Pride and Privilege

Five weeks to go (17 March)

I’m going to take a different angle this week, to try to relieve the monotony of this blog as well as the monotony of training.  I’m going to focus on privilege.

See, I’ve taken a few days off midweek to go to Oxford with my mother.  I know what you’re thinking and sure, I’m a nice son.  And devilishly handsome too, if you say so.  Now stop talking about my charity work, you’re making me blush.

The morning of the trip I take a long jog round south London, covering the full socioeconomic strata from Peckham slums to Dulwich mansions.  It’s an eye-opener, particularly the transition from the council estates of Tulse Hill to the rolling acreage of homes in SE21 a few minutes away.  And having spent the last weekend jogging round my former northern Comprehensive it’s hard not to feel a mild pang of jealousy as I have to stop to catch my breath trying to circumnavigate the east wing of Dulwich College. 

Poor, poor Chris Humne.

The next day I go round Oxford and wow.  It’s the first time I’ve ever been and in the frosty sun it looks stunning, all opulence and grandeur.  Jogging round the impenetrable walls of Magdelene College, trying to get a glimpse of the promised deer park within, one of those unassailable truths comes into my mind: I’d be doing the marathon in under four hours if I’d studied here.  I’d be used to success and achievement.  Accustomed to winning and beating all expectations.  Rather than the ambition given to me by my actual childhood and education, which finds me hoping I don’t finish the marathon in under 4hrs 48 minutes so that I can get to the end of the audiobook I’ve downloaded for the occasion.  The Great Gatsby, since you ask.  Very on trend.

Shaking off pangs of a life that could have been and feeling ever so slightly Shakespearian given the surroundings, I put a girdle round the city in forty minutes.  I didn’t realise Oxford was so small: I’m forced to put a girdle round the park a few times to take me up to 15k.

Back in London by the weekend I set off for an 18-mile jog without any clue as to where to go.  I head towards the river via King George’s Park and a few wrong turns later I stumble across Wimbledon Park.  It is bloody enormous, with a free running track, crazy golf, tennis courts, a bowling green... all in a space the size of Nuneaton.  I’ve never even heard of it before.  That’s what I love about London, it covers a space so big that you half expect to find confused Aztecs wandering around SW5 looking for the temple.  And (here’s the link) unlike our celebrated university cities, you don’t have to be rich or intelligent to enjoy it.

I plod on for a bit then change tack and head north, jogging essentially my commute to work then up to the Waitrose on Finchley Road before retracing my steps home.  It’s a dreary trip, partly down to my lack of end goal but mainly due to the weather.  It’s hammering it down relentlessly and the wind blows the rain hard into my face.  I go through puddles, slip on mud, get splashed by taxis.   

I'm having a good time.

Sigh.

It’s grim but I stick it out and when I return home I’m surprised to discover I had a bit more in the tank.  I’m tired, yes, but I’m not doubling over in agony or stumbling my way round the house.  This is a marked improvement over recent runs but I can’t kid myself, my enthusiasm for this running lark is waning.  No one should be out running on a day like today, they should be asleep then in the pub.  I’ve only got two more big runs to go after this and I couldn’t be more glad, it’s wearing me down.  It's only pride keeping me going.

And I’ve not yet started fundraising.