My Favourite Run

‘IT WAS ON THESE ROADS, PATHS AND TRAILS THAT I LEARNED HOW TO BE A RUNNER’

John Carroll shares a personal journey through the streets of south London where he found a new path to follow and decided that people are not so bad, after all

ILLUSTRATIONS: MARCIN WOLSKI

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‘THE CANOPY IS SO DENSE, IT CAN FEEL LIKE DUSK’

THIS HOUR OF THE MORNING, the only sounds I can hear are the early birds chattering animatedly about their worm haul and the murderous shriek of my garden gate protesting loudly as I gently close it. ‘Note to self, again: must oil that, ’ I think.

I walk to the end of our road, turn left and look at the 400m ascent that marks the beginning of my run from Crystal Palace to the Thames. I used to hate starting an early morning run with a hill, but it cannot be avoided, so now I just get on with it, albeit slowly and with a furrowed brow that denotes crankiness and exertion in equal parts. At least the road is quiet, because it’s 7.30am on a cool, diamond-bright Saturday morning.

At the top of the hill, I pause at an unlovely junction, happy in the knowledge I am a mere two minutes from Streatham Common, the first of four generous green spaces on my route. For now, my heart is hammering out a paso doble and my lungs are attempting to balloon through my ribs because – of course – I have not warmed up, but from here it’s all downhill. In a positive sense.

I have lived in London for almost 20 years and now, thanks largely to running, I know parts of the city better than I know my hometown of Dublin. Despite having an impossibly poor sense of direction – I could get lost in a shed – I can navigate chunks of south London with shameless confidence, because this is where I trained for marathons and half marathons. This route always puts me in mind of long sessions and always for the good, because even the bad days – the worst days –served a purpose.

I turn left off the pavement on to Streatham Common. I’m running along a tarmac path that is cracked and bulging, as if it’s being slowly pushed up from the ground by the trees that do not approve of this artificial interloper. To the left and right are small trails that, I know from experience, just turn back on each other. Then the track opens out into the main part of the common, a broad expanse of downward-sloping parkland. At this hour, there is dew on the cars parked alongside and a low mist drifting across the grass, looking for something to do. It is calm and quiet. I am not yet at one with nature, but we are more than friends.

Another runner approaches, head up, arms going like pistons, daring the ascent to get the better of her. Deciding whether to acknowledge an approaching runner can be a tricky business in London, but I have discovered that those out at this hour are the most receptive. A nod, a tight smile or a raised hand makes a momentary connection and reminds each runner that the decision to be out here this early on a Saturday morning is perfectly normal. I nod, she nods and, vindicated, on we both go.

When I reach the bottom of the common, I’m back on a main road, but the shops are closed and the traffic is light. Still, London is beginning to grumble, scratch and stretch into a new day, so I turn on to a quiet residential street and run along the road for a bit, feeling a tiny transgressive rush as I go.

I’m a couple of miles in and my running feels smooth now, or as smooth as my gait ever gets – I’m not elegant, which is one of the reasons I don’t dance. The other reason is that I once caught sight of my mid-pirouette self in a mirror. The therapy continues.

I press on to Tooting Common and nip into the woodlands, a series of snaking, muddy trails that take me to the Balham side of the common. I used to live in the area, so this is where I began training for my first marathon. The memories of that time remain vivid. I manage a midrun smile as I recall those early efforts; first, a lap of the common that left me begging to be put out of my misery; then two, with marginally less whimpering. And then, as the weeks went by, more miles, run with greater confidence. It was only eight years ago, but it feels like the distant past.

I soon reach the heart of this quietly affluent part of the capital, where the coffee shops are already filling up with impossibly wellgroomed twentysomething couples and stylish young mothers who seem to have found time to choose an outfit that calls for a loosely knotted crushed-silk scarf. I catch my reflection in a window and immediately apologise to the locals.

I run along more streets that dip and rise on their way to Wandsworth Common, the biggest open space on my route, and now the busiest, with dog walkers, runners, personal trainers and their victims, and unwisely garbed cyclists. I remember pulling up here one morning with a ferocious calf cramp, the kind that feels like someone’s tied a reef knot in your muscle. Another runner stopped and asked if I was okay. I was so surprised that I immediately suspected he was asking if it was okay if he ran off with my phone. But then I had the good grace to be almost overwhelmed with gratitude. I was tired, awkward and sore and a stranger – a runner – had offered to help. The exchange lasted no more than 10 seconds, but I recall it every time I reach this point. ‘You see, ’ I tell myself, ‘people are nice. ’ From the common, it’s a long, lazy, loopy route on more residential streets down to the Thames. The river is at low tide, exposing three or so metres of its rocky, sludgy bed. On my right, the sun squeezes light through the gaps in the shiny apartment buildings and dapples the quiet, brown, wide river as it slides serenely onwards. I’d like to say that I am trying to match the Thames’ steady, unhurried movement, but the truth is that I’m starting to feel the miles and the unforgiving surface. I am running mostly on pavement now, though there is one wooden section that makes a pleasingly troll-bothering thump as I cross it. This is the eight-mile mark, and it’s measured with familiarity and fatigue. No watch needed here.

Finally, I reach Battersea Park, where I will finish. I can stay on pavement throughout, but I usually choose to run the final section on trails that hug the edge of the park. I am mere metres from a busy road, but the canopy is so dense around here that it can feel like dusk even on a bright morning. This is my favourite part of the run and I always pick up the pace here, no matter how tired I am – trail running puts a literal spring in my step. I stop at the park’s Rosery Gate, by the Queen’s Circus roundabout in Battersea, ludicrously surprised by how busy the city has become since I set out.

I have run this route dozens of times, sometimes finishing before I reach Battersea; other times, more slow and slogging miles await on the far side of the park. It is not the most visually arresting, not the kind to make you consider your place in the grand scheme of things (this usually turns out to be disappointingly minor, like playing fifth shepherd in a Nativity play), but it means more to me than I thought when I sat down to write this because it was on these roads, paths and trails that I learned how to be a runner.

The train will take me back home in less than 20 minutes, which just doesn’t seem fair at all.

John Carroll’s run takes him on a capital adventure