Sound vs Silence: Andy Richardson

The Challenge

Week Four: Day Seven

In the final analysis, one thing counts. Will this commited audiophile run without music in future? The answer, quite simply, is yes.

Now, don't go thinking I've come over all Billy Graham about the delights of silent running. I haven't. Now that the experiment is drawing to a close, I'm looking forward to my return to the gym where I'll grind out monotonous miles while plugged into my music of choice. That regime works for me. I'll run faster, lose a little weight, get into a routine. I can't wait. My first with-music run will be to the sounds The Dykeenies and I've been counting down the days.

But, and here's the rub, silent running will become part of my new routine. You see, there's nothing I dislike about running in silence. And there are aspects that enhance my training and bring real enjoyment. I envisage my running being 75 with music to 25 without. During the course of the experiment, I've followed with great interest the debate here on runnersworld.co.uk.

The intelligence and incisiveness of most bloggers' comments has struck a chord. Yes, it's a real pleasure to enjoy the pure delights of running with one's thoughts. Music can be a distraction at times, that much I've learned. It can dilute the zen-like experience of taking flight along trails, riverbanks and through parks.

Conversely, music gives runners like me added motivation. There are times when I've found myself lacking in inspiration. Without music, I'm a more peaceful runner. I'm also a slower runner, most of the time. The incessant thump of music spurs me on. So, five days a week, I'll revert to type and train hard in my onanistic world. I'll be sated and satisfied when I've finished. Silent runs will be like taking a day off, a treat for the soul.

At the weekend, I took myself off to the north west to run a 5K. My participation was in the interests of research - I don't delude myself that I'm race fit at present and I missed my place counter, thus finishing without an official time.

At the start, I felt like Bambi. There was so much noise, so many distractions. I felt featherlight, as though I'd be knocked down or blown over in the commotion. It was startling, overwhelming and disorienting; like being spun round and round on the platform of Waterloo Station. During the race, I found it off-putting to hear the heavy breathing, grunting and occasional exhortations from my fellow competitors. Usually, I zone out and lose myself in sound.

It wasn't a pleasant experience. It was difficult to get it right first time. But, as with some of my training during the past four weeks, I enjoyed being out of my comfort zone. I pushed myself hard to keep up with others, rather than stick to a rhythm. I found myself racing other people, rather than racing myself. I crossed the line smiling, which is a good thing.

Running without music has been a positive experience. I'm not converted and have no intentions of making it my new modus operandi. But I will, however, look forward to occasional runs to a naturalistic soundtrack of whistling wind, rustling leaves, the splash of leaping fish and the swoosh of darting swallows. Silent running brings enjoyment that is pure and simple. And isn't that what running is supposed to be about.

Week Four: Day One

I'm a million miles away from what used to be my normal routine. Though, to be accurate, it's more like a thousand miles. For three days, I've been in Bulgaria. I've maintained my training, running in hotel gyms and on beach promenades.

Running here without music is curious indeed. I've found myself at various hotels along the coastline, all of which teem with life. These are the times when, normally, I'd have escaped from the seething mass of people by plugging into something deliciously disengaging. A spot of Einaudi, perhaps, or even a blast of the fourth movement from Mahler's Fifth.

But, in the interests of scientific research, I'm aurally assaulted at every step. House music pounds out from bars, hawkers try to stop me with fruit, tattooed Germans make lacisivious remarks that, thankfully, I fail to understand. My flow is interrupted all the time. The temptation to dash back to my hotel and plug myself into my favourite tunes is almost overwhelming.

In two or three days I'll be home. Strangely, I'm looking forward to quiet runs in the park. Three weeks ago, that would have been unthinkable. But already I'm missing the peace and tranquility of sleepy, rural Shropshire. A steady run along the banks of The Severn is just days away. I really can't wait. I don't long to be plugged into Coldplay, Foo Fighters or The Jam. I long the purity and understated pleasures that I'd been so enjoying in recent weeks.

Week Three: Day Three

You can take the music away from me. But you can't take me away from the music. My mind is playing tricks on me. It's become a song-shuffling virtual iPod. If I run past a leafy glade, Van Morrison starts singing a tune from Astral Weeks. A grim, dirty factory inspires a blast of Led Zeppelin's Black Dog. The riverbank inspires the reflective, acoustic sensitivity of Boo Hewerdine.

Though I've been iPod-free for the best part of three weeks, some deep-seated affinity for crochets and quavers has caused my grey matter to stream music to my synapses as I run. Electrical currents ping with sonic cathedrals of sound. My personal jukebox over rides the din of traffic, the blathering chat of teenage drunks and other undesirable noise.

There are times, of course, when my inner DJ takes a day off. My runs now are a mix of beautiful, serene silence and pseudo-streamed music.

Running without music has made me reappraise my training. Previously, I'd run with the sole intention of remaining fit and maintaining a steady weight. Now, however, I run to relax. A run in the park has become a one-session with my own personal counsellor. I ditch the flotsam and jetsam of the day when my Nike's are carrying me through the park. And I enjoy that part of my weekly workout. I've found myself, quite unexpectedly, looking forward to a steady six miler when I'm alone with my thoughts.

Conversely, there are times when I'm feeling tired and flat and I long to run with music. The experiment has gone on long enough for silence to have chance to become a habit. But it hasn't won me over. I yearn for the stimulus music gives. On days like yesterday, when I'm tired from the office or home, music would motivate me to train harder and run faster.

So do I expect to continue running in silence at the end of the four weeks. I don't. There will be days when my favourite tunes will help me to perform at an otherwise unthinkable level, however humble that may be. But, more importantly, do I expect there to be days when I run in silence? Yes, absolutely. Silence is my new best friend. She gives me time to reflect, brings a sense of inner calm, makes a run a thing of beauty. I adore the purity and beauty of unaccompanied running. I would miss it if I had to plug into Lethal Bizzle every night.

Week Two: Day Three

I'm suffering from withdrawal. I'm not sure I'll last an entire month without music. My iPod sits on the table, forlorn, like a spurned lover. As I guiltily shuffle past, it seems to look at me and spit its dissent: 'An iPod is for life, not just Christmas.'

The weirdest things happen when I run without music. My regular route takes me around The Quarry Park, in Shrewsbury. When I pass beneath a bridge, an echo magnifies the rustle of my shorts. Instinctively, I turn around, expecting to see another runner trying to overtake. Then I realise it's the sound of my own kit. Groups of feckless youths shout out half-baked heckles. My brain instinctively responds with a platinum put down, though I seldom shout back.

What I wouldn't do to be back on the treadmill, earplugs attached, Foo Fighters playing for their lives. I miss the mindless, hedonistic rush of churning out mile after mile in my own solitary world. I miss the physical challenge of pushing myself further and faster. I miss the engagement with my brain, which flags up potential weaknesses and warns of impending strains and pulls. Hell, I miss Ice Cube's 'Today Was A Good Day'.

Running without music has forced me to reasses some of the reasons for my participation in the sport. Principally, I run because it keeps me happy and healthy. When I miss training, through injury, my weight increases too quickly, my stomach loosens and I become too grouchy. So, five or six times a week, I take myself to the gym and run. The stresses of the day ebb away, I keep my weight under control, I have more energy and I'm more inclined to buy my wife a treat on my way home.

During the past two weeks, running has taken me on a different course. I've spent more time thinking. Though I've had one or two decent runs, I've found it more difficult to run at my usual tempo. I'm lacking my usual consistency. There are days when I skip along, work hard and feel rewarded by quality training. Then there are days when my legs seem disproportionately heavy and I lumber slowly.

Normally, these peaks and troughs don't occur. Or, if they do, I'm sufficiently distracted by New Order, Oasis et al to notice them. Nike have kindly tried to improve my running by dispatching a SportBand and trainers. The trainers, AirZoomEqualon2, are perfect. They are cushioned and light, like designer sports slippers. I prefer them to Asics DS Trainers, which had been my favourite shoe. The SportBand provides added motivation, telling me how quickly - or slowly - I'm running.

Over the next two weeks, the challenge will get tougher. I'm looking forward to assignments in Picardy and Paris this week and Bulgaria the week after. Running will be part of that time. So I look forward to running through verdant trails in Picardy and along flat, sandy beaches in Bulgaria. But I'm already preparing for a temporary slow down. I'm sure I'll enjoy the scenery and sounds of the continent. But I feel I'll miss the physical benefits my normal running brings.

So far, I've enjoyed the emotional engagement I have with myself when I run without music. But there's also been an inconsistency in the quality of my training that didn't previously exist. I read in a recent Runner's World that Haile Gebrselassie used to train to music while preparing for a world record attempt. Surely, if it's good enough for the great man....

Week One: Day Four

Twenty minutes ago, I finished an hour long run. I clocked 13.8K, running seven-minute miles at an even tempo. The thing that surprises me most is that I did it without music.

The Sound vs Silence experiment is less than one week old and already I'm getting results. The question is, would I have run as fluently if I'd been plugged into my iPod?

I'm not yet convinced that I prefer running mute. At times - usually when I'm two-thirds of a way through a run - I feel my pace drop and my spirits sink. A week ago, if my form had started to flag, I'd have flicked to some euphoric tune - a blast of Springsteen, some foot-to-the-floor Oasis or an uplifting number from Coldplay. I'd have surged through the slump, got a hit of adrenalin and struck for home with new found determination.

Now that I'm running without music, the battle seems harder. My sidekick, Mrs iPod, has been taken away. When I run now, it's a truer test of self. Do I want to run well, or am I content to plod? Was it worth lacing up my trainers or should I have stayed in doors?

These are questions that I don't normally ask. Music helps me avoid self-analysis. But now I have to answer these questions as I train. I find myself psyching myself up as I wait for answers. "Come on," I'll shout at myself. "Work," I implore. I am mentor and mentored.

During the past week, there have been times when I've failed. I simply haven't had the conviction to push for home. I've found myself lost, meandering, in search of inspiration. My mind has drifted to events at the office, family life, money matters and other distractions. Mentally, I'm having to adapt. But those inner defeats have simply fuelled me on nights like tonight. And nights like tonight prove that I can concentrate for long periods, I can run through hard times unaided and I have sufficient motivation to maintain a reasonable tempo. I don't need music to run to my potential.

Running without music still seems odd. I hear snippets of conversation as I train in my local park. Sometimes, the things people say are funny and they spur me on. At other times, I'll be infuriated by louche teenagers whose arrogance is now audible. "Get out of my way," an angry inner voice will scream. "Can't you see how hard I'm training?"

I remember reading the autobiography by former England cricket captain Michael Atherton. In it, he described how he'd get into a row with an opposing fielder to gee himself up. Now that I've no music, I find myself doing something similar. I'll be irritated by someone who fails to step out of my way quickly enough. Anger will spur me on when a dog dawdles into my path. I feel as though it's me against the world. Or, at least, me against the park. I want to win. I want to perform at my best.

I don't know whether the absence of music is making me run harder, or better. But there are already differences that I can note. Without doubt, it's improving my concentration. Equally, I'm more engaged with my surrounds. I see other people and hear what they say. One of the benefits I expected, however, has failed to materialise. I don't really notice the sound of evening swallows. Nor, indeed, do I enjoy the verdant colours of the park. I'm too busy for that. If I had time to absorb my surrounds, I wouldn't be running hard enough. These are feelings that, over the comings week, may change.

I'm not sure that ambient noise - or, the lack of music - is behind a change in my performance. I think there's another explanation. If I think about it logically, the thing I really like about this experiment is that it's thrown me out of my comfort zone. I can't rely on the thing that used to keep me going. All of my motivation is having to come from within. And that inner drive is improving my training no end.

Week One: Day One

You probably know the people I run with. Noel Gallagher joins me on six-mile tempo runs, exhorting me to a faster pace with uplifting, foot-to-the-floor rock choruses. Tub-thumping, Californian noiseniks Foo Fighters partner me for lung-busting, lactic-inducing, abdominal-creasing speed sessions, pounding out a rhythm that drives me to the line. But my favourite running partners of all are lachrymose Mancunian electronica pioneers New Order. Their insistent, iambic beat has helped me maintain nimble forward motion for more years than I care to remember.

Sometimes, I run with vast numbers. Three thousand roar me home to the tune of Thin Lizzy's Live And Dangerous classic 'The Boys Are Back In Town'. But it can be 100,000 or more. The cheering voices and well-meaning catcalls spur me on. You see, I never run without music. Music is an incorporeal supernatural being; an imperious, invincible, unvanquishable superego that defies middling physiology and overrides my weak spirit. Music prompts otherwise unthinkable feats of athleticism.

There was a three-year spell when I ran without music. During those halcyon years, I was a member of a good quality running club. Those who surrounded me were invariably faster. While I sniffed and snorted my way along trails, roads, canalsides and running tracks, they chirruped cheerfully about wicking fabrics and cushioned socks. Their incessant chat - and ribald banter - distracted me from the sound I feared most; that of my inner self telling me I could run no more.

It is, therefore, disconcerting to find myself a trepiditious one-month guinea pig in Nike's Sound vs Silence experiment. Me and Mrs iPod enjoy blissful, serene training. Neither of us wants a trial separation. The challenge for me is to maintain my level of physical exertion without the motivating stimulus of 112bpm tunes. The greater challenge is to vanquish the inner incertitude that will be audible in the absence of music. Cognitively-speaking, I'm not sure I'm equipped for the task.

I take to my local park, a verdant, leafy space through which the River Severn winds. It's a beautiful place with herons, guillemots, kingfishers, swans and more mysterious, less-attractive creatures called chavs and emos. I head from my door and the first thing I hear is traffic. The low, grumbling noise is ever-present, like some grey, hypnagogue, inducing me to sleep. I step up the pace and run more quickly to the park. There, I will be free of the enveloping torpor of traffic.

I run freely along the riverside path, past yew trees and rows of broad-leafed beech. The solitude liberates me. I'm excited to be hearing the song of thrushes and blackbirds in the balmy evening sun. But soon, I find myself slowing. The calming ambience has sapped all powers of concentration and my Garmin confirms a steady decline. I push myself on. But now I'm battling to pick up my pace. The conversations of park users distracts me. Music is, I am starting to realise, an ever-present coach. Without it, running is much harder.

After six miles, I am back home. I've run more slowly than normal but expended more mental effort. There is, however, a silver lining. I feel a sense of achievement that is usually absent. However humble my run was, I did it all by myself. Noel Gallagher, New Order, the Foo Fighters and Thin Lizzy can't take the credit for this. As the Spencer Davis Band famously sang: Keep On Running. I fully intend to.