When good exercise goes bad: the surprising hazards of jogging

On 29 April I will be running the Greater Manchester Marathon to raise money for Sue Ryder. Sponsor me now


For a supposedly healthy pastime, running can be a surprisingly hazardous affair. I don’t have the stats to hand, but my experience suggests that if you want to live a long and healthy life, you’d be much better off sticking to the great indoors. Here’s why.

Crippling injuries
For anyone of a certain age undertaking a big run, an injury or two along the way is almost inevitable. Hour upon hour of subjecting your body to the unforgiving impact of hard tarmac is bound to take its toll on knees, ankles and heels; it’s the body’s way of saying ‘stop this right now and sit down and watch that Community box set’. I’m much more prone to injuries these days - probably because I’m too lazy to do any of the right things, like stretches and warm downs. In fact, when I have a long run planned I just swallow a few painkillers to make sure I can go the distance, then spend the next day hobbling around, moaning. I don’t think this is strictly advisable, but it’s for charity, and I’m a hero, so what can I do.

Gruesome accidents
I recently read about something called the ‘pose’ method, which apparently takes all the effort and pain out of running. The idea, as far as I could tell, is that you lean forward, kick your feet up and let gravity do the rest. It sounded easy enough and so, thinking I might have found a short cut to getting fit, I thought I’d give it a go. A little knowledge turned out to be a dangerous thing. The first time passed without incident, and no difference whatsoever to my time. The second time, desperate to see some effect, I leaned over too far. Gravity did indeed do the rest, and I went sprawling onto the pavement in the manner of a kid tumbling in the playground. Among many cuts and scrapes, every layer of skin on on the palm of my hand had rolled up, exposing the chicken fillet flesh of my hand. I wouldn’t say I made a fuss, but little else was spoken of at home for some weeks. Incidentally I was curious to see whether the little lines on my hand would ever come back, especially as I had truncated what palm readers call the ‘life line’ and by rights should have dropped dead there and then. But even if I had, the pose method wouldn’t really have been to blame; without doubt I was doing it wrong. (They did come back.)

Getting abuse from strangers
You’d think in the year 2012 the sight of someone jogging might be commonplace enough not to arouse much interest in the general public. But no, clearly it is not. Because, at least once every two or three weeks, I’m interrupted by some local wit eager to comment, in the coarsest possible terms, on my failings in appearance and character. Over the years I’ve had my sexuality debated in Levenshulme, my athletic prowess questioned in Hyde, and, most recently called an ugly (the worst word) in oh so bohemian Chorlton (though in her defence - and I’d like to apologise for this joke in advance - my mum has promised to tone it down a bit in future). I rarely respond to the insults. My abusers are invariably much harder than I am - that could describe anyone really - and I’m generally too exhausted to run away. Also, there’s also often a carload of them, and just one Guardian readin’, man bag totin’ me. So I do what any real man would do: I pretend I haven’t heard, or I reply so quietly that they can’t actually hear me. Either way, my abusers go away delighted with their work. As for me, I spend the rest of my run fantasising about cutting them down with some well delivered bon mot, only to become frustrated that it was never to be. I arrive home in a terrible sulk, provoke an argument with my girlfriend, get thrown out, lose my job, become homeless, turn to drink and start haranguing idiots in running shorts.

Physical attacks (human and otherwise)
Verbal abuse is one thing, but on occasion running around the streets of Manchester can mean taking your life into your hands. Over the years I’ve had stones thrown at me, litter chucked in my face, and more than once been almost flattened by a car door opening in my path. And then just the other day, running down a canal path that I favour for its usual lack of danger, I was actually attacked by a dog. Much like jeering lads in cars, dogs sense weakness in me, and I seem to unwittingly provoke them into hostility. Normally I make my excuses and get away in good time, but on this occasion the canine in question bounded up and decided to take a nice chunk out of my leg. Fortunately, I was wearing a thick support bandage around my knee, and it was into this that the beast sunk its jaws, meaning my injuries were relatively minor. My girlfriend, who comes from a long line of dog lovers, informed me that the animal had been playful rather than aggressive; I still suspect that she was secretly taking the dog’s side. She also said that since I know nothing about dogs and had no idea what make it was (um, a brown one?), I should have taken a photo so it could be identified in a doggy line-up. Funny, but the last thing on my mind was to run down the path and try to pap the damned thing. After all, the personal intrusion might have pushed it over the edge. Even as it is I could swear it called me an ugly (expletive deleted) as it was running away.

Dangerous weather
If, like me, you live in Manchester, there’s simply no point trying to wait for good weather to go out running, because you’d be waiting forever. This means that I often find myself out on the streets despite every instinct telling me to stay inside. In the worst of winter biting winds cut through layers of clothes to chill you to your bones; joggers stumble on icy streets like deer stranded on a frozen lake. And when the winter finally ends, some time towards the end of May, spring (the rainy season) merges seamlessly into autumn (the other rainy season). Running in the rain can be a desperately dispiriting business, not least because it often leads to a particularly unpleasant form of discomfort. And for those who couldn’t be bothered clicking on that link, I’m talking about BLEEDING NIPPLES.

Given this litany of misfortune, I think you’ll agree it will be an even more astonishing achievement if I make it around the marathon course on the 29 April. I won’t blame you at all if you feel compelled to sponsor me, or if you already have, sponsor me again.

Getting my excuses in early

On 29 April I will be running the Greater Manchester Marathon to raise money for Sue Ryder. Sponsor me now

OK. So. The good news is I’m still running. That four hour target, though, still seems hopelessly optimistic. Here are some reasons why.

1. As I pointed out before, I’m really not much of a runner. It’s not entirely a fault of character. My asthma means that if I attempt anything more strenuous than a pensioner’s jog, I tend to start wheezing and coughing, and if I go any faster than five miles an hour I risk self-destruction, very much like that milk float in Father Ted. And this, my friends, cruelly limits my potential to set world records. 

2. Plus doesn’t everything hurt when you get to our age? Just lately the mere act of standing up causes creaks and aches and weird popping noises. It hurts when I get up in the morning and it hurts when I bend down to tie my shoelaces. But when I go for a  run, when I shake that body, work it, stretch it  and move it...then damn, it really hurts. In fact, I worry that I might be doing myself a right mischief.

3. And I thought all this running about would mean I could eat what I like and still lose weight. Yep, that totes causes what nutritionists call being ‘fat on the inside’. But who cares, right - because it’s on the inside! It’s like I always tell my girlfriend, it’s not mess any more if I pile it up in a drawer where nobody can see it. Anyway, it’s not working - so far I’ve put on two pounds. Perhaps I’m getting too old for all this. Maybe I should just face up to it, and go and lie down with a whisky and the crossword. In an ideal world you could get sponsored for that.

4. Another excuse (you’ll notice I’m cramming in as many as I can) is that our typically hectic family life means opportunities to train can be quite limited. What with all these children running around screaming, the house teetering on the verge of anarchy - we lost a couple of rooms there for a while - and, um, messy drawers that need sorting out, absences have to be very carefully negotiated or issues will arise. In fact just the other day I got back from a run, exhausted, to be handed a screaming infant and a resentful look. I’m sure Steve Ovett used to get flowers. 

5. And if you're going to suggest that I get up before everyone else to go running: no. Just no.