11.35 miles tucked away.
Yes, you heard that right.
The day started early. My body clock woke me at 5 a.m., anxious that I shouldn’t miss my folks, who were passing through at about 7, on their way to Fishguard and Ireland. I’d hoped to fly out for a couple of days myself, but it’s looking unlikely now. The old family house by the sea, mentioned a couple of times in these pages, is to be put up for sale. My old Uncle Paddy died last year, and the sister he lived with isn’t sure she can keep the house up to scratch and look after the livestock at her age, so will probably head for a flat in the local village, a couple of miles away. I understand her decision, but it’s a sad moment in the life our family, and the end of a lengthy era by the standards of most of us. We’re not sure how long it’s been in the family, but certainly my great-grandfather was brought up there.
I’d thought of flying out for a couple of days after next weekend’s running-beer-football-beer-barbecue engagement chez Sweder, but in the first week or so of the school holidays, air fares are unreasonable. Or they seem unreasonable in these days of cheap flights. A few years ago, £200 return was probably the going rate. Now it seems £150 too much. But we’ll see.
The folks came and went. The plan was to get off on my run straight away, and with the sun creeping up the sky, it was tempting. But not quite as tempting as going for a magical wander round the garden, checking on the burgeoning grapes, pears, apples and gooseberries, and to cast a paternal eye over the goldfish. They must have been asleep somewhere. I could only see two of them. We started with ten, which very quickly became nine. In fact I suspect I was short-changed at the garden centre. I was trying to count them as I queued at the check-out but the buggers wouldn’t stay still, despite my threats. A day or two later I could count only eight in the pond, and recently this has dwindled to seven. Maybe we have a heron issue.
Then it was high time I buggered about for a couple of hours on t’Internet. Doing what? Doing nothing very much, as usual. Do I give up on my High Yield Portfolio and switch back into Emerging Markets Funds? Have QPR bought Ronaldinho yet? Anything going on at RunningCommentary? Runners World? What’s the BBC saying? And the Guardian? And New York Times? Any bargains at Fine and Rare Wines these days? And so it goes on. Surfing is a good word. It suggests skimming the surface at speed, occasionally capsizing and getting immersed for a while.
At ten o’clock I could justify my inertia no longer. So I jumped from my swivel chair, strapped on my lycra underpants and shot through the back door in search of adventure.
As I set off, I was mindful of something Moyleman said in a recent entry about hoping the (unintended) rest would do him good. It was a more positive sentiment than my assumption that I wouldn’t make it to the end of the street. Thinking about it now, this wasn’t a rational fear. Most fears aren’t, I suppose. I’d not run this week, and I managed only a couple last week, but the last one was a fairly satisfying seven miler, nine days ago. Not an ideal marathon training week, but I’ve had darker periods than this.
I chugged off up the street, realising I’d no idea where I was going. Or even how far I was aiming to run. A sensible approach after a lay-off and a cold might have been a short run to start with, but I’m getting anxious about a dearth of successful long runs in my training spreadsheet.
The recent torrential rain narrowed my options. A drive round my usual short route yesterday, showed half the lanes submerged. Decided to head for the Canal, but then proceed in an easterly direction towards September’s holiday destination — Tokyo.
Despite being flat, the first mile was pretty tough. I just didn’t fancy it. All I could think of was to take it easy.
Two miles, three miles… of course, any distance run in one direction along the canal has to be doubled to take account of the return journey, so I have to judge it carefully. But I was feeling OK, so I pressed on.
This is a rather featureless stretch of towpath: overgrown and not well-defined. Worse, it passes under the M4, then for a mile or so fringes the motorway, so it’s noisy and slightly stressful. Not as scenic and as calming as my more usual route in the other direction, where you are heading through open countryside as soon as you hit the path.
Into my fourth mile, and a dog-walker wearing wellies and a faintly sadistic smile tells me: "You’ll get your feet wet up there!" I thanked him, but said I’d continue as far as I could.
Two hundred yards further, I swing round a bend and am confronted by a waterlogged path as far as the eye could see. Damn. Do I go on? Or turn back?
I know if I turn back I’ll end up heading home and regretting it. So I tip-toed through the water as best I could, though I couldn’t prevent it sloshing into my shoes. I got clear, and squelched on for another half mile or so before I hit another, even deeper stretch of water. No option but to carry on, I decided. My feet were already wet, and if I turned back I’d have to go through the previous long bit of flooded path. This time the water was up to my ankles.
And it got worse. I’d decided to turn off the canal at the next road — but the next road didn’t come until I had six miles on the watch. I could see the bridge, and the road, but I stopped a hundred yards away. Because I could also see the lagoon that separated us. Bugger it, here we go. This time, the water was up to just above my knees. I waded down to the bridge. By the time I was half way to my destination, I realised I’d drawn a small group of spectators on the bridge. Someone was taking a picture. Someone else pointed at me from a car.
The trouble wasn’t over at the bridge. To reach the road, I had to get up a long ramp, at least fifty yards of which was also under water. But by now I didn’t care. I was already drenched, so it made no difference.
I made it up to the road and squelched on up the main A33 into Reading. This isn’t the most secluded or tranquil stretch of road in the area, so there was nothing for it but to crank up the iPod and carry on until I hit the cut-through to the A4 and headed home.
Apart from the wading interludes, I managed to run for 9.5 miles without a break. Then I stopped at a garage to buy a drink, and struggled a bit when I set off again. I could feel my right calf tightening, and the previously troublesome toe was making itself known, even though I wouldn’t quite describe it as pain. I’m always paranoid about that calf. It’s floored me a couple of times before. If it pops again, I can write off six weeks. No point in risking it, so I sort of walk-shuffled the final mile or two. But 11:35 is what it said on the watch when I got home, and that’s what I’m taking.
I’m pleased with this, even if it was a rather squalid sort of a run. I didn’t get the big endorphin hit I might have expected but I’m not complaining. It was the miles that were important.
Track du jour? There were some great candidates today but the one that popped up as I emerged from one of the liquid sections was James Taylor’s lovely rendition of The Water Is Wide, a wistful English folk song from the 16th century. When I hear it, I can’t help visualising a distant view of a runner on a long straight road, silhouetted against the sea. Today it had a funnier resonance, but it’s still a great song that also reminds me of Ireland, and of the tranquility of the modest family home in the wilds of County Mayo, sandwiched betweeen a lake and the sea, and surrounded by mountains.
Music and running, eh? What dreams a man may have.
