boys don't cry

padre
Originally uploaded by Auswomble

I was born on January 23rd 1970 in St. George's Hospital, Hyde Park Corner. The building is still there; it is called Lanesborough House and is now the Lanesborough Hotel. I went back when a good friend had his wedding there. St George's hospital moved to Tooting in the early 80s. It was there that my mum died. Anyway, I was born in a northern hemisphere winter. My folks lived in a hotel basement when I was born and very soon afterwards we moved into a terrace-come-bedsit in Lambeth, on Hayford Avenue. I don't remember much about it. I have a few snapshot memories. Mum doing some ironing, the shared toilet and bathroom in the downstairs hallway. I remember a petrol station nearby, and a pet shop that had a talking mynah bird. That's about it. When Darren was born we moved to Morden. Dad had been a physical training instructor (PTI) and a parachute jump instructor (PJI) in the RAF. He had an accident with an ejector seat that ended his military career. The treatment that may or may not have saved his life nearly killed him. We lived on his pension and gambling winnings. We didn't have much money but I didn't know that, I was happy enough. It is mostly other people that look on ans say "oh that must have been awful." Er, no. Later in life my folks told me that the low point was when they had only a packet of fruit pastels to eat - for two days. I don't remember them ever complaining about their lot, and if I stop to think about it I am fucking ashamed of the moaning I sometimes do. Good job I don't think about it that much.

At around the time Darren was born we moved to Morden, into a house that was part of The Haig Homes, set aside for disabled ex-servicemen. Dad had a dangerous job, he knew the risks. There were no big payouts and dad was not the sort of person who would have even thought like that. The world was different 40years ago. We continued on his pension, but the rent on the house was relatively low. Mum and dad lived there until they died, mum first in 1994 aged 46 and dad in 2008 aged 73.

A brief aside into morbid maths. Mum and dad both died of cancer, albeit different flavours, so I guess you'd say natural causes. Add their ages and divide by two. That gives you a rounded up 60. Split that into three for young, middle aged and old. I'm 41. In our family that's old. Ho-hum.

Anyway, back to Morden. The house had an open coal fire and we had a coal bunker in the back garden. I'd fill the coal scuttle, sometimes having to dig the snow out of the way. Rare, but it happened. I will never taste better toast than the toast we would do over the coals of that fire. The coal fire was the only heating in the house. There was no double glazing. In winter the condensation on the inside of the windows would sometimes freeze. I don't remember ever feeling cold in that house, despite the fact that it was obviously freezing in my bedroom. This probably explains my disregard of people who like to say "it was freezing last night!" when it was ten degrees. Eventually we got both central heating and double glazing.

Fast forward a few years. In winter I would walk across the top of frozen lakes near my grandparents house. I took Darren along; what parents today would let their kids go and walk by, themselves, over frozen lakes? This was in Surrey, not Canada. You'd tentatively check the ice and then go. Pretty sure that I'd have died if I fell through. How times change. I'd go fishing throughout the winter and when I was in my mid-teens. I'd head out by myself for a day or two. I had a German army sniper's sleeping bag. It had a waterproof cover and was quilted. It had arms and a zip across the middle that you could poke your legs through; if you needed a piss you could wander off while wearing the sleeping bag. I'd turn the hood sideways so only my nose poked out through one of the ear-holes. My nose would get cold but I don't remember being too cold. I'd sometimes wake with frost on the bag.

What has this got to do with running? Well, not much. But I'm getting sick to death of banging on about how fucking hot and humid it is and how I'm sweating my arse off, day in, day out. So I thought I'd paint a picture of my formative years, the years that got me used to the cold. That's probably nonsense, and I'm probably just a sweaty bastard, but I figure this is a better read than the running stuff. I ran to work today and I'll do a stock run at lunchtime. I'll total 16km and I'll sweat a lot. Janathon duties complete. Now where was I?

When I get cold my fingers and toes go yellow. I think I inherited my dad's piss-poor circulation. As the blood comes back to them they go pink and blotchy and they sting. It looks a bit odd. The other thing that happens is my little fingers stick out from the other three. If I flex my hand normally I can flare all my fingers or keep them all together or do the Spock thing, splitting my four fingers down the middle. What I cannot do is separate just my little finger from the other three. Until my hands are cold. And then I can't avoid it. I know when I'm cold.

Behold the rambling, epic blog post!

Back to my early days. As well as sleeping in a freezing cold (literally) house and walking over frozen lakes I'd also have beef dripping on bread (white bread, of course) or treacle, or golden syrup. Sometimes I'd have white bread, butter and white sugar sarnies for breakfast. Always four slices. I'd not encourage AJ to have the same diet, but it probably wouldn't do her too much harm. Worrying about it, not moving enough and listening too closely to nutritionists are far more harmful. Before you get the wrong idea, there was plenty of good, solid meat-spuds-veg and mum made the most awesome bread pudding. We ate well and I moved a lot. And being cold is great for burning calories. Not sure where this is going, might need to change tack.

Dad taught me to swim from the side of the pool taught me how to ride a bike without riding one himself. His back was pretty well screwed and he was in constant pain. Sometimes he'd have to walk with a stick, or sleep on a board after he had a bad turn. Mostly he was OK and just put up with the pain. He wasn't a fan of pain killers. We'd go fishing together. I wish I'd treasured that more at the time, but you don't think like that when you're just a kid. Sometimes mum would come along too. She didn't fish, she'd sit there with us. I remember one night when the two of them huddled under a small umbrella, in the dark, in the rain. I fell asleep on my flashy-comfy-fishing-chair-come-bed. Will I do the equivalent for AJ? Will Sal? I hope so.

Bringing it back to running, just a bit. My first marathon was Paris in 2005. I remember being in a lot of pain at 23miles. I cursed myself, dug in and finished in tears. I gave dad my medal after engraving it with "For my dad, my inspiration." That choked the old bastard up a bit! With his PTI background I'd go to him for advice on exercising. Technique and tips, stretches and strenghtening; he knew his stuff. Whenever I am struggling on a run I think of dad. Did it yesterday and that was on my mind today. That's where this post has come from.

In 2008 I had to go back to the UK to see the old man for the last time. I got him into St Raphael's Hospice. He had helped raise funds for the building of St Raph's after mum died. Dad, Darren and I were together, for a while. The old man was still sharp enough at the end to berate me for getting a bet wrong when I popped over the road to the bookies for him. I did a little running while I was back in London in 2007. I was training for the Six Foot Track, which I completed in March that year. I finished that one in a world of pain too, but I belted the end and remember saying to myself over and again "this one's for you dad." Silly, eh? Looking back I think the relative rest I took in the UK was a good thing, helped me get over any niggles before the big day. Helping me out, right up until the end, if you'll allow me to indulge in just a little sentimental nonsense. It is almost guaranteed that on a long run, if I start to struggle, I start to think about the old man.

Well OK, that was a snapshot of me and my dad, from the day I was born until the day he died. Thinking about the old man is almost guaranteed to get me teary, hence the title. And now, just to make abso-fucking-lutely sure I upset myself.

He would have been an awesome grandfather.

And now, to lighten the mood, The Cure, Boys Don't Cry