The Ravens

Every Thursday around a quarter to one in the afternoon I take up my bag of sports clothes and descend down the basement to prepare for my weekly hour of suffering. The first time that I joined the ‘Ravens’ i.e. the runners’ association of people mainly from the banking and insurance industry in The City I was, so to say, slightly overconfident. After all I consider myself a decent sportsman, and running and cycling have always been sports I have performed adequately at. Now consider that, though be it once a week, I kept my running skills somewhat polished over the past year, the awesomeness of my new running shoes I bought on my first day in London, and that the average participant hadn’t seen that fewer springs than my dad in their life, I thought it wouldn’t be such a challenge jogging along. To put the last part into perspective; I’m the youngest out of the say 25 people to gather every Thursday at the canal beyond Tower Bridge. The youngest and one of the slowest. Agony! I tell you, pain! Well it’s not that bad, but it’s quite a realisation being outrun by 50-year olds while you’re really trying your best. The thing is that, as a warming-up and cooling-down, we run 5 k (2,5 there 2,5 back) to the place where the actual exercise takes place. Then, you run six times a kilometre, for which the maximum time you can take is five minutes per track. So if you take four you have 1 minute to rest, etc. Now these guys take a bit over three minutes for each kilometre, while I’m very satisfied when I’m among the last ones reaching 3 and a half. Panting, sweating, struggling for oxygen, I find myself bending over the railings of the canal after each run, while the guys count down out loud the second before the fun starts again. Well to be honest it is fun, otherwise I wouldn’t do it. And it’s a means to an end as well, as I get to meet new people from all over, socialise a bit, and get more acquainted with my colleagues from other departments. Passing by one of the guys who's usually in for the run last Thursday gave me the feeling I had blended in fairly well, as the British polite tone of voice had changed to something more natural. He referred to last week's run, when we did the 5k race, and one of the organisers told me afterwards I shouldn't be able to sprint the last 50 meters as it was in indication I hadn't given everything the 4950 meters prior to that. "Gonna give t all this time eh? Didn't he tell you that you could've run faster? He told you to f*ck off didn't he?" A hint of a grin on his face, and a broad one on mine. It felt as if I had become part of it all. And off I went, downstairs, to change quickly and start the challenge. And I must admit,  11 km of pain in an hour’s lunch break makes the prospect of 11 miles with Dana this Saturday morning less daunting.