Sunday morning joggers in the park

Sunday morning joggers in the park.

I don't think I've seen anything quite like it. Clissold Park in North London was absolutely jam packed with joggers and runners, quite the most magnificent variety of dogs and a general hive of activity. It was a drizzly old morning in North London and almost the entire population- or so it seemed- was doing something. But the scene before me on my own run told me so much about the Sunday morning pursuits of London suburbia.

Almost the whole of Manor House is undergoing a dramatic gentrification. The old Manor House has now been replaced by the new Manor House. The dark brown bricks and masonry of the old Woodberry Down estates have now been supplanted by the fresh, new and brighter colours of modern dwellings.

There is a notable difference between the old currency and the new because suddenly Manor House has now been taken over by the professional middle classes, the kind of people who used to sip their capuccinos in Kensington and Chelsea rather than downtown Hackney or Manor House. Isn't it funny how things change over the years? Manor House, a quiet and unassuming North London suburb next to the predominantly Jewish community of Stamford Hill, looks very cool and sophisticated with the most up to date in architecture and an overriding sense of ambition. It's go ahead, attractive and desirable. By all accounts it's also ridiculously expensive which would seem to make it totally undesirable but if you've got the thick end of almost a million in your bank account then this is the place for you.

So where was I? Clissold Park was simply bubbling over with energy and a wonderful sense of dynamism. Those joggers, runners and, in my case, trotters, were all pounding away, models of glowing good health and perhaps practising for this years' London Marathon. The London Marathon is not that far away now so they may have to put the finishing touches to their final preparations.

Still here they were, the very embodiment of athleticism, taking everything at their own personal pace and never even remotely looking out of breath. There was very much a raw intensity to their running and they all looked fighting fit, red faced and puffing perhaps but still engaged in the whole process. But they were totally committed and dedicated to the cause and you wished them well on their way. Britain is so much more health conscious than it was just over 40 years ago so it's pleasing to see people pulling on their T-shirts and shorts as well as the I-Pod for musical company.

But I do have to ask one question? Why do today's joggers and runners insist on throwing a rucksack on their back when quite clearly this looks so physically uncomfortable? Is this a new fangled fashion accessory for runners or do they think they're the great mountaineers or explorers of the future? I'm not quite sure why you would want to saddle yourself with a weighty bag on your back while running when it looks as though it should be surplus to requirements. Whatever makes you happy I suppose.

I took up jogging and running well over 30 years ago and I'm not sure whether Valentines Park was ready for Britain's next Olympian. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I had neither the pace, inclination and desire to match the phenomenal middle distance feats of Brendan Foster or Steve Cram so I had to settle for the consolation of Valentines Park stupendously pretty surroundings.

At first I have to tell you that I felt a bit of a fool. Nobody else was wearing themselves out for no apparent reason. Running seemed a pointlessly futile activity that left me feeling temporarily good about me but it was somehow lacking in  mass participation appeal. In retrospect I began to realise that the teenage sports I should have been taking part in such as table tennis, football and badminton hadn't registered with me. Running was very much my replacement sport for of all the above sports so looking back now it does seem that I'd chosen to be isolated and totally marginalised by society rather than picking the much more rewarding ball games I should have been taking part in.

Anyway the fact is that my present athletic exertions are now confined to gentle jogging rather than the strategic 800m and 1500m achievements of a Coe or Ovett. Most of us were just entranced by the cat and mouse tactics adopted by both of these very polished Olympians. For me though the sheer act of jogging and completing several circuits of a local park is enough to keep the blood vessels in peak condition, the muscles supple and active.

The London Marathon, of course is next month and remains one of London's most popular and iconic of sporting events. In its first year of 1981 it might have been regarded with a good deal of ridicule and suspicion. Here was a 26 mile foot race that stretched the length and breadth  of London but made you wonder whether it would last the course, so to speak.

But the London Marathon has survived quite brilliantly and around the globe the Marathon has gone from success to success. The first 1981 race ended in an honourable tie and to this day remains one of the most hilarious of images in any sport. An American gentleman dressed as a waiter and holding a tray was accompanied by another international runner. Both lunged for the finishing tape and shared first place. Oh for the wonderful democracy and sportsmanship that the London Marathon has so successfully engendered.

Anyway here in a far off and small corner of North London, an ageing Jewish athlete with 1950s football shorts and the most natty of T-shirts threw myself at the park entrance tape. Briefly and amusingly. I felt like Sir Roger Banister on that unforgettable May afternoon at Oxford. No I hadn't run the four minute mile in record time but I had conquered a picturesque piece of greenery called Clissold Park. There were no cameras or enraptured journalists to capture my moment in history but I did stagger round a couple of ponds and a couple of fascinated dogs who, it has to be said, looked totally perplexed.

It's time to soak my battered feet in a bowl of warm water and reflect on my latest athletic triumph. As the years now pass inexorably I'm now beginning to question the wisdom of this painstaking struggle against the odds. Sooner or later my ankle muscles may just collapse or just refuse to co-operate or maybe my joints and tendons will just wave the white flag of surrender. All of those reflexes I used to take for granted will just cry out with pain and I may have to take up dominoes or perhaps that new sport called walking football. Now that just sounds ideal. Sunday in the park hey! It's got a ring to it. Time for a nap or perhaps or should I make a concerted attempt at the Tokyo Olympic Marathon in three years time. On second thoughts I think I'll stick to Clissold Park. Bliss.