I’ve been through phases where I couldn’t stop running. Up and down the Thames for endless miles, panting and spluttering along the way while my headphones pumped disco music into my ears and sweat dripped from my brow. I must have looked a right tit. Running was a hobby, then a habit, then teetered on the edge of becoming an addiction. Years of therapy have taught me that’s just how I respond to anything remotely pleasurable: I gorge on it until I am sick and then, eventually, I ruin it for myself. Just as it was with booze and drugs, so it was with running.
After getting sober in 2015, exercise became my all-too predictable methadone. It provided endorphins and distraction which, I figured, was what I needed. In fact,…
