Martin Creed owes me kicks. My twelve-year-old Green Flash have finally expired, and the cheeky conceptual bulb-botherer's to blame. (Martin, if you're reading, as I have no doubt you are, these superfeet are just the right side of revolting. C'mon. Make a poor Blonde smile.)
Let me explain. Having failed to give much of a shit about the entries for the 2008 Turner Prize, my schelp to Vauxhall was redeemed by Work No 850. The critical kerfuffling over Creed's sprinters has obscured the sheer, enervating pleasure they bring to Tate Britain's squeaky-shoed, headachingly airless halls. They took me right back to the Royal Academy's 1997 Sensation show, when a certain teenaged Blonde got told off for climbing on Rachel Whiteread's Untitled (One Hundred Spaces). Sensation my arse.
No 850 may or may not say something about Art, but it says a hell of a lot about running, all of it good. What could be more inspiring than a galloping, glistening, lycra-clad carcass, a neon vessel of relentless, thoughtless, physical force, thundering past the prat talk blurbs and throwing our bereted bleatings off their stride? Some good pieces have been produced about the thrill of the chase, from The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner to Haruki Murakami's sweetly idiosyncratic recent book, but running's chief appeal is it's ability to displace our mental macguffinry with a muscular metronome, to let us swollen-craniumed apes realise just for an hour a day what it feels like to burn from the heart.
Work No 850 makes you want to just do it, as, I believe, someone once said. So my laces have been tied danegrously loose, my iPod sellotaped tight. God speed, Martin Creed: you've made me shut up and take flight.