Running vs Depression.. how exercise can ease the gloom.

I often feel a bit awkward when I start these articles. Partly because it’s the social media equivalent of knocking on somebody’s front door to sell them something, persuade them to join a cult, sacrifice a virgin, etc. 

But I started running again recently. Okay, so it took nearly a week of bashing the ‘snooze’ button at 7am, before taking one look at the grey clouds and frosty pavement and immediately rolling back over. But then along came a bright, sunny morning and off I went. It was great fun, even though my joggers were falling down on the way back and something possessed me to attempt a sprint finish, despite the fact I live at the top of the westcountry equivalent of Mount Everest. 

Yep, as the old saying goes: how do you know someone is a runner/vegan/whatever the trend is at the time? They tell you. 

But in reality, I’m here to talk about how running helped me to overcome depression. I started at the age of 17, in my oh-so-distant youth, and a lot of the credit goes to my Dad for observing that a bit of exercise might actually do my mind some good. And he was right. 

And I enjoyed it, at times, although I’d be lying to you if I was just going to bang on about how great running is, how there are never any bad times and it levitates you into becoming some kind of spiritual being. Not quite. It’s bloody difficult when you first start. I’m sure Dad still wakes up dripping with sweat at the memory of the first time he encouraged me into trying a longer distance – it was a five miler, and for the entirety of the final mile I responded to his gentle, verbal encouragement by showering him with expletives. 

But I had always been able to rely on running to clear my head after a bad day. It’s like the movement enables fresh air to enter my mind, and logic to infiltrate itself in my thought process. The increased serotonin levels also encourage me to be more productive and get stuff done during the day. I feel significantly more energised and motivated throughout the rest of the day if I’m fresh from a morning run. 

After a series of 10ks, I entered my first half-marathon, which took place in my birth-town of Bath in 2012. It was an incredibly scary prospect, and so in the months leading up to the race, I did all the right things in terms of cutting out booze and getting plenty of sleep before training. This was all well and good until I went for a quiet drink with a couple of mates, and as the evening went on, one of them responded to my tame choice of beverage, which came in the form of J20, by placing a jager bomb in front of me. I wasn’t overly impressed, but as it was still three months until race day, I gracefully downed it in one. 

I entered one more 10k the following year, and a few months later I found myself permanently attached to the treatment table. I’m a skinny rake and have horrendously poor muscle tone, hence I’m injury prone, but this appeared to be the last straw. I gave up completely and it remained that way for the next two years – which meant a wonderful period of time where I’d have to readapt to being out of breath after every flight of stairs. 

It turned out I have a chronic injury, which limits me to short distances if I’m going to run at all. And also completely rules out contact sports, which diminishes my dream of ever being stretchered off the pitch, thirty seconds into my Spurs debut.

Although it’s hard work, being physically fit is one of the most undervalued things in life. I know that’s easy for me to say, and I completely acknowledge that I have it a lot easier than most people when it comes to exercise. I put my hand up and admit that I’m that annoying person who seems to eat for England, yet if I stepped on a set of scales they would probably tell me to piss off.

But it’s worth it. Running gets you out in the fresh air, gives you a routine as well as things to aim for. I was a bit of a drinker as a teen (weren’t we all?), but exercise has provided more benefit to my mental wellbeing than booze ever did.

My upbringing primarily took place in a sleepy town in Devon – for those who aren’t native, imagine a small village with more tractors than shops. As much as I complain about the limitations it brought to my adolescence, the countryside surrounding it made exercise a joy to experience. There really was nothing better than a walk or a jog out into the sticks, with the light breeze in your face and a view of miles on end of rural landscape.