn't. It's 5:20am, I'm restless and my mind is racing, all the classic signs that I need to go for a run.

As I head out of the door the sun is just creeping over the tops of the houses, the streets are clear and silent, and the blue skies flirt the idea of a beautiful day.

This sunny day is quite at odds with my emotions as I cannot get my friend Will out of my mind. Will and I are casual friends, we are acquaintances, friends of friends. But he works close to where I work, so we stop and chat and share pleasantries occasionally. I saw him yesterday, and I asked him how he was,

"I'm alright, just trying to get everything sorted. My mum died last Wednesday" he replied as he rubbed his tired, sunken, eyes.

I'd known that his mum wasn't well, but whenever you hear this news, no matter how expected it is, you can never reply with the compassion or feeling that you want.

Death. The last laugh of life, the final mean practical joke that life plays on you. There's no escaping it, you can't hide from it, and you certainly can't ask it if it wouldn't mind leaving you alone because you've got so much more to do.

Out of sheer good fortune my dealings with death have so far been remote and limited, but while I'm running the memories of those dealings linger in my head.

I am 8 years old and playing 'Pot Black' snooker on my little snooker table in the basement of my childhood home, I think it's a Saturday or Sunday. The phone rings upstairs in the distance and after about 5 rings somebody picks it up. The next thing I hear is my Mum shouting 'No, No, No, No, No' over and over. The shouting gets louder, and turns to screaming. At first I think it's me, because Mum only ever went that mad if I was beating my sister or torturing the cat, but I hadn't moved from the table so it can't be me.

I walk to the bottom of the stairs as the noise gets louder, and then I see my Mum run past the top of the stairs, still clutching the cordless phone in her hand. Now I was a little confused, and as I climbed the stairs Mum whizzed past the landing again, this time I could see she was shaking her her and screaming. By this point I was getting scared, I'd never seen Mum like this. I got to the top of the stairs just as Mum shot passed me again, it was like watching F1 car going round and round a track, but it wasn't a car, it was my mother, besides herself with grief and pain.

My grandfather, her dad, had died of a heart attack. I didn't really know how to take this information on board. My father explained that Taid (a Welsh term for grandad) had died and gone to heaven, and that he was really happy. I took this to mean that it wasn't really a problem and wondered why Mum was so upset? If he was happy then why are you so sad?

A few days later we all head up to Rhyl for the funeral. The church is full of people because my Taid was a popular man, an ex headmaster, poet, and local church choir singer. The place is rammed.

We are front row VIP being the immediate family. The service starts and every one's crying. Mum's crying, Dad's sort of crying, Auntie Liz is crying, every one's having a good, old, cry.

I'm not, and I start to worry that people don't think that I'm sad that my Taid has died, and that I should surely be crying for him? So, I try to cry. I start pushing air out of my nose and scrunching up my eyes, willing the tear ducts to open and express my grief. I start trying to make cry noises, and then, I suddenly let out a purposeful, clear, obvious, and loud,

"HA"

I'd laughed out loud. It sounded like the first half of Nelson Muntz's HA from the Simpsons.

My Dad shot me a look of pure, unmistakable fury. My Mum raised her head out from her wet hands and looked over at me with a look of confusion and hurt. I looked behind me and saw an army of old people, looking at me with disappointment and shame.

Taid was the only grandparent I had, the others had all died before I was born, and the next time death would swagger into my life would be 17 years later.

Mary Gout was my next door neighbour, and possibly one of the sweetest, gentlest, kind, and wonderful human beings that ever walked the earth. And she really was like the grandmother I never had. I spent most of my summers running around her garden with her real grandkids, secretly wishing that they'd adopt me.

I was living in London when my Mum rang and told me that she was in hospital, and that if I was planning to come home soon, that I should do it now.

I left that weekend.

Seeing her helpless in a strange room, in a strange bed, in hospital, is one of the hardest memories I have. So frail. Her kind, loving eyes, the only sign left of the proud women she once was. And I'll never forget how her eyes lit up when she saw me.

Half way through my visit she started to cry, and became agitated, she'd soiled herself and was embarrassed, she asked me to leave and visit her again, they wheeled her away and I remember shouting my love for her as the bed rolled down the ward.

She died a week later.

I'm crying now, standing outside the Mayor's building on the river and tears are rolling down my cheeks. I stop and walk to London Bridge, letting the tears and memories pass through me. I get to the steps and start to run again.

You'd think that these sort of thoughts would make you depressed, or at the very least make it hard to run, but it's the opposite for me.

When you face up to death and loss you understand the purpose of life. The true wonder of life is to live, to push and pull yourself every step of the way, and to make sure that you do so with love in your heart for your friends and family, creating memories that will last a lot longer in their minds than you will on this earth.

I turn off Whitechapel and onto Cambridge Heath road, the streets are busier, people are making their way to work and I think about all the pain and suffering they might have coped with in their lives, and I smile. Knowing that we all live these emotions and that not one person is immune from death's touch.

I get home, take a shower, and get on with filling my day up with LIFE!

I give up running, a fox stares me down, and I go outside

Normally I like to have a huge, Ricky Hatton style blow out after a marathon. I used to think that after 5 months of stopping yourself having all the things you want, you deserve to 'let go' and enjoy life to excess. I like to take a month to take loads of drugs, drink every day, eat take aways, and dine out with my friends.

This year has been an odd one though, my height of debauchery was going for a Sunday roast after the race and drinking a bottle of wine to myself. I shunned going to the nightclubs and the drugs. The most drunk I got was last Saturday, and even then I was in bed by 1am, sober enough to read the end of my A C Grayling book. I just didn't want to do more than that. I'll admit, I've eaten a obscene amount of Easter eggs for one man. I am now also being stalked by Firezza pizza, who Email me and text me at the strangest times of day, but this is as far as it's gone. And I can't put my finger on why.

Is my heart not in it? Or is my body too old for all that? It can't be my body, if I can run a marathon, I know I've still got a 24 hour party in me, so it must be the mind. But it's all very strange.

And I still couldn't get my running back into swing. After what happened last time (see last blog) I just couldn't look at running and enjoy it. Every time I set out it felt difficult and hard, like it just wasn't worth doing anymore, the effort of going round was just too much to bare, and I wrestled with my head as to what to do and then I made a decision.................I gave up running. I gave up on the one thing that has focused and defined me over the last 2 years. I gave up on what I loved, and walked away.

I didn't even tell anyone, I just carried on as before, entering races, looking at trail marathons on the net, securing a fast corral for the Chicago marathon, I even re-applied for London next year! I just ignored the actual running part. I just didn't want to try, if it wasn't going to be as easy as before then I was going to do something else. I needed a diversion.

So I went cycling. Cycling had been sniffing around me for a while now, waiting for the chance to take up more of my time. At first I just let it take me to work, get me things, and save me money, but I always knew it wanted to take things further, so last week we set off. We had a lovely day, I cycled for hours, all over London. Then the next day I'd finish work and cycle for two hours before finding myself miles from home, then I'd race all the way back. It was new and fun. I forgot about running and everything it meant to me, and I just enjoyed the carefree cycling life. It gave me all the things that running did, the high of exercise, the sweat, and the adrenaline, but it was really safe and easy, there's no real effort in it. I felt like I was doing it to escape running, rather than doing it because I loved doing it.

But I constantly feel that there's something missing, a void that no amount of miles on the bike can fill. There's a feeling when I run that I only get at that second, it's the moment when you feel complete, when your mind is so in touch with your body that you can feel every muscle, and hear every breath speak to you. When you know that your body is tiring but you find that you can quicken the pace, when your body speaks to you and allows you to push further, run longer, and push your limit to the furthest point, and then beyond it.

And I can't get that sitting happily on a saddle, it's really easy and I should really like it, but somethings missing.

I wake up at 4:47am, I need to piss. I go back to my room and sit naked on the corner of my bed. I feel like I need to do something, like the feeling you get when you leave the house and you know you've forgotten something, I feel a bit like that. I put on some shorts, and then a vest, then for some reason I have a pair of trainers on, and I start to reach for my stop watch and headphones. Then, as if it wasn't even me, I turn around and run out of the house without them.

Then I ran and ran. Down streets I'd never been down, through junctions I didn't know, alongside churches I'd never seen. I didn't even know where I was going. The only thing I saw was a fox trying to hide something he'd stolen.

Then a memory came into my head of when I tried to steal my cousins M.A.S.K Matt Trakker figure and flying car when he was at my house.

I was 7, and he was 5, and he'd bought this figure with him and I wanted it. He wasn't keen on sharing, well, who is at 5? I wouldn't have given it to him either, so I spent the day quietly fuming that he wouldn't let me play with it. Towards the end of the day he'd grown tired and fallen asleep on his Mum's lap, and they finally announced that it was time to go,

'this is it' I thought 'my chance to steal his toy'

And I hid it.

While his family gathered all their stuff he was still sleeping, my Auntie carried him through the house, then, as if he knew what I'd done, he started asking for his Matt Trakker doll, pleading for it and whining. So my Uncle tries to find, but he can't. Then my mum starts and she can't find it, then eventually my Dad pulls away all the cushions off the sofa and finds Trakker inexplicably pushed down into the very bottom of the sofa. There was no way it could have got there by accident. Everyone looked at me and knew what I'd done, except for Owen my cousin, who quietly opened his eyes a tiny bit, looked at me, and smiled a little self satisfied smile.

The little shit.

As that memory popped out of my mind I looked around and realized that I had no idea where I was, but I kept running anyway, I could see the Emirates but didn't really know what side of it I was on, but I eventually found a road I knew and ran all the way home.

I don't know how far I ran, I don't know how long I ran for, I just knew that I felt complete again.

I got into the house and my bike was waiting for me on the landing,

"where have you been?" it asked, trying to be casual,

"running" I said through heavy breaths,

"Are we still cycling to Chiswick today?"

"I don't think so, that run has done me for today"

"oh I see, back to the running are you? So it's back to the work run for me then is it?"

"No, me and running are over, I'm just back to being me"

I push pass my bike and walk into my room, I've got a text from an unknown number,

it reads,

'Gareth, why don't you take advantage of our Thursday, pizza for 1 meal deal offer?'