# Running Free, by Richard Askwith
I’m not sure exactly why I started this one before Askwith’s previous book, *Feet in the Clouds*, given a putative interest in fell-running (the subject of his first book). But I'm glad I did.
*Running Free* interleaves three themes: first, a polemic against Big Running, Askwith’s term for the marketised, organised and profit-motivated side of running, with some exploration of some alternative approaches. He rails against the idea that you can’t run without tracking your route via GPS, your heartrate, your time and pace; that you can’t run without spending a small fortune on running gear; that you can’t just go out and run, but have to pay someone else to organise an “event” for you to run in. And yet:
> The strange thing is, the more we spend on running, as a nation, the less fit and more fat we collectively become. (location 228)
As he says:
> A similar kind of twisted logic has persuaded any number of modern children that, for example, a packaged sandwich is more desirable than a homemade one; or that clothing with logos is better than clothing without.
The second theme of the book is a gentle memoir of a year’s running, exploring the experience of his (mostly early morning) runs through his local landscape over the course of a year. Askwith lives in rural Northamptonshire, somewhere northeast of Banbury (he mentions the Banbury street-lighting night glow at one point), not far from “the tiny village of Plumpton” (which Google Maps doesn’t seem to recognise via its search, but the map itself shows it is a few miles southeast of Canon’s Ashby), and Canon’s Ashby (whose church spire is visible from several of his runs).
The third theme is the *Seven Ages of Running*, riffing of course off Shakespeare’s seven ages of man. He’s in his fifties at the time of writing and doesn’t seem to have reached the seventh age yet, but the first six are as follows:
* the *First Age*: “the total novice: hesitant, embarrassed, still only provisionally committed, and pleasantly surprised on first completing a distance that can be measured in miles rather than metres”
* “the runner of the *Second Age* is more of a zealot. Going for a run no longer feels like a mad experiment”
* “… the *Third Age* of Running, when a general desire for self-improvement gives way to a yearning for ‘peak performance’”
* “my fell-running phase constituted my version of the *Fourth Age* of Running. By this I mean the stage when you finally pit yourself against the very biggest, craziest, most daunting challenge you can possible imagine … For some this might mean going for Olympic gold; for others it might mean running a marathon, or perhaps some kind of adventure race or triathlon. What matters is that, in your terms, it is extreme, improbable and perhaps on the borders of lunacy – but still, just about, theoretically, within your grasp”
* in the *Fifth Age* he forced himself “into a choice: either to give up running, because I derived no satisfaction from it; or to find other satisfactions in it, and to enjoy them instead. I chose the latter and the result has been, I think, my *Fifth Age* of Running”
* next he discovers it’s possible to still run like a child: “I’m increasingly inclined to embrace it, not just as an occasional indulgence but as a distinct and delightful *Sixth Age* of Running. We all have an inner child. Can it really be healthy not to let it out to play occasionally?”
Presumably the *Seventh Age* will be discovered in his sixties or seventies, and involve some slow plodding with an emphasis on enjoying the place and the company, though it’s hard to see how this would differ from the Fifth Age.
The Seven Ages idea works least well: it’s a journalistic idea, a “peg” on which to hang some ideas about the evolution of his relationship to running, but as a concept it’s nearer to the listicle than Proustian recollection.
The polemic was in all truth preaching to the converted in my case, though (like Askwith himself), I’m guilty as charged. (We are all sinners.) But I’m afraid he did start to come across as an old fogey riding a hobby-horse: everything he says is true, but it’s no truer of running than any other aspect of modern life, and he could have made his point much more succinctly.
And he’s guilty of some harsh judgements to fit things into his thesis, for instance he is very unfair on parkruns. True, they take sponsorship money from Big Running (Nike, Sweatshop, and all), but this has always come across to me more as a pragmatic approach to paying some of their costs than as selling out. You only have to interact with the website once, for the initial registration, and thereafter you just turn up and the standard time for you local event and run, and never again see any reference to the sponsors or their branding. In fact, you don’t even have to register if you’d prefer not to: no-one checks or cares if those running are registered, and the only drawback (which Askwith would in any case see as an advantage) is that you don’t get your time recorded. My local event certainly feels like a local event, organised for free by local volunteers (including the stalwarts who give up their run to act as event wardens). All types of runner are welcome and all types are there every week: from the ultra-competitive club runners, to those just coming off the NHS *Couch to 5k* programme who can barely make it round 5k without walking, to those who need to walk a significant fraction of the distance.
On the same point, Askwith (perhaps prudently) doesn’t mention the NHS *Couch to 5k*. To be consistent, he’d have to denounce and deride it, since its users have to download a podcast and run with earphones in, robotically obeying the instructions to run and walk on demand. And yet, C25K has got thousands off their sofas and running, and anecdotal evidence at least suggests that many of these go on to develop a long-lasting running habit – does Askwith really regret this?
But let’s accentuate the positive. By far the most successful element is the account of his running year. The book was nominated for a nature writing prize, and that wasn’t to recognise the Big Running polemic or the Seven Ages chapters: the quiet accounts of his pre-dawn runs through the varying terrains of the British farm landscape – frozen, water-logged, ploughed, springy, nettle and thistle infested – are superb. He name-checks Robert Macfarlane at one point. I wasn’t surprised: Macfarlane’s influence on British nature-writing has been profound and simply can’t be over-estimated. But to paraphrase Lloyd Bentsen, he’s no Robert Macfarlane: at heart Askwith is a journalist, more intelligent than many perhaps, but lacking Macfarlane’s deep insight into both language and landscape.