The other day, I caught a glimpse of my naked body in a full-length mirror and decided it was time to buy running shoes. I looked okay for 44, but in my youth I had been all lithe energy. I had caused people to walk into street signs and roll trolleys into car doors as I passed down the street. Years of desk work, overindulgence, and contempt for physical exertion had somehow left me looking both wiry and overweight. I was grey and care-lined.
This is a blog about my attempt to become a person who runs. My goal—because it helps to have one—is to run from my house to the summit of Cave Hill and back again without slowing to a walk at any point. That’s six miles and a 1,000-foot climb.
It’s an obvious destination. Its stark basalt bluff, draped in forest, gorse, and heather, fills the rear windows of my north Belfast home.
From up on Cave Hill, you can take in Belfast Lough and the Lagan Valley, the Castlereagh Hills and the city. The Mourne Mountains rise above the southern horizon, and the hills of the Antrim plateau roll away to the north. You can, just about, point out Scotland.
My pristine running shoes are under my home office desk. If you see this, wish me luck.