There’s no such thing as a ‘fun’ run

I DON’T know why they call it a ‘fun run’.

Just because the two words rhyme doesn’t mean they have to be put together.

I don’t know why I have to be drafted in to help out at a ‘fun run’; I’m still not over the Ballycotton 10 (ten miles, not 10 km, let me just remind you all). That was last March and I am still scarred from the experience.

Anyway, I have been guilted into doing a 5km ‘fun run’ next weekend and, seeing as the event is being sponsored by my newspaper, not only am I being forced at gunpoint to take part, I am also going to be an unpaid lackey.

This, I have decided, is a good thing.

If I’m being forced into taking part, then I might as well use the situation to my advantage.

First of all, let me just point out that I have no intention of running anywhere; I’ll casually stroll the 5km and no more is to be asked of me.

I can’t bear races. As already mentioned, I am haunted by the Ballycotton 10 (miles).

And previous to that, my only race experience was when my parentus horribilus forced me to take part in a race at the Castlelack Sports Day. I was five, suffering from terrible separation anxiety at the time and would become panicked if I could not see my mother.

This led to many difficulties, because I’m convinced she was always trying to run away from me.

How I got separation anxiety is actually a very sad story, a bit of a tear-jerker – even if I may say so myself. What happened was this – Papa left us.

Yes, it is true. He abandoned us back in the ‘80s to go work in the Bahamas and, as a result, I refused to let my mother out of my sight.

I actually distinctly recall her saying: “stop following me, for the love of God’… but it was fine, honestly; I’m not scarred, I swear.

Although every cloud has a silver lining and we ended up living in the Bahamas for a period of time. We were very recession chic back in the ‘80s. It was there I developed a fondness for coconuts and hair braids. I went Rastafarian for a while, I will admit.

Anyway, upon our return to these fair isles, someone decided it would be a good idea to go to the Castlelack Sports Day: brother got entered into a lovely baby competition, sister was off in a corner (probably sulking because she was a very unpleasant child) and eejit here was made take part in a race.

I can recall standing at the start line, not wanting to be there and, just as the whistle goes, I wonder where my cow of a mother is, because as far as I can tell, she is not on the sideline supporting me.

So off everyone else runs and I’m still standing there looking around. Then everyone starts screaming “run, run” at me … so I start to run but I’m still looking around for my mother and she’s not there.

Half-way up the pitch I decide I can’t see who is on the sidelines, so I just stop to turn around to have a proper look. Like, I was already last, so I was hardly throwing victory away or anything.

Anyway, of course, mother wasn’t there and everyone was shouting at me to ‘run, run”… so I opted to run alright … just in the wrong direction.

It was traumatic. Very traumatic.

But of course, I don’t carry any resentment, despite the fact that mother missed my race because she was busy lapping up the glory with brother, because he had just won the lovely baby competition.

It’s fine, it is all fine. The result of all this is that, nearly 25 years later, I still hate races.

But, of course, don’t let that stop any of you from taking part in the ‘fun run’ … I’ll be the one running the wrong way.