Niall O'Sullivan – Poet

As far as the weather goes, now is the perfect time for running. I work my own hours so when I head down the hill around lunchtime, I’ll know that the pre work rush will be well over. During Summer I have to run first thing in the morning or last thing in the evening and have to share the park with the competitors (who treat their solitary lap in the same way they treat their commute) and the fly by nights. But in these fresh winter afternoons, it’s just me, a few dog walkers, the drunks, the trophy wives and the crack dealers.

I like to run for over forty minutes, currently I’m putting in an hour and fifteen mins of running three times a week. I don’t understand the one-lappers, never have and never will. They bound about for a lap, feet flicking upwards, water bottle in hand, dressed like Shackleton, running a 1.7mile lap in under ten minutes and then walking back to their flat. For all I know, the middle distance is the way to go as far as losing fat and building muscle is concerned, but that’s not why I run. I like it when the endorphins kick in near the end of the third lap and you feel like you can do this forever. I like it when I have to look at my watch to work out how many laps I’ve done. I like it when I no longer care about being overtaken because I’m on my own path.

You meet one-lappers in all walks of life. They want to get places quickly and be seen getting there.

There’s a strange feeling that I get when I close the front door and set off down the hill, a feeling that I’ve stranded myself somewhere and no matter how much my mind wants to go back, my body will follow some deep programming and carry on regardless. I owe any appearance of stamina I may give off as a case of matter over mind, and not the other way around. I often philosophise about free speech when I round off a lap. “Will this body go through the gates and head back up the hill towards home or will it trudge on one more lap?” I think to myself. There’s never a big moment where I make a decision or have it out with myself. I either find myself heading home or running another lap.

The drunks sit at some of the shelters, drinking their Tennants and strumming guitars. As I approach them I catch the scent of piss and stale beer and hear their strained voices butchering a classic rock anthem. It’s like going back in time to the Marquee. Sometimes they count my laps and hedge their bets on how many I’ll do. They look at me like I’m a nutcase, they find me hilarious.

There’s no feeling like it though, to be out there in the elements, I’ve been hooked on that feeling since I was a gardener. There’s nothing like coming up the hill and being greeted by a perfect rainbow arching across from Canary Wharf to the London Eye. I have neither a camera or a mobile to catch it with so I just have to watch it as it disappears, take it all in. Live it. The other day I trudged through a snow shower, in t-shirt and shorts. Four laps later I took off my top to find my face and body covered in a bright red rash. I looked like one of those idiots that sun bathe on tin foil, covered in baby oil, but this was from the cold. I helped myself to my fiancée’s moisturiser, which seemed to sort things out. Niall does metrosexual, you heard it here first.