Tag Archives: London

We Ran the City


Last Saturday was one of those rare nights I was getting ready to go out. I’d tried on the outfits, and then just before the closing time, dashed to buy a new pair of tights after deciding against wearing shorts in November. I packed a couple of tops in my bag in case I’d change my mind.  At least the shoes were comfortable. At their price, they should be.

My feet were sore when I limped home at 3am, my new pair of tights covered in vomit.  A standard Saturday night out. Well, not exactly.

My neighbours – who are also my landlords and live upstairs – had offered to babysit for a night to return an old favour. If you have any idea of the humiliation a single mother experiences in the London rental market, this is nothing short of a miracle. The only issue with the kind offer was that anyone who knows me knows there’s only one thing I like more than sleeping on a Saturday night and that is sleeping on a Monday morning.

This was until I found out about the Midnight2Midnight event on Facebook. Organised by a group called London Midnight Runners  it was based around a simple but well organised idea of having a 24 hour non-stop relay run in central London to raise money for the Syrian refugees.

I always feel a bit conflicted about charity running events, which is the standard format for the most popular road races in the UK. After your first couple of times it starts feeling like you’re asking your friends to subsidise your hobby. If the idea was that I subject myself to weeks of suffering, tediousness and loneliness that culminates in a painful and inhumane effort, where I lie to myself in order to complete it, I should be asking for sponsorship for doing my ‘annual performance review’, not for running 26.2 miles along beautiful city routes.

Anyway, there was no ‘minimum fundraising’ required, and I had long felt that when my daughter one day asks me what I did in 2015 during the Syria crisis, I don’t want to be saying that I changed the background of my Facebook profile picture. Ok, it’s not the peace troupes, but I signed up  for the last three 10k loops of Midnight2Midnight.

I convinced a friend from work to come along and drag his dinner date to the last slot. Otherwise, I didn’t know anyone in the group, which didn’t bother me. I’m conversational on one or two running related topics, and in any case, unlike at a dinner party, it’s perfectly acceptable to put your headphones on and speed off (or tail behind) when you don’t feel like talking. I was more worried I wouldn’t be able to keep up, not just for having a cold but also a very sore knee. I resolved to a double doses of prescription pain killers I had stocked in the hospital last year. Whether it was this or my erratic training or my new high-energy companions, I might have still ran my fastest 20k at 4:50/km, which made me quite excited about next year’s races.

Each loop, which alternated between Southbank, Battersea Park and Hyde Park, was joined by fresh runners and a sound system duct taped to a bike, which helped keep the pace up. There  were also some veterans who had had very little sleep, including a guy with a haunted look completing twelve loops in sets of 30k.

In the athletics, the longest official Olympic relay distance is run over (4 x) 400m. Yet the human evolution (and Christopher McDougall) suggests that we have been designed for running much longer stretches and as a pack – not 400 metres or 10kms but ultra-marathons! It is this rather than Deliveroo that has enabled our carnivorous existence over thousands of years. Running is about achieving a balance of individual freedom and group solidarity and killing antelopes, and it is in this, not in the suffering, where I find the connection with the people who are crossing Europe in flee of the war.


Picture from London Midnight Runners FB page.


Picture from London Midnight Runners FB page.

I was limping my last kilometres in the middle of the pack now, no longer dodging but high-fiving the tourists and party goers on Southbank. Running on the streets of the city has a funny effect: it fills me with love for my city.  Even if its political and economic profile would never normally invite me to use the possessive pronoun, in these kinds of moments you are filled with an irrational feeling of ownership and belonging, exponentially multiplied by the number of people you are sharing the route with.


Picture from London Midnight Runners FB page.

Still, I bailed the after party.  After finishing on a high, I was shivering cold and a sudden wave of nausea swept over me. I departed to walk towards the night buses on Trafalgar Square. Dozens of colourful sleeping bags lined the road at the other end of which decisions are being made about bombs and human lives by people who actually run this city, and this country for that matter. I got on a bus. That’s where the exhaustion, cold, pain killers, protein bars, energy drinks and I’d like to think my general disgust for the European politics infused with the smell of alcohol breaths, and my body gave up. Judging by the state of the street, this was the standard part of a Saturday night.

I got off and guessing I hadn’t increased my slim chances of getting into a cab, I started the three mile walk to North London all the while thinking about how free and fortunate I was.


Photo by Daniel Varga. From London Midnight Runners FB page.


Photo by Daniel Varga. From London Midnight Runners FB page.

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Please Disable Your Out-of-Office

In my last post I said this blog was about to get really interesting, and I have more than exceeded expectations.  I’ve been back at work for over two months now, and in my current role as a ‘leadership and cross-cutting issues performance driver’, the following quote in my Facebook feed today resonated with me enough to write a blog post:

“We must do away with the absolutely specious notion that everybody has to earn a living. It is a fact today that one in ten thousand of us can make a technological breakthrough capable of supporting all the rest. The youth of today are absolutely right in recognizing this nonsense of earning a living. We keep inventing jobs because of this false idea that everybody has to be employed at some kind of drudgery because, according to Malthusian-Darwinian theory, he must justify his right to exist. So we have inspectors of inspectors and people making instruments for inspectors to inspect inspectors. The true business of people should be to go back to school and think about whatever it was they were thinking about before somebody came along and told them they had to earn a living.”

R. Buckminster Fuller (1895-1983)

In a glass building in London it is very difficult to make “I ran around 80 km per week” sound like a good use of time – especially if that time consists of a full (financial) year. What, I didn’t found even one teeny-weeny start-up? Or a charity to capacity build  indigenous women to make bracelets perhaps? Taught English? Nope. I just was. In Peru. And occasionally I ran.

“Yes, but what did you actually do?”

The funny thing is why I’m not asking the people in the office the same question. To an extent, a time could have been stopped for the whole year – bar some changes to a desk booking system (which doesn’t work) and the canteen, and a few greyer heads, everything looks more or less like I left it over a year ago.

If anything, I feel even less motivated by this emperor’s new clothes business, where I currently am the one with the responsibility for booking meetings for the senior needle and doing the admin for the senior specialist thread. As you might have guessed from my fancy job title above.

Your identity pends on your job, and not on the other things you do (if you have time to do other things).  On my career break, I used my business card to get access, and in the Immigration forms I would write as my occupation the one that I was having a break from. This would make others see that I’m not just a single mum, I am someone. Whether that job has any point is beside the point, and while it makes me feel worthless it is why I’m worth something, as the Conservative health secretary Jeremy Hunt recently reminded.

I’ve learnt there are a lot of things in the world that make me happy and that are not my job – or maybe any job out there apart from being a judge at the Great British Bake Off, and that’s ok! Perhaps it’s not in your job’s job description to be fulfilling in every sense, just like it’s not your partner’s responsibility to maintain your expected levels of happiness (although there are  some minimum standards).  I’d like to reclaim the word ‘passion’ and ban it from every single CV. I love writing, running, chirimoyas and my daughter. None of them earns me a living, but does that mean they are not valuable for their own sake? Today I managed  to get up at 5.30 am (this is much harder when it’s colder, darker and waaaayy lonelier than in Lima) and run 10km catching the sunrise over Alexandra Palace. A few hours later, in the office I responded to a request to invite someone to a meeting who had already been invited by another colleague, so I sent a couple of apologetic emails to clear the confusion. A bit of email traffic back and forth. Then I printed  a total of 160 pages of documents (containing an options appraisal for instruments to inspect inspectors, or something in this vein), which nobody in the meeting read, so I chucked these in the confidential waste bin.

Economists may disagree, but I think my most productive moment of the day was before 6.30 am.


On doing what you love and being productive, last month I ran with the guys from Haringey Good Gym. There are GG groups all over London and the UK and they basically do a weekly running session combined with a bit of community work. The picture is from their Facebook page


If you are from work and you’re reading this, I’d like to say that I’m completely passionate about my job, the every day challenges it brings, the people I meet, the value I bring and the sustainable difference I’m making. I thrive on solving every day problems with printers and meeting bookings. Just in case that message was somehow unclear.  

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