Nearly five weeks after my fall, this morning I ran again for the first time; not much, a mere two-thirds of a mile, but a run nevertheless. It felt strange, not painful but I was very conscious of the knee and its movement, perhaps because there's still an enormous silver colloid dressing on it. I have never worried much about running style, but I found myself thinking about how my legs moved, and whether I was running correctly. Normally I don't trouble myself with such refinements. Twelve hours later, my leg has not fallen off, and so I think I shall try again, and start building up the distance.
While not running, I've had plenty of time to observe the post-Olympic debate. I've hesitated, not wanting to be crushed to death under the bandwagons' wheels. However, since anyone and everyone has an opinion, here's mine, and some account of its formation.
No one has yet found the answer to how to encourage people to be more active, though the public health consequences of our epidemic of laziness become clearer and clearer by the day. I know the way not to do it, the way they tried on me at school:
- compulsory team games, the more violent the better
- the autumn term was sacred to rugby, that game in which twenty-nine young men in their prime are allowed to jump on one of their fellows. I still bear a scar above one eye from a scrum
- in spring, hockey, much the same as rugby, for while there are fewer people wishing you harm, they are armed with sticks. I sustained a forearm injury in this game
- in summer, cricket. I enjoyed this. It was a civilised game, at least in those days, and I could see the poetry in a five-day test, and the intricacies of scoring fascinated me. Alas I was not much good but I have fond memories of lying under a tree as a game proceeded, reading an essay of Brigid Brophy's in which she showed how Cherubino's aria, Voi Che Sapete, represents the musings of the phallos
- ridicule of those not naturally athletic. The fast ones who finished early were encouraged to mock the slow and dyspraxic at the end of the race
- poor performance punished with the slipper. How exactly was this supposed to motivate us?
