I want to run

It was 6:15. He had been watching the digits change since 5:37. He would get up, he liked an early start for his long run of the week. His wife and kids were used to his early morning routines. His wife was long past caring, and the kids now seemed oblivious even to his presence. They would all carry on doing their own things.

He checked his gear. Asics running shoes, arch support and gel cushioning, although they were looking their age now. He would have to get some new ones, but that would mean two weeks of blisters, and besides, there was something daunting for the other competitors when you turned up in well-used shoes.

Cushioned running socks, Ron Hill tracksters, an understated navy blue with a red stripe, not the gaudy Lycra psychedelic prints he wore for races. A Helly Hanson thermal undershirt and his Bingley Harriers blue and white hooped vest.

He started his warmup routine. Stretching the muscle groups of legs, back and arms. Pulling on tendons to make them supple. He wasn’t sure when his jogging turned into running. But now he eagerly awaited his Running magazines, scanning for local races, studying the science.

He was a stalwart of the Thursday evening Club running session. His pulse always quickened at the sight of the floodlit track, the way the colours were heightened. The grass greener.

Everything seemed OK, that nagging pain in his stomach didn’t start until he had clocked a few miles, and he had learnt to ignore it. Endorphins he had read.

He knew it was a midlife crisis, vain attempts to regain youth, but recognising something didn’t mean that you could avoid it, and it was harmless and inexpensive. It could have been motorbikes or other women.

He knew he had got into some kind of macho competition at the gym, putting an extra few kilos on weights, setting the treadmill faster and further. A stupid “mine is bigger than yours " competition.

He put on his headphones, fixed his Walkman to his waistband, and let Bono sing “I want to run”. Appropriately, the streets had no name up on the moors where he was heading today.

He pulled the fluorescent yellow Beany onto his head. He checked his runner's watch, zeroed the counter and minute timer, grabbed his water bottle, pulled on his Ron Hill running gloves and set off.

His training schedule said he was to run a slow, even pace today. 10-minute miles, although on race days, he could do sub-8s. He recited the nursery rhyme that he used to set a 10-minute mile pace and set off into the swirling mist as Bono reached out and touched the flame.

The mist closed behind him, leaving only the sound of his shoes slapping on the tarmac.

He liked the solitary slap of his shoes, although lately, on these dark mornings, he imagined he heard a runner behind him. The bony click of Death's skeletal feet striking the road. Recently, he felt he was catching up. On his Walkman, Bob Dylan knocked on heaven’s door.