COLUMN
How he finally embraced the fear of getting his running shoes dirty... and opened up a new world of possibilities!
L etme tell you about the trouble with trails. They can be muddy, unlike pavements, and I don’t like ruining a perfectly clean pair of running shoes. This was my outlook 25 years ago living in London’s East End. Back then, my idea of venturing off-road went no further than Bow’s Victoria Park. It was a wild open space; a green lung that enabled city-dwellers to escape the daily grind and just breathe. It also boasted a network of tarmac paths, which was the only draw for me if I needed to cross to the other side. As a shortcut, it was useful as long as I didn’t have to make room for prams or loose dogs. Planting just one road shoe on the grass was unthinkable to me. Even though I was wearing a pair with 300 kilometres on the clock, a single misstep could mean soiling the treads and that was just not a risk I liked to run.
I wasn’t the precious type. As a father of four young children, I spent most of my time knee deep in nappies. My wife and I did our level best to keep our home neat and tidy, which was about as effective as keeping the Forth Bridge freshly painted. I could live with the mess, however, and loved family life. It’s just that, when it came to running, that was time out to myself in road shoes I secretly adored as much as my kids.
My commitment to keeping my footwear clean came to the end of the road following a move to the countryside. We lived on a lane with several crests and blind corners. There, the few cars that whistled by did so like they were competing in a rally cross. It made running feel unsafe and also not much fun. With a bridleway less than a minute from my door, I decided I would have to break the habit of a lifetime. It was time to head into an unknown realm.
First, I invested in a pair of trail shoes. Sporting all sorts of fancy features, from fearsome lugs to rock plates and toe guards, I felt like I had just traded up from a hatchback to a flatbed truck. They looked great. They felt amazing. They were also box fresh, and that’s how I intended to keep them when I set out for my first trail run.
Unlike toddlers, I didn’t consider puddles to be an opportunity to create a splash. They were just obstacles I could avoid with fancy footwork or the occasional leap of faith. Within a kilometre, however, as a pathway used by horses led me across softer ground, I found myself confronted by my worst fear. The bog was impassable on either side, and proved too long for me to jump. It left me no choice but to clamber onto the post and rail fence to shuffle my way to the other side.
Back at home, I had mixed feelings about my first trail run. There had been moments of bliss as the
