Running Against Time: The Legend of the Racing Man (part three)

This week, I’m serialising the lead story in my travelogue, Racing Trains, in the lead up to an exciting announcement later this week. Here’s parts one, two and guess what? Part Three too!

Racing Trains

Have you seen him? Have you seen the Racing Man?

Looking out of the train window a lone figure chases over brambles, roots and concrete inertia alongside the rail track but the train eventually outpaces him stride for stride. But still he races, hopping, bounding, stumbling, throwing himself forward, reaching out to grab the doors, the woodwork or something else, invisible to us commuters in the train but visible to himself, the man who races trains. He races every morning, never from a standing start, but he’s always there as we take the wide curve out to East Midlands Parkway, racing long the path next to the lake, coursing through the water, sometimes running along its surface, always catching up, sometimes in line with us seated commuters, sometimes if we slow down on that arc, getting ahead of us.  We’re too far away to see the look on his face but you’d be sure he is staring in delight as he races by us, water splashing, trails leaving ripples marking where he’s been.

And when I say ‘racing’ I mean racing: not ambling, jogging or sprinting. I mean really racing at full pelt. On a good stretch racing man keeps up with the train and must be doing at least 90mph. This is no Usain Bolt at work. Racing Man is a true one off, a force of nature that no-one I’ve met can yet explain. You can’t be sure of his age; the Lycra gives nothing away and his pace, likewise. His frame is slight but muscular and toned. But the track suit hides everything else. Sometimes he waves at us as we speed away but he doesn’t slow down but just banks off to the left, racing towards the distant woods.

The Racing Man running against the trains. Who else sees him? I’m never sure because no-one comments on him, no-one smiles at me in recognition when I look back to the carriage. This morning though was different. I looked away from the Racing Man and saw a woman look at me at the same time. We smiled briefly at each other but then both looked back outside. Looking for the Racing Man disappearing into the woods. Well, I was. I’m not sure what she was looking at. The next moment we’re into a railway tunnel and the Racing Man will not be seen until tomorrow.

Fly away home!

“He’ll be an athlete in training,” whispered one passenger to her neighbour as they glanced out of the train window this morning.

I couldn’t see why she came to that conclusion: today the Racing Man was running as sprightly as usual, but not with the traditional use of his arms that runners have. Instead of that pumping arm movement which opens the chest, Racing Man was treating his arms as if they were aeroplane wings, transmuting himself in the process into a high-speed jet which was flying over the reed ponds and rivulets which fed the lake. Whether he was on a bombing mission or just intending to terrify the wildlife I couldn’t say: but I could understand why my fellow commuter thought that here was an athlete in training, even if his arms weren’t following the traditional training motions. As he continued to flail around the lake, his splashing and thrashing causing havoc in those early morning swan nests, he reminded me of that old joke. 

Q:        Why do aeroplanes leave smoke trails in the sky? 

A:         To help the pilot find his way home.

Rather than being a matter of training, Racing Man was clearly trying to get home the quickest way possible. Whilst he hadn’t yet mastered the art of beating the train on foot, perhaps today he thought would have more success trying to fly home instead.

The Lions of Nottingham

“Looks like he’s being chased by a bloody great lion,” said an old Yorkshireman as he gazed out of the window, back up the rail track at Racing Man this morning. And he was right. He had that comic book look about his running today; knees up high, head turned around looking fearfully behind him, his breathing obviously heavy and laboured judging by the breath clouds he was pumping out, locomotive like, high above him into the early morning frosty air. All that was needed was a few sound bubbles above him which read ‘whew’ or ‘zoom’ or ‘whoosh’ for the effect of a man being chased by a lion to be completed. Quite why a lion may have been let loose on the scrubland near East Midlands Parkway that Racing Man enjoys his habitual run on is anybody’s guess and old Yorkshireman wasn’t volunteering any reasons for that unlikely phenomenon. But it’s true, there could well have been a lion on the rampage down by the rail tracks this morning, judging by the urgency of Racing Man’s efforts.

I settled back into the seat, turned my head from the carnage that was about to take place trackside, and looked forward up the line towards the approaching eight cooling towers of the power station. I never liked looking back up the line as it only reminded you of where you had been, lions and all. Much better to be facing forward, anticipating a new future around the bend. I’m sure Racing Man will have felt the same, particularly today.