From Molotov cocktail to Long Island Iced Tea: jog gentle into that good night | Jack Marshall's column

Which is weird, because it’s a thing that the vast majority of us learn how to do at a pretty early age. Barreling about, unknowingly perfecting that process of throwing one leg out in front of the other, is something kids are famous for. Statistics show that an adult is never more than 48 seconds away from telling a manic child to ‘slow down’.

Unlike playing the guitar or, say, speaking Swedish, running is not a technical skill you have to train yourself to grasp. Complete novices who can only dream of playing Smoke On the Water or pronouncing IKEA properly (let alone the names of their products) start slowly and build from there because it’s all new. But we’ve all run before. Yet it’s still so hard.

That is, it’s hard until it’s suddenly not.

The good news is that, unlike speaking Swedish, running does get easier. A pursuit which starts life as a Molotov cocktail of sweat and reluctance with a dash of cramp on the side soon becomes the physical manifestation of a Long Island Iced Tea: weirdly enjoyable even though the constituent parts are, on their own, quite disgusting and groan-inducing.

Two years ago, I got into running and was convinced countless marathons awaited in my future. Then a half-marathon put paid to any notions of Mo Farah-esque achievements by dint of being so bloody far. I mean, it’s genuinely so, so far. Had you told me at the end of the run to turn around and do it again, I would have cried.

But, having recently moved somewhere with surroundings of a far greener and more bucolic tinge than before, the running shoes are back out with a vengeance.

My fires were also lit by a very real fear that the laziness and bad eating habits which came to define the initial lockdown (and which happily overflowed into summer like love handles spilling over a pair of jeans) would soon merge seamlessly into classic winter grazing.

You know the feeling: it’s cold, it’s dark, Bake Off is on and you’ve just watched Paul Hollywood scran a marzipan figurine of Henry VIII whilst Prue stands there looking like rainbow vomit. Blankets emerge, biscuits are taken.

And so, with sore muscles and Strava as my friend, I plan to jog gentle into that good night. Dylan Thomas can do one; bring on the plunging mercury, roll on the evenings where it’s dark by 4pm and each breath is 90% ice. This is a serious mission.

After all, as a tacky inspirational poster once told me, summer bodies are made in the winter.

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