Sun 3 Aug 2003

Still no run to report. I stayed hopeful all last week, but still had the faintest of twinges in this calf, and decided against taking a risk.

Instead, all the excitement in my life has come from domestic minutiae, like watching my runner beans appear, and yesterday's trip to the supermarket. Last time I was at Sainsbury's, I saw Ulrika Jonsson. This visit was less memorable, though a couple of incidents gave me cause to reflect on the standards of their customer service. First, this encounter near the frozen desserts:

"Excuse me", I asked a lady filling a cabinet with blackcurrant cheesecake, "Could you tell me where I might find raspberry coulis?"

"Erm, I'm afraid I couldn't, no."

She then gazed at me quizzically, as though inviting me to ask her another, preferably slightly easier one.

That strangely British self-consciousness took over, and I just mumbled an apologetic "thank you", and went off to ask someone else.

I had the opportunity to make amends on behalf of Sainsbury's a few minutes later. I was, appropriately enough, on my knees in the wine section, fishing about at the back of a line of Australian Chardonnays, hoping to uncover an earlier vintage, when I heard someone ask:

"Do you have any of that Riserva Chianti that you used to do?"

This month's recommendation

I looked up, and realised that the smartly-dressed lady was addressing me. I was just about to embarrass us both by pointing out that I didn't work for Sainsbury's, but I was suddenly overtaken by a sense of nostalgia for my wine trade days, and instead, I heard myself saying "Let's have a look", as I got to my feet.

Unfortunately "we" seemed to have sold out of the own-label Riserva Chianti, but I was able to recommend the Antinori instead. Yes, it's more expensive, madam, but the additional two years' bottle age, and the reputation of one of Tuscany's greatest winemakers makes the difference well worth the extra three pounds.

She thanked me profusely, and bought two bottles. It made me realise that the supermarkets could increase their wine turnover with someone actively selling the stuff.

And OK, I didn't call her "madam", but I thought it would make the anecdote a little more palatable.

Maybe I'll make that run this week.

Mon 4 Aug 2003

Let's get down to fundamentals. What actually IS "a run"...?

Interpreting the word generously then Crikey!. Not one but TWO runs to report.

Neither was the kind of heroic 12 mile sprint along the towpath of which I sometimes dream idly. The first, yesterday afternoon, came during a walk along the Thames Path with M and her extended family. We reached a point where most of the party were flagging seriously, and decided to turn back. M's brother nobly decided to walk back much more quickly so that he could pick up his car and drive back, thus minimising the stress on the others. As there were two cars, I offered to do the same.

Now M's brother is tall, and has a stride about 4 yards long. He can walk very fast indeed. Imagine John Cleese speed-walking, and you're close. As he vanished into the distance, I realised I'd have to do more than walk quickly. It reminded me of the last few miles of the Chicago Marathon, when I was 'running' alongside a guy who was walking. Ralph. But that's another tale.

I had no choice. I had to start jogging to keep up with him. And so I ended up doing an unintentional run for around two miles. And not a peep from the calf.

So today I decided to try another short run in the early evening. And it was short. The plan was to do the usual local 3.5 miler, but the window of opportunity was slammed on my fingers with the discovery that we were expecting the gas man to call at 6pm. (He didn't, of course, but let's not reduce ourselves to exchanging anecdotes about the gas man not turning up. Appointment disappointment, you could call it.) So anyway, I had only 30 minutes to do my stuff, which was actually not a bad thing as today's extraordinary heat made running difficult and perhaps even silly if the reactions from perspiring locals on the way to the pub were a reasonable yardstick.

I came across a strangely touching scene on one of the lanes I jogged back along. There was Small (Cabbage) White butterfly lying partly squashed on the road, and very much dead, while another Small White flapped around above it, not knowing what to do. It kept alighting on its mate, and seemed to be trying to pull it up. I'm sure I'm bestowing on this chap powers of compassion and heroism that he doesn't really have, but it's how it looked to a non-expert observer like me. It really was a sad sight, and actually subdued me for the last few minutes of the run.

Running is more than a punch in the guts of sloth. It opens the door to another planet entirely.

Glad to be allowed back through it.

Tues 5 Aug 2003

The circus is back in town.

This morning, 5:45am, waking to welcome home an old friend - the morning run.

It wasn't a great run - slow, clumsy, flapping and panting, but it was a run nevertheless. And in the current heatwave (up to 34C, 93F in London later today), it gave me something withheld from most people - the experience of a cool, slightly misty atmosphere. What a treat. As I trudged through the deer park in the cool of the early morning, I found myself grinning.

It's too early to say whether Dublin may yet come back into focus. Things have been further complicated by the news yesterday that I might be sent to Israel for a training course in "early September", probably for at least a week or ten days. The Bristol Half is Sept 7, and the Great North Run Sept 21. I've heard that the beaches of Tel Aviv are great for running, so I might have to continue my training there. Unless another injury appears, I should at least manage to do the Great South Run in early October.

Just been half-listening to the dramatisation of a PG Wodehouse story on Radio 4, and was struck by the following line: "Better men than Sir Edmund Haddock have crawled to their aunts".

But my favourite PGW-ism is his description of a newborn baby as looking like "a homicidal fried egg".

They don't write 'em like that anymore....

Mon 11 Aug 2003

Life is sweet. Sometimes.

After my epoch-marking run last Tuesday morning, the heat forced me to lapse into extended sloth. Just in case you are reading this on the International Space Station, I should mention that we've been undergoing a collective ooze here on Earth, in the severest heatwave since Stonehenge was winning its appeal for planning permission.

Don't we just love to martyr ourselves like this? We complain most of the year because it isn't summer, and for the rest of the time we complain that it is.

But it is hot - no more so than yesterday when the temperature topped 100F for the first time ever in the UK. Despite this milestone, I spent a half hour early in the morning, trotting round the 3.5 mile block. It was hardly a great run, but the wonder was that it was a run at all. And it allowed me the luxury of feeling holy for the rest of the day.

I was already in a state of enhanced well-being following the first pilgrimage of the season to Loftus Road the day before, where I saw QPR hand out a 5-0 pasting to Blackpool. My diet went to pot. After breakfasting on a Burger King Double Whopper meal, I met up with a mate for 6 pre-match pints, and a couple of celebratory post-match ones. Then it was off to meet up with an old friend at The Patio, a splendid Polish restaurant on Shepherds Bush Green. Bread, sausage, goulash, mountains of potato, a proper creme caramel, a couple of shots of lemon vodka and a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

Yeah. Now that's what I call a good day out.

Today the diet started again. Tomorrow, early, I'll be out on the beat once more.

Probably.

Fri 15 Aug 2003

The train is a great opportunity for innocent eavesdropping. Yesterday morning I overheard two chaps in their mid-sixties discussing job opportunities. One was flourishing an application form for a position with VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas). He looked exasperated. In true Victor Meldrew mode he said: "Six pages. Six bloody pages! And they want a list of seventeen core competencies. Core competencies! What does that mean? Seventeen!"

His companion peered over his bifocals and replied: "Y'know, that form should consist of just two questions. Number One: are you a good egg, a decent sort of fellow? Number two: do you get on pretty well with Johnnie Foreigner?"

They then collapsed into schoolboy giggles, and began exchanging anecdotes about their time in the diplomatic service in Turkey and Algeria. One involved an ambassadorial wife getting drunk on raki at a reception in Istanbul, and vomiting spectacularly during the guest of honour's speech.

"Dear me", said one, amid the chortling, "if we weren't aleady crazy, we'd go bloody insane."

This week has gone pretty well for running. Nothing too long or arduous. Four early morning runs of around 3.5 miles. Sunday's and Tuesday's were tiring, but the next two were noticeably better. I even managed a sub-10 minute mile at the end of yesterday's which wasn't that easy after being off the road for a month or so.

Tomorrow I'll have a go at something longer. I must be due for another pulled muscle, and this seems as good a time as any.

Sat 16 Aug 2003

Five and a half pounds lost this week, and five and half miles run this morning, my longest since the 9 miler that crippled me 5 weeks ago. The last couple of miles weren't easy, and I even had a walk break at one point, but I made it through.

It was good to have a change of scene too. A sunny Saturday morning run along the canal is a real pleasure. Not much in the way of wildlife to report, though this includes flies and grizzly bears, so not a bad thing really. Perhaps word has got round about what I did to that rabbit last night.

I was coming off the M4 at about 70 mph, and there it was, sitting in the middle of the road - the mythical rabbit caught in the glare of your headlights. Except it wasn't mythical. I know this because I can still feel, and hear, the crunch of its bones as my right front tyre went over it. It must have made a last-second dash for salvation. Bad move.

Mon 18 Aug 2003

I looked out of my bedroom window this morning and saw someone stealing my garden gate. I was going to remonstrate with the little bugger but I was worried that he might take offence.

I should really have run today but... but I didn't. It must be nerves. The big match -- Brighton v QPR -- starts in half an hour and I need to get over to the pub to watch it on Sky TV.

Something that amused me today: describing someone slightly eccentric as "E6" -- one stop short of Barking.

(That will mystify foreigners, but I can't hang around to explain. The match beckons...)

-----

Post-mortem: terrible game, terrible performance. Lost 2-1. Fortunately I'd put Ł30 on Brighton win so at least I've recouped something from the evening.

Thurs 21 Aug 2003

It's been a tough few days.

Monday was the emotional tragedy of the Brighton defeat.

Tuesday I was forced to visit The Ivy to hobnob with... with everyone else hoping to be hob-nobbing with the rich and famous but who had to make do with me and M and Kevin and Louise. For the record, the meal was great, and even the bill wasn't quite the sledgehammer-to-the-kidneys moment that I was expecting it to be.

Then dashed off to the National Theatre for Henry V. It seems unlikely that Shakespeare would have specified that the king should ride around Agincourt in a jeep with a machine-gun slung over his shoulder, but it seemed to work nevertheless. In retrospect however, not an experience ideally suited to a humid night after a large meal...

Then yesterday evening, more drama, as I became quite badly ill. More than ill. Disastrously YOU BASTARDS! sort of ill. It happens every year or so. It last visited me just here, when I was training for the London Marathon. Severe stomach pains. Oh God, I wouldn't wish this on anyone apart from George Bush and the traffic wardens of Reading town centre. Totally crippling. Up all night. Couldn't sleep. breathe, lie down, stand up, read, think.... horrible.

Started to subside around lunchtime today.

Slept all afternoon. Fantastic.

Fri 22 Aug 2003

Let's face it, this year is fast becoming a wash-out as far as running goes.

It was all going fairly swimmimgly up till mid-March, with two half marathons and a couple of 10Ks under my ever-loosening belt. Then came the right calf injury which scuppered the Bath Half and the next 4 or 5 weeks of training. But eventually I got going again, confident enough to announce that I'd started serious preparation for the Dublin marathon. But two weeks into the eighteen, ping! The left calf muscle this time, and another five weeks on the bench.

Early in the year I entered three big autumn races: the Bristol Half, the Great North Run and the the Great South Run. The Bristol Half now turns out to be happening on the same day as a training course I've been booked on. In Israel.

Am I glad to have the trip as an excuse to miss a race for which I'd be desperately undertrained? Or should I have used the race as an excuse to avoid travelling to the troubled Tel Aviv? A colleague at the BBC mentioned the other day that someone from the Technology Department had recently gone off to Israel to install some software, and had been issued with a bulletproof vest...

The advice I've received is that as long as I avoid hotels, restaurants, shops and all forms of transport I should be OK. Which is great. The course I've been invited to attend starts early in the morning and continues through the evening, so I don't expect to have much time for sleep, never mind dining out.

However, I do plan to run.

I need to train because the Great North Run is looming, like some B-movie monster in a shadowy alley. Crikey. A half marathon. I've not run that distance since March. In fact, apart from the 9 miler in early July that damaged my left calf, I've not feasted on more than 5 miles at one sitting in 5 and a half months.

Of course, I could duck out of it on those grounds, but that would be pretty pathetic, wouldn't it? There's a month to go, so I'll have a crack at it. But it means I need to do some serious training in the next 4 weeks, so no invitations to opium dens or pork pie parties please.

Which reminds me. Have I ever related the tale of my visit to an opium den in Chittagong? OK, quickly...I'd always wanted to check out one of these establishments, ever since Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had painted such a fascinating picture of one in a Sherlock Holmes story I'd read as a child. Anyway, this place didn't disappoint. It was tucked behind a small bazaar down by the dockside (if you know Chittagong). The only surprising thing was that it was next to a police station. But it was superbly atmospheric. Dark and dingy and thick with pungent opium and hashish smoke, and incense. The clientele, perhaps surprisingly, seemed to be business people. Almost everyone in there was smartly dressed in suit and tie. They lolled around on bunk beds, moaning and giggling, and rolling their eyes - the way you'd expect people to behave in an opium den. I eventually got talking to a guy in the adjoining bed. I say "eventually" because I got the impression he thought I was just a hallucination for a while. I spoke a few sentences now and then, and he just peered at me vacantly, with a sort of distant grin. But then he seemed to sort of wake up, as though he suddenly realised I was a real entity, and began to speak to me. An affable sort of fellow. We chatted for a while before I asked: "Aren't you worried about the police station next door?" He smiled, and related my question to some of the guys on the other side of him, who chortled manically. I was confused until he turned back towards me and explained: "We are the police..."

This morning I jogged 3 simple miles and survived. It's a start.

Sun 24 Aug 2003

Yesterday I managed another three miles before breakfast, and found them more comfortable than Friday's. Then this afternoon I did another five, though it became very tough towards the end, and I had to take a couple of breaks. Lack of fitness was certainly a problem, but it was the early afternoon heat that really did me in.

The highlight of my canal-side jaunt was spotting a morose angler wearing a T-shirt shamelessly proclaiming: Born To Fish.

A non-running day tomorrow, but with plenty of spadework on offer in the garden, it won't be an inactive one. The rest of the week will see a serious training effort. Over the next three weeks I need to run 10 miles at least once, and preferably twice.

Threat of the day. I've become unusually interested in the pronouncements of Palestinian spokespersons in recent days. Today's star threat: We will counterattack as soon as possible the crimes of the Zionist occupation. Our response will be painful and quick.

Quick? Well OK. As long as it's quick....

Tues 26 Aug 2003

Today I worked from home, but popped out at 6 for a run, to try to wipe all traces of XSL-FO from my mind. If those initials mean nothing to you, fall to your knees now and praise the Lord for your good fortune. And on no account be tempted to go to Google and do a search. That's how we all started. A quick look won't do any harm... But alas, the genie won't be tempted back into the bottle. Just say no, or you could be in for a lifetime of profound wretchedness.

Er, where was I? Ah yes, pounding along the canal on a pleasant summer's evening, chomping mouthfuls of flies and desperately wondering how I might resolve the Palestine-Israel conflict and bring peace to the Middle East by next Tuesday lunchtime.

After a day with XSL-FO, anything is possible.

Just after I left the house, the batteries in my speed-and-distance monitor gadget expired, so I decided to repeat Sunday's 5 miler so at least I could have a direct time comparison. I'm too shy to reveal my splits -- which is just as well, as I know you're not interested in them -- but I can reveal that I got round 4 minutes less slowly than two days ago. And no passes! By which I mean no stops at all this time.

In short, it was a really good run: the best for a few weeks. If I can keep this up, manage to run regularly while I'm away and avoid injury, I might yet make it to Newcastle for the Great North Run.

There'll come a time when struggling down to the Post Office to collect my pension will be the greatest challenge in my life, so I guess we should appreciate these more exciting ones while we can.

Wed 27 Aug 2003

For weeks now, I've been clinging by my fingertips to the Dublin marathon fantasy, but I think I've finally faced up to the reality of the situation. I could enter, and I could jog half of it and hobble the rest. But I don't want to do that. Even if the recent good progress is sustained, I'm just not going to get through anything like enough long runs before mid-October. Too bad, but well, there's always next year.

I'm still hopeful about the Great North Run on September 21st. I received a large envelope from them a week or two back, and I finally opened it this evening to find a magazine and my number (44647). Mmmmm, race numbers. They are like banknotes. So much more than just pieces of paper. They have a particular texture, and of course the number itself bestows a uniqueness that sends a thrill through you. When the number fell out of the envelope onto my desk, I felt a tightening in my stomach, and knew then that, barring disaster, I'd be at the race.

For the first time in months I overslept this morning, and missed my early run, but got out this evening instead for 3.5 twilight miles. Nothing happened. Nothing whatsoever to report. I ran round the block, through the local estate and the deer park, and arrived back home again. That was it. It wasn't very fast but it was another step on the road back to fitness. I'm still not running quickly, but at least I'm back to being able comfortably to run for 40, 50, 60 minutes without having to stop.

Booked my flight to Israel today. I always said I'd never fly El Al, but they're incredibly cheap. Ł158 +tax for a return to Heathrow.

I posted a message recently on Hal Higdon's running forum asking for advice about running in Tel Aviv, and had several helpful responses. It's very hot out there at the moment: between 90 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The advice is to run early and to run along the Boardwalk, which follows the beach for about 4 miles. Sounds quite pleasant.

No doubt you'll get to hear about it eventually.

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