#3 - Why Running and Beer Really Do Go Together

I recently mentioned to a colleague that I'd started a blog centred around two of my favourite things: running and beer.

He looked at me with genuine confusion.

"How do those two things possibly go together?"

To be fair, it's a perfectly reasonable question.

Most people assume that ultra-running and craft beer exist at opposite ends of the lifestyle spectrum. One is all about health, discipline and endurance. The other is, well, sitting in a pub discussing hop varieties and whether a particular brewery's latest IPA is as good as last year's version.

I tried to explain that, in my world, the two have become inextricably linked. In fact, some of my favourite adventures have involved combining both in increasingly questionable ways.

To demonstrate the point, I shared a couple of stories. Upon reflection, he probably left the conversation thinking I was simply an idiot. Still, here's the first one.

Worcester, Beers and Poor Decision Making

Last year, a good mate and I arranged one of our occasional days out in Worcester.

Nothing complicated.

The plan was simply to wander around some cracking pubs and craft beer bars, sample a few beers and generally decompress from the stresses of work and life. We were both badly in need of a proper catch-up over a pint or three.

The only problem was that the outing fell on a Saturday.

And Saturday is long-run day.

Full stop.

Missing a Saturday run isn't really something I do, so naturally I decided the obvious solution was to get up early and knock out a twenty-miler before heading into town.

Entirely sensible behaviour.

At least that's what I told myself.

I distinctly remember it being one of those unexpectedly hot days where the weather catches you out. Not quite heatwave territory, but warm enough that hydration should probably have been a consideration.

Unfortunately, my timings went slightly awry.

Actually, scratch that.

My timings were terrible.

By the time I'd finished the run, showered and realised when the train was departing, I found myself sprinting to the station with barely enough time to catch my breath. Crucially, I'd had neither any meaningful food nor any real hydration.

In hindsight, this wasn't my finest tactical decision.

Still, no problem.

"I'll get something to eat in Worcester," I told myself.

Famous last words.

The Missing Meal

The trouble with meeting a good mate for beers is that the conversation starts immediately. The first pint disappears quickly. Then the second. Then somebody suggests another pub. Then another.

Before long you're discussing everything from work and family to music, brewing and life's general frustrations, all whilst wandering from pub to pub in increasingly cheerful spirits.

Food, it turns out, never entered the equation.

There were simply too many good bars to visit and not enough time to visit them. My mate also had a strict deadline. He'd negotiated a lift home from his wife and, as anyone who's ever negotiated such arrangements knows, they often come with conditions.

Specifically, he needed to be home before her own wine o'clock commenced.

The clock was ticking.

The Homing Pigeon Effect

By late afternoon I was, let's say, thoroughly refreshed. I vaguely recall bumping into other friends whilst out and about. They later informed me that I appeared briefly before mysteriously disappearing again.

That sounds about right.

I have a habit when drinking whereby some internal homing pigeon instinct suddenly activates. One moment I'm happily chatting away, the next I've decided it's time to go home.

Not in ten minutes.

Immediately.

So off I went.

I successfully boarded the correct train, which felt like a major victory given the circumstances. For a while, everything was proceeding exactly according to plan. Then public transport intervened.

As we approached my station, the train simply carried on. No slowing down. No stopping. Nothing.

An announcement crackled over the speaker explaining that there was apparently an issue with the train and that if it stopped at my station, it wouldn't be able to restart and make it up the incline afterwards.

I've heard many excuses from train operators over the years. That one was a new entry.

Eventually, I was deposited at the next station down the line.

Following a brief and entirely unproductive disagreement with railway staff—who seemed unconvinced that my ticket entitled me to get off there—I emerged to discover I was now more than ten miles from home.

To make matters worse, the warm sunshine had disappeared and been replaced by torrential rain. At this point, I assessed my options.

I decided to run home.

Obviously.

What else would a sensible person do?

Fortunately, my wife had been keeping an eye on my location. Years of experience have taught her that it's generally wise to monitor my movements whenever beer is involved.

She quickly realised I'd somehow managed to miss my stop and called to offer a rescue mission.

I accepted.

Mostly.

Recognising that the station sat in an area plagued by dreadful traffic, I suggested meeting a few miles down the road instead. That seemed entirely reasonable. The problem was that whilst my mind believed I was perfectly capable of running there, my body had slightly different ideas.

The next few miles were not my finest athletic performance. I genuinely struggled to run in a straight line. In my head, I felt coherent enough. My legs, however, appeared to be receiving different instructions.

I drifted into bushes.

I clipped parked cars.

I bounced off walls.

At one point I think a hedge made a determined attempt to tackle me.

Or perhaps I tackled the hedge.

The details are fuzzy.

What I do know is that it was only around 4pm, broad daylight, and I must have looked like an absolute menace to society.

Eventually, I reached the agreed rendezvous point. My wife arrived, took one look at me and immediately burst out laughing. Apparently, I had half a bush lodged in my hair.

Not a twig.

A bush.

I climbed into the car soaking wet, mildly embarrassed and significantly less coordinated than I had been earlier that morning.

So yes, running and beer can absolutely go together. I've built an entire hobby around proving that fact. However, this particular adventure also highlighted an important truth. Whilst running and beer are very good friends, alcohol and running most certainly are not.

A distinction I'm still apparently learning.

Story 2 to follow...