running wild

I frequently find myself surprised when reading through a just completed post. I set out to say one thing, somewhere along the way the post takes control and runs off into an unexpected direction. I'm in control of the words but not of their meaning. Yesterday, I got so enchanted with the music and the contrast between two performances that I didn't even mention what nagged me in the first half of the concert I attended and what gnawed on me during intermission.

In the seats directly behind mine sat a young family whose child couldn't have been older than four or five. He might have been annoyed with the show; he was certainly greatly bored and voiced his dissatisfaction with a piercing squawk. He didn't see a thing and didn't want to be where his parents had dragged him. The main points of his tirade were marked by violent kicks in the backrest of the seat in front of his – which happened to be mine. The parents tried to shut him up. His mom whispered admonitions off the top of her lung, loud enough for everyone to appreciate that she was whispering in a effort not to disturb anyone.

I wasn't angry with the kid. When I was his age or even twice his age, I despised classical music and I would have hated my parents for making me sit through an entire concert and behave properly. I understood his frustration but couldn't muster much sympathy for his parents. Their actions seemed misguided and highly disrespectful to me. Given the age of the kid, it was too late to turn him into a boy genius. They might have rather let him enjoy Shaun the Sheep on the Disney Channel and us, the paying audience, an undisturbed classical music concert. On the other hand, with the recession biting ever harder, who can blame folks for taking advantage of a deal? The extra ticket must have been significantly cheaper than a few hours of baby-sitting.

Even without the commotion from behind, the concert would not have been an undiluted pleasure. Next to me – is that what you get for scrimping on tickets? – sat an old lady that appeared to approach the last moments of her life. Her breath gashed heavily through obstructed nostrils, affecting the sounds of a muffled stream train. Every now and then, she grunted excess air through her mouth, drowning the quieter passages of the music.

I felt a sense of relief when getting off my seat for intermission and stepping into the atrium, but the comfort was short-lived. The jazz trio that had eased us into an evening of music when we had arrived was still playing. Later, I found out that they were the renowned Spitz Jazz Collective that had recently taken up residence at Kings Place. But halfway through an august piano concert they seemed wildly out of place and it required some effort, over a glass of wine and some fine chocolates, to fade the discordant tones from our perception. Returning to the hall a few minutes later, we picked different seats, away from earlier and all disturbances, and enjoyed the rest of the night as uncompromised pleasure.

Curiously, this post isn't about the concert at all. It is about running, and I only manage to post it because that's what I'm not doing. The Roding Valley Half Marathon takes place today. At the time of the start, at nine in the morning, I sat down on my dining table for a breakfast of champions: Grapefruit, creme caramel, fresh rolls with jam and honey, and strong black coffee.

Like last year, a coworker had asked me whether I would compete in the race, and like last year, I was ill-prepared, but this year was even worse than last. Most of February was miserably cold and some days were completely snowed out. I didn't get out half as much as necessary to get into any sort of decent shape. When my friend asked me on Tuesday, I tested my fitness on ten miles in the park, but felt my legs' stinging disapproval a day later.

Even so, I could have easily finished the race. A half marathon is not that long. But a race is for racing and not for slogging along. For me to reach my limits, I have to build a base first. There is no reason to get up at 6:30 and traverse London on an empty tube if I can get the same effect later during the day, when it's warmer, by running in the park. Fueled by excuses and suddenly not feeling all the bad about my pathetic self anymore after an hour of therapeutic self-delusion, I shall now make my way to Kensington Gardens. The sun is out.