Short circuit

I have always been happier with my body than with anyone else’s. From a decent bawling start (7lb 4oz, if you must know), I matured into the body I deserved – a cyclist’s rather than a swimmer’s physique. My legs are finely sculpted, fat-free pedalling, running and kicking machines, and my arms are strong enough to open the toughest jam jars without developing that bulgy veined roadmap look. My stomach hints at a six-pack without being too harsh. My chin and I are resolutely single.

But I have changed over the years. In my teens, I would characterise myself as smoothly powerful, sleek, relaxed, with easy joints. In my twenties – or to be truthful from about 26 onwards, my body has defied the decades – I would think svelte and athletic with a definite tightening of form compared with my teenage years. In my thirties, again really from perhaps 35 to 45, the mask of youth slipped to reveal a truer more hungry self in my mirror. And now, in what I think of as my early forties but is chronometrically my 54th year, I really do have the body I deserve. My reflection speaks of stamina, endurance, determination – above all, proof. My jawline has hardened to reveal my inner strength, my resolve. I just keep getting better.

So I rose this morning and stood in front of the mirror with reactions sharp and muscled honed. I am good. Trust me. I took my usual 23 minutes to shave, shit, shower and shloosh my teeth in readiness for my morning run. Why shower before running? Because self-improvement must be launched from the highest peak, of course.

My reflection glowed; I limbered up; I launched myself into the park. Striding into the autumn sunshine, the shadows from the tree trunks flashed their familiar stroboscopic cooling. I always take the same route; how else could I measure my progress?

Leaving the park, I turned into Park Drove – I always feel that should be Park Drive, but the Council says otherwise – and accelerated to the corner with Manor Drove. It sounds more rural than it is. It was raining yet again, and I had to judge my stride perfectly to clear the puddle without losing my rhythm. I have done it before many times.

I once read that for the average 30 minutes cycling commute to work, you would have to don waterproofs only 17 times a year. It was late September and I was on 28 soakings and counting. But if my body can defy the years, you can be sure that it can defy the weather.

Running is absorbing. It’s not about being in a world of your own; it’s about making the world your own. There are things you can see or hear at a run that you simply don’t perceive at other speeds – like the stroboscopic trees, like the eerie silence that comes from running at precisely the same speed as the wind.

I have moulded my body, and now am making the world to fit. My world is faster and more cinematic than yours. My senses are tuned for speed. And as every Einstein knows, the faster you travel the younger you remain. It works for me, relatively.

Crossing Green Street, my world collapsed into a black hole of pain. My senses imploded. Nothing escaped, neither scream nor whimper. The taxi shattered my kneecap, splintered both shins.

The ambulance driver thought he was being kind when he suggested it was drumming rain that disguised the workman’s warning shout. But what a stupid call. You know me now. You have read all you need. How could a shout of “Watch it, Granddad!” be destined for my perfect youthful ears?