18 Miles of London

Running is an inspiration to me. It's the time I have to work through thoughts and feelings, to become bored, and from boredom, become creative. It's the time I take to dream, to plan, to feel things, all within the general context of progress and moving forward. No wonder this is the thing so many people find a key part of a good mental health regime.

But forcing yourself to run 18 miles as the snow flies horizontally in icy shards is not easy. In fact, I only managed this today by engineering a situation whereby I know I could trick my mind into compliance.

I don't fancy running 18 miles in this, I whined.

My boyfriend's email pinged back.

Basically, he said don't then.

That's all I needed to get my but into gear. That, and the prospect of squeezing myself into a 1940s figure-hugging Casablanca costume after a week of solid chocolate-based overeating.

And what a run it turned out to be… for 18 miles can take you through the most varied scenery here in the UK, but in London, it is even more casually spectacular. The weather had kept away vast majority of dawdling tourists, leaving the city's streets a blasted playground for a lone runner and her muff-like headphones.

Beginning in Sydenham, and dusting over Honor Oak Park, I climbed One Tree Hill to see the most spectacular Church perched atop it in the snow. St. Augustine's perhaps?

Peckham Rye offered me insight into a road I never want to live on (see first pic), as did Peckham High street, but I discovered an old-canal behind Peckham, and saw this bridge from 1870 under repair. I'd previously run over it in complete ignorance.

The Old Kent Road always fails to charm me, but today, as a particularly heavy flurry combined with The Manic Street Preachers, Autumnsong in my headphones, I indulged in a pretty spectacular influx of emotion, which lasted all the way up to Tower Bridge, where the wind off the Thames was so sharp and the snow so cold, I had to shield my face and dodge the baffled-looking tourists.

The route from Algate, along Bishopsgate, Leadenhall Market and St Pauls can be so deserted at the weekends, depending on which roads you pick. It's so much fun to see the beautiful buildings and remnants of the city walls in this baffled, deserted weekday metropolis.

There is nothing so heartening at the odd red-brick missionary buildings you come across in this city. From Holborn up to Greys Inn Road I marvelled at the cheerful elegance in the snow. I passed, with nostalgia, the old haunts of an old boyfriend, and scooted quickly on to Russell Square - deserted and dull in it's nobility, along to Euston.

I went a little slower past the Wellcome collection, remembering the lovely library and the membership card I've had stolen. I ought to get round to replacing that. Inexplicably, a man gave me such a lovely smile. He was all bundled up in snow boots and an anorak. He seemed pretty pleased about the snow, or something.

Then Great Portland Street was my next landmark, the site of many a fantasy for me in my teenage years. I never DID work at the BBC. Not yet anyway. My friend and I used to divide up the houses in Park Crescent and say she'd own one half, I'd own the other.

Regents Park was trance-like. It was like being in some sort of computer game. The Fountain along the Royal Walk and the bright spring flowers were so humbly elegant, all pasted over with this endless drop of big flakes.

Running North through the park, the snow was horizontal. It was such a joy to get around the corner and loop back round the outer circle, past some sort of gun-toting guarded American embassy, the mosque, and onto Baker Street, where the foreigners lined up faithfully outside 221B like sad dogs.

I took Baker Street all the way down, crossed Oxford Street, then ended up in Grosvenor Square (when the American Civilian Something or other was also guarded by some gunmen). From here, I made my way to Hyde Park, skipping down park lane like some tramp, staring it at the Ballrooms, fancy lunchers and upmarket car-dealerships. Then, of course, Green Park, deserted, opened it's familiar paths to me, as did St. James's. I passed Buckingham Palace without much through, for the flakes had grown bigger and the snow heavier. Scooting down Birdcage Walk, my final challenge was to dance around the Commuters on Westminster Bridge, gawking at Big Ben, at the river, at each other, and then to struggle through the South Bank crowd, past the Aquarium, the New Dungeons, the London Eye, South Bank Centre, IMAX to end up at Waterloo East Station.

What a training ground.