There is something wonderfully eccentric and humourous and generous about the English character at it's best; mad even. Today I ran the White Peak Half Marathon, and you couldn't ask for a more lovely route or bunch of people. Yes, I managed 1.54.27 if you are into these things and it is my first half for nearly twenty years, I thoroughly enjoyed it.
What struck me though, as a few hundred people turned up in a beautiful Derbyshire valley to run in not the best weather, was that we are all very slightly mad and love being that way. As we drank tea before the race we joked about how gels taste like warm snot and how Ben had a bacon cob for his pre-race fuel. Sure, we admire the sub 1.30 runners, but not more than the old guy who just about mananged to get round. We also constantly mock. Everything. Constantly. Good or bad and enjoy it: and when it comes to being laughed at we laugh too, because it's not really that serious. And that's the point; we were all about to do something pretty tough, but no one bragged or moaned - because although it's tough, even to the 'serious' runners, we don't allow ourselves to take it too seriously.
In the rugby club showers afterwards, there was more congratulations for the fat guy doing his first half, than for the guy dissappointed with his 1.34.
Britain is in the pits. Our country is in a mess. Our economy is rank and our politicians have all been caught with their snouts in the trough. Unemployment is rising and we have a hard time ahead. But...
I have found a new love for this place, and for it's people.
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