The Saleby Jogging Centre

No. 11: Nev Cole Way

2012-02-26T01:42:00.004-08:00

Named after the founder of The Wanderlust Rambling Club, The Nev Cole Way starts from Burton-upon-Strather in the far north of Lincolnshire. Following the Jurassic scarp overlooking the River Trent, it continues east along the south bank of the Humber. After skirting the highly industrial towns of North / South Killingholme, Immingham and Grimsby, it turns inland into the gently sloping Lincolnshire Wolds and finishes in Nettleton, where it provides a link with The Viking Way.

Saturday 26th February, 57 miles

Apprehensive at the start in Burton-upon-Strather.

Respects to a Lincolnshire rambling legend.

First views of the River Trent from The Cliff.

Green trees.

Marking the way.

Julian's Bower, an ancient maze at Alkborough.

Wetlands where the Trent joins the Humber.

Passing through Whitton.

Buoy, Pudding Pie Sands.

A river of reeds.

Two men in a boat (on dry land.)

Moorings at Ferriby Sluice.

First signs of spring.

Shore.

Approaching the Humber Bridge, until recently the world's longest single-span suspension bridge.

Under the bridge.

Back here soon.

Water's Edge Country Park, Barton.

Silos, New Holland.

Shipwrecked.

North sea ferries on the north shore.

H(e)aven.

Approaching Skitter Ness.

Looking east. Grimbsy's Dock Tower visible in the distance.

Warning Gas Main.

Across the North Sea.

Loading container ships at North Killingholme jetties.

Refining oil.

Pit stop with the crew at North Killingholme village.

Hope :]

Climbing the stairway to Immingham.

Shabby.

Late afternoon track between Stallingborough and Healing.

The National Grid.

Farm road to Beelsby.

Bowing out.

Sunset 1.

Sunset 2.

Sunset 3.

Sunset 4.

The moon and the stars were the gifts you gave.

Crop experiments, Rothwell.

Flip-flop Crossroads tells me the end is near.

Climbing the Nev Cole Memorial Stile to end the route at Nettleton.

Thanks Nev.

No.10: Silver Lincs Way

2012-02-18T13:01:00.000-08:00

Linking Grimsby and Louth, this rural route celebrates the Silver Jubilee of the Grimsby / Louth group of The Ramblers' Association.
Starting from the roundabout in Scartho, on the edge of Grimsby, the route uses surprisingly pleasant field paths and tracks to Barnoldby-le-Beck, Brigsley and Ashby-cum-Fenby, before hitting higher ground at East Ravendale.
A beautiful, undulating route leads south from here towards Louth, where the run finishes at the famous town-centre church.

Saturday 18th February, 25 miles

A less than promising start at Scartho.

More like it. Track skirting Bradley Gairs.

The beautiful mess of nature.

Good running at Bedlam Hill.

Striding out towards Brigsley.

Quiet tracks towards Ashby-cum-Fenby.

Against the sky.

New Waltham windmill.

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.

Climbing to the A18 - Grimsby's Dock Tower in the far distance.

Strong winds and rain call for action at East Ravendale.

Spoilt for choice.

Snowdrops in Wold Newton.

Woodland stardust.

Through The Valley to Beesby Top.

Shetland Ponies in Beesby.

Puddle.

Taking a battering in the weather.

Layers.

Long road past Utterby.

Rolling hills, Wyham.

Container ships on the horizon.

Up the hill to the summer sky.

Smirk.

Turn left at the little house, Welton-le-Wold.

Catalogue Pose Mk. One : Leaning against the fireplace, lost in contemplation

Stencil.

Catalogue Pose Mk. Two: Hiking in the woods, relaxed but sporty.

Inspired on the climb up Jack's Furze.

Perfect Day.

North Sea wind turbines.

Along the bottom path, Hubbard's Hills.

The White Cliffs of Louth.

Almost done.

Finished.

Another random glove.

Leon...done!

Chris...done!

No.9: Caistor Challenge

2012-02-13T10:25:00.000-08:00

A circular route providing scenic views of the Lincolnshire Wolds, The Caistor Challenge takes in eight villages and churches and passes the county's highest point.
A 'sister' LDP to The Caistor Challenge Alternative, it utilises The Viking Way between Tealby and Caistor, and the paths to the west between Caistor and Claxby that constitute the early stages of The Lindsey Loop.
Willingham Woods provided a convenient start and finish point for the run, which was completed in an anti-clockwise direction.

Sunday 13th February, 25 miles

Those two again...

...tagging along with me on another cold and wet adventure.

Into Dog Kennel Woods.

Bridge over the beck.

Stopping to shed layers, early on.

A touch of the Orient at Tree Tops, North Willingham

Looking back on Tealby...

...Lincolnshire's Best Kept Village 1997.

A steady climb towards Risby.

'Fancy a spot of shopping?'

Seeking sanctuary at The Ramblers' Church, Walesby.

Hiking the steep section from Walesby towards Normanby-le-Wold.

Looking back towards the church.

Passing the Golf Ball Tower in search of Lincolnshire's summit.

Hidden by a hedgerow in a remote field... a trig pillar marks the highest point in Lincolnshire (551 ft).

The Highest Men in Lincolnshire, part 1...

...part 2...

...part 3.

Knee-deep drifts? No problem!

Descending into the Nettleton Valley.

Access denied at the Chalk Pit.

Waving.

My Little Pony, Nettleton Grange.

Fire Station, Caistor.

Looping back from Caistor to Nettleton.

A last drink before the final push for home.

Heading for Claxby.

The last church - St. Mary's, Claxby.

Redhead.

Legging it to Nova Scotia Bridge.

Back to the start.

One more in the bag!

No.8: Caistor Challenge Alternative

2012-02-11T08:33:00.000-08:00

Starting and finishing in Caistor, this circular LDP follows the route of The Viking Way via Nettleton, Walesby and Tealby to Ludford. It returns with a route to the east, passing through Stainton-le-Vale and Rothwell.
Running through the very heart of the Wolds, this path is, at times, challenging in inclines and awe-inspiringly beautiful.
Due to the difficult driving conditions, I opted to access the route at Ludford - a half-hour closer to my home than Caistor - and complete the circuit in an anti- clockwise direction.

11th February, 26 miles

Early morning light through the trees at Ludford Village Hall car park.

Just in time for sunrise.

Comets.

Leaving Ludford.

Sun sprinkling magic.

Lincolnshire in rose light.

Memories are made of this.

Stay golden.

Towards Thorpe-le-Vale.

Frozen fishing lake.

Heading for the sun.

Shards.

Frost on the fence, Kirkmond-le-Mire.

Breaking tracks on way to Thoresway.

Into the blue.

Shifting sands.

'S E X' tree.

Rothwell - home of one of Lincolnshire's most famous road races, The Tough Ten.

Flip-flop crossroads.

That sinking feeling, Nettleton Top.

Memorial water pump, Caistor town centre.

Entering Nettleton valley from the north.

Down to the Chalk Pit.

Looking back from Chalk Pit woods.

Off-piste.

Power cut.

Golf Ball Tower, Normanby-le-Wold.

Looking down from the highest point in Lincolnshire, Normanby Top.

Following in your footsteps.

Climbing to The Rambler's Church, Walesby.

Doing it in stile.

Scrambling up snow slopes en route to Tealby.

Keeping an eye on little one.

A jog down Memory Lane.

Over the ford at Tealby.

On the Zig-Zags towards High Street.

Stud Config. (What sort of crazy creatures make these tracks?)

Finish in sight.

Love Affair

2012-02-06T23:00:00.000-08:00

It wasn't exactly 'love at first sight', but it wasn't far off. After a chance meeting, caution soon became infatuation. Before I knew it, I was caught up, captivated, hypnotised.

Of course, once the honeymoon period was over, things settled down a bit. We'd have the occasional fall-out, but I always crawled back, desperate to give our relationship another go.

But where do you go when the love disappears? When the only thing being together brings you is pain?

You have to be a man. Stand up and walk away. Remember the good times, but realise that if you're going to get better, you've got to get out.

It's been hard. I've failed.

'It's not you, it's me,' I've heard myself saying. 'I can't carry on. I'm not strong enough.'

This may be one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made, but right now I have to say, 'Goodbye.'

Our Kid turned up at work three or four years ago. Having recently returned to serious running, he'd struggled with this injury or other for a while. A dodgy knee was the latest in a line of ailments that was doing his head in. On this particular morning, however, he informed me of his revelation. He'd walked to the playing fields the previous evening, taken off his shoes and ran laps for a half-hour barefoot. It was more running than he'd managed to do for weeks. The knee that so hampered him when he was running in 'normal' trainers was suddenly fine. 'Barefoot running,' he told me, as I ate my breakfast in front of the computer, 'that's the way to go.' He asked me to type it into Google, and we were both taken aback with what we found. A new movement had started, unbeknowst to us, and was about to go ballistic. Its figureheads had impossibly stupid names - Barefoot KenBob, Barefoot Ted, Barefoot Jason (you get the drift.) After browsing a few of the sites, it didn't take me long to come to the same conclusion that any sane individual would. 'Den,' I told Our Kid, 'what a load of old shite!'

That was where I left it. Forgetting, however, that Our Kid isn't sane in terms of the normal definition, it was obvious he'd been smitten. For months I played gooseberry. Every time I came into the office, Our Kid and The Whole Barefoot Thing would be getting it on. If he wasn't checking out obscure websites, he'd be lecturing me on 'forefoot striking', showing me his ridiculous new VFF's or going on about this new book that was going to bring the whole movement to the mainstream.

I just shrugged the whole subject off. To be honest, I couldn't be bothered with it. The hippy sentiment was the first thing to get my back up. All that 'connecting with nature', 'running natural, running free', 'feeling the earth between my toes'. You know - all that. I've always been more Mod than Hippy, more speed than dope - angry, intense, pissed off not blissful, happy, at one.

Of course, in time The Book hit the shops and now everyone was talking about Jurek, Shelton and Christopher Mac. Even friends who had never run since school were dropping references to 'Caballo Blanco' and 'those crazy Mexican Indians that run with bits of tyres on their feet.'

For Our Kid, I guess, it was justification of what he'd been banging on about for the last year. He grew his hair long, started running in Hi-Tec sandals (Micah True's minimalist footwear of choice) and disappeared to the Copper Canyons to run the ultra-marathon and generally hang out with that mob.

I expected the preachings of an hysterical convert on his return to the UK, but, strangely, he'd seemed to have changed his tune slightly. The barefoot shoe movement was growing exponentially - an industry was emerging - existing shoe companies were changing, quick. I don't know if that was the matter that dampened his previous enthusiasm, or that the trip to the Canyons highlighted the fact that the important thing was the people of those remote valleys, not the barefoot bullshit that had become entangled with them. Whatever, the flame had been extinguished somewhat.

Which is strange. Because for me, the whole barefoot thing was just starting. I'd been shown glimpses of a world that was totally alien to me, and, like River Phoenix, even though some part of me was opposed to what it stood for, I found myself being sucked in. Once there, I liked what I discovered and soon I couldn't get enough.

On a dark January evening last winter, I put aside my natural cynicism and handed myself over. Alone in the office, I'd stumbled upon a short instructional video by Lee Saxby in which he demonstrated how to run in a 'barefoot style'. I watched it back to back 3 or 4 times, and that, I'm afraid, was all it took. On Facebook later that night, I posted a dumb status update: 'This is the year in which I learn to run again.'

You do stupid things when you're in love, and this was the first of many. Overnight, I became superior. This was the right way to run - the way it should be done. By running like this, not only would I be more efficient, but the likelihood of becoming injured would plummet. By running like this, I'd be able to run more - that was the clincher. As I ran in pain for seven months later in the year, it was exactly this thought that I did my best to bat away.

In the early days of our affair, I was swept away by the newness of the whole thing and carried along by an excitement and exuburance I'd experienced only once before, when, as a young teenager, I'd suddenly discovered running and spent countless bedroom hours pouring over grubby Runner's World magazines before eventually losing my half-marathon cherry. In a matter of weeks, my posture improved. My form changed in cadence and footstrike. I felt alive. I was revived. I posted some decent times in local races and a top 5 finish in a Lakeland ultra. But the point behind all this was to run longer. I'd come up with a plan to run all the long distance paths in the county in 2012, and I knew for this to be feasible, I'd need to keep injury-free. 'Barefoot style' would do this for me. Or so I thought.

It was at the end of August when the wheels began to wobble. A 20 hour jog around The Lindsey Loop left me with great memories of an amazing experience, but, worryingly, a sore left foot. Pain on the top of the foot alternated with pain in the arch of the foot. This occasionally gave way to a sharp pain in the heel or a general unnerving stiffness across the whole of my foot. Love blinded me. 'It's my foot's reaction to finally being able to move naturally instead of being encased in foot coffins,' I'd convince myself. Love turned me into a liar. 'You ok?' Tammy would ask. 'Not bad,' I'd reply, so glad she never saw those first hobbling steps from the bedroom each morning.

This was the Transition period, I reasoned. I'd experienced the calf strain, persevered, and now that was a forgotten issue. Stick with it and the feet will adjust. It started to come an all-consuming obsession. I picked up a pair of toe socks to encourage toe-spread. I devoted a half hour every morning and evening to foot drills and strengthening exercises. I started '100-upping'.

Love was changing me. I couldn't stop myself. Despite always having a miserly streak, my debit card started getting a pounding. The next shoe will sort it out. NB 101's to Merrell Trail Gloves to NB Minimus Trail to NB Minimus Road. On and on and bloody on.

Our relationship started showing signs of strain. Listening to the advice of friends who had my best interests at heart, I finally made an appointment to see someone. Hopefully, he might get things back on track. All partnerships have their ups and downs, but I was a firm believer in seeing things through. He only had to say the right words, convince me that we were meant for each other, and I'd carry on fighting.

But it wasn't to be.

It took my osteopath less than 20 minutes before he delivered his verdict. A lack of flexibility in the spring ligament was causing some inflammation of the plantar fascia. He could help me regain the movement, and I wouldn't even need to stop running. All good so far, I'd thought. And then the big question: 'Could it be the minimalist shoes?'

His answer was concise. Professionally balanced. Neither scathing or glowing. He pointed out the benefits and disadvantages, all the pro's and all the con's. But while he was talking, I couldn't help but feel the crushing inevitability of a once-passionate affair limping to its finish line.

Once home, I dug out my old trainers. Old friends, discarded for months. I tried. I really tried. But I thought of my new lover and I just couldn't let go. One more try. I'll be better this time. We'll be good together. I put them away and slipped on my NBs.

Two weeks ago, a friend turned up for the Thursday Session in a new pair of Vivo Barefoots. Stripped back to nothing. No arch support. No midsole. Zero-drop. Beautiful. Stunning. We talked for a couple of minutes about The Whole Barefoot Thing. I could tell he'd fallen in love. His form had changed - his stride shorter, his cadence faster. He ran with a smile.

After I'd double-backed at the top of the first climb, I got to chatting with another mate. 'Chris, you're into this barefoot thing,' he said, 'Is there anything in it?'

I went on, like I always do - the same old bollocks I find so easy to spew out - singing the praises of my lover. And while my words tumbled out, all I could think was why does my foot hurt so much? I knew then - an empty aching inside of me - how this would all end.

Taking the last pair of zero-drops from the shoe-rack, I traipse upstairs and place them carefully in the bottom of the bedroom cupboard. I stand a while and then close the door on my mistress.

I've come back to what I know. Racing flats with a hole in the toe, muddy studded fell shoes, and a shabby pair of cushioned trail shoes sit under the stairs now. Since we reunited less than 2 weeks ago, the physical pain has gone. We've known each other a long time, can take each other for granted, know what to expect.

Later, I sit on the step and slip on my old favourites. 8mm drop, plenty of cushioning, some moderate pronation control. My head tells me this is all for the best.

I get up wearily and head down the lane. Somehow, things seem less bright. And all my heart can whisper is, 'Where did it all go wrong?'

No. 7: The Lindsey Trail

2012-02-05T03:21:00.000-08:00

Created by the Lincolnshire County Council, The British Driving Society, The British Horse Society and other organisations, The Lindsey Trail is a multi-user route through the Lincolnshire Wolds Area Of Outstanding Natural Beauty.
75 miles in length, the trail is suitable for carriage drivers, horse riders, cyclists and walkers, and predominantly utilises the existing public highway network, incorporating both surfaced and unsurfaced quiet lanes, byways and restricted byways.
The Lindsey Trail will be officially opened in spring 2012.

Saturday 4th February, 75 miles

Lonely layby, Brinkhill. 4:45am. -10 degrees centigrade.

In the bubble for the first 2 hours.

Breath rebounding.

Sunrise from Claxby Pluckacre.

Nowhere else I'd rather be.

Views from Hameringham hill.

Orange turning to ice.

Down the track to Ashby Puerorum.

The sun says hello.

Watercolour.

Out towards Hoe Hill.

Breakfast with the crew at Fulletby.

Undulating towards Hemingby.

Fresh.

Three words.

Roman Road near Ranby.

Through the gate to Sotby.

Copse.

Height of the day.

Christmas card, South Willingham.

Waiting for the next bus.

Square house at Hainton.

New waymarkers.

Making tracks through Willingham Woods.

Tall trees at Nova Scotia Bridge.

Ford at Tealby Thorpe.

Cold! Leon joins the party at Dog Kennel Woods.

'Let's get these last 25 done!'

Haribo break on the road to Biscathorpe.

By the Belmont transmitter, just before the weather came in.

After 2 hours of running in blizzard conditions, glad to be back!

Thanks Leon!

'Now, back home for a lovely cuppa and a red hot bath!'

No 6: Bourne Blunder

2012-01-24T13:01:00.000-08:00

An undulating route to the south of Grantham, the Bourne Blunder starts and finishes in Bourne Woods and takes in a multitude of charming villages, the Grimesthorpe Castle estate, an 11th century castle mound and the lakes of Holywell Hall.

Sunday 22nd January, 20 miles

A dodgy hat, an 80's mullet...

...and a greying beard - the usual suspects prepare for take-off.

'How do we get out of these woods?'

Pulled apart by horses.

Poles and wires.

Waiting by the gate.

Laser light over Dobbin's Wood.

Hidden house at Scottlethorpe.

Legging it from Scottlethorpe Grange.

Rollercoaster countryside.

Blue sky thinking.

Under the London Line at Little Bytham.

Mistletoe.

On the track to Lodge Farm.

Stopped dead by a shooting foot pain...

...Den removes the thorn and, fortified by a drink of ditchwater, hobbles onwards.

Under the bridge.

Lakes at Holywell Hall.

Burning trees.

Pushing our run over the border line.

Up the track to the quarry at Holywell.

'Where's the path gone?'

Scrambling.

Contouring.

Sandstone crater.

Is there life on Mars?

Scarecrow.

Phone box, Bus Stop, Castle Mound (Castle Bytham).

Towards Cabbage Hill.

Back over Castle Bytham.

Fir cones.

Climbing towards Swinstead.

Summit of Swinstead High Street.

Grimesthorpe Castle.

Back to Bourne Woods.

Over the hill.

Smiles at the end.

Yeah, that'll do.

The Story Of Creation

2012-01-21T11:55:00.000-08:00

Twelve and a half minutes. That's how long.

Twelve and a half minutes.

One song.

The time it took to turn my life around.

It wasn't until the mid-nineties that I truely discovered Dexy's Midnight Runners. I'd been a bit young to get 'Geno', stuck in a Bowie fixation around the time of their second coming, and too busy trying to survive university when they emerged, re-invented, for their third studio album in 1985.

I stumbled upon them, more by chance than design, at a time in my life when things were just drifting, in 1994. I'd immersed myself in music and made three startling discoveries:

One: There was more to Stevie Wonder than 'I Just Called To Say I Love You' and 'Happy Birthday'. Becoming familiar with his back catalogue, 'Songs In The Key Of Life' and 'Journey Through The Secret Life Of Plants' in particular, was a revelation.

Two: The Beach Boys wrote songs different than the throw-away romps of 'Surfing USA' and 'Fun, Fun, Fun'. Brian Wilson's songwriting, I found, had produced some of the most beautiful, heartbreaking records I'd ever heard. 'God Only Knows', 'The Warmth Of The Sun', Surf's Up'. Genius.

Three: The three albums made by Dexy's Midnight Runners - records that had passed me by - were incredible. More than incredible. Unbelievable.

I'd 'borrowed' a copy of the first album, 'Searching For The Young Soul Rebels' on a visit to Our Kid's digs in Nottingham. The sleeve notes had enthralled me and the music hadn't fallen short. The abrasive and uplifting soul of 'Dance Stance', 'Geno' and 'There, There My Dear' was nothing short of electrifying.

I'd come across a vinyl copy of their second album, 'Too Rye Ay', at an indoor car boot market in Cleethorpes. After taking the first incarnation of Dexy's to its self-destructive conclusion, Kevin Rowland, the poetic pugilist who's energy, extremism and presence was central to each of the Runners' line-ups, had stolen an idea from a former band-mate, put together a new band and adopted Plan B. The woolly hats and donkey jackets had been replaced by dirty dungarees and dishevelment. The horns had been supplemented with violins. The musicians had become The Celtic Soul Brothers. The success of 'Come On Eileen' propelled Dexy's into a sphere of adoration undreamed of, and, it appears, totally unwanted. Go beyond your preconceptions of 'Come On Eileen' as a perennial wedding reception favourite, and it's impossible to deny that the 'Too Rye Ay' album is anything short of a landmark. Rowland, typically, had been unimpressed. 'It was rubbish,' he said later. 'It wasn't leading anywhere. I could just make money - so what? I have to have self-respect.'

The third album, 'Don't Stand Me Down', was already in my record collection. Our Kid had bought it on its release, and although he'd enthused at the time, I'd never really gotten to listen to it properly. Really listen. When I finally got round to it, I played nothing else on my stereo for more than a month.

Released in 1985, 'Don't Stand Me Down' had been the very epitome of 'the long awaited, much anticipated next album.' Rumours had spread that it was the most expensive album ever recorded, that two hundred hours of tape were piled up as Rowland strove for perfection. The music world waited with bated breath.

When it arrived, 'Don't Stand Me Down' knocked everyone sidewards. In the heyday of 80's excess, with Culture Club and Sigue Sigue Sputnik at their zenith, Dexy's new look was conservative in the extreme. Clean-cut, mature and dressed in preppy Ivy League attire, Kevin Rowland, Billy Adams and Helen O' Hara, the three key members of this new incarnation, stared impassively from the cover of the album, giving no indication of what lay inside. There would be no single. No promotion. The record would stand alone on its own merits.

A 45-minute record containing just seven songs, 'Don't Stand Me Down' is a bold, passionate, brave record. At various times, Rowland swoons with love, confesses, accuses, curses and rages with frustration. Throughout the album, he enters into coversational asides with Billy Adams, often displaying his worries and doubt. The music and songwriting, however, display anything but. Here is a record that mirrors Rowland's ego. It's volatile and vivacious. It's frantic and profound. It's utterly majestic.

Of course, as is always the case, coming after the more populist sensibilities of 'Too Rye Ay', 'Don't Stand Me Down' was a disaster. It bombed. Kevin Rowland's masterplan went horribly wrong. Dexy's carreer never fully recovered. In believing, in 'burning', Rowland had over-estimated the public's and critics' ability to believe with him.

'I own records that have the power to make me cry. Records to be by or with - truely precious possessions,' Rowland had said once. 'It is the ambition of the Midnight Runners to make records of this value.'

With 'Don't Stand Me Down', Rowland believed he had done this. An overwhelming majority begged to differ.

By the time I got round to discovering the album in the middle of the nineties, time had been kind. Clearly ahead of its time, critics had re-evaluated. There was now talk of it being 'a lost gem', 'a much-neglected masterpiece', or, indeed, 'the greatest record ever made.' And it was inevitable that one song kept getting mentioned. The centre-piece of the album. Dexy's magnum opus. Twelve and a half minutes long.

'This Is What She's Like'.

It's 8pm. I've been at work since 5.30 am. I lock the shutter doors to the factory, secure the metal gates to the yard and drag myself into the van. In the four years since the fire, that crazy night when I gave away a life that was absolutely full of not much, things have been better. That's without doubt. The new business has survived start-up, Whirlwind's arrived to join Lightning, and I'm enjoying more time at home. But things, though, just aren't quite right. I'm gradually falling into my old trap of working too many hours, keeping things to myself, jumping into dark holes. There's a gnawing inside me. Is that what you'd call it? A feeling I can't put my finger on. I've got a perfect family, a nice house, a vintage VW bus, a successful business. What's wrong with me? There's nothing wrong. But there is!

I'd been over to Our Kid's new place - a little caravan on a big site in Skeggy - at the weekend, and while he'd mashed a cuppa, I'd spotted a CD he'd bought from the local music emporium. Dexy's Midnight Runners, 'Don't Stand Me Down - The Director's Cut'. Having not listened to it for years, I blagged him to let me borrow it.

As I pull out of the Industrial Estate, I push the disc into the CD player and jump it on to track 2.

'This Is What She's Like'.

Two people are talking. Desultory small talk. Kevin and Billy.

'All right Bill?' says Kevin.

'All right,' Billy replies.

And on it goes for a minute or two. No music, just voices.

'Where've you been?'

'Been down Bearwood.'

'Seen anyone down there?'

Mundane chat between two mates.

After a while, Billy gets to the point. There's something he wants to know. That girl - you know the one - That Girl, and he croons the question, 'What's she like?'

Kevin thinks for a moment. He's trying to find the words. It's difficult. How do you verbalise That Feeling?

He has a go anyway. 'Well, you know the type of people who put creases in their old Levis?' he starts.

'Yeah.'

' The kind that use expressions like 'tongue-in-cheek' and 'send-up'?'

'Indeed I do.'

'I don't like those people,' Kevin spits out, 'May I state here and now.' I can't stand people like that. That's not her. That's not what she's like. That's everything she's not.

Billy's not quite getting it. The music has joined us now - stomping fiddles, bass guitar.

Kevin tries again. 'Let me put it another way.'

'Yeah, please do.'

'Well, you know how the English upper classes are thick and ignorant?' he goes on, 'And you've seen the scum from Notting Hill and Moseley they call the CND?'

'Sure,' says Billy.

'They describe nice things as 'wonderful', says Kevin. 'She would never say that. She's totally different in every way.'

Billy's still not getting it. 'What's she like?' he keeps pressing.

'In time. In time,' Kevin keeps repeating, until everything's too much and he just can't help himself. 'I would like to express myself at this point,' he tells Billy, and the song escalates into transcendence with Kevin 'la la li la'ing like there's no tomorrow.

In time, he manages to come back down, but now Billy's getting the gist.

Kevin continues. 'Bill, you know the newly-wealthy peasants with their home bars and hi-fis? They use words like 'fabulous' and 'super' in each sentence. Well I don't like those scumbags - may I be clear on this point?'

These are all the things she is NOT.

'But what's she like?' Billy keeps asking.

Finally, Kevin knows that mere words can't do it. He decides that not only will he tell us what she's like, but he'll make it clear. He'll present a picture. LISTEN CLOSE.

The music stops.

A crisp violin starts playing, and then the horns kick in. Already it's the greatest single moment of any record I know. And that's before Kevin starts singing. When he does, your heart levitates (in the video Rowland does ,literally, at this point.) We've all had That Feeling. This is how it sounds.

Chris Roberts, in The Melody Maker's give-away 'Forbidden Pleasures' booklet, describes it perfectly: 'Now, of course, WHAT SHE'S LIKE, after all, is articulated, not through words, but through a wailing and howling and crooning that brings the paint off the walls to reveal hidden Michaelangelo's.'

It's an estatic, uplifting moment. Sublime. Beautiful.

Billy's got the drift now, and with this knowledge, the band is uncaged. 'You want this to go on forever,' states Roberts in the same piece, 'and it damn near does.'

There's a patch of grass on the road-side opposite our house where I always park the van. I'm pulling up there as the song finishes. I engage the handbrake. Turn off the engine and switch off the headlights. Then I skip the CD back to the start of the track and listen again. And again.

Tam comes out from the house after a while and walks over to the van where I'm sat in the dark with the stereo up.

'You ok?' she goes, 'What you doing?'

'Note,' I reply, ' Just listening to something.'

When the track finishes again, I know I can't stay here all night. I sit in silence. I knew after that first twelve and a half minutes, but just needed to check. After the next two plays, I'm sure.

I was wrong. This gnawing feeling I've had. That's not what it is. I know now, and I know what to do.

This feeling I've got. It's 'burning'.

AT THIS POINT YOU NEED TO LISTEN TO THE SONG . IT'S COMPULSORY. IT STARTS SLOWLY, BUT STICK WITH IT. BY THE TIME IT'S FINISHED, IT MAY HAVE CHANGED YOUR LIFE.

I've talked about Keep On Burning before. Rowland and The Cappucino Kid had been central in its development. But somehow I'd fallen into a trap. I'd become content. I was starting to become like everyone else.

The 'burning' feeling gives you no choice. If you ignore it, it just won't go away. The 'burning' feeling gives you one option. Create.

The 'burning' feeling had pushed Kevin Rowland to inspiring heights in the creation of his music. He'd fed upon it, used it to strive forwards, follow his inner convictions and make art that was stunning, ground-breaking.

I knew where my 'art' lay. I was certain where my creativity could be best expressed. After a decade or more of only jogging sporadically, there was only one thing I could do. I would become a runner again.

Every run is an act of creation. Some of them are true works of art. I can sit with an OS map in front of me, link footpaths, lanes and bridleways to create a challenging long distance route. I can leave the shelter of the car in a rain-swept Lake District lay-by and take to the mountains, joining summits or exploring valleys in a day-long frenzy of endurance improvisation. The final result is the same - a work of art that has no material structure but weighs heavy in enjoyment, adventure and lasting memories.

In the quest to lead a life of fulfillment it's essential to be creative. In the four years since I resumed running seriously, The Art of Empty Miling has gone a long way to appeasing that 'burning' feeling. But I've made a conscious effort to be more creative, full-stop. It's not hard. Try writing. A half-day spent composing a blog entry isn't time wasted. The end result is a piece of art that, ultimately, means nothing, but maybe - just maybe - might touch someone in a way that provokes thought, debate, further investigation or simply puts a smile on their face.

Do things differently. Sleep on the other side of the bed occasionally. If you always eat meat, try a vegetarian meal. Lose your watch for a day. Find ways of recycling stuff you no longer want. Turn your back on faceless multi-nationals for a while and spend your money in a local shop , or on gear made by a company with a conscience, or a funky start-up business . Every one of these will make your life more interesting, more rewarding, and that's what creativity is all about.

Whilst it's not hard to live a creative life, it also may not be easy. After 'Don't Stand Me Down', Kevin Rowland's creative path led him to cocaine addiction and then redemption. In the late nineties he signed a major deal with Creation Records and returned with an album of covers of songs that had literally kept him alive. Given this second chance, you might have guessed a fairytale ending. Rowland decided to radically change his image once more. His new wardrobe included a short, white dress, white stockings and court shoes. A Glastonbury performance ended in him being pelted with bottles of piss. His album, 'My Beauty', is reported to have sold less than 100 copies, and almost single-handedly brought about the demise of the Creation label.

I doubt that Kevin would have minded too much. He still believed. He had his self-respect. Maybe some day, everyone would 'catch up', just as they had done with 'Don't Stand Me Down'.

He's been quiet of late. Just one song 'It's ok Johanna' , has surfaced on the internet, and it's brutal in its honesty and mesmerising in its beauty.

There are rumours of a Dexy's reunion in 2012. Some talk of a fourth studio album. I simply can't wait.

There's a quote from Alan Alda that I read somewhere. He says simply:

'The creative is the place where no-one else has ever been. You have to leave your city of comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is yourself.'

It's this place I'll be heading for as I slip on my trainers in the morning and set off on my next running adventure. Ready and excited to be creating a new work of art.

Maybe you'll be doing the same - leaving the city and heading for the wilderness?

If so, I'll see you there.

No.5: The Water Railway

2012-01-14T11:55:00.000-08:00

Joining Lincoln and Boston, The Water Railway was completed in 2008 and follows the Witham on paths which were once the railway line between the county's capital and the coast. Listed as an LDP, it doubles as a National Cycle Route and, unfortunately, is tarmaced along its entirity. The Water Railway is a route of open spaces and riverside tranquility, winding through countryside which shows another side of Lincolnshire - one that has more in common with the Fens than the Wolds.

Saturday 14th January, 33 miles

Waking to the hardest frost of the winter.

A friendly 'good morning' to the next door neighbour, and then an hour's drive to the start.

Heading off from the centre of Lincoln.

Cathedral from the zig-zag foot bridge.

Out of town.

Roads - who needs them?

Viewing platform at the western end of the path.

Down the boulevard.

Frost and thorns.

Two suns.

Following the river towards Bardney.

Odd beasts lounging.

'Be on your way son...'

Making ripples.

Strange crops...

...grow well in sunshine.

Very berry.

Mind the bike!

The slow life.

Hummingbird.

Looking out for big fish...

...'I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance.'

Taking The Viking Way track to Southrey woods.

Sunbathing pigs.

'Now, when's the next train to Boston?'

Road crossing.

I'm in chains.

Climbing up to Kirkstead Bridge.

In times gone long by, the land around the Witham was considered a sacred place. The river was seen as a 'mirror of heaven.'

Tattershall Castle over yonder.

Moorings at Chapel Hill.

Crossing the boundary line.

Dig in. The road to Holland Fen goes on...

...and on.

Riverbank trig and The Stump in the distance, just east of Langrick Bridge.

As the river bends at Anton's Gowt.

Locked out.

The east end viewing platform.

Boston's getting closer.

The end at Boston's Sluice bridge, where the Witham becomes the Haven.

No 4: The Belmont 30

2012-01-07T11:29:00.000-08:00

A circular route from Tetford, The Belmont 30 takes in some of the finest Wolds scenery to the west and south of Louth, and is named after the Belmont TV transmitter (at one time, the tallest man-made structure in the UK), which is visible throughout the round. Being one of a handful of the LPDs I have done prior to this year's challenge, previous GPS stats put the total distance at closer to 35 miles.

35 miles, Saturday 7th January

Another morning, another journey

Den - long hair, big beard, new tights

Nice and steady on the road out of Tetford

Deserted dwellings from the Roman road to Belchford.

Sun, shadows and the joys of empty miling.

Too early for a pint at The Blue Bell.

Through back gardens to Wood Farm.

Pondlife.

The fields are my tarmac, the sky my scoresheet.

Ploughing our way towards Scamblesby.

Heading towards Goulceby and the transmitter in the distance.

From Shop Lane to Top Lane, Goulceby.

'What's your beef?'

Van Gogh swirls near Market Stainton.

Build a little birdhouse in my soul.

Free running.

The sea parts on the path to Donington-On-Bain.

Waves.

Fleeing from the prison bars.

Swallowed by the trees.

Meeting Belmont.

The point at which Den began his monologue about 'Derelict Building Bivvying.' It was to last for 2 long hours.

A beauty at Biscathorpe.

Take the branch line to Burgh-on-Bain.

Sticking to the National Speed Limit on the road to Girsby Top.

Anyone for tennis?

Leaving the transmitter behind.

Murk descends round the ponds at Tathwell.

Halo.

No 3: Silver Lincs Way, Louth Link

2012-01-06T05:01:00.000-08:00

The Silver Lincs Way meanders for 25 miles between Scartho, in the north of Lincolnshire, to the market town of Louth, in the Wolds further south. Officially classed as a Long Distance Path, it also provides access to five circular 'link walks' at Scartho, Ludborough (2 links), Wold Newton and Louth. Although not classed as LDPs in themselves, they are listed separately on the LDWA database and therefore must be completed as part of this year's challenge.

7 miles, Friday 6th January

Glorious January morning as we start in Louth town centre.

'Hey Tam - wait for me!'

Through the posh part of town.

Up the lane towards Pasture Farm.

Straight on.

Good running past the paddocks.

Following the track out of Little Welton.

Shooting star in a clear winter sky.

Do as you're told.

Over the bridge towards South Elkington.

Cheating.

Plenty of mud in the Bunkers Farm woods.

Vagabond Runner's hut.

Cross the road and over the bridge.

Three fingers over Jack's Furze.

Heading back towards the spire.

Louth from the top of Jack's Furze.

Frosty lanes...

...and a warm Wolds glow.

In through Hubbards Hills' bottom gate, and up the steps.

Jogging along the top path...

...past Wolds Dash HQ.

Fallen leaves in the park.

Back into town.

No. 2 : The Dave Milne Way

2012-01-03T13:20:00.000-08:00

22 miles. Tuesday 3rd January

Leaving the house in heavy weather

Start at Ludford village hall. Best get off before that flag pole blows over.

Follow The Viking Way for a couple of miles...

...and head that way.

Where can I get a brew?

Tealby in the distance.

Highly desirable Wolds residence, complete with running water.

Heavy going towards Willingham Woods.

Single-track through the trees.

Forestry road towards Hamilton Hill.

The wind's blown the weather away.

Back on The Loop for a bit.

Through the wasteland.

Spaceship landing on the hill over Claxby.

God's light back over Willingham Woods.

Skirting Claxby Wood.

Approaching Otby.

Daylight moonlight.

View from the top.

'The Ramblers' Church' at Walesby.

The most beautiful church in the country?

Finding time for a snack in the church grounds.

Meeting the locals.

Squaddy jitty back into Tealby.

Losing the light on the way to Stainton le Vale.

Uphill on the path towards Kirmond le Mire.

Sheep grazing on Rectory Farm.

Road out of Thorpe le Vale.

Back to the end at Ludford.

No.1 : Tennyson 20

2012-01-01T11:32:00.000-08:00

20 miles, Sunday 1st January

Leon and Chris-ready!

Leon and Dennis -ready!

Go!

The kind people of Tetford.

Where now...?

Up the hill from Tetford.

Lonely fingerpost.

Single-track to Worlaby.

Your carriage awaits...

Scaring the geese.

Running into a new day.

The sky's waking up.

Hello 2012!

Down the dip to Burwell.

Stile-hopping between Burwell and Swaby.

Swaby's hidden valley.

Christmas lights at South Thoresby's chapel.

Face to face with history at Calceby.

A quick drink at Driby.

Farm track from Brinkhill.

Brook on the Bag Enderby track. The hard way...?

...or the easy way?

A jog to the end at Hagworthingham.

'One down...'

The Swimmer

2011-12-29T12:10:00.000-08:00

It's a sunny September morning and Ned Merrill, a seemingly successful and popular middle-aged advertising executive, is running through the woods of an affluent suburb of Conneticut. He's barefoot and wearing only a pair of swimming trunks.

The start of a new day. His mind wanders to his beautiful, loving wife and his four daughters. He thinks of the breakfast they shared by their poolside that morning.

He walks out of the woods and into the back garden of some old friends, sitting beside their own pool. He chats with them, shares a drink, and the idea of a unique journey forms. He tells his friends that he intends to 'swim' home, across the county, by dropping in on friends' swimming pools which form a consecutive chain leading the 8 miles back to his own house. He imagines these pools as parts of the River Lucinda, named after his adoring wife.

He dives into this first pool and emerges at the other end. Pulling himself from the water with an abundance of youthful vitalty, his journey starts.

The weather's unseasonably warm. Cotton wool skies, low teens, not your typical December day. I shut the gate behind me and set off slowly to the old pub, leaving Christmas behind for another year.

It's the day after Boxing Day. Christmas Day had been a pleasure. After spending the 25th last year on a camp-site in Western Australia and enjoying being together but out of the traditional festive loop of spending too much on rubbish, eating too much junk and doing things 'the way they should be done ', Tam and myself had made a promise to keep this Christmas low-key. We'd done a pretty good job. We'd spent the 26th being spoilt at the in-laws, and now I'd got two work-free weeks to look forward to with the rigours of the next Christmas frenzy another year away.

Past the old pub, I take the lane that leads to Skendleby and breathe in the immaculate views towards the coast before the road drops steeply to the bottom of the Fordington Valley. I exchange grudging pleasantries with a large crowd of country folk busily descending from 4x4s onto a grassy verge, and, as I continue on my way leaving behind just the soft padding of footfall, they traipse, tweed-attired, into neighbouring fields to get their seasonal kicks by killing animals for fun.

As has been the case on every run for the last 5 months, it isn't long before my concentration turns to my left foot. Ever since my jog around The Lindsey Loop at the end of August, it's been an ever-present source of pain and frustration. Whilst it's not really curtailed my running as such, it certainly has curtailed my enjoyment of those miles. It appears, however, that Mr Claus may have brought me a most welcome gift. Whilst there's still some stiffness there, the arch pain and heel pain have dissolved away. Regular visits to an osteopath, a change of footwear, golf ball massage and an all-consuming obsession with foot drills, foot stretches and foot strengthening exercises in my non-running waking hours eventually seem to be paying off. There's a spring in my ultra-runner's shuffle as I reach Skendleby.

Lying in the bottom of a beautiful Wolds valley, every road out of Skendleby involves a fair climb. Usually, I'll take one of the country lanes which lead to the Bluestone Heath Road, but today I fancy something different. If I take the field path past Lodge Farm, I can get a good look at the grand house on the hillside. Sitting adjacent to the route of The Lindsey Loop, I've been past this building numerous times, but always from the opposite direction, and always in the dark.

In a couple of minutes, I'm around the back of the village and climbing over the stile that leads onto the Lodge Farm estate. The grounds have a certain majesty, but the location of the house, sitting commandingly on the rise to the East, is simply breath-taking. I briefly imagine the family that must live there, the stories of generations that the house could tell, and then jog on slowly, curious and eager to see a little more.

Ned Merrill receives warm welcomes as he meets old friends - members of the well-to-do set with plush homes in the outer suburbs. As his journey continues, however, it becomes obvious that each swimming pool brings him face-to-face with particular aspects of his life, some of which he's done his best to forget.

As the day wears on and Ned sees those who have been close to him more recently, the welcomes begin to sour. His boasts about his wife, his daughters and his home are greeted with jeers or suspicion. In one back yard, he meets a young girl who used to babysit his daughters. They leave together and she reveals an unspoken teenager crush she used to have on him. When he clumsily tries to seduce her, though, she flees, leaving him foolish in his inadequacy. As he carries on, dropping in at the pools of other acquaintances, it begins to unfold that his life has, somehow, gone quite wrong.

I'm half-way across the estate grounds when I begin to realise that things aren't what they seem. The grand facade of the old house, when viewed closer, is tatty and untidy. There's an air of neglect about the place.

Closer still, I see that some of the huge windows are broken. Others are boarded up. Window frames are rotten. Paint has peeled and left behind just shadows of what once was. For some reason, I'm filled with a sadness.

In the late afternoon, Ned Merrill winds up at a crowded public swimming pool where he's shamed by local shopkeepers to which he still owes money. They exchange angry confrontations about his wife's snobbish attitudes and his daughters' recent troubles with the law. Unable to take any more, the swimmer flees to his only sanctuary.

The sun's setting as a shivering Ned staggers up a rocky hill, shoves open a rusty gate and walks through an unkempt, overgrown garden to his own home. A thunderstorm starts as Ned knocks on the locked door of a abandoned, empty house. Breaking down on the front step, he starts to cry.

Another stile leads me over a fence to the right of the grand old house. I make my way along a narrow path between weeds and nettles, and look back over.

The house - what's left of the grand vision I'd built up having run nearby for years - is derelict. The roof of the back buildings is falling down. A sheet is secured by bricks and wooden planks in a hopeless attempt to prevent heavy weather getting in. Piles of rubble litter the disused yard.

It begins to unfold that things, somehow, have gone quite wrong.

I stand and look for ages. Take a few pictures. I feel so let down. I can't help but think of The Swimmer.

It was the 1968 film starring Burt Lancaster that introduced me to 'The Swimmer.' I read the John Cheever short-story, on which the film was based, many years later and was equally spellbound. Both are beautiful, astounding - powerful allegories, perhaps more relevant now even than they were in the 60s.

Moving from morning to dusk, from sunshine to rain, from youth to age and from fantasy to truth, 'The Swimmer' reveals experiences that are set over one day, but represent a lifetime.

In 95 minutes of celluloid or a few pages of text, 'The Swimmer' is a simple, yet deceivingly complex retelling of the most ancient literary form - the Epic. A hero sets off on a journey and has many strange adventures along the way, during which he learns the fragile nature of life. At last, he arrives at his goal, older, wiser, and with many stories to tell.

At the start of the journey, the swimmer is our hero. We believe in his greatness. Gradually, however, with each pool visit, a layer of fantasy is stripped away - truth is slowly revealed, and the hero's fate is, ultimately, tragic.

Things aren't what they seem.
For whoever, are they ever?

I run the remaining miles home, lost in thought.

The impressive facade of the grand old house giving way to the reality of a derelict shell. Does this fate - the same as the one which befell Ned Merrill in 'The Swimmer' - await 'the hero' of my own forthcoming journey? I've mythologised it with 'Six Statements', built it up with words, thought of little else for many months. But what awaits me? If each route is a swimming pool, what will each reveal to the people who love me, those who think they know me? What will each route reveal to myself? Can that Rainbow kid hack it, or is he too a derelict shell with just a knack for stringing a few hollow sentences together?

For better or for worse, all will be revealed in the journey. All-conquering, or crying on the front step?

The door's locked when I get home. A thunderstorm starts as I knock and knock. The house is empty.

I jog round and look through the window. A Christmas tree dominates the front room, lovingly dressed, fairy lights dancing. Lightning's paints are scattered across the coffee table, and various A4 sketches litter the surrounding floor space. Whirlwind's cuddly toys are snuggled together on the settee, wrapped in a red, furry blanket, tucked into bed by their 7 year old mummy. I hear her voice as I look, '... sleep tight my little darlings.'

An empty house, full of my proudest achievements.

I sit on the step in the rain, and wait. Tam and the superheroes will be back anytime soon.

I think of the journey of the last 10 years - the one that's built our family, and I think of the journey that awaits me next year. Suddenly, it doesn't feel as important anymore.

Ultra-Modern Nursery Rhymes No.1: Shadows Over Sunflower Valley

2011-12-21T10:33:00.000-08:00

The ground was frozen over, the snow crisp as crystal, as Bob the Builder hoisted the heavy pack onto his back, grabbed a shovel from the front yard, and set off at a jog in the direction of the railway tracks.

Last night, as he'd downed his tools on Christmas Eve and headed home, he'd been full of cheer. A fortnight of lie-ins, long runs on the moors and evenings spent poring over the blogs of a multitude of high-profile US toy ultra-runners. Bliss!

A cold snap had arrived unannounced however, and trudging through the slush on the town's pavements had played havoc with his plastic feet. Passing 'Ye Olde Trumpet' public house, the temptation had been too great. Mind, a couple of pints at Christmas never did anyone any harm.

Christmas Day was still new as Bob settled into his run, the pack bouncing ungainly up and down. In the dawn light, Sunflower Valley looked like heaven. This is the way he'd like to remember it, he thought.

Before long, he was out of town, heading down the farm track through Shady Wood. In the clearing at the wood's edge, Bob the Builder shuffled to a stop. Leaning his shovel against a tree, he discarded the ruck-sack, took off his run-gloves and unzipped the left pocket of his waterproof jacket. He fumbled inside and took out a piece of lined paper and two safety pins. Unfolding the paper and carefully checking its message, he pinned it to the front of his coat. Then, grabbing the shovel, he spent a good deal of time digging a large hole. He whistled a familiar tune as he dug:

'Bob the Builder - can you fix it?
Bob the Builder - yes, you can!'

When the hole was big enough, he placed the shovel once more against the tree, for a good tradesman always treats his tools with care. He wiped his brow, more out of habit than for any practical reason, since toys don't perspire, and pondered his predicament. A messy job this, but if anyone could fix it, he was sure he could.

Bob the Builder dragged the heavy back-pack towards the hole and pushed it in. It rolled over the frozen ground and landed at the bottom of the hole with a thump! Grabbing his shovel again, he quickly filled it in. And as he worked, he whistled a familiar tune:

'Bob the Builder - can you fix it?
Bob the Builder- yes, you can!'

A good tradesman never leaves a job half-done. So, after tossing the shovel aside - he wouldn't need it again - Bob stood beside the hole, and placed his little plastic hands around his little plastic ears. With a grunt, he pulled and pulled with all his might.

After what seemed like an eternity, his head came off with a pop! Bob the Builder's little arms shook and shook, and, from the hole at the base of his plastic head, memories started to trickle out like drops of water from a leaking bottle.

A lifetime of memories drip-drip-dripping out of the bottom of that cute little head.

And what memories!

... a glorious childhood in the country,

... lessons in woodworking from a helpful and loving grandfather,

... his and Uncle Peter's 'special secret,'

... his HND (Hons) in building and brickwork,

... the first time he set eyes on the beautiful Wendy.

On and on, drip, drip, drip...to the night before Christmas:

... a couple of pints in 'Ye Olde Trumpet',

... double rum and coke, and a few shots,

...the way JJ's daughter, the delicious young Molly, eyed him up,

... back home to Wendy - Wendy and her incessant bloody moaning. Going on the way she always went on. Why couldn't she ever bloody let it lie?

... the first push had been out of frustration. It had sent Wendy skittling over the back of the kitchen table.

... but now the floodgates had opened. The guilt of a thousand botched jobs, hundreds of over-inflated quotations, prosecutions for breaches of Health and Safety regulations - it all came out. The way Wendy looked on him with such disappointment. His drinking at work. His unhealthy addiction to certain web-sites. That little whore Molly's words earlier in the night in response to his clumsy advances - 'No way, you pervert - you're old enough to be my dad!'

It all came out.

Unfortunate for Wendy.

The drip-drip-drip of memories show it all, even the hours Bob the Builder couldn't remember. The blind fury, the drunken rage, the hidden side of our friendly hero.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

... Bob the Builder wakes in the morning with an horrendous hangover. He's lying on the kitchen floor. Broken tables. Broken chairs. Broken Wendy - her little plastic body scattered in little plastic pieces.

... Bob the Builder takes a slug from a bottle of The Famous Grouse and considers his options. A messy job this, but he can fix it. He finds his big back-pack in the cupboard under the stairs and stuffs all that remains of Wendy's doll life into it.

... he laces up his favourite fell shoes, hoists the heavy bag onto his back, grabs a shovel from the front yard, and sets off at a jog in the direction of the railway tracks.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Memories trickling out of the bottom of his cute little head, like drops of water from a leaking bottle.

Until there's no more left.

Bob the Builder replaces the head onto his little plastic doll body. His eyes open. He looks around, startled, new eyes on a new world.

Poor old Bob. Doesn't even know who he is!
Poor old Bob. Hasn't a clue where he is!

He looks down and sees a small, crumpled piece of paper pinned to the front of his waterproof coat. He undoes the pins, takes the paper and looks at its message. 'LIE DOWN ON THE RAILWAY TRACKS,' it says.

Never leave a job half-done. Nearly fixed.

Bob spots the railway siding in the distance and heads that way.

As he walks, a tune from a past he can't remember flitters through his empty little plastic head, and he starts to whistle a tune he doesn't know:

'Bob the Builder- can you fix it?
Bob the Builder - yes, you can!'

The railway tracks are cold, but Bob the Builder's smiling as he lies down and gently closes his eyes.

A locomotive's whistle down the line tells us that Thomas The Tank Engine's on his way, laden with Christmas gifts for the boys and girls at the Sunflower Valley Juvenile Detention Centre.

It won't be long now and Bob's job will be done.

A very merry Christmas from The SJC!

Six Statements

2011-12-15T13:37:00.000-08:00

Empty miles have led to the end of this road. I stop, turn, and look back in the direction in which I've come. The Fast Boys have already made their turn and are heading back over the brow of the distant hill. Their pace is quick, and quickens as they jostle for position and attempt to lay down a pecking order. I watch their backs as they disappear from view.

And now I'm alone.

Beyond the road lies a forest - dense undergrowth scarred by a solitary single-track path. I listen to the sweet symphony of silence and collect my thoughts. I think of the five statements that have become so important to me during this year as I planned my next adventure. Actions, lives, silent gestures.

I step off the road. Begin. One foot in front of the other, a breath, a heartbeat. The sixth statement.

The First Statement.

The vision is about to become real. That was all that John Carlos could think as he walked into the Olympic stadium, clutching his running shoes, on the evening of October 16th 1968.

The road had been long. The plans had changed over the course of the year. But the vision had kept him strong. John Carlos' vision - the after-race, the statement.

The events of the morning had been insignificant. The race had meant nothing. The Olympic bronze medal had meant nothing. The vision, the after-race, was everything.

The vision was about to become reality.

The human rights movement in the United States had burned through the early months of 1968. A wind of change fanned the flames, igniting opinion, indignation and prejudice. The elite black sportsmen who made up the majority of perhaps the greatest ever US Track and Field team couldn't help but be caught up in the fire. Inside a stadium, these Americans were 'heroes'. Outside of a stadium, they were 'negroes'. Sociologist, Harry Edwards had founded the Olympic Project for Human Rights (OPHR). He had called upon black athletes to boycott the Games. For a while, support seemed overwhelming, but after the assasination of Doctor Martin Luther King, the feeling changed. The movement stumbled. It would now be one man's vision that drove it forward. One man's vision that changed sport forever.

On the evening of October 16th 1968, the three fastest sprinters in the world walked out into the Olympic stadium, Mexico. Leading the group was Tommie Smith, winner of that morning's 200 metre race in a world record time of 20.06 seconds. Australia's Peter Norman - second in the race, followed. John Carlos brought up the rear.

Each man wore a badge pinned to his tracksuit top. The badge bore the words, 'Olympic Project for Human Rights'. Smith and Carlos carried their shoes, walking in their black socks to the podium. Smith wore a black scarf around his neck, Carlos a necklace of beads. In a breach with strict Olympic protocol, Carlos wore his tracksuit top unzipped. On Smith's right hand, he wore a black glove. Carlos wore his black glove on his left.

The three men received their medals.

The vision.
The after-race.
The statement.

As the opening bars of 'The Star Spangled Banner' started, Carlos knew the vision was nearly complete. Each action, each piece of clothing. premeditated, chosen with utmost care.

The vision.
The statement.

The shoeless feet representing black poverty. Smith's black scarf representing black pride. The unzipped tracksuit top, a show of solidarity with all the blue-collar workers. The necklace of beads for all 'those individuals that were lynched, or killed, and that no-one said a prayer for, that were hung and tarred.' The black gloves, a symbol that said simply, 'We are black and we deserve better.'

And then John Carlos' vision was complete. He bowed his head and rose his left fist into the air.

A silence descended upon the stadium, followed by widespread booing. A global TV audience was stunned.

The vision.

Carlos could hardly have imagined the repercussions of his actions. He might have guessed the outrage of the IOC would lead to his and Smith's expulsion from the Games. He might not have foresaw the death of his mother, attributed to the stress of the backlash from his actions. He might not have foresaw the suicide of his wife in 1977 for similar reasons, or his own destitution and depression that followed this. But if he had, I doubt John Carlos would have done anything differently. For John Carlos had a vision.

The statement.

The world was spinning as Carlos stood, head bowed, in the midst of his vision. And one thought kept him strong. Kept him upright. Made him proud. Black America will understand what we did tonight.

In two weeks time, I start my journey. In the space of one year, I aim to cover, on foot, all the Long Distance Paths that start, finish or pass through Lincolnshire. Over 1700 miles shared between 30 routes that vary between 11 and 147 miles. Each route will be covered in one continuous run. It promises to be one of the biggest challenges of my life.

Is this my statement? I guess it is. But it's something else too - a reflection of my running maturity. I've spent a lifetime putting one foot in front of the other. I've run track. I've mixed it with The Fast Boys on the roads and cross-country, chased splits and PBs. But I've grown and moved along. Discovering the lure of openness during my Bob Graham Round training changed me. It revealed to me a new way of travel. Long, continuous journeys where the emphasis was on the distance gone rather than speed or the time in which the run was completed. As an Empty Miler, I'd found my home.

This project feels right. It excites me beyond belief. But, at the same time, the contrary spirit in me wants to make a point. Wants to stand up for what I believe is the essence of running and rally against the crap that it's in danger of drowning in. As I've run my empty miles through the year, this aspect - my own personal statement - has invigorated me. And whenever I've considered this, whether on rambling jaunts across the Wolds or just sat on the step, the five other statements - the most inspiring examples of doing what is right, showing your true spirit - have never been far away.

The Second Statement.

Many people have, at one time or other, considered walking out of the office and throwing it all away for a life of simplicity. After leading a very conventional existence until the age of 36, Millican Dalton did just that. Leaving behind his job as a London insurance clerk, he turned his back on conformity and shallow materialism, cast off all that weighed him down and walked towards a life of asceticism and stoic simplicity, determined to follow his dreams and live by his convictions.

He gravitated, naturally, to England's great wilderness - The Lake District - and camped at High Lodore, before moving into a cave under Castle Crag in the 1920s. Naming his new residence 'The Cave Hotel', he commenced a life, mostly in seclusion, at one with his surroundings. His strict vegetarian diet was provided through growing his own vegetables on the terrace outside his cave, baking his own bread and foraging nuts from local woods. He collected firewood to keep him warm through the winter, made his own clothes and kept fit by climbing crags and trees.

During his twenty five years in the Borrowdale Valley, he styled himself as a 'Professor of Adventure' and scraped a living by offering 'camping holidays, mountain rapid shooting, rafting and hair's breadth escapes.' Inevitably, these trips would end by a camp fire with Dalton consuming copious amounts of coffee and expressing his strong views on socialism, the pacifist movement and virtually any other subject.

The exceptionally harsh winter of 1947 was to lead to his undoing. He contracted pneumonia and after spending his last few days in a hospital ward, he died on 5th February. He was 79 years old.

Millican Dalton left little trace. He neither wrote books or painted pictures. His legacy can, therefore, be difficult to assess and easy to dismiss. He will be remembered, however, as a man of high principles, a man who made a powerful statement through his search for simplicity. Unmoved by the heavy weather of ego, envy and the acquisition of material goods that shackles the average man to his place in the scheme of things, his life has touched many since his death.

Modern guidebooks carry no notes as to the whereabouts of Dalton's cave. Its location, however, can easily be ascertained through word of mouth. Over 60 years since it was last inhabited, the cave retains a feeling of sanctity. Hundreds visit each season. A handful have a desire to camp there overnight. And, being there, it's hard to shake the feeling of the presence of Millican Dalton - an ascetic for our modern age, a man who understood the beauty of isolation and the fickle nature of man, a man who will be remembered by many but emulated by few.

We've been blinded. Stabbed in the eyes by so many phony protagonists that it's become impossible to determine what is right or wrong. Brainwashed so thoroughly, indeed, that what is so surely right is widely believed to be the opposite.

The act of travelling on foot, of putting one foot in front of the other, is beautiful. To move between two points under our own efforts is an elemental experience that, inevitably, leaves us tired, but elated. Whether walking or running, it doesn't matter - they're just points along a continuum of movement. However, the whole act of movement is being eroded by a modern culture that stresses that 'easy is good', 'fast is best'. It's time to take a breath and reassess.

Over the last couple of years, I've read with interest about the 'Slow' movement. I didn't get it at first. Just the word 'slow' has such negative conotations - it conjures images of bumbling ineptness and inferiority. In an earlier life, all my running was geared around an antidote to 'slowness'. Indeed, the whole running culture, as it now stands, is still a testament to this. Magazine articles scream 'Get That New 10k PB!', 'A Marathon Best In Just 6 Weeks!' Articles outline myriad schedules for running faster. Put any group of club runners together and within a half-hour they'll all know their place in a hierachy determined by speed. Surely 'slow' and 'running' don't belong together?

Maybe, just maybe, it would be better if they did.

For 'slow' doesn't mean just doing things at a reduced speed. It means doing something properly. It means immersing yourself in your task, appreciating its intrinsic beauty. It means taking the time to enjoy. Reconnecting. Millican Dalton knew that. And empty miles are built on those foundations. Time is not an enemy to be fought against (how many times have you heard a runner state 'I've just raced against the clock'?) Time is your friend. Embrace it. Savour it. And as you do, look around. What you see, what you feel, might surprise you.

The Third Statement.

On October 30th 1982, The Jam delivered a hand-written statement announcing their split.

Their fans were shocked. Their record company, Polydor, was furious. The Jam's bassist, Bruce Foxton, and drummer, Rick Buckler, were disbelieving. As two-thirds of the band, they couldn't comprehend that Paul Weller, leader and creative figurehead of The Jam could have submitted such a statement on their behalf. The action was to lead to bitter recriminations for the next three decades.

It's commonplace for bands on the decline to disintegrate. But The Jam were at their peak, the apex of the ladder, and no-one knows what they would have gone on to achieve. However, Weller was adamant that his decision was right. No-one expected the direction he would now take.

In late 1982, The Style Council was born. Paul Weller had put together a collective, built around the nucleus of himself and Hammond player, Mick Talbot, and they aimed, initially, to provide an exhillarating gateway into a cosmopolitan world of cappucinos, coffee bars, Blue Note jazz and rare soul.

Five years previously, Kevin Rowland and Dexy's Midnight Runners had promised the new soul vision with 'Searching For The Young Soul Rebels'. The Style Council were that new soul vision. They were socialists, vegetarians, didn't drink, wore cool rain macs, colourful knitwear, expensive footwear and set out with an agenda to make some of the most brilliant modernist music ever. In stark contrast to other bands of the time, they also wanted to speak out against the corrosive issues of the day, even if it meant commercial suicide.

The Style Council, indeed, was Paul Weller's grandest statement.

The inaugral LP, Cafe Bleu, set their thrilling manifesto. Abandoning the traditional rule book and casting aside the musical legacy of The Jam, Cafe Bleu was a deliberate attempt to confound expectations. A brave, if not foolish, mix of pop, soul, jazz, rap and funk, Weller sang on only 6 of the 13 tracks, 5 of which were instrumentals.

Politics, as well as the mash of musical genres, was also on the table. Royalties from second single 'Money Go Round' were donated to Youth CND and Weller publicly backed the National Youth Trade Union Rights campaign against 'industrial conscription', calling for supplementary benefits for teens who refused to join YTS schemes and for the protection of youths placed on such schemes.

Second album 'Our Favourite Shop' came in due time, and first single from it, 'Shout To The Top' was a fervent celebration of worker solidarity with press adverts decreeing,
'Make no mistake
This is all class war
Fight back
Shout To The Top!'

Next single, 'Soul Deep', raised money for the miners' strike, for whom The Style Council had already played numerous benefit concerts in aid of.

'It wasn't a time to be partisan,' Weller reflected years later, 'It was too serious a time, too extreme. In The Jam, I didn't want to be part of any movement. But this was different. Thatcher got into power in 1979, and from the Falklands war onwards, that was her wielding her power. The trade unions were being worn down. We had the miners' strike. There was mass unemployment. There were all these issues. You had to care, and if you didn't, you had your head in the sand and didn't give a fuck about anyone but yourself. You couldn't sit on the fence. It was very black and white then. Thatcher was a tyrant, a dictator.'

Important records followed.

'Walls Come Tumbling Down' was forthright, passionate and dedicated to socialism. It was defined by anger and bile set to a pounding Northern Soul beat. It opened with the line, 'You don't have to take this crap.'

The Style Council's first two albums were uncompromising and inspiring. 'Our Favourite Shop' hit the number one spot in the UK charts. Weller had managed to bring The Jam's following along with him so far on his musical, lyrical and political journey. But that was soon to change. Weller's finest hours were still to come.

In 1987 'The Cost Of Loving' was released in a plain orange gate-fold sleeve. Being Weller's attempt to create a 'modern American soul sound like Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis', it mystified music critics and fans alike, and was a commercial disappointment. Undetered in his vision, however, Weller continued on his personal mission to make music that was important to him, that felt right, regardless of others' perceptions.

The next LP, 'Confessions of a Pop Group' was, in a similar way to Dexy's 'Don't Stand Me Down' (also released around this time), unlike anything expected from a 'pop' band. The record fused barber-shop harmonies, soulful ballads and Debussy-influenced piano suites into a mind-blowing mix that dumbfounded everyone. Fans hated it. It limped to number 15 and disappeared quickly into chart obscurity.

'Weller's lost it!' That was the general opinion in 1988. Paul Weller, however, had one more grand gesture up his sleeve.

In the summer of 1988, dance music took over the UK in a tide of youthful energy and ground-breaking musicality that had not been witnessed since the birth of Punk in 1976. The 'rave' scene transformed the musical landscape and changed the foundations of youth culture in a way that had never been seen before, and has not been repeated since. The drugs associated with the scene - E, in particular- enabled the conservative media and the Conservative government to vilify the movement, but for anyone who was young at the time, the days of the late 80s were glorious. Positivity abounded, acid parties where thousands of people got 'luv'd up' and danced all night in a state of almost religious communion sprung up in disused warehouses and industrial wastelands all over the country. Heady times, all bound together by a bass loop, an uplifting piano riff and a beat from an 808. House Music.

Paul Weller immersed himself in this most modernist of youth movements. For Weller to make a record of dance music would have been unthinkable at the time of The Jam's dominance. Even though he'd now gained a reputation for doing exactly what he wanted musically, absolutely no-one would have imagined what he delivered next to the Polydor offices.

'Modernism: A New Decade' was a House record. Weller had stood firm. His statement made.

The A&R executives deemed the record unreleasable. It was shelved indefinitely, eventually seeing light as part of a box set ten years later.

Weller was furious but unfazed. Integrity intact, there was only one thing he could do. The Style Council, much maligned but the most important band of the 80s, was laid to rest.

'We had a band that went 'no thanks' and we were still successful,' Weller said in retrospect. 'I had total belief in The Style Council. I was obsessed. I lived and breathed it all. I meant every word and felt every action.'

I've been frustrated when people don't get it. A year without racing is incomprehensible to most of my running friends. A year 'jogging on paths around Lincolnshire' is equally alien. But, like Weller, I've a belief. I know it's right. And the few people that understand, I'm sure, will be the ones that I really want to understand.

I'm stepping aside from the 'running scene' and entering a new world that many have stepped into, but few have so wholeheartedly embraced. A world where times are irrelevant, all miles are empty, and the experience is all. This world can exist anywhere. For me, its orbit is my home, the Lincolnshire Wolds.

Growing up, I always had the feeling that I could live anywhere - that the people around me were the important factor, not my location. And whilst my friends and family are, without doubt, the central thing in my life, my 'sense of place' has become increasingly important. I belong here - this place has captured me - I've fallen in love. To be able to lose myself in its beauty for large parts of next year is a wonderful prospect. Green lanes, field paths, country bridleways, hidden chapels, secluded churches, rolling hills and windswept beaches. These all await me. Freed from the prison of A-roads and the cell bars of the car windscreen, I can escape, discover, pay thanks.

The Fourth Statement.

Sometimes it seems there's nothing left. And it's at times like this that sometimes, just maybe, hope comes from the most unexpected sources. For Terence Stanley Fox, it came in the form of a magazine article about Dick Traum, the first amputee to complete the New York marathon. It had been brought to him, in the hospital, by Terri Fleming, Fox's senior high school coach. Stuck for words, Fleming had thought the article appropriate - after all, Fox was booked into theatre for the amputation of his right leg the day after. The coach doesn't remember the article making a great impression, but he was very wrong. In the hours after reading those words, Terry Fox made a decision that would change his life, as well as the lives of millions of others. The crazy idea that came to him during those lonely hours would be a statement. A statement of perseverance, of giving, of never accepting that enough's enough. A statement of hope.

Terry Fox had been lucky on the night of November 12th, 1976. Driving home to Port Coquitlam, British Columbia, he'd become distracted and driven straight into a half-ton truck. He emerged from the wreck unscathed except for a sore knee.

The soreness had continued into December, but Fox had dismissed it - athletes always had niggles - it would sort itself out. However, as the pain got worse in the opening months of 1977, he swallowed his pride and visited his local doctor on March 2nd.

On March 3rd, Doctor Piper, chief orthopaedic surgeon at the British Columbia Hospital informed Terry Fox of the bad news. X-rays and tests on the troublesome knee had confirmed the presence of osteogenic sarcoma, a cancer of connective and supportive tissue that strikes usually between the ages of 10 and 25 years, at a point in the life cycle when the body is growing most rapidly. Early on the morning of March 9th, Terry's right leg was amputated six inches above the knee. On the 21st, less than 3 weeks after receiving the bad news, he went in for his first fitting for a prosthetic leg.

The magazine article inspired Fox. After leaving hospital he embarked upon a 14-month training program, telling his family that he intended to compete in a marathon himself. This was true, but he kept a different goal to himself for now. Angered during his hospital experience at how little money was dedicated to cancer research, he began planning his 'Marathon Of Hope' - an epic run across Canada - 5300 miles, completing roughly 200 marathons in a row with no rest days in between. This was the dream, but the reason wasn't fame or personal glory. Terry's run would be a statement of hope - a light for all fellow cancer sufferers. His actions would increase cancer awareness, and along the way people would see Terry, recognise his cause and donate money for cancer research. Little did he know at the time that his actions would make him a treasured part of Canadian folklore.

In August 1979, Fox competed in a marathon in Prince George, BC. He finished in last place, ten minutes behind his closest competitor. His effort was met with tears and applause from the other participants. After the race, he revealed his full plans to his stunned family.

On the morning of April 12th, 1980, Terry Fox dipped his right leg in the Atlantic Ocean near St John's, Newfoundland, and filled two bottles with ocean water. He intended to keep one as a souvenir and pour the other into the Pacific Ocean upon completing his journey at Victoria, BC. Accompanied by his best friend, Doug Alward, who drove the van and cooked meals, Fox began his run. The mayor of St John's gave him an honourary send-off, but there was little media fanfare and no cheering crowds. That first day, he ran 11 miles.

The early days were unimaginably gruelling. Running against gale force winds and heavy rains, and frustrated by individuals he perceived as impeding the run, as well as a lack of donations, Fox and Alward arrived in Montreal, Quebec on the 22nd June, one third of the way through the run and barely on speaking terms. Omens seemed bleak.

But Montreal marked a change. Isodore Sharp, founder of the Four Seasons Hotel and Resorts, a woman who had lost a son to cancer in 1978, had become intrigued by the 'one-legged kid trying to do the impossible'. She offered him free accommodation on his run, pledged $2 a mile to his cause and persuaded nearly a thousand other corporations to do the same.

On June 23rd 1980, Terry released red balloons from the roof of the Four Seasons Hotel in Montreal. It was the first time in 73 days that Terry hadn't run. It was also the first time that many people became aware of the miracle that was the Marathon Of Hope. In a few short weeks, there probably wasn't a single soul in the whole of Canada who hadn't heard the name of Terry Fox.

As his fame grew, Fox's integrity remained unblemished. He attended more functions, gave more speeches, and attempted to accommodate to any request that he believed would raise money, no matter how inconvenient to his running schedule. Yet he bristled at media intrusions into his private life, and rejected any pledges that demand he endorse a product. For the whole of his run, Terry was inflexible about his wardrobe. He would only wear his white Marathon Of Hope tee-shirts and grey shorts. Decades ahead of his time, he refused to wear clothing that had logos or brand names on them.

During the searing heat of the summer, Fox continued to run a marathon a day. On his arrival in Ottawa, he was greeted by the Governor General and Prime Minister. In front of 16,000 fans, he performed a ceremonial kick-off at an Ottawa Rough Riders game and received a standing ovation. Slowly, Terry was beginning to understand how deeply moved Canadians were by his efforts.

In Toronto, a crowd of 10,000 people met him in Nathan Phillips Square.

In Southern Ontario, he was met by his childhood hero, hockey player Bobby Orr, who presented him with a cheque for $25,000.

Early on September 1st 1980, just east of Thunder Bay, Ontario, Terry ran 13 miles. In the afternoon, the highway was crowded with supporters. The weather was good. 5 miles into his run, Terry began coughing and then developed a 'dull, blunt pain'. The pain persisted and worsened. 3,339 miles into his Marathon Of Hope, Fox got into the van and asked Doug Alward to drive him to the hospital. 'It's not my ankle, and it isn't my foot,' he told him. They drove to the hospital in silence.

X-rays quickly revealed that Terry's right lung had a growth the size of a golf ball. A less-defined growth, the size of a lemon, was found in his left. The bone cancer he hoped he had beaten had spread to his lungs through his bloodstream.

At the exact spot on the Trans-Canadian Highway where Terry Fox's run ended on the afternoon of September 1st 1980, stands a small wooden post. It was placed there in 1981 by Ontario's Ministry of Transportation. Jim Pope, a local mechanic mows the weeds and grass between the post and the highway during the growing season. 'I don't know how to put it,' he says, 'Everything today is to make money. People have to do nice things for each other.'

Terry Fox developed pneumonia and fell into a coma on June 27th 1981. He died on the 28th at 4.35am, his favourite time for running - a time free of traffic and noise. A time to enjoy the day, newly born and filled with promise.

His funeral was broadcast live on national TV. For a short while, the whole of Canada stopped to remember the 22 year old kid.

Fox had raised $1.7 million by the time he was forced to abandon his run. A week after the run ended, a 5-hour telethon, supported by Canadian and international celebrities raised another $10.5 million. By the following April, over $23 million had been raised.

With the help of Isodore Sharp, one of Terry's greatest supporters, the Fox family organised the 1st Terry Fox Run on September 13th 1981. Over 300,000 took part all over the country and $3.5 million was raised. The 30th Terry Fox Run was held on September 19th 2010. The Terry Fox Run is now the world's largest one-day fundraiser for cancer research. Over $500 million has been raised in his name.

Douglas Coupland's exceptional book 'Terry' contains the script of a letter sent to Terry by Darren Hardemann, a primary school student. It serves as a reminder that his life, his efforts, his statement touched everyone. It serves as a reminder that millions of people recognised in Terry a quality beyond simple physical perseverance.

'Dear Terry,

Here is a story for you.
Terry was a good boy but he did not know Christmas was coming. When Christmas came, he still didn't know Christmas was here. But when they gave Terry some candy, Terry said 'I will give you some candy.' And Terry gave them all his candy.

The End.'

I was a teenager when I first heard of Terry Fox. After doing a long run with Our Kid one wintry Sunday, I'd got home, had a bath and settled down in front of the tele with homework on my knee. On days like this, TV was usually background noise. But not today. The documentary we watched together that afternoon all those years ago still rates as the biggest influence on my running life. The story of Terry Fox. One scene - Fox running along a highway into the end of a rainy day, his van following slowly, The Hollies' 'He's Not Heavy' playing over the top, left an indelible impression. From that moment on, I knew that one day I would 'run a long way.'

Fox is still my ultimate running hero. I've admiration for scores of runners who have achieved outstanding feats, but the purity of Fox's vision, his raw honesty and selflessness, and, I guess, the emotion of the tragic end to his quest gives his Marathon Of Hope a status that always makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

His feat may be repeated, but never equalled. He ran his miles in an age when the world was different. For an ordinary man to run a marathon in 1980, right before the first big running boom, was a rarity. For a courageous kid to attempt to run 200 in succession was simply unbelievable.

I think of Fox often. His image appears when I'm down, exhausted, pissed off. When my troublesome foot plagues me and has me questioning myself if my whole project is ever going to start, let alone finish, it's Terry Fox I turn to.

Then a scene from a documentary plays in my head - a crazy kid run-hopping along a highway, and I hear the words to a song that still brings tears to my eyes:

'The road is long
With many a winding turn
That leads to who knows where
Who knows where.

But I'm strong,
Strong enough to carry him
He ain't heavy
He's my brother.'

The Fifth Statement.

There's a story that goes round. I'm unsure how much of it is true, but speak to any Liverpool supporter who was in Istanbul that night and they'll vouch that it happened.

As a massive contingent of supporters hung out in bars and coffee shops on the night before the 2005 Champions League final, a figure made his way quietly out of the shadows of the back streets and moved amongst them. He sat and talked with them, bought some of them a beer and shared with them his hopes for the following evening. He stayed a while, made apologies and then went back to his hotel. It was an act of community, of thankfulness, that guaranteed that Liverpool manager, Rafa Benitez, would forever be an Anfield legend. The Liverpool fans sung his name that night - 'Rafa...Raphael...Raphael Benitez' with a fervour that could be heard all the way back to Merseyside.

Twenty-four hours later, as the AC Milan and Liverpool teams walked off the pitch at half-time, the same chants could still be heard. Hopeful, enthusiastic, defiant. One might not have guessed that it had been the most one-sided Champions League final in history. AC Milan had scored an early goal and proceeded to weave circles round a Liverpool team that looked out of their depth. Kaka, Crespo and Shevchenko had been untouchable. Indeed, the half-time score of 3-0 looked kind on Liverpool.

What Rafa Benitez told his team at half-time will only really be known by those in the dressing room that night. It's likely, though, that there was no rousing speech, no call to arms. The noise outside the calm and composed dressing room was to provide motivation enough. Through the quiet, the Liverpool team could hear the celebrations of the AC Milan players in the adjacent room. Even though the game was only half-way through, they were celebrating a Champions League final victory. There seemed no return for the shambolic team from England's north-west.

Maybe this was the catalyst for what was to come. Or maybe it was the noise of the crowd. The AC Milan supporters could not be heard. Liverpudlian voices filled the stadium. 'You'll Never Walk Alone' bounced around the ground in an unstoppable sonic wave.

At that moment, maybe Benitez looked at Steven Gerrard, Liverpool's talismanic front man, and for both of them everything became clear. Benitez would make the important tactical change that was to transform the match. He'd tell substitute Didi Hamann to lace up his boots, give him his instructions to sit in midfield and create havoc. Create havoc, and let loose the dog of war that was Gerrard.

At that moment, maybe Gerrard heard the words that he'd sung at Anfield since he was a kid, that his cousin had sung at the semi-final at Hillsborough before he and another 95 Liverpool supporters were tragically killed, that he'd heard from the stands as he'd worked himself up from local-boy-done-good to club captain.

'When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high.'

And when he heard those words, maybe he decided to make a statement - to attempt what everyone else believed was a mission impossible.

Making light of those first-half Milan goals, Gerrard tore into the Italians from the first whistle of that second half. In six short minutes, Gerrard scored, created the space for Vladimir Smicer to add a second, and then won the penalty for Xabi Alonso to drive Liverpool level.

It was six minutes that shook the world. It was six minutes that so stunned AC Milan that they would have no hope of recovery. losing eventually to Liverpool in a penalty shoot out. At the end of the match, devastated Milan team members would throw their loser's medals into the crowd, ashamed, unable to believe what had happened.

It was six minutes that turned sporting logic on its head, that sent the in-game betting world into meltdown, that stopped Evertonians celebrating in the streets back home and had certain Chelsea players cursing their television screens in frustration.

Orchestrated by the determination of Steven Gerrard, the tactical cunning of Rafa Benitez and the burning passion of the fans who demanded that each player perform with pride in the shirt, those six minutes were a statement in themselves. Six minutes that showed you should never give up.

There have been some hard times since that Istanbul final. Times when the impossible has not happened and defeat has left raw wounds. But even now, nearly six years on, a familiar exhortation will go around Liverpool players or supporters when they walk through a storm. Two words. 'Remember Istanbul,' they'll say, 'Remember Istanbul.'

The forest is dark. I've left everything behind - all the things I detest.

Corporate sponsorship; hollow world records manufactured by big city race organisers and facilitated by mercenary pacers; meaningless shoe reviews in shallow magazines subsidised by the advertising of sports giants; exhortations that buying more gear will make you a better runner; treadmills; gymnasiums; pointless running-related Apps; virtual training in front of a TV; extortionate race-entry fees; the mugging of road races by charities; making up the miles for the sake of the training diary's weekly total; interval sessions; track work-outs; sticking to the road; running with a watch; being monitored by Garmin or Nike+.

All these and more.

Who knows what I'll find along this path? Who knows how far I'll get?

Rain threatens as the clouds above the foilage thicken. Heavy weather approaching. I'll run through the rain, not race it. Knock down my demons. And if the clouds break - if I walk through a storm - I'll hold my head up high.

The leaves paint pictures of parts of me. Raindrops of memories; a comma; a blue plastic box; a singing car; empty miles; a beautiful wife and our superheroes. An old man on a lonely beach whispering 'Keep it up son.' One foot in front of the other. A breath. A heartbeat.

'And on we go.'

The sixth statement starts on January 1st 2012 with the Tennyson 20.

Absolutely Full Of Not Much

2011-11-12T06:11:00.000-08:00

We stand and watch the fire. Long licks of flame , red-orange embers. And a memory returns, as it does this time every year. Of what happened that night. Headlights flashing on and off. Car doors opening and closing. A high-pitched metallic voice repeating inane lyrics from a nauseating pop song:

'I'm a Barbie girl,
In a Barbie world.
Life in plastic,
It's fantastic!'

The night when one world came to an end. The night we lost everything.

It had been a tough few days, but the last big push of the summer season was almost done. I'd left the house on Friday afternoon and had criss-crossed the South East and the Midlands, standing on the busiest one-day markets of the August Bank Holiday long weekend. I'd slept in the front of the van for five nights, washed in service station toilets, and worked the stall by myself all day. But it had been worth it. This new line was a killer!

It was Wednesday evening now. After packing down at Hull's Walton Street market, I'd driven to the Burgh Road Industrial Estate in Skegness to pick up a few sacks of fruit scented footballs from a local wideboy. All I'd got left to do was to call at the Unit, collect the week's takings from Our Kid, and then I could get home. I couldn't believe how much I'd missed Tam and our little smasher. I'd spoken to him on the phone a few times over the weekend, but you don't get much conversation from a one-year old.

Tomorrow would be the first day off in months. A quick trip to the bank in the morning, and the rest of the day was mine. Might even be able to get out for a run. I felt lost without it, but each day seemed so full nowadays, I just always ran out of time.

The future looked bright. After spells of heavy weather, it finally seemed as though things were going well.

It had been hard leaving him behind on the beach that morning, but I'd returned from the dark night with a new determination. Keep it up son. Keep it up son. My mantra both haunted and drove me. And now I had a wife and a beautiful boy, a family to provide for. I would make them so happy.

I'd resigned from my teaching job and joined forces with my twin. Together, we bought a ten-foot pitch at the Fantasy Island resort - home to the largest seven-day market in Europe. In two years, we'd grown from selling off table-tops to building our own shop unit and establishing ourselves as one of the biggest players on the gaffe. If you wanted pound items, Knick-knacks, household goods or toys, you went to 'RAINBOW SWAG'. We'd shunned the flash of the other market wanabees, ignored the fakery of the culture of gold watches, designer shades and sports cars on the tick, but had earnt the respect of every stallholder down there. They all knew we did well, took some serious money, and whilst some were envious and their respect grudging, most wished us luck. Because they knew we'd made it, not because we were smarter than anyone else, but because we worked the hardest. Sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, start of March till the end of September.

I guess when you invest that much time and effort into anything, it can't help but be successful. And there we were - successful businessmen. But concentrating on one thing to the detriment of all others has consequences. I had a son who's first year I'd missed out on. Our Kid had a family that was disintegrating in his absence.

We both knew things had to change. And change it would soon, because we held a card up our sleeves that would make us rich by Christmas and give us all the opportunity we needed to step aside and kick back.

Luck had smiled upon us, and salvation had come in the form of a sports car from China.

A month before the August Bank Holiday weekend, Our Kid had arrived back from Manchester with a couple of cartons of sheer heaven.

'I've got this line from Raj at Premier Discount,' he'd said. 'He reckons it'll be a flying machine.'

He opened one of the cartons and took out a small rectagular box. The box featured a picture of a red Ferrari, over which was written, 'SUPER SINGING ACTION SPORTING CAR. MADE IN CHINA.'

He'd opened the box and took out a cheap, plastic, yellow sports car.

He'd opened a panel on the underside of the cheap, plastic, yellow sports car and inserted four AA batteries.

Then, he'd turned to me, smiled, and said, 'Watch this!'

He pressed a button on the side of the car, OFF to ON, and placed it on the floor.

The car sprung into life. Its wheels rotated and it carreered round in a crazy, hypnotic bump 'n' go action. Then it stopped.

But only for a second.

Suddenly, its headlights flashed on and off. The doors opened and snapped back shut. Its roof retracted, changing the car in an instant from a hard-top into a souped-up convertible. And then the music and the singing started. A high-pitched metallic voice repeating inane lyrics from a nauseating pop song:

'I'm a Barbie girl,
In a Barbie world.
Life in plastic,
It's fantastic!'

We both watched as the crazy car went through the same cycle time and time again.

'What do you think?' Our Kid had asked eventually, 'Cost us two quid, sell for a fiver.'

For the first time in ages, I was speechless. I just nodded.

We'd sold those first two cartons in a morning - 288 pieces gone in a couple of hours. The excitement was unbearable - this was it!

The following day, Our Kid went up to Manchester to do The Deal. The first few cartons had been flown over from China so that the wholesaler could test the market. Two containers full of them were now on the water - they'd be here in a fortnight, but there'd be no more docking after that until the new year.

Never ones for putting all our eggs into one basket, it had taken us no time at all to throw them all in on this occasion. This was our chance. We wiped out our bank accounts, used all the money the business had made, and bought the lot.

All these thoughts were going through my mind as I jumped in the van that Wednesday evening to make my way to the Unit. Our Kid had done some cracking business over the Bank Holiday - record days all the way, and all down to that singing car. And what's more, we had thousands left - the only ones in the UK. The run up to Christmas would be amazing! Maybe I'll take Tam into town tomorrow - book a nice holiday for January, I'm thinking, when the phone rings.

I pull over, reach for the 3310 on the dash and answer the call. It's Our Kid.

'Alright?' I ask, 'I'm on my way down now. Keep those takings safe. I'll stick them in the bank tomorrow.'

'Yeah, alright,' he answers. 'Hey, guess what?' he continues, ' that bedding stall at the end of our row is on fire. Smoke everywhere.'

'Serious?' I ask.

'Nah, ' he goes on, 'They've called the Fire Brigade - they'll be here any minute.'

'Right,' I tell him, 'I'll see you in ten minutes.'

Ten minutes later, I'm stuck in a traffic jam on the Roman Bank. Ahead, in the direction of the Fantasy Island resort, a volcano is erupting. Flames leaping a hundred feet high, smoke smothering the horizon. Lot of smoke for one small fire, I think.

As I pull on the market car park, a large crowd has gathered. Reminds me of Bonfire Night. I jump out the van and bump straight into a familiar face - Old Vic from Mansfield, our most regular customer. He sees me and there's tears in his eyes.

'I'm so sorry, Chris, ' he says and puts his hand on my shoulder.

'Alright, Vic, ' I reply. 'What you on about?'

'Oh, I thought you knew, ' he goes on, 'Your unit's on fire.'

I find Our Kid by the taped-off area. The whole of one side of the complex is alight.

We don't say anything for ages. We just stand and watch the fire. Long licks of flame, red-orange embers. We watch as the flames engulf our Unit. We watch as the flames swallow up the first container of singing cars. We watch as the fire destroys the second container, burning until the metal walls are bent and blackened and the air is full of the sweet scent of melting plastic. We watch, hypnotised, as we were when we first saw that car, and I'm sure, amongst the flames, I can see headlights flashing on and off. Car doors opening and closing. And, if I listen carefully, above the sound of exploding glass and Fire Brigade generators, there's that high-pitched metallic voice repeating inane lyrics from a nauseating pop song:

'I'm a Barbie girl,
In a Barbie world.
Life in plastic,
It's fantastic!'

After a while I turn to Our Kid. 'Wish we'd insured it all now,' I say.

'Yeah,' he replies, 'but those premiums were a bit on the expensive side, eh?'

I can't help but laugh.

'Well, things could be worse,' I go on, 'At least we've got the week's takings. Where are they?'

'Things are worse,' he says. 'The takings are still in the stall.'

'What?!' I yell.

'The best part of twenty grand. It's still in the stall. The Fire Brigade got us to clear the site and I forgot all about the money. It's still in the stall.'

'What, in the safe?' I ask. The fire-proof safe, I pray.

'No - in a plastic bag inside a cardboard box in the stock room.'

Looking back on that night, I'm amazed at how calm we were. Of course, I know that we argued, fought, laughed and cried before we were allowed back on site in the early hours of Thursday morning. Most probably a discarded cigarette, the Fire Brigade had concluded.

We creep around the remains of our livelihood. Embers smoulder as we poke them with sticks. The money's gone. The stock's gone. The Unit will need to be pulled down. We've lost everything.

'Let's go home,' I say to Our Kid. 'We'll get back early tomorrow. Decide what to do then.'

'Alright,' he says, ' Not be early though.'

'Eh?' I reply.

'My bike was in the Unit!' he says, and now we're laughing. Laughing so hard we can't stop.

'Got enough for bus fare?' I splutter in the middle of it all.

'No,' he goes, ' All my money was in the Unit!' We're laughing again as I make my way to the car park and he heads for the main road.

I've taken a few steps before I stop. I turn and yell. 'Dennis!'

He stops and looks back.

'Keep On Burning!'

'Yeah,' he shouts back. He punches the air and jogs off like Rocky. 'Keep On Burning!' he's shouting, 'Keep On Burning!'

I hear his voice all the way back to the car park.

We stand and watch the fire. Long licks of flame, red-orange embers. Bonfire Night. The superheroes press their faces to the window, looking over at the crowd in the garden across the lane. The fireworks'll be starting soon. Tam comes through from the kitchen with some mugs of hot chocolate.

Sometimes, it's only when you've got nothing left that you realise how much you've got. That night was a turning point - the moment I turned my back on a life that was so absolutely full of not much.

In the years that followed we started anew, built another successful business around the important things in life, not on top of them. Before long, Our Kid realised he wanted none of it. He gave up his partnership, studied yoga, bought a small caravan and found a girl who loves him for what he is rather than for what he can buy her.

And me? Well, I continue to work hard, but my job doesn't define me. I'm a runner now, an empty miler, a Dad, a husband.

As the fireworks start, we all huddle together to watch the display. Via the reflection in the window, my sight is drawn from the explosions in the night sky to the three most important things in my life. It's only now that I realise how much I've changed. Back then, I thought I needed everything. Now, I know, I have everything I need.

Tardis

2011-10-29T07:36:00.000-07:00

Dawn comes after darkness.

All this talk of PB's was troubling me. For weeks the atmosphere at the Club had been buoyant - everyone was running well. Forum posts would outline new best times for 10k's, half-marathons. Talk on a Monday would be of tempo runs, interval sessions, efforts along the promenade. And whilst genuinely pleased for everyone involved, proud to be a part of such a special group, I couldn't help but feel left out.

My goal wasn't a PB. My running wasn't geared towards it, but I missed the instant hit that a great performance brings. I guess I was jealous.

I'd try and explain my goals for next year - 'I'm going to run every Long Distance Path that starts, finishes or passes through Lincolnshire. No-one's done it before' - and I'd be greeted by a bemused look.

'Oh right,' would come the inevitable reply, 'but what races are you doing? What are you training towards?'

My faith was waning.

Where were these empty miles taking me? Anywhere? Nowhere? Had I got all of this wrong? Tired of racing the weather, darkness had descended.

Dawn comes after darkness.

Every run was a chore. I began seeking company, unable to envisage another long run by myself, listening to that inner voice that had started prodding me and sneering, 'You don't know what you're doing!'

My moods weren't helped by a constant trial of physical set-backs. My feet hurt - really hurt - so bad that the usually painful first steps across the landing in the morning went from a stagger to a hobble. After taking it easy during September to avoid the chest infections that had knocked me down last winter, no sooner was I upping the miles again then that 'not great' feeling reappeared for the first time in months. No steps forward, two steps back.

So, coming into Alford on a run back from work on a Friday evening, I came up with an idea. Maybe I'll squeeze in a half-marathon before Christmas. Cross-country season was almost on us - plenty of shorter, faster races to get me ready for a big effort. I'd done a 1.20 two or three years back before the London. Hopefully get somewhere near that.

Passing the chemists, I ran straight into the memory of someone I knew years back - an odd kid, but a good runner. I'm sure his PB for a half was 1.12 something. I'd helped him move once - must be a decade or more ago - and stored all his stuff in the garage at the house in Chapel. He'd never bothered to collect it, and, although I often thought about him, I'd made no effort to keep in touch. After I'd met Tam and we'd bought our own place together, most of his stuff went down the tip - I was glad to see the back of it. I'd kept his training diaries though - they were in a blue plastic box in the loft somewhere.

I'd got the house to myself till Sunday - Tam and the kids were down at Jo's for a couple of days. I'll dig it out tomorrow, I resolved, do a bit of research, get a plan together.

Dawn comes after darkness.

I'm lying on the bed. It's early - light through the window where the curtains can't quite reach. I'm lying on the bed, but the tiredness won't translate to sleep. I miss Tam and the superheroes - not used to being here without them. It feels like someone else's house.

Eventually I get up, hobble across the landing, then down to the kitchen, make a cup of tea. I sit at the table in the back room and stare out the patio doors.

I can't face the BBC News, and suddenly remember my plan. Grabbing a chair, I cart it up the stairs with me and position it under the loft hatch outside our bedroom. Lifting the hatch up and aside, I pull myself up into the loft and, by the light of my headtorch, try to find that blue box. It doesn't take much doing, and, a few minutes later, I'm back at the table, fresh cup of tea, ready to start.

I take a big slurp and step into the tardis.

The box is full of blue, hardbacked books. Each book is crammed with concise, immaculately neat handwriting, chronicling not just miles but a whole life. The inside cover of each book bears a label with the period the writing covers.

I pull one out at random, check the date. 'September 1985- November 1986.' Too early. One afternoon, years earlier, I'd looked through some of these. Throughout the 80's, the writing mostly detailed sessions, times and race reports, self-analysis and training schedules. As the years passed, the writing became more personal. Often, running would only be mentioned in passing or simply not at all. I'd felt ashamed bach then, aware that reading someone's diaries - their deepest thoughts - was a crime I should not be party to. I'd read a few anyway, before the guilt got the better of me.

We'd had a good scene in Boston during the early 90's - a group of us had fallen together and a fierce competitiveness had nurtured an ethic of hard work and gruelling endurance sessions, resulting in some reasonable road times. '93- '94 would be where to look.

Hours seem to pass before I find what I'm looking for:

SUNDAY 26th SEPTEMBER 1993    20.23pm
Robin Hood Half - a really good day. During the run I had the same ups and downs as last year - felt terrible along Castle Boulevard and up to Wollaton Park. I thought I'd got my laces tied too tight - both my feet were aching and heavy - people were passing me. I hit a good spell through the Park - getting it together - and things really started to click once we got up the hill and back to Queens Med at 9 miles.
I was cruising after that. I'd no watch, but I knew there was a clock at 10, and I knew I was moving. I went through when it was ticking through the 55's. I pushed the last 3, and as I came down the finishing funnel, I could see 1.12 something. Out of my dreams - a true breakthrough. I was smiling my head off, punching the air like Steve Ovett. Through the tape in 1.12.36.
It's a sign - this breakthrough - this huge chunk off anything I've run before. I'm being taken care of. Everything will be alright.

I read it through a couple of times, ponder the last sentence, and then flick through the preceeding pages for some training tips. He'd been trying to break 1.15 for the best part of a year, always close but never really there. And then suddenly, this massive chunk off the PB. I search for clues as to the training that led to this race, but there's nothing there. Endless talk of arguments - the breakdown of a relationship - some girl from Australia - but no running whatsoever.

I scan the pages that follow the race, but the writing becomes increasingly inward-looking, self-defeating. Although there's the occasional mention of a club run or a road race, it's only in passing. The words are punk, angry, or cloyingly self-pitying and pathetic. It's uncomfortable reading, but I can't help myself. I shouldn't be here - an intruder into someone else's life - but I can't stop myself.

I spend the afternoon on the couch, one page turning another, volume after volume. There's mentions of big running trips - John o'Groats to Land's End, St Bee's to Robin Hood's Bay - but by now I'm more interested in everything else. All these words. Every emotion. Clouds full of teardrops. And all I can think of is why wasn't there anyone for this kid to talk to? Why is it all here in words? Surely no-one can be that alone?

I make cheese on toast before I open the last volume. The day's disappeared.

There's detailed talk of another adventure - a run across Africa - and running once again dominates each page. Months and months of preparation, 210 mile weeks, the hope of a new beginning. And then, no entries for more than six months.

When the writing begins again, the tone has changed. Something happened in those six months, but there's no talk of it. Not one word.

The running, it's also apparent, has stopped.

The last volume - the final blue book - ends with four entries:

JUNE 9th 1998 02.31am
'Get off!' I told Russ.
'No,' he said, and he was smirking slightly, 'All true.'
I had to think for a while about the story he'd just told me, and I couldn't help but laugh. 'Is there anything you haven't done?' I asked him.
He took a step forward, looked at me, serious all of a sudden. 'I sit in the caravan some nights when there's nothing on the tele, and I think I've done everything. That I've done everything and I might as well kill myself.'
His face was straight. He nodded his head. 'All true,' he said.
I looked away - couldn't look at him.
'I'm alone. We all are.' That's what he said before he walked off.

27th JUNE 1998

I've demons tonight
Waiting...to pull me aside
                    pull me down
                    pull my hair out in chunks

Waiting...to make lovers leave
                              brothers go away
                              mothers loose belief in me

Waiting...to carve their name with razor blades
                on skin made raw from punches

And I wait for their arrival
Curled up tight
Eyes closed, head closed, heart closed
Just too tired to fight.

29th JULY 1998
I'm lying on the bed. It's early - light through the window where the curtains can't quite reach. I'm lying on the bed, desperate to sleep - fall asleep, disappear.
And I think of her - that girl I've never met - that girl who'll save me. And I think if I think hard enough, she'll call. She'll know how much I need her.
Waiting for the phone to ring, willing it to ring. Praying, giving everything. And when she rings, she'll just say, 'You ok?'
But the phone never rings, and I get tired of waiting.
Later, in the darkness, I sit on the edge of the bed. I scatter the pills on the carpet and count them. Twenty. Not enough. I don't want to cry for help.
My heart's being squeezed. I have to stand. I wander around the chalet, lights off, a dull moon, and end up in the bathroom. I need a razor blade, some comfort in all this. I take a disposable razor and pull it apart, prise out the blade

30th JULY
I'll run a long way tonight. I've not run a step since I got back.
Looking forward to it.

And that's that. Nothing else. I rest my head against the cushion, close my eyes, think of the last time I saw him.

I go to close the book, but the pages come to rest with the front cover still open. There's no dates on the label in this volume. All that's written there in small, neat handwriting is the name of its owner. 'Chris Rainbow.'

I put the book down. Step out of the tardis.

It's always darkest before the dawn.

The last time I saw him, we were sitting together on the beach at Mablethorpe's North End Pullover. We watched the sun rise, and he took off his shoes and cried a little. He looked so tired. An elderly man was walking his dog on the beach with his grandson. He came over and talked to us. And he said something that I can still remember. He said, 'Keep it up son.'

I left Chris sitting on the beach. Without even a goodbye, I jogged back to Anderby Creek and just left him there. And I've not seen him since.

It's getting dark outside. I'm just looking at the phone, and it starts ringing. The sudden noise makes me jump. I pick up the handset and say, 'Hello?'

'Hi Babe,' says the girl I always knew was waiting. Even all those years ago. 'You ok?'

'Yeah,' I say, 'I'm ok.'

'What you been up to?' she asks.

'I've been travelling back in time,' I tell her.

'Oh right,' she says, unfazed, 'Anywhere nice?'

'No. Not really. I won't be going back.'

'Listen Babe,' she goes on, 'I'm in a hurry, but don't foget to record Doctor Who for the kids, will you?'

'No, I won't,' I say, smiling.

She's just about to go. 'Ok. Love you,' I say. I never say that first, say it too little full-stop, but I can't help it.

'Love you too,' she replies, 'We'll see you tomorrow.'

After Doctor Who, I make more tea and go into the back room. I'm about to embark on a wonderful running adventure. For some reason, a half-marathon doesn't seem important anymore. I pull out maps, plan routes, mark in dates on my calendar. It's all coming together.

It's empty miles that took me from that beach. Endless empty miles that got me here from there. I've a lifetime's still to run.

The odd kid I was can keep the PB's. I don't want them anymore.

Dawn comes after darkness.

I'm lying on the bed. It's late, but there's light through the window where the curtains can't quite reach. I'm lying on the bed, and soon contentment translates to sleep.

In my dream, I'm running along the beach. Above me, on the promenade, stand a procession of athletes, Easter Island statues, looking out to sea, immobile. Each wears a medal and a smile. Each one looks through me.

Ahead, by the North End Pullover, I see a figure get up from the sand and start walking towards the water. I run up to him and call his name.

He turns and looks at me, genuinely surprised, pleased to see me.

'Chris! Didn't expect this. You ok?' he says.

'I'm good,' I reply.

'What you up to?' he says, 'Still racing?'

'Only against the weather,' I reply.

He laughs.

'I'm going to run every Long Distance Path that starts, finishes or passes through Lincolnshire,' I tell him, 'No-one's done it before.'

I'm greeted by a bemused look. Then he smiles. 'That's just you,' he says. He understands.

'Come with me,' I plead.

'No thanks,' he says, 'Too tired.'

I nod slowly.

'I've got to go,' he says.

I step towards him and we hug for a long time. This is goodbye.

I'm further up the beach when I stop running. I stand for a while and then glance back, desperate for one last look.

But, as wave after wave breaks against the shore, I realise he's no longer there.

There's only me on the beach.

Over the water, dawn is breaking.

A Race Against The Weather

2011-10-12T11:46:00.000-07:00

The clouds had been hanging over me all day. The restlessness inside me had pushed me from one half-finished job to another. My patience had been thin, my temper too quick. I'd got tired of the times Tam had asked me, 'What's wrong?'

'There's nothing wrong,' I'd answered each time, 'I'm just fed up. Sick of it all.'

'Sick of what?' she'd said.

'Sick of it all,' I'd replied.

Driving back from work that evening, I thought the club run at Well Woods might shake the feeling away. But I'd played a part for an hour. Played the part of the way I usually am. I'd laughed and joked, talked rubbish and taken the piss. But when the run was finished, when I'd exited the stage, the feeling I'd had all day remained. As I said my farewells to club mates, I decided a long run home might be the solution. Instead of the three mile jog through Alford and onto Saleby, I'd head up to Jones' Farm, round to Rigsby, Ailby and back along the drain. At six or seven miles, it might give me time to get things right before I got home.

After heading down the dip through the woods, I'm soon on the dirt track to the farm. In the distance, the sky is darkening. A late summer storm - a really big one by the looks of it. Getting caught in that will be just the end to the day that I don't need. Feeling good, I pick up the pace.

These days, my life was generally lived in sunshine. Things couldn't be better. But, occasionally, clouds would block the sun. A feeling that was ever-present in younger days would reappear and squeeze my optimism dry. Today had been a cloudy day. I was glad it was almost at its end.

On the track to Ailby, my thoughts are interrupted by the distant rumble of thunder. Heavy weather. I pick up the pace and head towards the road a half-mile away. In a few minutes, I'm there.

At the stile by the garden centre, I pause, gather thoughts and look back in the direction of the way I've come. The sky is angry, ominous, shades of black. The storm moving closer. And, in the middle distance, rain is falling, grey confetti, obscuring the view beyond. I climb the step, eager to push on, but am compelled to stop and look again. And when I look, the edges blur and focus shifts.

Each raindrop is a teardrop. Every teardrop is a memory.

I see a scared little boy trying to dry a bedsheet during the night before his mum finds out he's wet the bed again.

I see a drunken teenager, ripped, blood-stained shirt, punching a night-club wall in angry frustration.

I see a young man, tears running down his cheeks, walking slowly towards a hospital bed to kiss his dying dad goodbye.

I see a lonely figure sitting on a lonely beach, deserted except for a dog and an elderly man holding his grandson's hand.

The raindrops falling. The storm moving closer. And I know what I must do. The race has started. I turn and run.

The path by the field edge is overgrown, but my footfall is assured and light. I'm running quickly, skipping over fallen branches, jumping over ditches. I listen for the sound of the steps made by my rival, but, of course, it's not there. A stillness has descended - the calm before the storm - the sky is about to explode. Looking over my shoulder will admit defeat, but, on reaching the road to Tothby Hall, I can't resist. A nuclear sky is approaching, buildings falling, tornadoes, dust clouds, a devastating tsunami of the worst of times. And the raindrops, the inevitable reminders of the events I've done my best to forget.

I run faster, pushing my limits and then pushing more. But not fast enough. As I rush through the gate towards the Grift Wold drain, I feel the first raindrop, and then another. I stop. Stand still. Wait for the words of the hangman. But no words are uttered. Two solitary raindrops, and then nothing. I look back to the sky, my execution delayed, and start running again.

There comes a time in every race when you realise that you've broken your opponent. After chasing you down, you might run side by side for a while, but an increase in pace will put you back in front. The invisible rope might tether you at first, but once that rope is broken - once the gap is ten yards or more - there's no return. The race is mine.

As I leg it up the hill towards the cross-roads, the storm clouds have sucked the daylight away. In the gloom, I can hear the rain falling behind me. In the distance, I can see the lights in the windows of the houses in the village. The finish line is nearly here. Inside our house, Lightning will be watching Top Gear whilst drawing a picture of a dinosaur. Whirlwind will be dancing in front of her bedroom mirror singing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'. Tammy will be making tea in the kitchen. She'll hear the door open and shout, 'Oh-about time Chris. I was getting worried.'

I hit Rose Lane and I'm sprinting. The last few steps and I collapse against the door. There's no time for the step tonight - the weather is on my heels. I turn the handle and fall into the light.

As I slip my shoes off in the hallway, Tam comes through from the kitchen and makes her way into the front room. 'About time Chris,' she says as she goes past, 'I was getting worried.' In the back room I can hear Top Gear on the tele. Whirlwind's singing in her bedroom upstairs. I follow Tam into the lounge and stand by the window.

She comes over and wraps her arms around me. 'You're soaking,' she says, 'it's like you've been racing.'

I'm safe. I'm home.

Outside, the sky cracks and rain starts to fall. I watch the raindrops batter the window pane. And I watch as the teardrops and the memories slide down the glass before they're discarded in a puddle on the window sill.

I turn back to Tam.

'I've been racing the weather,' I tell her. 'And I won.'

A Comma

2011-09-27T09:44:00.000-07:00

It's three weeks since the tractors and trailers stopped passing. All afternoon, into early evening and through the night, the silence on Rose Lane would be squeezed small by the frantic rumble of the speeding farm vehicles, transporting grain from the fields behind the house to the storage sheds on the corner. I'd wake in the small hours, glance at the clock's LED display and hear the far-away groan of the Combines still at work - a comforting sound - a reminder, like rain against the window or wind through leaves, that the world keeps turning even when you're playing no part.

And then, suddenly, it's gone. The harvest is in, August ends, and September arrives like a sigh.

It's 6am. I lean against the pavilion on the Spilsby playing fields and take off my shoes. A mist hangs low in an eerie layer over the football pitches, and, thinking of the words of Keats, I walk over the concrete walkway to the edge of the grass.

September has always been my favourite month. If a year was a sentence, September would be a comma - a moment to breathe between finishing one thing and starting another. For a month, the year's on hold. Summer still lingers in the occasional glorious late-season sunshine, but the bite of winter is never far away. Days shorten, time slows slightly. Hard times are round the corner, but always just a way away.

It's dark, but I can make out the dew on the grass. It sparkles like glitter. I step off the concrete and begin to jog. It's been a while since I've been here in the morning, but I'm glad to be back.

An easy 3 mile run round the local playing fields before returning to work has been a staple of this year's routine. I've been down here most weekday mornings since Easter, and the absence of this small part of my day over the last month has left me wishing I was here when I've been elsewhere.

I think of a friend who's recent question I couldn't answer at the time. 'What's the point of those 3 mile runs you do in the morning?' he'd asked. I'd tried to think of some clever justification, but, in the end, I'd just shrugged my shoulders and said, 'Dunno - they just feel right.'

September, I promised myself early on in the year, would be a comma in my running year too. After a summer of long runs, endless empty miles and satisfying achievements, I'd take a break. I'd rest for a month, recharge my body in preparation for the forthcoming cross-country season and the rigours of next year's big plan. I'd knock the morning runs on the head for a while - what use were they anyway? - and stick to easy running no more than 6 days a week.

The grass is cold under my bare feet - so cold that it's painful at first. I grimace, tread lightly, and gradually the pain subsides to an invigorating numbness. I've missed my morning runs and couldn't wait to start again. After months of running in minimal shoes, the thought of going barefoot excited me. I was reminded of summer days, 12 years old, when we'd jog the half-mile from the caravan to the beach. There, we'd walk along the wooden breakers to the very end, and after staring at the inky sea for what seemed like an age, we'd dive in and swim back to shore. An incredible feeling for so simple an activity. This - this barefoot running - it feels the same.

And now September's gone - its restful melancholy soon to be replaced by the harsher face of October. October will strip the leaves from the trees, bring down its cloak on the long days and steal the sunshine. It will pave the way for its wintry companions.

For a blissful while, we've paused - taken stock and smiled over summer memories and recent glories, Now, the sentence continues.

Eight laps of the field and I'm done. I find a step to sit on - all the best runs end with a step - and begin to brush the wet grass from the soles of my feet.

What's the reason for these morning runs I wonder. Why do I feel compelled to return to this place at the start of each day?

To increase my endurance? Granted, they add 15 miles to the week, but at the pace I run them, it's hardly going to make a difference?

To strengthen my feet? Improve my running form? Maybe - but no, that's not the reason.

I look over the field, and as the sun rises, it dawns on me what these runs are all about. They're the month of September, a pause before I walk into the hurricane of a new day. They're a comma before the words continue. We need the words, or where would we be, but without the punctuation, would those words make sense?

I've some busy hours ahead, but now I'm ready.

I'm grinning as I put on my shoes and run effortlessly into the rest of Today.

* * * * * * *

The catalyst for these thoughts was 'September' by David Sylvian. Although an extremely brief composition, its aching beauty and sublime melancholy stay with you for much longer

A Jog Around The Loop: The Lindsey Loop, August 2011

2011-09-02T16:09:00.000-07:00

A quiet obsession started over three years ago at a remote kissing gate in rural Lincolnshire. Running from Spilsby to Alford on a windswept December's Friday afternoon, I'd made my way steadily through the shoe-sucking plough of the arable land the other side of Mavis Enderby and reached the fence that marked the highest point of this part of the route. On the other side, dark clouds rolled threateningly across the mid-winter sky. Rain was falling over Horncastle, but the views over Hagworthingham and the Furze Hill Reserve recharged my flagging spirits. Sunlight pierced holes through the clouds and fell in shafts of laser light on the hills before me. 'God's Light' I'd called it as a kid. I couldn't wait to carry on.

Treading down the nettles at the kissing gate, I noticed something I'd not seen before on my journeys through this area. An off-white plastic badge was nailed to the wooden upright. It looked as though it had been there for ages. On it was a large figure '8' and the words, 'Lindsey Loop'. Never heard of it, I thought as I shut the gate and trotted down to the valley bottom without a second thought.

A good friend of mine was recently explaining the idea of 'saliency' - that phenomenon where once something becomes relevant to you, you seem to notice it everywhere when, before, you'd never noticed it at all. Once you drive an old VW, it's amazing the number of other old VW's you see on the road - that's the same idea - and I guess it must explain what happened over the next year. Out by myself in the most remote of places, I'd chance upon a finger-post with a distinctive arrow sticker - The Lindsey Loop. My obsession grew, and as I purchased route notes, plotted on maps and began to recce small sections over the subsequent months, I started to dream of a continuous run over the whole Loop. At 96 miles, it seemed feasible that a 24 hour round would be possible. It was ironic, therefore, that another 24 hour round - The Bob Graham - took me over for a while, and The Lindsey Loop was put on the back burner.

At the start of this year, I mentioned to my mate, Leon, that I'd thought of having a stab at The Lindsey Loop sometime. He replied that a club relay over the route would make a cracking day out. The seeds were set.

In March, the day after an operation that I knew would curtail my running for the best part of three months, I realised that my plans for a good performance in July's Lakeland 100 would be overly optimistic. Although disappointed, I was buoyed by the thought that a go at The Lindsey Loop for the end of the summer would certainly be possible. August Bank Holiday weekend was pencilled in. Also, I realised that planning a club relay of the route would be a perfect way of recceing the whole Loop, as well as giving me something to get my teeth into whilst I couldn't run as much as I wanted. The Kid was whispering again. I knew he'd get his own way.

On June 11th, Mablethorpe Running Club completed The Lindsey Loop in 19 hours and 21 minutes. All ages and abilities took part in the long-distance relay and it was a great day - one of the best.

Now, there was only one paragraph left to complete this particular chapter. I just hoped I could write it.

* * * * * * * *

The Lindsey Loop is a 96 mile long-distance recreational walk located largely in the Lincolnshire Wolds Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. It links six market towns in East and West Lindsey, and is divided into eight sections with a choice of final section from Donington-on-Bain being either to Louth or Market Rasen.

The late Jim Cook of Lincoln Group, Rambler's Association had the original idea of creating The Lindsey Loop in 1983. Various routes were explored the following year, often with great difficulty, for, at the time, a large number of public rights-of-way were either ploughed out or obstucted by crops for year after year. After Cook's untimely death, his work was continued by Brett Collier.

Major Brett Collier was a legendary figure in rural Lincolnshire. He trained as a teacher but saw distinguished military service in the Far East before his capture by the Japanese when Singapore fell to them in February 1942. Singled out for execution by beheading because of his officer status, his life was saved when the executioner became unnerved. From Singapore, his unit was sent, in captivity, to Korea, from where Collier was sold to a mining company who put him to work below the sea off Nagasaki.

He was below the sea at Nagasaki at 11.02am on 9th August 1945 when the atomic bomb fell there, killing 150,000. It destroyed the entrance to the mine, leaving Collier and his comrades trapped by what they believed was an earthquake. They dug themselves out to emerge, unbelieving, to the sight of the sea boiling and the indescribable devastation. In support of his comrades mentally scarred or physically sickened by the effects of the detonation, Collier spent the rest of his life fund-raising for this cause.

It was in 1960, when he moved to Lincolnshire to lecture at Bishop Grot. College, that Collier took up the pastime of walking. He later published eight books promoting walking in the county, and was Secretary of the Lincolnshire Fieldpaths Society and President of the Lincolnshire Rambler's Association. Before his death in March 2005 at the age of 85, he was an avid leader of walks and scourge of path-blocking farmers, developers and ineffectual councils.

I am deeply indebted to this great man. On almost every long run I do in my part of Lincolnshire, I am reminded of the legacy of Major Brett Collier.

* * * * * * * *

27th August

We're driving through a thunderstorm towards Market Rasen. Lightning splits the sky over the coast whilst the scatter-shot of huge raindrops blur vision through the windscreen. The forecast for the next few hours is heavy showers. I'm hoping that this is the worst of them.

I've gone for a mid-afternoon start. That way, I'll be running the sections closest to me - the ones I know the best- during the night. It also means I can stash supplies and give Tam and the superheroes chance to go home and get a decent night's sleep.

I'm a little nervous. I've never travelled as far on foot before. I've drafted out a 23 hour schedule for Tammy, but I'm determined to run 'to feel' and make sure that I enjoy the day. I've kept everything seriously low-key. I've mentioned nothing to even my closest friends and best running buddies. The only expectations weighing on me are my own.

1. Market Rasen to Caistor

Photographs, kisses and away.

I jog round the back of St. Thomas' church, follow the road out of town, and soon I'm in the woodland near the railway tracks. The afternoon is bright and I settle into a comfortable shuffle.

The first section is easy-going. Route-finding is straight-forward and the running is mainly low-level. Soon, I'm at Claxby - a beautiful village overlooked by an imposing hill. I stop and have a short chat to a couple of walkers outside the Viking Way Hostel, and then follow the base of the ancient ridge towards Nettleton.

From there, a dog-leg loop takes me to Caistor town centre. I walk the steep hill up to the market place, determined to stick with my BG plan of walking the significant inclines, and arrive at the car to find Tam reading the paper and Lightning sat on a wall sketching the war memorial with a biro. Tam jumps as I tap on the door and says something like, 'You shouldn't be here for half an hour!' The schedule, I can tell, is not going to be worth much.

2. Caistor to East Ravendale

I've pencilled in a 10 minute refuelling break after each leg. On long runs like this, food and drink can be the key to failure or success. I stick to the things I've found work best for me - coffee, red Fanta, milkshakes, rice pudding and Irish stew. In addition to the breaks, I make a conscious effort to eat and drink every 30 minutes whilst I'm running. A few swigs of orange squash and a mouth-full of Haribos are my secret weapon.

This next stretch is a delight. After following The Viking Way to the bottom of the Nettleton Valley, I climb up to the Roman High Street on The Nev Cole Way and head in the direction of Rothwell. Rain's falling steadily, but I can see it will pass. At the road-crossing, a sight fills me with confidence. A rainbow arcs over the finger-post before burying itself in a cloud. Ever since I was small, I've always associated a rainbow with good luck. This is it! Someone's smiling on me.

On the track into Rothwell, a stout wooden post marks a sharp right turn. In June, as I'd jogged along this stretch with Leon at 2am at the start of our club relay, we'd laughed at the sight of a pair of flip-flops hanging proudly. I'm amazed, as I pass nearly three months later, that they're still there.

Soon, I'm over Jim Cook's bridge, through Cuxwold and onto a short stretch of road that I know very well near Croxby. A series of races starts and finishes on the brow of the hill each summer, with different dates consisting of either one, two or three laps of a tough, hilly course. Probably the longest running races of any in Lincolnshire, they're great events. The hill to the finish is legendary, guaranteed to mangle you as you run at your very limits. The words 'Heartbreak Hill' are painted at the very bottom of the steepest section just to remind you just how terrible you'll feel as you eventually cross the line. Running down the hill isn't nearly so bad.

Passing through the hamlet of Hatcliffe, I jog the short section of road that leads to East Ravendale and Tam's Caff. I'm well up on schedule, but the kettle's whistling and the chair's out for my arrival.

3. East Ravendale to Louth

As I start the next leg, I'm greeted by another rainbow - a second reminder that things will be fine. This is a tough section - a linear route straight to Louth with undulations galore. I'm up on schedule and glad to realise that I'll hit Louth before darkness falls.

I've run so far in my racing flats - much more cushioned than the shoes I've been using of late - but already there's some 'tiredness' in my feet. the top of my left foot in particular feels increasingly tender - the onset of some tendon pain perhaps. I resolve to change into my battered trail shoes at the next stop.

The commentary from the Liverpool v. Bolton game keeps me buoyant. Whilst I never listen to music whilst I'm running, I'm a sucker for 5Live. I'm reminded of last week's Paddy Buckley support. Dave commented that it's good to have someone with you who will just talk - even if it's total rubbish - to take your mind off the climbs you're taking on and the enormity of the task that lies ahead. The radio serves me in much the same way. Peter Allen, Danny Baker, Alan Green, Simon Mayo and Mark Kermode are just a few of my radio running buddies. They join me on most long runs, rattling on, keeping me company. Sometimes I'll listen, sometimes it's just noise in my ears - my mind's elsewhere - in the run, in the landscape or maybe miles away.

It's getting on - daylight's fading as the sun sinks behind me. The leg almost done, I run into Louth, through the town centre and out up the London Road hill. The Caff's open in the cricket pavilion carpark. I quickly get a tin of stew down and prepare myself for the next eight hours of darkness.

4. Louth to Alford

I leave the carpark after kissing Tam and the kids goodnight. It's around 9pm, but I won't be seeing them again until 5am tomorrow morning. They'll be back to their beds while I click off the next 40 miles in the dark by myself. This stretch takes me from Louth to Alford - a section I've run many times. I've arranges for Tam to leave a stash just outside Alford - enough food and drink to refuel me for the miles that follow. From there, I'll run to Spilsby where I'll pop into our factory unit and wolf down a coffee and some more stew. After that stop, I'll head to Horncastle, where Tam's Caff will be open for the morning shift.

All this running through my head as I head out of Louth. I think ahead to a tricky section between Snipedales Country Park and Horncastle that I've only run once and can't really remember. I'll need the route-notes and map for that bit, especially if it's still dark. Route-notes and map? Still in the Fell Wagon! I dither for a while, deciding what to do, and decide to do nothing. After ten minutes of worrying, I eventually stop, ring Tam and arrange for her to leave them with my stash. Panic over, I head into the gloom over Kenwick Golf Course and beyond.

Headtorch running is something I've grown to love. In the early day, I used to spook myself all the time. Now, I look forward to it - running in that bubble of light, like scuba-diving above ground.

The running's going well but my foot's getting increasingly painful. I get a support bandage out of my sack, take a couple of ibuprofen and hope it'll settle down (it does for a while, but remains troublesome right until the end.)

On the track between Alford and Well, I'm stopped in mid-run by a blinding light - a spotlight's picked me out and I stand like a rabbit in the headlights. Then headlights do appear - a 4x4. I'm used to being asked - politely or otherwise - by farmers what I'm doing on 'their land', so I presume this is just more of that. As the truck stops, a couple of heavily-built likely-lads enquire, 'What the f**k are you doing?' It's one o'clock in the morning. I give them my answer to a look of blank amusement. They're 'doing a bit of lamping' they inform me, and with that, I bid them goodnight and get off sharpish.

5. Alford to Spilsby

At the stile in Well, I recover my stash and hike to the top of the hill, past the church and towards the woods, thinking that banana washed down with chocolate milkshake is the long-distance runner's equivalent of the Nectar of the Gods.

This section is my home turf. Living near Alford and working in Spilsby, I run this way all the time - at 10 miles it's a perfect run-to-work distance and I'll do it maybe 100 times in a year. The familiarity is a comfort, but the odd thick patch of fog is disconcerting and the wet ground is doing my head in.

I'm glad to reach the Industrial Estate in Spilsby an hour later. I've pencilled in a 20 minute stop here to get myself sorted. 2am - over half-way, downhill all the way to the end.

6. Spilsby to Horncastle

I leave the factory unit a few minutes before I'm due, lock the gates to the yard and jog in the direction of the path that takes me past the churchyard and towards the playing fields. An eerieness pervades the Industrial estate - it doesn't seem right to be here at such an hour. I'm relieved a few minutes later when I'm back in my light-bubble on the track towards Hundleby.

My legs feel surprisingly good. There's a little tiredness but no stiff at all. Jogging is no problem and I'm pleased with the pace. Dotun Adebayo is my witching-hour radio running buddy and the sound of his voice takes me back to a previous life when I'd regularly drive through the night, struggling to stay awake to his show. Things are much better now.

After an hour or so, I push through the kissing gate where this whole adventure was born. There's only darkness on the other side tonight, and for the first time on the run, I lose the trod over the fields and end up at the stream in the valley bottom at the wrong place. I instinctively know I'm too far left, and after skirting right, I eventually find the footbridge and the continuation of the path. It's 3am - my brain knows that my body should be sleeping and decision-making isn't easy. Minutes later, a lack of concentration means I'm off-path again. I've missed a right fork and hit the ditch at the field's edge instead of hugging the tree-line by the Furze Hill Reserve. I can't be bothered to back-track. If I jump the ditch, plough through the waist-high nettles, I'll be back on course in no time. I make a run for it and clear the water, but, in the darkness, fail to realise a barbed-wire fence is hidden by the grass on the other side. I'm now impaled on it, like road runner in the coyote's wicked trap. I pull myself off it and inspect the damage. Lots of cuts on my thighs, knees and shins, but the waterproof jacket's ok - it better be - it cost me a bomb. I know the legs will look after themselves, and head, bleeding but not bothered, in the direction of the Snipedales Country Park.

Out of the Park. I arrive at the section I'm most wary of. A long path across ploughed fields will eventually lead me over a farm track and to the main road into Horncastle. This was hard to follow in daylight, nevermind in the dark. Take a bearing - no problem - but I've no compass with me. I pause and then jog off in the direction I think is right. Ten minutes later, I'm lost. It's dark, I've no features to help me out, so I just keep going. Before long, I spot the lights of a grain store and head in that direction. Once there, I pull out the map and try to get an idea of where I am. I get my bearings, find the farm track and run down it for a few minutes before the angel on my shoulder prods me and makes me stop. I pull out my map, pissed off now, and realise I've come the wrong way. Twenty minutes later, I'm back on path, but increasingly glad of the signs of morning, and really pleased to meet Tam and the superheroes outside Horncastle.

7. Horncastle to Donington-on-Bain

Scoffing down some rice pudding by the Fell Wagon, I try and do some calculations. I'm well under 23 hour schedule. With less than 28 miles left, and Tam back in tow, I decide to get rid of my sack and push things on a bit. Under 21 hours would be great. I know things are going ok - my feet have had it, but everything else is alright. I get rid of my jacket, put on a dry long-sleeved top and get off.

When you've run all the way through a dark night, the morning is a revelation. Circadian rhythms are stirred, the body and mind are alerted and your mood automatically improves. The path winds through the most beautiful section of the entire Loop and I travel, enlightened, through the dawn towards the new day. Mist hangs low in the Wold's valleys and the rising sun stains the hills a glorious shade of gold. I run, alive, awakened, through a dream.

Through Belchford, Ranby, Market Stainton - picture postcard perfect - and finally to Donington-on-Bain. One foot in front of the other. A breath. A heartbeat.

8. Donington-on-Bain to Louth

I take my last break at Donington outside the village shop and I know I'm almost there. 13 more miles and this part of my journey ends.

The Lindsey Loop is unique to the other Lincolnshire long distance paths in that it has two alternative endings. From Donington, you can continue back to Market Rasen. Plotted on a map, this looks the cleanest line and completes the figure'8' of the loop,

You can, however, choose to end your trip at Louth. In his guide, Brett Collier describes this alternative as 'a truely delightful section' and 'a superb day's walking.' It's this choice I go for.

Leaving the village, a steep climb brings me out of the valley, opening up the most magnificent views on all sides. A twenty minute slog through deep plough temporarily dampens my spirits, but once I'm at Grim's Mound - a Bronze age barrow on the track to Calcethorpe, I'm moving well again and I know that the running is good from here on. A glance at my watch, and I know that a sub- 20 hour round is on the cards. I don't want to ruin the last few miles with a race against the clock, but part of me can't help myself. I stretch my legs and pick up the pace.

A few miles on and I arrive at Welton-le-Wold. Jogging through the village to the spot I know Tam will be parked in, Lightening comes bounding towards me. 'Dad, can we run from Hubbard's Hills with you?' I'm glad he's asked. Having my two little superheroes pace me for the last mile will be the perfect end to the trip.

This thought sustains me as I go through the woodland and up the last climb of Jack's Furze. For the first time, I see Louth in the distance and I'm reminded of Brett Collier's words - words I've read so often I can recite them from memory:

'...as you walk downhill, all the way from Jack's Furze towards the magnificent 295 foot, crocketed spire of St. James' church and then along Hubbard's Hills footpath at the end of your Lindsey Loop walk, you will certainly have a feeling of accomplishment and a wonderful memory of the Lincolnshire Wolds area of Outstanding Natural Beauty to treasure and recall all your days.'

I race to the bottom gate of Hubbard's Hills and weave through the Sunday strollers to the carpark at the top end. My welcoming party puts a big smile on my face. In addition to Tam and the kids, Leon's made it back from the Lakes in time to join me on the last mile with his youngest daughter, Alice. It feels right that they should be there.

We jog the last mile, chatting, laughing. As a teenager, I'd daydream at the end of a run of storming into the Olympic Stadium, the end of a titanic marathon duel. As I entered the arena, the crowd would be standing, cheering, screaming - witnessing and applauding my momentus world-record breaking feat of endurance. This whole scenario plays again briefly through my head, but I realise I've discovered something infinitely better. For now, the arena is all around me. Its architecture is described in route-notes and Ordnance Survey maps. its structure is forged from hills and valleys, and held together by rivers, streams, hedgerows and bridleways. it's indescribably beautiful.

As all five of us enter Louth market place, there's no standing, cheering, shouting. A few people are shopping, a couple are sitting on a bench. We sit on the steps of the War Memorial and wait for Tam. There's no medal, goody bag, no free technical t-shirt. Instead, there's a handshake, a kiss and a 'You did it Dad!'

I stop my watch. 19hours and 50 minutes. Then I sit for a while with my friends and family, and take off my shoes.

POSTSCRIPT

In the days that follow, The Kid awakens me at night, wiggles into my daydreams. He whispers, 'How fast could you get round supported, good weather, mid-June?' or 'Chris- have you ever thought of going round mid-winter? or 'How close to 12 hours could a two-man relay get?'

'Keep On Burning?' he's saying, and I can't say 'Stop!'

It appears I may not be finished with The Lindsey Loop just yet?

The Coca-Cola Pipeline

2011-08-13T08:24:00.000-07:00

We're sat under the canopy in the back yard as dusk blurs the sky over Adelaide. The sweet smell of barbeque and beer hang in the warm air. Tammy and Aunty Joan busily clear the table and end up in the kitchen, talking over something.

I stretch my legs out, lean back in the plastic chair and look on as the kids show off for Uncle Ron. Ellie's bouncing on the spot, eager to make an impression. Ron smiles at her and asks in his quiet voice, 'So, you're superheroes are you?'

Ellie laughs out loud. 'Yeah, Daddy calls us his superheroes,' she says, 'And I'm Whirlwind 'cause I'm good at dancing and I can spin round really fast.' She takes a step forward, legs akimbo, and pushes her right arm in Uncle Ron's direction, palm pushed flat against an invisible barrier. She moves her arm across the line of her body, pursing her lips to make the sound of a raging wind. 'I'm Whirlwind!' she shouts.

Archie's quickly on the scene. 'And I'm Lightning, Uncle Ron,' he says. 'I can run really fast. Like lightning, Dad says. I always beat him when we have a race.' He performs his signature move - Ralph Macchio's crane-position kick from the last scene of The Karate Kid - and then flops down onto the patio.

Uncle Ron's laughing. 'That's amazing,' he says. He looks across at me and winks. 'I'll tell you something else that's amazing, and it's only found here, in Adelaide.' He pauses. The kids are hanging on his every word. 'Have you heard of The Coca-Cola Pipeline?' They both shake their heads. 'Well, do you like coca-cola?'

'Mum and Dad let us have some on Saturday nights while we're watching Doctor Who,' Archie informs him.

'We have Maltesers too,' Ellie says, determined to have the last word.

'Oh right,' Uncle Ron goes on, 'Well, keep looking carefully in the next few days. You might see a big pipe running right through the hills. Goes on for miles it does, and runs right into the city. And do you know what's inside it?'

'Water?' says Archie.

Uncle Ron shakes his head.

'Coca-cola?' says Ellie.

Uncle Ron smiles. 'Yes, coca-cola.' Ellie looks over to me, raised eyebrows, making her eyes wide.

'We're very lucky in Adelaide to have a Coca-Cola Pipeline. The only one in the world. The coca-cola's made in a huge factory over the other side of the hills and it's piped right into the city. Every cafe and every shop has a special tap. Turn it on and what comes out?'

'Coca-cola!' shout the superheroes together. There's quiet for a moment, and then Ellie goes, 'Wow!'

Aunty Joan emerges from the kitchen. 'Another beer Chris? Ron - what have you been telling them?'

'Oh, nothing,' Ron says, and we both chuckle.

* * * * * *

A couple of days later, we're on the way back to Ron and Joan's house after an afternoon at the Cuddley Creek Nature Reserve. It's been a great day, but it's hot and the kids are tired. They're quiet in the back of the hire car. As we pass the sign for Tea Tree Gulley, Ellie shatters the silence.

'Mum! Dad! It's The Coca-Cola Pipeline! Look! Look!' She points over to the hills, and now Archie has seen it and all hell's breaking loose. 'Whoaa!' they're both shouting.

Tam pulls over and we get out the car and look over to the hillside. A huge concrete pipe lumbers inelegantly across its contours.

'Is that what we're looking at?' Tam says and shrugs her shoulders.

'Mum! Archie tells her, 'That's The Coca-Cola Pipeline! Uncle Ron told us. Do you know what it's got inside?'

'Water?' she says.

'No! Coca-cola!' Ellie yells.

'And it's the only one in the world,' Archie continues, 'It comes from a factory on the other side of the hills and it goes all the way to the city. And all the shops and cafes have a special tap and when you turn it on, coca-cola comes out!'

'Oh right,' says Tam and stares at me with that look - who's been winding them up?

'What?' I reply, 'Uncle Ron told us.'

* * * * * *

Towards the end of the week, Archie and myself are squeezing through a gap in the fence by a roadside to enter the Anstey Hill Recreation Park. 'Here we are,' I say, 'but take it easy - the first bit's really steep.'

In our week long stay in the Adelaide suburbs, it hadn't been long before I discovered the Park. A few minutes jog from Ron and Joan's house, it featured a trail that climbed steeply to the 1,217 ft summit of Anstey Hill, before descending equally steeply to the road. I'd gotten into a routine of getting up early and doing 2 or 3 laps of the 4-mile circuit, before jogging back for breakfast. It was a great little run, and as I'd enthused over it one tea-time, Archie had asked if he could come with me before we flew back to the UK. I'd promised we'd do a lap on our last day while Mum and Ellie did some last minute souvenir shopping.

The sun's fierce - our last full day in Australia - the end of a glorious stay. The two of us jog and walk up the trail towards the summit. I think back to our runs on the beach over the last month - special times.

After posing for photos at the sign on the top, we're soon rattling down the trail on the other side. Suddenly Archie stops dead. Pointing to the left, he's caught up in excitement. 'The Coca-Cola Pipeline!' he repeats a few times. Following the direction of his gaze, I see the Adelaide-Mannum Pipeline running across the bottom of the adjoining valley towards a large water-filtration plant on the southern boundary of the Park.

'Wow, Dad! I can't wait to tell Miss Sheldon when I get back to school! It's a good idea int it Dad? Why don't other places have coca-cola pipelines?' He's going on and on, his face lit up, and I wait to get a word in when he pauses.

'Archie,' I say, 'It's not got coca-cola in it. There isn't a Coca-Cola Pipeline.'

Archie looks at me, silent suddenly, crest-fallen. And the silence seems to last forever. Eventually, his voice small, he says, 'I know that Dad. I was just tricking you. What's it got inside then?'

'Water,' I tell him.

'Oh, right,' he says and walks on by himself in front for a while.

I've a guilt inside me. I watch him walking alone and think of the excitement and innocence with which he approaches each day. Days where Santa Claus and the tooth fairy are still real. Where new things lie to be discovered at every turn. Days of wonder and magic, in a big world filled with friends still to be made and pipelines full of coca-cola. And, as I watch him, I feel a sadness and a pride - my little boy's growing up, and soon the world maybe might not seem so kind.

He turns round suddenly and asks, 'Dad, do you think we should tell Mum and Ellie?'

I think a moment and reply, 'What would you rather have mate? A pipeline filled with water, or one that carries coca-cola? Takes coca-cola to all of those special taps in all of those shops in that big city over there?'

He doesn't answer my question, but I know the answer. We continue our walk down the track, side by side, and then he turns to me and says, 'Maybe we'll tell Ellie the truth when she's a bit bigger.'

'What's next?'

2011-08-10T00:16:00.000-07:00

After a number of years of running infrequently, my passion was reignited four years ago by the notion of Empty Miling. Central to this concept is the intrinsic enjoyment of each and every run. Whilst not guaranteed to produce a dramatic improvement in running performance, it certainly is conducive to uncovering the unbridled joy involved in the simplest pleasure - moving from one place to another on foot.

Whilst adhering to Empty Miling, the deliberate irony in the phrase became immediately apparent. Empty miles were not junk miles, worthless miles - they were the most fulfilling running miles imaginable. Gradually, by embracing Empty Miling, the bedrocks of my running preconceptions have altered dramatically. Whereby I have always 'trained' for one future singular event or challenge, I now feel I have reached a stage where that idea is increasingly irrelevant. And, in turn, this new way of thinking has shaped 'What's next?'

For several months now, I've pondered an idea for next year which embraces this new way of thinking. 'Training' is a phrase that doesn't exist in pure Empty Miling since 'training' assumes the 'target race' is the most important run whilst 'training runs' are necessary to achieve this. 'Training runs' embody a negativity - no pain, no gain. 'Training' might be a slog, often unenjoyable, but necessary if the future goal is to be achieved. Empty Miling, however, assumes that every run is as important as the next, and intrinsic enjoyment of each run is the important goal. So, 'What's next?' doesn't involve a singular goal. Instead, what I have in mind is a year-long project - a year where the journey IS the destination.

So, what is it?

My project will start on the 1st January 2012 and will end on the 31st December 2012. It will involve a huge commitment in terms of time and support from my family. It will take me to paths less travelled and places never visited. It will test my endurance in ways I've never experienced, It will be the hardest thing I've ever done. Success is far from guaranteed. In fact, I think the odds are stacked against me. However, the project excites me more than anything else I've achieved in my running, and the challenge is mouth-watering.

My project involves the exploration of my home county, Lincolnshire, on foot. Over the year, I will attempt to complete all the Long Distance Paths that start, finish or pass through Lincolnshire. Using the LDWA database as my guide, I have compiled a list of paths that fit this criteria and have grouped them into short, medium and long categories. With the exception of the Hobbers Way, all of these paths will each be completed in one continuous run.

SHORT

Torpel Way - 11 miles
Bourne Blunder - 20 miles
Tennyson Twenty - 20 miles
Vermuyden Way - 20 miles
Wanderlust Way - 20 miles
Jubilee Way - 21 miles
Dave Milne Way - 22 miles
Belvoir Witches Challenge - 25 miles
Caistor Challenge - 25 miles
Gingerbread Way - 25 miles
Silver Lincs Way - 25 miles
Spires and Steeples - 25 miles
Caistor Challenge Alternative - 26 miles
Kesteven 25 - 26 miles
Linconshire Wolds Black Death Challenge Walk - 26 miles

MEDIUM

Belmont 30 - 30 miles
Grantham Canal - 33 miles
Water Rail Way - 33 miles
Humber Bridge Link Walk - 34 miles
Plogsland Round - 47 miles
Peatlands Way - 50 miles

LONG

Nev Cole Way - 58 miles
Danelaw Way - 60 miles
Jurassic Way - 88 miles
Lindsey Loop - 95 miles
Towers Way - 95 miles
Hereward Way - 110 miles
Nene Way - 110 miles
South Kesteven Round - 130 miles
Viking Way - 147 miles
Hobbers Way - 193 miles

The majority of these runs will be done solo.

The Viking Way may be covered by competing in the first Viking Way Ultra race, scheduled for Easter Saturday 2012. I'll give this option a little more thought however, as I'm not sure that racing a route fits easily with what I'm trying to achieve over the year.

The Hobbers Way, at 193 miles, is too long for me to attempt as a single, continuous run. Therefore, I plan to split this journey into a 4-day run, starting at the mouth of the Severn and finishing at The Wash, hopefully in the company of a few friends. This journey, an alternative Coast-to-Coast, I see as a fitting finale to my year of travel.

Whilst the short and medium paths will fit easily into the calendar, the long paths are what the success of this project hinges upon. Do-able? Time will tell.

Planning is in the early stages. The calendar wall-chart is ready to be tinkered with. The next few months are likely to be busy.

It's an idea I've thrown around for a while, and now, I guess, it looks like there's no going back.

Lakeland 50

2011-08-04T02:17:00.000-07:00

www.youtube.com/watch?v=5qEGxTdCG9U

There's only one thing I'm concentrating on as darkness begins to envelop the Coniston Fells. 'Don't miss that cairn. Hit that small cairn at the path junction, take the middle path and it's plain sailing. From there, the faint trod soon gets better and before you know it, you're on a good track descending to the old miners road and then it's easy running to the finish. But where's that cairn?'

I know there's a runner on my heels. How far behind is he? I can't afford to go wrong now, less than 2 miles from the end. I stop, check my map, run a bit further - and then there it is - more a loose pile of stones than a cairn. I've cracked it! My energy levels rebound. I tuck the map and road book into my shorts and I'm off.

After a painful descent from the Fell top, I'm soon on the miners road. I check my watch. 9 hours 19 minutes. I can't stop grinning. Under 12 hours and top 50 I'd have been happy with. But under 9.30 and top 5 - it doesn't seem real. I remember Mark Hartell's time from last year - 9 hours 41 mins - Mark Hartell, Lakeland peaks record holder, 77 summits in 24 hours, mountain running legend. Granted, he's a few years past his best now, but I'm going to beat Mark Hartell's time - me, a jogger from Lincolnshire!

A couple of minutes later, I emerge onto the main road through Coniston and turn right towards the bridge. The entire beer garden in front of the Black Bull pub claps and cheers. I'm getting emotional. Turning down Lakes Road towards the finish line, I can make out Tam taking photos. Archie and Ellie run towards me. Archie's quiet but Ellie's yelling, 'Well done my daddy!'

I'm so happy, chuffed with myself. I cross the line and a female marshal links her arm into mine and leads me into the school. Through the reception into the cafeteria area - more clapping and cheering, and into the main hall, everyone on their feet. What a great feeling. I'm pushed in the direction of the dibber where I dib my tag and receive my official result. 9 hours 25 minutes. 4th position.

A guy grabs my arm and makes me stand on the scales for the compulsory weigh-in. He checks my wrist tag for my start weight and shouts over to the race doctor, '4.5 kilos down!' The doctor tells me to get as much fluid in me as I can. 'I'm ok,' I tell him, 'I feel great!' I give Tam and the superheroes a big hug, grab a styrofoam cup of flat coke and then the nausea hits me and I can't stand up.

Low blood pressure, I'm told. I'm escorted to a thick crash mat, where I lie for the next hour with my feet on a plastic chair. The sickness soon subsides and feeling like I'm lying on a king-sized bed in the most luxurious hotel suite, I close my eyes and think back over the day:

- Joss Naylor, the greatest fell runner ever, getting all of us 460 Lakeland 50 competitors started at midday

- 7 minute miles round the first 4 mile loop at Dalemain before our journey started in earnest

- 4 of us coming off High Kop too early at 15 miles, and having to bushwhack for an eternity through chest-high bracken

- the savage climbs out of Fusedale, Mardale Head and Kentmere

- the unrelenting heat, no escape all day

- the encouragement from the 100 mile competitors I passed during the day

- the smiling faces at the six checkpoints, flat coke and jelly beans

- arriving at Ambleside with 16 miles left to be greeted by Tam yelling, 'Get a wiggle on - 4th's only 3 minutes in front!'

- catching the guy in front with 10 miles to go but running scared for the rest of the way

- passing my BG Pal, Mark R., 5 miles from the end of his 100 mile race and promising him a pint at Coniston

- running straight through the last checkpoint, determined to hold my position

- and thinking, right now, that lying down never felt so good.

A great, great day.

Eventually, I have to get up. Mark R. enters the hall to applause - 29 hours and a bit - top 20 in the 100. I give him a few minutes to sort himself out. A bit later, I go over and congratulate him.

'Ok?' I ask.

'Been better. Been worse, ' he replies. I remind him that it was him mentioning the Lakeland 50 and 100 on a Bob Graham last year that set the seed in my mind.

He looks at me with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye. 'Well, we've done it Chris, ' he says, 'What's next?'

We, the runners.

2011-07-07T23:33:00.000-07:00

The news spread slowly, by word of mouth. Of course, we'd have all heard more quickly if we'd used The Apple Network, but all those transactions left a trace, and for all of the members of The Group, the consequences of such action were unimaginable.

No-one knew how many members The Group consisted of, or how it came into being. All that was certain was that The Group did exist.

The numbers were small and decreasing year on year, but while ever individuals retained a fierce, independent spirit and a need for transcendence - while ever individuals still wanted to live and not simply be sustained, The Group would survive.

The years since The Shift Of Power had been long and demanding. When News Corps had taken over the traditional means of government, we, the runners, had sensed dark days lay ahead, but we'd never envisaged the scenario we now encountered in our day-to-day struggle.

The rise of the Corporations had been inevitable. Now, all Consumers shared the same life-style. Since the mortgage system had collapsed and all property had been reclaimed, Consumers lived in a house owned by The Bank. They worked for one of the seven Corporations. Their earnings would be split in several ways. The majority of it would be deducted at source by The Bank. This would guarantee a roof over their heads.

News Corps would receive a share in return for providing Consumers with Entertainment and The Truth. (In the years since The Shift Of Power, the concept of the lie had disappeared. There were no longer any lies, only The Truth.)

Some of the credits earned through working for one of the seven Corporations would be spent on consuming products produced by the Corporations.

A small part of a Consumer's credits would be available for spending on Leisure. All Leisure took place in malls or gymnasiums, where access to Entertainment screens was available at all times.

It was in 2019, when the mountains were designated an Area of Forbidden Entry that rumours about The Group emerged. But it was the publication of The Adams Report, commissioned by TESCO, in 2020, that was the catalyst for the explosion of The Group's popularity. The findings of the report stated that 'the increased levels of naturally-produced chemicals inside the human brain, as a result of endurance running might have detrimental side-effects in terms of the propensity to consume.' Such findings, unacceptable as they were to News Corp and the seven Corporations led to immediate action. On October 21st 2020, running was declared illegal.

Members of The Group were encouraged to run alone and to stick to Out-Of-Bounds Wilderness Areas, where the numbers of Corporation detectives and News Corps hackers were more scarce. By such action, it was hoped, the possibilty of detention would be more remote. Increasingly, however, new methods of surveillance and Private Life Intrusion techniques had led to capture. And when detention centres were full, the Corporations had pioneered the practice of 'processing'. Through a combination of Electrical Cortex Stimulation and Positive Behavioral Therapy, an individual captured and detained as 'dangerous to society', or simply 'a runner' could be transformed into a model Consumer. A house would be provided by The Bank. A job would be provided by one of the seven Corporations. News Corps would enable said individual to experience the fullness of life through their provision of Entertainment and The Truth.

As members of The Group declined drastically through the 20's as a result of these measures, a mythical hero emerged. Cassady, it was said, had run over every peak in The Lakeland Zone. Having never missed a day's run in many years, he had somehow escaped detection. Stories grew about his feats in The North, most of them probably wildly exagerated, but inspiring nonetheless. In our darkest of days, here, at least, was a glimmer of light in an existence made unbearable.

But all lights go out. The news spread slowly by word of mouth. His detection, detention, processing.

And now I understand it will come to us all. I know that, but it makes little difference. For until my time is stolen from me, I will continue to greet the sunrise from impossible summits or the ocean's edge. I will continue to pay worship to the woodland tracks and forest trails. One foot in front of the other. A breath. A heartbeat.

And I'll rejoice in the shared secret - one that only we, the runners, truely understand.

That Feeling

2011-07-02T07:59:00.000-07:00

1982 (14 years old)

Kid Jensen's smiling, surrounded by a group of starstruck young birds. Bubble perms and ra-ra's. 'Next up, it's Shalamar, A Night To Remember.'

History homework's on my lap. I put down my Parker pen, take a slurp of tea and rest the cup on the chair arm next to the empty bag of Nik-Naks. My mum looks at me disapprovingly and tuts.

The camera pans out and settles on the face of Jeffrey Daniel. His hair's in a classic wedge. He looks straight into the lens as if he's checking himself out in the mirror before a night out. One gloved hand pushes his fringe aside before straightening a white skinny tie.

I look over. Dennis and Alli are staring, saying nothing. Mum's disappeared into the kitchen.

On the screen, Jeffrey Daniel is imprisoned behind an invisible wall. He holds out his hands, presses them flat against the non-existent barrier and explores the surface to the right and the left, looking for a way out. Unable to escape, he hooks both hands over the top of the wall, pulls his upper body up and looks over.

I've never seen anyone dance like this. 'Mum, come and look at this,' Alli shouts from the lounge floor.

Jeffrey Daniel shakes his arms loose and bounces backwards towards a row of girls. One of them holds a jacket out. Without turning around, he slips both hands into the black bolero and smoothes it down. He bends his knees slightly, wraps two hands around a make-believe rope and heaves himself forwards across the studio floor.

Mum's in front of the tele now too.

Jeffrey Daniel jerks his body down into a disjointed limbo. When his back is touching the floor, he uses the invisible rope to pull himself up. But now he again finds himself trapped. His hands explore the walls of the invisible bubble, before he gives up and is tranformed into a human cyborg, every movement locked, robotic.

All of us are watching. Shalamar. A Night To Remember. The first time we'd ever seen body-popping.

The song moves to the instrumental break. Jeffrey Daniel turns sideways and puts up an imaginary umbrella. He forces himself forward into a raging wind, making little progress. And then a gust threatens to rip the umbrella from his grasp. It's blown behind him, his arm outstretched behind him too, holding on, and he's pulled backwards across the floor. His feet are stepping forwards but he's sliding backwards, walking the wrong way up a conveyor that just isn't there.

'Wooaa!' All of us say the same thing together. It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen.

And in that moment, everything's changed just a bit. From now on, things will be just slightly different.

I sit in silence, unaware of the tide of excitement that a dance move would have at school over the next few days. Unaware that a year later, having been taught the move by Jeffrey Daniel, Michael Jackson would perform it at the Motown 25 show and the press would christen it 'the moonwalk.'
But kind of aware - that feeling - that this would now always be a key event on the timeline of my own personal history.

1993 (26 years old)

Just back from our honeymoon in Egypt. Cracking tan, the hair's longer than it's been for a good while. I'm wearing my new Blundstones - black, round-toed, tailored black trousers and a white cotton shirt I bought in Luxor. I look ace.

I guess it's a case of my mates rallying round. All of the stuff that's happened in the weeks before and after my wedding day. Den and Dom will be round soon to pick me up. Literally and metaphysically. We'll meet Paul by the boating lake. He's got a new girlfriend, Emma. I've heard she's cool.

It had all started three weeks ago with the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. As I'd laid on the settee in that tiny flat above the caff, The Girl From Australia had threw me over the magazine, folded at the page she wanted me to look at. 'What are you, Chris?' she asked me.

I'd looked at the page. One of those crappy quizzes. 'ARE YOU HAPPY?' Pick an answer - A,B,C or D - for each of the questions and add them up at the end. Mostly A's - your life was great, you couldn't stop smiling. Mostly D's - your life was rubbish, may as well give up.

'What are you?' she asked again.

'I'm not doing this,' I told her, 'What a load of old bollocks.'

'No. I want you to do it,' she persisted and I notice there's tears in her eyes.

'I'll be C or D. You know me. My glass is always empty.'

'I know Chris. Even when it's nearly full.'

'It's not easy being a pessimist,' I told her, smiling.

'It's not easy being with one,' she replied.

I go back to watching the tele. I know I'm a miserable sod, but living with me can't be that bad.

'I'm not marrying you Chris. I'm not happy. I'm going home,' she said. She's crying. She left the front room and went upstairs.

I finish watching Top Of The Pops. She goes on sometimes, I think, give her ten minutes and she'll be back down apologising.

There's a buzz around Corkys. You'd be surprised at who's got caught up in the rave scene - the drugs have mellowed the Top Boys and football casuals into huggable mates who'd rather kiss you on the cheek than smash your face in. We stand around drinking Coke, checking out who's out, before handing over notes for little white pills from the big guy in the cap down the corridor near the toilets. The night's for the taking. This is it. If only I could forget her.

This is the hardest thing I've ever done, I think, as I finish the list. Everyone who was invited to the wedding knows now. Knows now that she's left me a week before the big day. But they don't know why. Neither do I for that matter.

We walk down Lumley Road and past the Clock Tower. We can already hear the music from the Festival Pavilion. The Promised Land. We're heading for The Promised Land.

I'd still thought I could change her mind. She'd moved out, rented a room in a mate's house round the back end of town. She'd invited me round for breakfast. A strange thing to do on the day that we were supposed to be getting married. Must have something to tell me, I'd thought, probably changing her mind. I'd walked round, dressed in my wedding suit, clutching a big bunch of flowers. That should do the trick, I'd thought, knock her off her feet. Make her want me again. But she'd laughed as she opened the door and we'd eaten breakfast in silence.

I love this feeling. The tingles. I look at the others and they're the same - swaying, moving with the music, coming up, becoming a part of it. And then a big tune drops and we're on the dance-floor, lost in it, feeling it, eyes closed, smiling.

I'd seen her for the last time the day before the honeymoon. I'd talked Dennis into coming to Egypt with me, I said, but a romantic Nile cruise with my twin brother wouldn't be the same as one with my wife. She'd laughed as I told her and handed me our photo-album.

'I don't want that,' I said, thinking of all those shots of us happy together. 'I'll keep on looking at them, making myself sad on purpose.' I'd gone to push it back over the kitchen table, but she'd stopped me.

'No you won't,' she said.

She'd hugged me before she left. I'd watched her go down to the caff's back yard from my spot at the top of the fire-escape stairs. 'See ya,' I called, not believing this was happening, seeing all this above, as if we were actors in a film. Just before she reached the back gate, I couldn't help myself. 'Hey!' I shouted. She'd turned round.

'What are we doing? What's going on? We love each other, right? Give me another chance. One chance. Go on. I'll change. I'll be whoever you want.'

That was what I should have said. But I didn't. I didn't say anything. I just stood there.

Eventually she goes, 'Chris? What?'

'Err.. when you going to bring my bike back?' Dumb words. The last words I ever said to her.

She'd shook her head and gone.

I stood, dazed for a while, and then went back inside. Sitting at the kitchen table, I reached for the photo-album. I pulled it towards me and opened it up. All the photographs of her, of us together, were gone. Four years gone in two short weeks. I closed my eyes and saw her. A crack appeared in the porcelain. I started to break.

Richard from The Aloof's on live percussion. He finishes his bongo solo and we're all going mad. A lull follows - the calm before the storm, a big tune on it's way. And the expectation, the whistles, the horns, the stamping of feet and the hands in the air. And when it comes, it kills us. Knocks us down while the piano riff smothers us. Chicago House. DJ International. Sterling Void and Paris Brightledge. 'It's All Right.'

'Generations will come and go.
But there's one thing for sure,'

A girl in front's wearing a t-shirt. A SMILE IS AN APHRODISIAC it says on it in 70's bubble writing. She looks at me and I smile, pointing to her shirt and then my face. She dances over, kisses me on the lips, and dances away.

'Music is our life's foundation,
And shall succeed all the nations to come,'

I look across at Dominic. He's smiling. He winks at me and points after the girl. We both laugh.

'And it's gonna be all right...'

I look across at Dennis. He's smiling. We salute each other.

'And it's gonna be all right...'

I look across at Paul. He's smiling. He puts his arms around Emma and pulls her close.

'And it's gonna be all right,
Cause the music plays forever on and on.'

And, in a moment - that feeling - I know it is. Hearing music on a timeless wavelength, never dissipating but giving me strength. The crack's disappeared. I'm unbreakable. And I know that a life fully lived is just a pile of good things and bad things. You can never have one without the other. And that's the way it should be, the way it has to be. But the bad ones won't break me. I'm unbreakable. It's gonna be all right.

2001 (34 years old)

It was a relief when I knew it was really happening. Thursday morning, 4 am. I'd been scheduled for a day teaching the Reception class. I loved teaching the older kids but those little ones did my head in. A baby on its way would be a good excuse to get out of it.

I'd laid in bed while Tam rang the hospital. It didn't happen like this on the tele. Come in straight away, the maternity nurse said, and be prepared for a long day. The Uno had started first time for a change, and a hour later, we'd been at the hospital.

Another adventure had begun. I viewed from the sidelines, back-rubbing and muttering encouragement. And just before noon a miracle happened. Where once we were two, now we were three. We became a family.

Sometime later, Tam follows the nurse down the corridor and I'm left alone with little man. I hold him nervously to my chest, his little eyes closed, his little head the most perculiar shape.

I'm overcome. That feeling. The same one I've felt just a few times before. My world's moved on its axis.

I can't stop looking at him. 'Hello Smasher,' I whisper, 'When you grow up, you'll be a superhero.' I know it's true. And when Tam arrives back and I hand him back to his mum, we look at each other for a long time, aware of the enormity of the moment, and I'm sure that she knows it too.

2011 (43 years old)

Over the previous three months, The Lindsey Loop had become my best friend, my favourite retreat from the everyday. I'd gotten to know her personality, her heartbeat. I'd fallen in love with her hidden valleys, her unique undulations through the Lincolnshire Wolds, her stiles, miles and byways. I'd sneaked away on spring evenings and visited her by myself, and on Sundays, I'd joined a gang from the Club and I'd showed her off, confident that everyone else would surely fall in love, just as I had. And they had.

Leon and myself had hatched the plan in February. We'd organise a club relay to cover the route of The Lindsey Loop, at 96 miles in length, the longest off-road footpath in Lincolnshire. It wouldn't be a day for bowing to the tyranny of Garmin or succumbing blindly to the god of The Training Schedule. It would be a day for moving from point A to point B on foot, a rediscovery of life's most simple pleasure. A day of running with Club members you didn't know too well, for having conversations and finding out that the guy you usually just say 'hiya' to is, in fact, one of the most inspiring people you're ever likely to meet. A day for enjoying the view, becoming lost in the moment. A day to appreciate the special magic of running.

The idea had been embraced with a passion that had taken me back. Everyone had wanted a part in this celebration. The excitement had become infectious.

The big day had edged nearer and nearer, and then was here, and now would soon be gone.

I'm stood by the cafe in Hubbards Hills, Louth. It's 7pm on a lovely June evening. As Club members arrive, meet up, chat and laugh together, I cast my mind back over a fantastic day.

Our midnight start in Market Rasen.
Running those first 20 miles through the darkness.
The carboot cafe.
The crazy photographs, the brilliant company.
Following the relay as it wound its convoluted path through medieval sites and busy market towns.
The enthusiasm.
The laughter.
The atmosphere generated by the finest little running club I've known.
Ninety-five of the most enjoyable miles of my life.

And now, just one to go. A group of about 50 runners - all ages, all abilities, united in identity - have gathered together. We'll run the last mile into Louth town centre. It'll be a moment to treasure.

The gang gets going and I stick to the back. Our little girl settles into a jog beside her school friend. I look at her - Whirlwind - our second superhero. She's talking as usual, telling her mate that it doesn't matter if they're not at the front, it's the taking part that counts. She makes me laugh - that wise head on innocent shoulders. Lightning's up at the front. It's a lifetime away since I held him for the first time - won't even let me kiss him at bedtime now.

Soon, we're into the park and the snake of runners spreads out. The running's easy and the air is still. Tammy runs past, glances across, says something that I don't catch. But I hang back.

And that feeling returns. It's taken a lifetime of running to be here today. It's taken a lifetime of living to become who I am.

My family. My friends. And the one passion that has always stayed with me. One foot in front of the other, a breath and a heartbeat.

I think back to those defining moments of my life. Those times when things changed. That feeling. The feeling that's with me now. Jeffrey Daniel on Top Of The Pops, that night at The Promised Land, the birth of our little smasher.

And I look forward to tomorrow. To waking in the morning and knowing that things have changed again, just slightly.

Thankyous

www.youtube.co.uk/watch?v=END_WYdf8pw
www.youtube.co.uk/watch?v=fxodGkgnIa8