Jonny McCambridge: The companionship of long distance running alongside my son

This is a troubling admission for a columnist to make. It leads to the uncomfortable conclusion that much of what I write is basically...well...forgettable.

After all, if the author cannot remember what he has written, what hope is there that it will make any lasting impression on the reader?

I prefer the explanation that this difficulty in recall is down to the fact that my once-coherent thought process is now full of holes. It is noticeable that I am finding it harder in my 50s to remember facts, events and am even struggling occasionally with my diction.

I was in a café recently and no part of my brain could recover the word ‘eggs’. The kind waiter looked upon me with pity as I struggled to order ‘Granary toast with scrambled…..’

A combination of this absent-mindedness and the fact that I have only a limited scope of ideas leaves a constant worry that I will bore the reader by duplicating themes.

Could short-term memory loss lead to the situation where I would write about exactly the same subject more than once within a few weeks? How similar would the two columns be? Would I reach the same conclusion? Would anyone notice?

To guard against this, I regularly scan back over my previous efforts to remind myself of what I have done.

It is startling sometimes how little recall I have over tales which I produced recently. I see, for instance, that not long ago I wrote about boiled eggs. I can’t quite remember the context, but that must have been a slow week.

I notice also that I have written about jogging.

I was struck by the headline of a column earlier this year which contained a variation on the phrase ‘The loneliness of the long-distance runner’.

The column detailed efforts to improve my fitness. It also made the point that I have participated in running for most of my adult life, and it has always been a solitary occupation. I run on my own, lost in my own thoughts.

Most Saturday mornings I compete in the 5K Parkrun. I once had the plan that I would complete every Parkrun venue in Northern Ireland, but the number of locations is expanding faster than I am able to get around them.

The weekend Parkrun is a social event. Almost everyone who takes part is amiable, and it takes someone with a particularly singular streak of anti-social stubbornness to go regularly and not make any new friends. I am that person.

Occasionally it has been suggested that, as jogging is my principle form of exercise, it would make sense to join a running club.

The logic is clear enough, undertaking the exertion alongside others means the burden is shared and there will be comrades to encourage you when the going gets tough.

And yet, I have never joined a group, instead continuing to pound the pavements alone, keeping my head down lest anyone might attempt to engage me in conversation or even say hello.

It is my habit and I suppose I imagined it would always be that way.

I have also written in the past about my concern that my son doesn’t partake in any sport. He likes games, but they are the ones played on the phone or tablet, rather than the pitch or the track.

Which is why I was pleasantly surprised when my wife recently suggested we could all do the Parkrun together, and he didn’t immediately reject the notion as absurd.

The plan was formed. My son had never run any distance close to 5k, so we thought it was best for him to jog with his mum at a slow pace, while I went on ahead, running on my own as ever.

However, shortly before the race began, he decided he wanted to aim for a faster time and asked if I would bring him around the course. It was a novel experience when I began to run with company.

The two of us chatted constantly as we jogged around the forest park in Hillsborough.

Less than halfway through I could see my son was breathless. Then he said he had a stitch. I was encouraging and told silly jokes and stories to distract him.

A couple of times he said that he wanted to stop, but I urged him to keep going, reminding him of the feeling of triumph and accomplishment he would have at the conclusion.

I was the proudest daddy in the park that day as we finally approached the finish line and my son stretched out his legs and sprinted ahead of me towards the end.

He was red-faced and filled with a breathless happiness I had not often seen before.

Once he received his recorded time later in the day, he immediately determined that he would beat it.

I woke him again the following Saturday morning and he rose quickly. This time, as we ran together there were no complaints, no walking up the hills, just a quiet determination to get better.

On the third weekend I had to work so my little brother stepped in to do the Parkrun with my son. I’ve missed many Parkruns over the years, but no absence had annoyed me in the way this did.

I sneaked away from work for a few minutes to see my boy crossing the finish line, panting but delighted at setting another personal best.

I went straight to him to reassure that I would return the following week.

For decades I cut a lonely figure as I went on my runs, perhaps even managing to persuade myself that I preferred it that way. Now, I am having fun and excited like a child at being able to run side by side with my son.

I am going to enjoy it while I can. I know it will not be very long before I won’t be able to keep up.