Welcome to the Great Church of Running

I am an atheist. I am comfortable with there being no God.

I took GCSE and A Level Religious Studies all those years ago, and having examined the arguments, I came to my conclusion and stuck with it. If there is an all-powerful and beneficent consciousness in our universe, it is not invested in an external deity, it rests in every human beings' conscience, and works through individual and collective actions.

Whoo. That's pretty deep stuff for the morning after a great night out with a very dear and long-loved friend. Considering that we split 2 bottles of white wine over a couple of pizzas and spent 4 or 5 hours putting the world definitively to rights for what felt like the first time in years, I'm in a pretty good shape this morning. A few years ago, there would have been more wine, probably some dancing, and a much later night, but we're older now, and we almost always know when to stop.

However, I am in no shape to go for my now-customary very long Sunday run, and I'm trying to balance a mild feeling of guilt with enjoying the luxury of a Sunday morning alone, in my jamas, drinking tea, with a catch up of the latest installment of The Walking Dead and the cat. I suppose, now that I regularly like to get 10 or 12 miles under my belt before breakfast on a Sunday morning, that I am a serious runner. Not the fastest or the best, but that's not what I'm out there for. As I've hinted at in previous posts, there is something spiritual that I find in running which is acceptable to me, where in any other form I would be uncomfortable. 

My understanding of religion, learned as a subject in school rather than being brought up as a believer, comes through the filter of a Western Christian cultural background and leads me to conclude that all religions are based on early attempts to make sense of and explain the physical world. These early, and usually logical assumptions (based on limited scientific knowledge and empirical observations) then became encoded as rules that would help to build sustainable identities among, and sometimes in opposition to, disparate groups of people. By observing certain customs and performing specific behaviours, one distinguishes oneself as a member of one culture, and not another. Most of my life though, has been spent refusing to be defined and resisting belonging in any category. In Groucho's words, "I don't want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member". I am the only example of myself, and I do not wish to be like anyone else, but it's part of the human condition to seek out people who share your experiences, values, beliefs, interests. People give you strength. We achieve together.

In accordance with the Zen of Running, lessons for life can be extrapolated from things learned through learning to run. On my long runs recently, I've realised that what I do when my body clicks into autopilot is as close to meditation as I've ever been. My mind is free and it wanders, flits, picks, circles and dances and does things it's not usually allowed to do. I can come back from a run with no real idea of what I've been thinking about, but with a new knowledge of my opinion of a subject I'd previously not given a thought to. My favourite was a realisation that the film "28 Days Later" was a different type of zombie movie because the thing that made people like the living dead was a disease called Rage, and represented the mindless spewing of intolerance which can infect society, where most clever Zom-flicks use it as a representation of relentless and unthinking commercial consumption. Not ground breaking, but not bad for a 5k on a cold morning, and it coincided with a pretty quick time too.

I've come to decisions about difficult situations I've been unwilling to tackle, and I've run through every emotion it's possible to have. Embarrassment runs are awful - you are running from whatever it is you did that makes you cringe. They need hills and speed and still the memories are there. Broken-hearted runs are the same - there's occasional angry outbursts as thoughts spill into spoken words when no-one's around. This week I've very much enjoyed 2 "I DID IT!" runs, with a great big smug smile on my face. Sometimes I have a good argument with myself about whatever's on my mind, giving a voice to each of my mixed emotions and allowing my head to be an impartial judge, instead of sticking with what I "should" do or think. All of these thoughts are sometimes used to distract myself from the physical act of running, blocking out the messages coming from the rest of my body. Occasionally, I encourage these voices too. I think of myself now as less of a single monolithic entity and more as the speaker of a parliament of emotions and sensations, and I address the parts of my body separately - "Feet! How are you feeling? Left one's a little tight, eh? Ok we'll see what we can do. Knees! You ok? Heart, you ticking along alright? Shoulders! All good? Nice one guys, lets keep going. No, bladder, you do not need a wee, we went before we set off. Besides, you can hold it for another 40mins, til we're home, can't you?"

And when I do get home, I always feel better. I know I've achieved something. Sometimes it takes a while to set in, but it comes. This is what those good hormones do, soothing and fixing sore muscles and rewarding the brain, the body's own thank-you for all that exercise.

My long runs are my meditative time to reflect on everything, and I suppose that this is what prayer feels like. I release my worries to a higher power, but in my case it's not God, it's a less inhibited thinking. Usually, the longest runs are on the weekends, with Sunday being the usual, as I don't generally have work to do. When I'm out, and I encounter other runners, we nod and smile at each other. Walkers and cyclists get the same. Being out there gives us a shared experience and identity.

Last week, it eventually occurred to me what the start of a race reminds me of. Lots of people are gathered in one place, all appropriately dressed for the task of performing a collective ritual. We are addressed by someone with an inspiring message, and then we all go out together and do our best. We all believe in the power of running to do good. It is first of all good for us - we are slimmer, healthier, happier and more relaxed, but the vast majority of runners raise funds for charities through sponsorship - asking other non-active believers to contribute. At the finish line, we all recognise the effort each of us has had to put in, and strangers dispense heartfelt congratulations, without prejudice or reserve. If you've struck up a conversation on the route with someone, the support you each draw from the other can be essential, and although you will probably never see each other again, a hug is often necessary, acknowledging the fleeting closeness and unspoken understanding.

Last Sunday, I ran the Leeds Half Marathon: the longest and fastest run I've achieved yet. I am still quite high on the numbers - 2hours 13mins 40secs; an average pace of 10.08mins per mile. I have a medal and a t-shirt that tells everyone I did it. It would appear that I am now a fully paid up member, even an evangelist for the Church of Running (or other physical exercise). Freely available and welcoming, open to all who approach. You will find no judgement on who you are, or whatever you've done before, as long as you accept that you are a body which needs to move. Respect and love your fellow man, eat wholeheartedly and share your life with friends and family, but ensure you put on the lycra and burn calories afterwards. Smile at people as you go past, and do not point out their wobbly bits lest yours become pointed at too.

Running is a religion, and it's the only one I'm happy to be part of, but this morning, I'm dodging observance of one of my worships and indulging in a different ritual.

Now - where's that big fat Sunday breakfast?