“A View from the Rear ”

By Allan Johnson, October 2007

“Do you still enjoy jogging?” The question contained a hint of sarcasm. It was a week before our local charity road race and I was desperate for sponsors. I have always regarded myself as a runner, not a jogger. There is a clear distinction here. As a super-vet, I do not own any Lycra, and my shoes are far too dirty for jogging. Although basic speed is lacking, my early pedigree as a fell runner still inclines me to oil of wintergreen rather than oil of Olay, and I would not know where to put an i-pod.

Mingling with 3000 other runners on race day confirmed my suspicions – this was a carnival affair saturated with fun runners, with only a minority of elite athletes present to raise adrenalin levels and inspire the serious runner in me. However, I had been asked to wear the designated T-shirt for my chosen charity, so was I now obliged to feel part of the carnival rather than part of the race? I fastened the plastic timing chip to my ankle as instructed and waited for the countdown, feeling strangely out of place in this relaxed non-competitive atmosphere.

The start was a messy affair. The elite runners must have been approaching the halfway mark before we ambled across the start line. New to me was the advertised hazard of “street furniture”, but I didn’t spot any wardrobes - other than the costumes worn by a cast of thousands, who seemed to be heading for the local pantomime. I felt somewhat underdressed as I rubbed knees with a variety of characters, from clowns to camels, all wearing a number and committed to completing the same ten kilometres as myself. I found all this rather puzzling, since running 6 miles in conventional kit is taxing enough, without the added inconvenience of carrying extra clothing.

Once clear of the pageant, it was down to the serious business of running. At every corner the crowds seemed to be cheering me on, but then a large pink bunny overtook me, and the crowds fell silent. Undeterred, I staggered to the halfway point and snatched a bottle of water, although a pot of tea would have been nice.

At this point, what was left of my running style fell apart as I wrestled in vain with the top of the bottle, which refused to release its precious contents. Exhausted, I passed the bottle on and began to experience the turning point every runner knows – the moment of truth, when you either fall back in the field, or press on. The thought of falling prey to the chasing pack spurred me on towards the finish, only to find that my mental picture of the finish was out of date and there was now an extra loop.

As the crowds gathered for the finish, I spotted my wife trying to pan an action shot with our new digital camera, but as she shook her head I realised that technology had once again beaten us. There would, of course, be an official photographer, logging all the runners at the finish and my heroic efforts would be recorded on the website. As I lunged for the line and posed for the camera, a fairy godmother flew passed me and stole the show. An impressive photo awaited me.

I checked my finishing time, which was a mere ten minutes slower than my personal best of twenty years ago - and went in search of the obligatory medal and space blanket. I cast an exhausted eye on my fellow competitors. Were they runners or joggers? It really did not matter. Thousands of pounds had been raised for charity by an assortment of athletes turning out and subjecting their bodies to varying degrees of physical and mental stress in the name of a fine sporting tradition.

My T-shirt had become my running vest for the day, and yes – I still enjoy jogging!