Running Adventures in Yorkshire (Episode 1)

For those who have been asking (and the majority of you who haven’t)I notched up another win at the Throttle-in-Mossdale Run in the Park on Saturday. This time I beat 5 adults (two of whom were octogenarians) and 4 kids who were admittedly distracted by the addition to the race of an 'obstacle option'. One of them had to be cut out of the agility ladder at the end by a passing volunteer fire officer. Though welcoming on the whole, the village runners haven't taken too kindly to being beaten by a barefoot incomer and, during the cool-down on the newly-installed outdoor gym, there were dark mutterings by the sit-up benches. It would seem that in a fortnight's time at the Annual Village Fun Run, I am to face my nemesis in the shape of a 12 year old, known locally as ‘The Whippet’, so called as he is rumoured to possess the speed of a whippet, the height of a whippet (stood up on its hind legs) and the stamina of a...whippet. (So hopefully, he might struggle over 3k). Incidentally, it might interest readers to know that in Yorkshire, a whippet is a standard measure of speed, length, weight and time. Hence in God’s own county, national speed limit signs show the silhouettes of two whippets rather than the familiar black diagonal line. Yorkshire people talk of their children as having grown ‘as tall as three whippets’ and Yorkshire weight-watchers are happy to announce that this week they’ve lost ‘a whippet and a half’ from around their waist.

My show-down against ‘The Whippet’ promises to be like the climactic final scene in the classic western, High Noon, except the race starts at 11, there won't be any guns involved (though there is an archery display afterwards) and, at 54, I'm older than Gary Cooper was in the film and, even to my eyes, he looks well past his best and totally incapable of defeating the younger, more accomplished Miller gang. “They’re making me run,” says Cooper’s character in the film, “and I’ve never run from anyone before.” In contrast, people have never made me run and, in fact, quite a number of people, including close family members, would be very happy if I stopped. Furthermore, having grown up in Belfast during what is euphemistically referred to as ‘The Troubles’, I became very adept at running away from all those who wished me harm due to my involuntary religious convictions and how I pronounced the letter ‘H’. (Differences over the latter and the ‘substance’ of the Eucharist after consecration combine to form the source of the conflict in Northern Ireland.) Even beyond the contested confines of Northern Ireland, running away has been a tactic that has served me well over the years when disaster, humiliation or a promotion seemed headed my way. I shall, therefore, not follow Gary Cooper’s advice and, in two weeks time, will hopefully look over my shoulder to see The Whippet and his youthful posse struggling to catch me as I turn for home just after the newly-refurbished children’s play area.