Sifting through the headlines last week, my attention is attracted by “Scorching heatwave to bake Britain”. I click through. Temperatures may rise to 37oC, it tells me. And Kew Gardens (which is a couple of miles from where I live) is to be one of the hottest spots in the country. My mind is doing a running commentary as I read. “I can’t run in that heat.” “What if I feel ill?” “What if I dehydrate?”. But as so often happens when I stress about something I read in the press, my fears aren’t realised. I do not expire from lack of water. Or melt or burn in the sun. Or suffer from heatstroke…
Saturday: I leave at 6.15 am with around 2 hours of running ahead of me. Already it’s 25oC. I’m nervous about the heat. But I have a plan. I’ll adopt a pattern of running for 10 minutes (approximately a mile) then walking for 30 seconds. I’ll route myself past my flat and rehydrate around two-thirds into the run.
The heat doesn’t bother me. But my mind does. It’s thinking, “How many miles have I done? How many do I still have to do?” “Shall I have salmon or jacket potato for dinner? Salmon I suppose. Otherwise the broccoli will go off.” “Have I lost any friends over my last (rather controversial) blog post? How am I going to reply to the comments without getting into a row about the ins and outs of virus protocol?” I stop and walk. Clear my mind. Put the thoughts to one side. “They are only thoughts”, I think. “And they are irrelevant to what I’m doing now”.
A couple of miles on – miles where my mind has been silent – I stop to look at the clock on my phone. It’s after 7.30 already. My flat is two miles away. It’s not worth going back for water now. I only have around 40 minutes to go. And I feel ok.
That evening my legs are aching. Not a painful ache. Just a long run ache. My feet are worst, which is unusual. Maybe they swelled in the heat. I treat myself to a self-administered foot massage. Stick them in a bowl of cold water. An old mixing bowl I’ve had since the 80s. Which is probably when I last used it. I wonder whether I should give my feet a day off running. And decide that, if I do go, I’ll wear my new socks.
Sunday: It’s cooler this morning. Maybe 18oC. I’m out even earlier and I’m the only person in the world. No one walking or running. Not a car or a bike in sight. I run past row upon row of Victorian terraces to Ealing Fields. Hardly anyone ever seems to come to this piece of scrubland. Sometimes I stand in the middle and do a 360 degree spin. Just to marvel at having so much space to myself. In London.
I run down a short steep slope onto the Grand Union canal and turn left towards Brentford. Still no one! "At this moment in time", I think "the canal is mine". And I'm pleased that my thought rhymes. "Must put it in my blog", I think. I run under the road bridge and hear the rumble of cars – two of them - passing over. I reach the (probably) Thomas Telford designed footbridge. Pass two boats that are being renovated. One of the owners has left engine parts on the towpath overnight. I run past the slipway that was built (so the sign says) so that horses that fell into the canal could easily climb out. And past the waterfall that is the output from GSK’s eco-friendly aircon system – the building being cooled by canal water.
Then it’s over the bridge into a deserted field. Under the underpass which is often a film set for detective dramas. It’s here, 35 minutes into my run, that I see my first person. A man dressed entirely in white. Or at least I think it’s a man. He’s quite a long way off. And without glasses, I’ve been known to mistake a waste bin for a child.
I seem to speed up. Round the park, out of the gates, onto the road. Over the railway bridge at the moment when a tube passes under. I turn right at the Harvester, where a board advertises a bargain Sunday roast. I go left, then right, then left, then right, then left, then right. And I’m back in my street. My feet don’t hurt. The new socks must have worked!
Monday: It’s 6.15 and I’m so confident about not expiring from the heat by now that I almost forget to check the temperature (20oC). Ealing is “London’s greenest borough”. Thanks to Charles Jones (borough surveyor back in Victorian times), I can design this morning’s 7 mile run going from park to park with only short stretches of road in between. He made sure Ealing stayed green. Long before we understood how important green was.
I jog down to Lammas Park – a few hundred yards from my flat - and go anticlockwise round it. Then run along a short stretch of road, waving as I go past the Garden Café. The owner always has a smile and a wave for a sweaty runner. Perhaps he runs himself. I decide to go down there for a coffee and a croissant after I’ve done my run.
The sweat pours off me as I run round the orchard and wildflower meadow in Blondin Park. But I don’t really mind. It’s just sweat. I run down the alley past the allotments. Two early-to-rise allotment owners are exchanging veg chat. A few hundred yards later I’m in Boston Manor Park. The scaffolding and plastic is finally off the mini stately home. I loop round the park three times before returning home the way I came.
So far so good then with the heatwave. And the forecast for the rest of the week? “UK braced for worst storms ever”. “A month’s rain could fall in two hours”. “Fears of flash flooding in parts of the country”. Could fall. Fears of. Parts of. This is another headline I needn’t worry about.