He wrote this once: He runs. Now he runs. And he dresses in pink. He runs, he runs, he runs.
- He meant it to be about how far you could reach, how far it was possible to go. He was a writer but it wasn't about writing. It was about being, becoming, finding.
He is dressed in pink. Through fields, forests, up and down long slow hills, the slap, slap, slap of his feet, the certain breath, his arms, legs, smoothly moving, he runs. In pink, in the pink, he moves through wood, and over grass, along waters, under skies, steady, steadily, the world wraparound, the earth definite, his breathing even.
- Then he was trying to show the forest, his life, the way he loved, how he lived and lived and lived, because he thought he was a young man, because he was a young man, with decades to come.
He thought he would run forever, that he owned the forest.
And as the runner runs, he thinks, he thinks. For him it is the cadence, the sense, the even ever-flow footfall, the definition of tread, tread, tread, the very essence, his essence, his foot on grass, his foot on forest mulch, his feet crossing sand, his body going through, and on and on and on he runs, and thinks, and he runs and he thinks, and, because he is who he is, he is dressed in pink. He is not fat, the runner.
- Because then he wasn't fat. He wasn't old, he wasn't older, no longer bolder, no longer bold. Then he was driving, surviving, pink.
- Here is some irony. He wrote: Once he was fat and inside his head was fat and he dressed in grey or brown and he walked quietly, avoiding the open spaces, light. Then he jogged a little, ran a little, wore black tights, a blue shirt, gloves, a hat. Then he ran, the once, a little fast, he raced; and he was hot, uncomfortable. He was heavy with sweat, his clothes were too heavy. They were dark, close. They overwhelmed him, they took away his breath.
- He had been young and fat. Then older, thinner, then forty, forty-five, and the lightest he had ever been, sharp, a knife, a cutting edge, a writer. He was almost famous.
- He bought running pants, longer ones, shorter ones, a pair lilac, cut away for the thighs to swish, a logo, a tick, the waistband straddling a definite, ever-flatter belly. One day he passed a window and saw a man, like someone in him, but taller, head high, the arms moving smoothly, even, and the man he saw was him and he was the man and he breathed one long breath deeper, looked out further and strode, the sun in his face, on his face, and he glistened, and knew it.
- That's what he said, about becoming non-fat, about becoming. This is so true, I can cite the publication, look it up on the net. He had been young and fat, then not young and not fat, and now?
- The next day he bought the pink singlets, the pink shorts. He bought the lightweight running shoes flashed with pink stripes, gold, and from then on he ran, always in pink. He was the runner in pink. He could be seen.
- He could be seen. He was on display, displayed, on book covers, just once he almost made the Radio Times, or was it Waterstones? Fit Fifty, The Find of the Year.
- What is difficult is to remember the runner before he was the runner, particularly before he dressed in pink, before he ran and thought thoughts, ran, thought, before he ran and ran, and his thinking came, sailed on his heartbeat, flush with the country he traversed, the earth, the deep green of far off trees, a horizon, somewhere to go.
- That he wrote as well. How he had been little, he had been nothing, that anything was possible. You just had to want.
- And he wrote: "I didn't always run.” He will tell you,!" didn't always run.” But you will find it impossible to believe, too hard to take on board, not conceivable, it's not likely. The runner in pink must always have been the runner in pink. You will suggest false modesty, an economy of truth, misinformation.
- He looks at it now, not tearful, and not bewildered, but he wonders now, did someone ghost-write it for him? Was he in a hurry and a hack banged out some philosophical shit for some magazine?
- And: But the runner will insist. "Once I was fat," he will say, “Once I walked where people didn't see. Do not presume that what is now evident is that which has always been.”
- Now it seems so easy to believe. Yes once you were fat; twice. We are in the present tense, the first-person. Say it.
- Fat (we are not talking size here). Fat. I give in. Yes.
- It isn't that long since he said:
- If he asks, "Do you run?" don't lie. He doesn't ask because he needs to know; he is merely being polite. He will know if you run, and he will know how much you run. He may not know how you dress (if you run) but he will know if you run. He will know. Tell him the truth.
- Stop. Do you run? If you ran, would you wear pink? If you ran, would you see something far off, too far away, a dark possibility, something difficult, something possibly not possible, something impossible - would you see that, and with framed fingers pick it out, fix it, tighten your laces and set off, anyway?
- Yeah, yeah, yeah, I had a good run, I ran. I got quick, and I was sharp. He reads the last paragraph. The runner knows that getting there is just a bonus. He knows to run that way, to run with the head up (dress in pink) that's enough. Once he didn't. Once it would never have occurred to him.
- This is when he takes a breath. How old is old, how long is not long, how far is I don't know, how high is the next mountain, and who says you can't bunjee at sixty, who can't punt for a big one?
- And here he is, deciding not to lie. If you can get odds, back him. Spark. Spunk. There's something left. Tomorrow he goes for a jog. Wednesday he will be up to a mile. Old farts wear black, so let him. But look in again, next month (or better still give him two). There's pink stuff in a haversack somewhere, fresh paper for the printer.
