Mon 3 Feb 2003

It's usually easy to work out where motivation comes from, but a loss of motivation can be more mysterious. Eight days now without a run, and it's baffling. I can't even get enthusiastic about the idea of feeling depressed about it. Curiosity and a spirit of keen enquiry seem like better options, though no conclusions have yet appeared.

A good way of dealing with it would seem to be to lie about it. With all those races coming up next month, it's psychologically beneficial to take a week off at this key time. De-stressing. Wiping the slate clean. Re-energising. Refocussing. Gathering my energy. Yeah, that's it.

But whatever it is, it must end, and it will end tomorrow. In 13 days time I have the Goring 10K, and two weeks later sees a fifteen day period containing three half marathons. I need to get running again now to have any chance of knocking my time down.

OK, let's go.

Tues 4 Feb 2003

It was only three and a half miles, but after nine runless days, it represented something much bigger.

Even at my level - or perhaps particularly at my level - it's frightening how quickly you can lose that feeling of familiarity with something as simple as running along a road. After just a week or so of idleness, I felt even more awkward and unco-ordinated than normal. The underworked muscles were grumpy, and after only three miles I was feeling the start of little strains all over my legs and lower back.

The first ten minutes were quite horrible. It was very cold and windy, and one of those occasions when I wondered what the hell I was doing, running up a long, straight wind tunnel wearing nothing but a thin T-shirt and shorts. The strong urge to stop and turn back was just resisted, and once into the second mile I began to feel warmer and happier.

Despite the chilly gusts, the sun just managed to hang on as I reached the path through the grounds of the estate. I counted 130 deer grazing alongside the lake. It lifted me a lot, and I almost considered enjoying myself.

Maybe that will happen tomorrow.

Wed 5 Feb 2003

Sometimes people ask me what I think about when I'm running. Well, tonight I was thinking about 'serious runners' who can't hide their disdain for... people like me. People like me will never win a race, will never even know what it feels like to try to win a race. Will never run a marathon in under four and a half hours.

Many serious competitive runners are helpful and supportive towards the new runner. But others feel threatened and irritated by the presence of this large rump attaching itself to their sport, devaluing the events they want to keep for themselves. How vexatious we are.

The trouble with people like us is that we've not paid our dues. We are the people who were having fun while they were stopping behind after school to spend extra time on the track. Giving up their Saturdays to run cross-countries. At university, they were the supple-bodied platoon of warriors, skin glowing with health, crowding dutifully onto minibuses outside the student union on Wednesday afternoons, while the rest of us were getting drunk and smoking dope and trying to get laid.

Then years later, just when they least expect it, along come all these fat blokes, and women who've escaped from Weightwatchers, crowing triumphantly because they managed to waddle for 30 minutes without having a coronary. Asking dumb questions about shoes and petroleum jelly and training schedules. Huh!

If the internet forums are anything to go by, it seems to be the London Marathon that induces the severest apoplexy. Why do all these losers bother? Depriving real runners of places just so that they can raise money for charity and have their six hours of fame? Shouldn't be allowed. Kidding themselves they can run a marathon. Call that running?

It reminded me of an incident in last year's Theale 10K. It was a 10K and a 5K combined, with the 5K runners starting halfway through the 10K race. I was with a group of other 40-somethings, puffing our way along a narrow track on the edge of a field, when two or three gazelle-like 5K runners, none of them older than 18, pushed past us, tutting and grumbling under their breath about us being in their way. "Hey watch it", I shouted at these kids, "We're the future of this sport, y'know".

And that's what they fail to see. It's the recreational runners, the dreaded 'jogger', that sustains and breathes new life into their sport. Without us, the London Marathon wouldn't be what it is. The crowds wouldn't be there, the five or six hours of TV coverage wouldn't be there, the sponsors wouldn't be so keen. Among the watching millions, countless porky couch potatoes whisper to themselves "next year I'm going to run the marathon", and opt to change their lives forever. The sour-faced serious runners don't see this because there's not a lot you can see when your head is stuck that far up your own backside.

During today's run, I wasn't thinking so much about these people, as trying to think of a word to describe them. My best effort (with acknowledgement to JK Rowling) was smuggles. Why? Partly because they're so damn smug, and partly because they seem to inhabit another universe from the rest of us. A poker-faced breed, drained of fun. Anything they ever knew about the joy of running, and the pleasure of self-deprecation, was lost years ago on the side of some misty Welsh mountain as they strained to hang onto the heels of the race leader.

Ah, that's better. I needed that. Just as I needed the six miles I put in late this afternoon. This was much better than yesterday. It was one of those runs that I started without knowing where or when it would end. I set off, and stopped when I decided it was time to stop. It felt great. Absolutely great.

Sorry about that, smuggles...

Thurs 6 Feb 2003

The moment I've been dreading finally arrived this evening. An email from James, my old college mate. He lives in Hong Kong, and visits every two or three years. He's here. Oh Lord. Trouble is, whenever he's around, I feel obliged to drink gallons of strong ale, and consume furnace-like curries, just to humour him. To twist the distastefully Bohemian dagger further, he will insist on taking in a match or two as well. Last time it was England v Germany, Kevin Keegan's and Wembley's final international. The time before it was Liverpool v Chelsea at Anfield. I also remember an FA Cup tie at Hillsborough, and a fierce local derby between Bradford and Huddersfield. And there was that Arsenal - Tottenham match in the Gazza era. Looks like I'll have to dig that fixture list out of the dustbin again.

After this weekend, I have four races spread over five Sundays. The free one, immediately preceding three half marathons, was to be spent in hushed, ascetic contemplation. It now seems I'll be dragged through the opium dens of rural West Berkshire instead.

As it were.

Four difficult, leaden, dutiful miles this evening around pitch black lanes. So dark that I couldn't see where I was putting my feet most of the time. Result? A slow, disjointed run that didn't satisfy me much, though the knowledge that I was burning a few calories was some consolation. I've managed to shake off only about eight pounds in the last two months, four since the New Year. Better than nothing, but less than I'd hoped. If I'm to get to where I'd planned to be by the time of the Silverstone half marathon, I need to lose ten pounds in the next 24 days. Not impossible. Except that we're out for a curry tomorrow evening, and have a family meal out on Sunday. Then there's an all-day business lunch on Wednesday.

And... and then there's James.

Sat 8 Feb 2003

Once you've drifted past the age of 27½, things cease to be much of a surprise. Not the sort of surprise I had yesterday evening, anyway.

We went to see the remarkable Bodyworlds exhibition in east-central London. It was staggering. It's the exhibition of 'plastinated' corpses, assembled by Professor Gunther von Hagens (the man who conducted the notorious televised post-mortem on British TV a few months ago).

The exhibition is ending this Sunday, so this was our last chance to see it. Advance booking was a good idea. When we arrived at 6pm, there was a queue several hundred yards long, many of whom I'm sure wouldn't have got in at all, despite the exhibition staying open till 11pm.

Here are some examples of the exhibits (click on them to enlarge):

I've not seen too many dead people in my time. A few here and there in the gutters in Calcutta, and on the funeral ghats in Varanasi. I saw two drowning victims pulled out of the Thames, when I worked overlooking the river in Battersea. And a German girl drowned while I was in Kovalam in Kerala, and I helped haul her body up the beach in a sheet. But even then, you don't get the chance to study their innards, and nor would you want to in those circumstances. But the exhibition provided exactly this opportunity, and it was one of the most extraordinary things I've ever witnessed.

I was thinking about it as I ran my ten miles this afternoon. Impossible not to think about your physiology as you run. There was a truly fantastic exhibit last night called The Runner, showing a sprinter in action, with all the skin cut and pulled away in enormous trailing flaps, revealing the muscles and joints in action, and all the vital organs beavering away.

It wasn't a great run today. Slow and steady, though it did include six severe hills which is some kind of preparation for the 10K I'm doing next weekend. The race is described as "undulating", which as everyone knows, is a euphemism for Himalayan. To make matters worse, it looks like I might be meeting up with my old mate the day before, so it's likely that my race preparation will consist of a twelve hour drinking binge and a bag of chips.

Tues 11 Feb 2003

I like a good link. I heard this exchange on Radio Four's Start The Week yesterday morning:

Andrew Marr: Well, it's not often we can bring you breaking news on this programme, but I can confirm that Andrew Roberts has at last arrived in the studio.
Andrew Roberts: And it's all due to the sterling work of Geoff, my taxi driver, and his skill in dealing with the London traffic, for which I strongly commend him.
Andrew Marr: And it's precisely that kind of magnanimity towards one's... subordinates (for want of a better word) that you say, in your new book on Leadership, was not one of Winston Churchill's greatest skills. How do you think this affected....

Tuesday's good for running. A relatively short run, following a couple of rest days = a good day for a speed session.

Hmm. Everything is relative. A speed session for me means something around, or preferably just under, consistent ten minute miles. Running fast is easy. It's running fast for several miles that's hard. A few weeks ago, running half mile splits, I ran one at around 9:10 mile pace. The results were near-fatal. Even running a minute per mile slower than that is tough after 3 or 4 miles, though it's what I have to aim for if I'm going to reach some of my race targets this year. To knock my half marathon time down to 2:10 I need to be running just under 10 minutes a mile for the full 13 miles.

Spring isn't far away. I was out in late afternoon while it was still bright. Wet and fresh, but not cold. The rain was a fine spray, but strong enough to soak through my London Marathon T-shirt, pulled (previously unworn) from a bottom drawer this morning. I also wore my Brooks Addictions again. I keep thinking they must have donated all they have to give, but still I squeeze another few miles out of them.

These faithful trainers have been moribund for some time, but how can I determine the exact point of expiry? Is there one? Is it just a gradual sinking, deeper and deeper, into a sludgy pond of uselessness, or is there a solid line between redundancy and usefulness that just appears one day? The Brooks have lost some of their bounce and vitality, but does this mean I shouldn't be wearing them? People talk about the midsole 'going', but I'm not sure how you tell that's happened. Maybe like many good things in life, you can't identify and appreciate your midsole till it's gone.

Confession time. I now have six pairs of running shoes. Apart from my brick-like Brooks, which I wore for the London Marathon last year, there are two pairs of Asics, and three of New Balance. My first ever shoes, Asics Nimbus IIs, are now relegated to garden duty, and the Nimbus IIIs give me blisters if I run more than about five miles in them. For Chicago, I used New Balance 854s, which I still regard as my main shoes. They're comfortable and stable, and the brand has a friendlier face than Nike or Adidas. I do my long runs in them.

Imagine my distress when, last month, I heard that the 854s were being discontinued. But my despair was soon assuaged when I found that the New Balance factory shop in Cumbria were selling off old stock for �25, a third of their normal price. Sadly, they didn't have the exact size and width I wanted but I've gambled on one pair that's the right size but slightly narrower than the current pair, and another that's the right width fitting but a half size larger than the current ones. I've run in both, and I think they'll be OK.

I'm not sure what you do with old running shoes. You've shared too much emotion to just discard them like... like an old pair of shoes.

And with that, I'll hand you back to the studio...

Wed 12 Feb 2003

Even my cat would be depressed at the moment -- if I had a cat.

Iraq, the stock market, the Zimbabwe fiasco, England losing at home to Australia in the football, the washing-up still to do.

At least the running is going reasonably well again, and it was a lovely day for it too. Seven hard miles at lunchtime today. Four steep hills meant a slow, but character-building run in the sunshine, and gave me a brief respite from the sense of doom that is descending over the nation.

One dead fox, one dead hen and one living rabbit observed. More evidence of Spring today. The bulbs are coming up, and the grass verges are looking a brighter green at last. While up the road, Heathrow is encircled by soldiers, and there are tanks on the streets of Berkshire.

Fri 14 Feb 2003

Two days before the Goring 10K, and it's touch and go whether I'll make it. I've got flu symptoms - a rare experience for me. I've been snorting paracetemol all evening (that is what you do with it I presume?), which is gradually closing down my senses.

The race looks like a well-organised, friendly affair. And it's local, so I really don't want to miss it.

I worked from home today, so took the opportunity of a lunchtime run. It was cold - two or three degrees - but the sun was strong. In other words, a wonderful day for a run. Given the race in two days time, I decided to just have an easy jog for a couple of miles, though this turned into a brisk three and a half miler without me really noticing.

As I ran past the local school, an egg sandwich landed at my feet, amid much chortling from a gang of spotty adolescents. I stopped and exchanged a few intemperate words with them. A teacher appeared with his hand on the guilty shoulder, so I decided to leave it at that.

I spent some time musing on this incident as I continued. I don't really blame the kid. Just think: you're fourteen, and you've realised to your disgust that your mum has made you bloody egg sandwiches again. Just as your fury is reaching its peak, some plump, grey-haired geezer runs past, panting. What choice do you have? You chuck the sandwich at him. All very understandable really, and certainly what I'd have done in his position. I shouldn't have shouted at him.

Perhaps I'll contact the school to apologise for my behaviour.

The highlight of the afternoon, as I slipped deeper and deeper into flu-iness, was watching the session from the United Nations, with Hans Blix delivering his report on the weapons inspections in Iraq. This affair has become high drama; one of those occasions when you feel a witness to history. There are relatively few Bush-Blair supporters in this country, and I'm not one of them. The day's events were quite encouraging to those of us on the other side of the argument, even though the widespread view is that the US will attack Iraq regardless of the wishes of the UN. They just don't get it.

I had a strange premonition this evening that something terrible will happen here in the next few days. Something worse than missing the Goring 10K.

Sat 15 Feb 2003

Latest Medical bulletin:

It's about twelve hours to the start of the Goring 10K, and my mild flu is still evident. It's annoyingly indecisive. Does it disappear altogether, as it's threatened to a couple of times? Or should it explode into full-blown, life-rattling, bed-ridden influenza? It hasn't yet decided.

At the moment I feel I could probably run it, but I'll have to see how I feel when -- indeed if -- I wake tomorrow.

Goring 10K: Sun 16 Feb 2003

Last night, I tossed the influenza coin in the air before turning in, not knowing how it had landed till I opened my eyes at 7am. The news was reasonably good. Throat still a bit sore, head fuzzy but after some dry toast and Lem-Sip I passed a late fitness test and was on my way.

Only eight miles to Goring, but it was my first visit. And what a charming village it is. You can see why Boris Johnson was elected the MP. He actually looks like the place. The similarity between him and a thatched cottage is quite uncanny.

Spot the difference:

Boris Johnson MP	Ye Olde Inne

The tiny High Street was jammed with race traffic when I arrived, and there was a brief, last minute panic when I thought the event might begin without me, a la Fleet 2002. But there were so many other sinners in the same delayed boat, I needn't have worried. The race started eventually, only eight minutes late.

I felt good, and confident. Quite different from the start of the Serpentine 10K on New Year's Day. Then, I felt ill-prepared. Today I felt only ill. Only four pounds lighter than I was at new year, but a revised breakfast strategy made all the difference this time.

And still they came. How many were here? Who knows? No one in Goring High Street will ever forget these fantastic scenes. The police said a million people; the organisers reckoned it was nearer two million. Being in the thick of it, it was hard to say for sure but I can confirm that the narrow High Street looked pretty crowded to me, with the excitable throng extending almost as far as Nappers the Grocers. Whatever the numbers, the start was congested and tricky, but within a half mile the road had widened and we were out in open country.

By my standards, I was running well. It was cold alright - but lovely cold. Running cold. The sort of cold that makes you want to... well, if I believed in God, the sort of cold that would make you want to throw yourself at his chilblained feet, in gratitude.

There's good cold and bad cold. I can well understand the despair of some runners when faced by bad cold. Evening runners are especially unfortunate, spending all day in a toasty office, driving home in a heated car. Strolling into a centrally-heated home wearing coat and scarf, and gloves... and then stripping almost naked and stepping back towards the front door. Opening an inch or two. Looking at that big, black, perishing night out there. A dagger of freezing air whistling past the ear. In the background, the womb-like comfort of the Coronation Street music can be heard, along with the sound of another log being thrown on the fire. That's bad cold.

But today's is different. This is the bright, Sunday morning cold with a race ahead of you cold... this is jogging to your car in race-gear cold... a cold you're in charge of, and not the other way around. This is good cold.

The start of the Goring 10K

Some people think that if it's cold at the start of a race, then it will be cold all the way through a race. You see people wearing sweatshirts and fleeces and pullovers and hats. And no, these are not just first-half-mile garments. They are still there after two miles, when they have now become very hot. And they now have to be removed and tied around the waist. Except it aint that simple, because the number was pinned to the offending item, and so the garment must be removed and remain attached to the body in such a way that the race number remains visible.

At the Reading Half 2002, I saw someone wearing a T-shirt, jumper and overcoat with his number attached to the back of his coat. And it wasn't a charity outfit, because I ran beside him for a while and talked to him. After five miles he was carrying his coat and jumper, and cursing his stupidity.

Yikes, here I am chatting like this while the race has been going nearly ten minutes now and... look! Look who's going like the clappers!

It's true; I admit it. Today I tried running quickly. Everything is relative. I've run only two 10Ks before: Theale and Hyde Park. My times were about 1:05:30 for both. Today I decided it was time to consciously run faster than previously. I really wanted to get home in less than an hour. This meant running each kilometre in six minutes or less.

My first six kilometre splits were: 5:37, 6:09, 5:58, 5:40, 5:46, and 05:52. This was great. I was striding along, well within pace. I felt quite strong and in control. My only concern at that point was my breathing, which was heavy and difficult. The semi-flu I had seemed to have closed down some of my lung capacity, and I was conscious of breathing more quickly and less effectively than normal. It made me appreciate the problems of asthmatic runners a bit more, that's for certain. Runners like Ian Painter, who ran the London Marathon last year must have this problem all the time. Mind you, I'm pretty certain he cheats. A half marathon in 1:26? Must think I was born yesterday.

I was now sure I'd be home within the hour, but just as I'd finished counting that last chicken, a horrible hill suddenly appeared, and the kilometres that stretched up it had me struggling in a 7:00, followed by a 6:45. At last, the course flattened out again, and my penultimate split was back to 05:54. By now the exertion was getting to me because a stitch appeared, and I'd no option but to stop and walk for a minute or so, hoping it would go. Eventually I started up again and sprinted for the line, making a final kilometre time of 06:14, and a final race time of 1:00:57.

It was disappointing to miss out on the hour mark by less than a minute, but still encouraging to achieve a 4 minute PB over a 10K distance. The overall pace was 9:49 a mile, which is good for me over 6 miles. I'll be interested to see my official time. The congestion of the start was repeated at the end, and I had to join a 10 minute queue just to cross the finish line. As far as I'm concerned, my watch stopped when I reached the final melee, and not when I eventually crossed the line a few metres further on.

Next weekend is the lull before three successive half marathons (Silverstone, Reading and Bath). This was a good preparation.

Tues 18 Feb 2003

I feel terrible. Streaming cold. One blocked nostril. Deaf in one ear. Head filled with cotton wool. Constantly sleepy. Can't think straight. Wow -- this is what George Bush must feel like all the time.

But apart from that interesting insight, the landscape is pretty grim from where I sit. At least it's a reminder that I'm rarely unwell.

I usually run on a Tuesday, but thought better of it today. A nuisance, as this is supposed to be a week of good hard training before the mini-taper next week preceding the three half marathons. Ate loads of chocolate instead.

Wed 19 Feb 2003

Feeling slightly better, even managing a stuttering three miler at lunchtime. Needless to say, no speed records were in danger. It's been bitingly cold, with the wind-chill taking the temperature down to something like minus three degrees. Just when you think Spring is here, Winter jumps out of a bush and bites you on the bum.

I'm beginning to get fed up with feeling like this. What I need is a decent lottery jackpot win this evening. Mmm, yeah. That would do the trick.

Thurs 20 Feb 2003

My brief illness seems to be on the way out, and I felt well enough to do my hard, hilly 6.5 mile route at lunchtime. Felt knackered, but much better for it.

The appearance of a few hills in my schedule has done me good. My legs feel different. Stronger. Having said that, my calf muscles and shins are sore this evening. Nothing, I'm sure, to worry about, but it made me think how undeservedly lucky I've been with injuries. Perhaps I've not pushed myself hard enough to make me vulnerable to overtraining injuries, but there are other reasons that should have made problems more likely. I'm still carrying too much weight, and I had no athletic base whatsoever before I started the 18 week London Marathon training at the end of 2001. Fortunately, my health is pretty robust, and this must have carried me through this minefield so far. But I really should try doing some stretching some time...

It was good to get a toughish run in today, as it looks like there's a Lost Weekend in prospect. My old college mate is over from Hong Kong this weekend. We've agreed to do a "long walk in the country" on Saturday, which is barely-disguised code for a 12 hour pub-crawl. The chances of getting out for a long run on Sunday seem small. Just getting out of bed will be achievement enough.

Mon 24 Feb 2003

I'll spare the detail, but will mention that Friday evening and Saturday saw us get through around 36 pints and 5 bottles of wine between the two of us. It wasn't pretty, but it had to be done.

Some fairly unhealthy eating to report, too. In addition to the obligatory couple of fry-ups, Saturday night was crowned with an extravagantly hot curry at the Himalayan Hotspot. The venue afforded us ample humiliation opportunities as we insisted on practising our scant Nepalese on the bemused waiters.

No run, of course, but we did fit in a walk of around 9 miles on Saturday afternoon. This can be marked down as cross-training, though it was far from textbook. There was a lot of alcohol consumed for one thing, but worse was that I wore a pair of walking boots that I'd not used for years, and managed to cook up a couple of very fine blisters on my left foot. With the Silverstone Half just six days away, I now have to hope that these wounds don't turn into party poopers.

I've no idea yet what sort of training I'll be doing this week. Probably a 3 and a 5 tomorrow and Wednesday, then maybe a brief jog on Thursday, before resting for the big day.

Tues 25 Feb 2003

An average pace of less than 10 minutes a mile goes down as a tempo run in my book. So that's how today's three miler can be classified. Working from home today, so once again I've had the pleasure of a run in the strong, late winter sunshine.

I'm distressed to see so many people mooching around in their gardens, digging and scraping, interfering with the smooth operation of Mother Nature, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Does this presage some requirement to do something in my own garden? I muse, fearfully, on this question as I tramp round the village. We have a large garden - about a third of an acre - and there's nothing at all in it at the moment apart from a thick blanket of couch grass, a smashed-up greenhouse, and miscellaneous evidence of good, but unfulfilled, intentions here and there. In a rash moment at the start of the year, I promised M that six months from now we will be self-sufficient in vegetables. She believed me.

The day of reckoning approaches.

Wed 26 Feb 2003

Another hard, hilly six miles in the West Berkshire countryside at lunchtime today. Bright sunshine, more dead foxes, and a crow eating a pheasant in the middle of the road.

This run has become a weekly habit, and it does me good. It begins with a flat mile, followed by four sizeable hills, and a few other undulations, before looping round and finishing with the same flat mile. There are numerous opportunities to extend the run, but the unchanging heart is this four mile stretch of hills.

Yesterday I bought a local 1:25000 Ordnance Survey map which has presented me with a hundred new routes, many on footpaths and other vehicle-less rights of way. It's the one problem with today's hilly run. Much of it takes place on a well-used road with no pavements, and there's a constant need to look over my shoulder, and move from one side of the road to the other. It seems only a matter of time before it's me lying squashed in the road, being picked at by a great fat crow.

Only three or four more days till the Silverstone Half. It's going to be hard. What is it about races that makes them so appealing when they are months away, and so frightening when they happen? It's like walking towards some aggressive enemy. While they are still far away, you can poke fun at them, practise your bravado, and dream them into any shape you want. But once they're only a short distance away, you can no longer fool yourself. They're big, they're ugly, they're going to fight you and they're going to hurt you.

I keep thinking that I just have to get my attitude right, and all will be well. I'm trying to learn from the Hyde Park 10K on New Year's Day, when I was far too blasé, and struggled. So I'm telling myself: Don't be blasé. But how do I not be blasé? What's the opposite of being blasé? Being anxious? Thinking about nothing else? Phoning the organisers and telling them: I'm taking your event very seriously, you know. Oh yes. Let no one tell you otherwise. Blasé? Me? Huh!. No, no, no. Not me.

So I've established what I shouldn't be doing, but not what I should.

As I finished my six miler today, feeling knackered, I realised that on Sunday we'll be running more than twice this distance, and at a much faster pace.

Erk.

Thurs 27 Feb 2003

Heard a good Freudian slip on the radio today. A senior Metropolitan Police Officer was being interviewed about their decision to put more police back on the street. "The great majority of police officers will be happy not to use cars", he said. "They much prefer community beating."

Decided against running today, donating the saved energy to the Silverstone fund instead. I'm not going to reach my medium-term target of 2:10 this Sunday, but I need to take a positive step up from the 2:30 that I've hovered around in my three previous halfs. As there are three halfs in three weeks, I'm hoping to take this first one fairly sedately but get in below 2:20. If I do, I'll be happy, and might even be able to think about hitting my target at Reading or Bath.

I finally got round to creating the RunningCommentary forum on the site last night. It's going to be a long haul to customise it how I want it to be, but I think it's worth doing. The plan is to make the site much more interactive than it has been, and this seems like a good way of kick-starting the process. Please do call in and post a message or ask a question. You don't have to register, but if you do you'll find that you instantly knock 30 seconds off your current pace. Trust me.

Fri 28 Feb 2003

The story of the day has to be the one about the traffic warden who gave a parking ticket to a bus in Manchester, as it stopped to pick up passengers at a bus-stop. His employers rescinded the ticket, commenting that he "had shown a lack of judgement, and would undergo appropriate retraining".

I'm sure that M has hidden my hats. I used to have an impressive collection of baseball caps, woolly hats, and a Panama, and none of them can be found. Their sudden disappearance is suspicious, and my investigation has implicated her. Why? Mainly, her unease about my tendency to strut around the house with one of these objects balanced on my head. You're too old to behave like this, she says. But self-evidently I'm not, I argue.

My interest in hats began when I was a student. I shared a house with a couple of other guys and three hats: a topper, a bowler, and a trilby. In fact there was one top hat, two bowlers and three trilbies. We swapped these items round, depending on whether our mood was funereal, industrious or flippant respectively. Having only one topper meant that only one of us could be depressed at any given moment. Two bowlers was a mechanism for limiting businesslike behaviour to a maximum of two at a time. (A bit like a nuclear attack, this was only ever a theoretical possibility but had to be guarded against. I don't recall any time when two of us were doing anything constructive simultaneously. Indeed, I'd be hard pressed to remember any time when even one of us was usefully occupied.) The three trilbies were for those rest and recreation occasions when we could, at last, put our feet up and relax in front of the TV. The trilbies were very well used, and on most days were worn from the moment we rose for breakfast in the early afternoon right through to 5 or 6am, when it was time to bring another stressful day to an end.

I was thinking of this today as I searched for appropriate headgear for my late afternoon run. The rain was coming down in buckets, and the sky was darkening. Ideal conditions for my white Chicago baseball cap. But it was nowhere to be found, and eventually I had to go without it.

Sometimes rain is a hazard and an inconvenience. At other times it's a liberation, and reminds you that running is a special activity; one that seems to protect you from normal worldy discomfort. Today was like that. As I locked the backdoor behind me, I could feel the rain bouncing off the sloping roof and splattering down my back and neck. It didn't matter.

One of my favourite sayings comes from Eleanor Roosevelt: No one can make you unhappy without your permission.

I thought of it last night when my sister was talking about quotations. She had chosen one to put in her ezine. It's by Tommy Cooper, and it goes: Apparently, 1 in 5 people in the world is Chinese. There are 5 people in my family, so one of them must be Chinese. It's either my mum or my dad. Or my older brother Colin. Or my younger brother Ho-Cha-Chu. I think it's Colin.

Back to Eleanor Roosevelt. It's one of those pithy sayings that I do think has actually changed my life in some way. It's much harder to be unhappy, knowing that you can only be so if you decide to be so. I suppose there's a category of terrible circumstances that are always going to cause despair, however strong-willed you are, but leave those aside for the moment.

Let's talk about the relatively tivial things in life. Like going for a run in the rain. It really doesn't matter if it's raining, does it? People think that the perfect clothing for rainy weather includes an overcoat and hat and galoshes and umbrella. No. Ideal clothing for a rainy day is skimpy T-shirt and shorts. There's less to get wet. You're going to have a shower when you get home anyway, so what's the problem with getting a bit damp now? Or even very damp?

It was only a three miler, and the idea was just to loosen up a bit before Sunday. It took me round some of the unknown paths I'd spotted on my new OS map. This is where having a speed and distance monitor comes into its own. I decided I was going to go for three miles, and was able to run where I wanted. It didn't matter that a couple of times I came up against a dead end, or a path that I just lost interest in. The SDM kept clocking up the distance, and at 3 miles I stopped and trotted back along the puddled pavement.

I know what you're thinking. If a T-shirt and shorts are all that's needed for a rainy run, why was I looking for a hat? The answer is that I usually wear glasses on training runs, and rain can be a hazard. A hat with a brim reduces the need to keep wiping the rain off them.

But anyway, no hat was available, and M is still pleading ignorance about their mass defection. I think she's shown a lack of judgement, and may have to undergo appropriate retraining.

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