Mon 6 Oct 2003

Autumn, that's what it is. Has anyone else noticed how fed-up everyone is at the moment? The last two weekends in particular have been orangey-brown and windswept. The garden is cold and dying, and nothing has gone to plan.

We've passed this way before, though it's previously happened only after a marathon or an injury. That sense of anti-climax that results in me not doing anything very active for far too long. It's only been a couple of weeks this time, but given the plans I had for the next month or two, that's too long.

It hasn't been a totally inactive period; I did manage a 4 miler the Saturday after the race, and I've walked to the pub a few times -- but that's about it.

Last night, after a frustrating weekend in which almost nothing got done, I decided it was time for yet another fresh start. So this morning, despite waking later than intended I still managed a brisk 25 minute jog: enough to keep me dripping through the train journey to work, and to convince me that happy days are here again. It wasn't as long as I'd hoped, but it was enough to remind me how good it is to run first thing.

Next Sunday is the Great South Run: 10 miles in and around Portsmouth. The earth won't vanish into a black hole if I don't turn up (at least I don't think so -- it wasn't mentioned on the application form) but it would be good to collect another medal and start to feel holy again.

Here goes.

Tues 7 Oct 2003

Maybe it's the onset of the colder weather, but I've suddenly stopped waking instinctively at 6am. Again today, I didn't see the light until nearly 7:30, when all thoughts of an early run had to be shovelled out of sight.

Instead I had my first night-time outing for a long time. Not just dark but fairly cool. I can't think how long it's been since I ran in these conditions, not being able to see where I was putting my feet.

It felt pretty good. I think I have to rediscover running; to relearn the basics and find the real joy of it all again. We all say it's important to have a goal. Typically, that goal is a race, or a personal best time over a distance. Perhaps that's become a stale, and self-defeating way of thinking for me. I need to tilt that orbit and start again. My goal must be to find out how to enjoy this properly once more.

But did I ever really enjoy running? I've always enjoyed having run. Finishing a race -- even (or perhaps especially) -- if you're a plodder like me, is a marvellous feeling. It's great to look back over a period of runs and feel some sense of achievement. BUT. But, have I ever truly enjoyed the act of running while it's happening?

The answer is yes, I have, but only quite rarely. Time to deal with this, I think.

Thurs 9 Oct 2003

A blip to report, though not an unexpected one. (Side question: can you schedule a blip, or must it always be unpredictable?)

A sort of compulsory-but-voluntary work get-together last night in a posh Knightsbridge hotel, where we were encouraged to ingest good food in quantity, blew a hole in my good intentions this week. Biggish, yes, but not too ragged for stitching. Recoverable. And at least I resisted the temptation to drink alcohol. Well, no more than just a couple of beers.

So this morning I woke, not with a hangover but a kind of bloated feeling that didn't really shout "Yes! Run time! Hurrah!" at me. But eventually I did get up, pull on my long-sleeved Datchet Dash shirt for the first time, and go off for a short plod around the block. Probably no more than 2 miles but I'm very pleased I did it. The notable thing about this jog was that I left my watch at home, and just tried to tune into the act of running for the sake of it. If I'm honest, it didn't feel much different, but I'm going to do it again and again, and see where it leads me.

On the way back I stopped off at the newsagent to take a look at how the press had judged yesterday's revolt by the England footballers as they prepare for the vital Turkey match on Saturday. I was pleased to see that in the main, they get a roasting. It may seem a good thing for athletes to make a stand in support of a team-mate, but when the root of his trouble is the failure to take a drug test, you can't help feeling they've made a slight misjudgement. The moral of the story seems to be: if you're going to put your collective shirt on a certain loser like Ferdinand, make sure first it isn't the England one.

The entire business stinks. In football terms, Manchester United is a gargantuan corporation, and their recent behaviour seems aimed at protecting not just a prize asset but a public image adored by armies of kids the world over. I suspect we'll never uncover the whole truth here, but from where I'm standing it looks like a cocktail of collusion, damage limitation, deceit, greed and media manipulation. Thoroughly unpleasant people, behaving with a cynicism that would leave even New Labour's press office open-mouthed with admiration.

Thank God for karma. The certain knowledge that they'll get their eventual come-uppance is some comfort.

Meanwhile, I've had to put money on Turkey to win on Saturday. Despite the brave faces at this afternoon's press conference, the England spirit has already been defeated by the folly and cowardice of their good mate, Rio.

Sun 12 Oct 2003

I was wrong. England avoided defeat, and even managed to look pretty good in patches. I watched it on a big screen in a packed village pub. A great atmosphere: intense, seething, emotional. All the contempt we felt over the last few days was forgotten. When it mattered, we couldn't desert them.

So, we're in the finals of Euro 2004 in Portugal next June. Unfortunately (which may not be quite the right word here), we're in Cuba next June, and seem likely to miss the first week or two of the tournament. If it was the World Cup, the games would be on in every bar, but I'm assuming there'll be less Caribbean demand for a European tournament. But I might be wrong. It's not unknown...

There was an email in my inbox yesterday morning, offering me a free Ł20 bet on the game if I placed a Ł10 bet of my own money. It was the perfect opportunity to cover all eventualities. I already had Ł30 on a Turkey win, and now I could put another Ł30 on the draw (including the free Ł20). Had England won, I'd have lost Ł40 but had the pleasure of the win. Instead I had the best outcome, and collected Ł60 as a result.

There was little option but to get fiercely drunk last night, and stumble home with a savage Chicken Bhuna dangling from my ring finger. In short, the perfect Saturday evening.

This wasn't why I didn't do the Great South Run today. I was able to embark on my evening of debauchery because I'd already decided on Friday that it wasn't a good idea to do the race, for a variety of reasons -- physical, mental, political and horticultural. My only regret is that it's another Ł19 thrown away on an unused entry, but there are compensations. Another bed dug in the garden, another great pile of potatoes disinterred, hedges clipped, the compost heap agitated, another load of bark chippings collected and turned into paths through and around the vegetable beds, seeds collected. All it needed was a crackling bonfire to turn the afternoon into a true autumnal cliché. This evening I made a stupendous tomato and plum soup garnered almost entirely from home-grown ingredients.

Tomorrow the running continues.

A couple of interesting lexicological observations today: the guest on Desert Island Discs was pretty forgettable, but he did describe an entertaining acquaintance as a "one-man three-ring circus". And a new word from the USA. People who tend to go with the flow are known as "dittoheads". Splendid.

Tues 14 Oct 2003

6am. It's dark and cool, and the streets are profoundly empty. Just a yawning fox, sitting on the pub wall, and me.

It was hard getting out of bed, but I did, and I ran. It's one of those questions you're often asked: how do you manage to leave a toasty bed an hour earlier than necessary, just to be able to run half-naked for several miles in the cold, black morning? The question, it's true, has never been phrased quite like that, but it's what people are thinking, because I think the same thing sometimes. Here's the answer:

I suspect I've said this before, but running is the opposite of drinking. And using a credit card. Running is like visiting the dentist, or saving up for a holiday. With alcohol, and credit cards, you get all the pleasure first, followed by a period of extended suffering. With running, the pain comes first, the pleasure later. It's like a feel-great pill with initial, horrible side-effects. You take your tablet and then have to suffer all sorts of discomforts: cramps in your legs, side-stitches, breathlessness, rapid temperature fluctuations, acute sweating, both biliousness and severe hunger pangs, social awkwardness, loss of self-esteem, paranoia about falling over or being hit by a car, and so on. What a terrible list that is. Imagine a medicine that did all that to you. It would never be approved.

But these severe side-effects last only 30 or 40 minutes, or say an hour maximum for the normal weekday dose. And immediately after they've disappeared you can luxuriate in many hours of mental alertness and clarity, and a kind of self-cuddling physical warmth. A mixture of elevated self-esteem and a profound sense of well-being. It can last an entire day.

And so, as I lie there in my warm bed at six in the morning, it becomes a simple transaction for me to consider. Do I lie here for another glorious hour, before a long day of regret and listlessness? Or do I get up, take my pill, feel terrible for half an hour then feel estupendo for the rest of the day?

That's the mental side of the decision. On the practical side, it helps to have my running stuff ready and waiting. Having to fish around in the dark at six in the morning, looking for an escaped sock, isn't conducive to getting out there. So the night before, everything is laid out over a chair next to the bed so that it stares back at me when I first open my eyes. It helps a little -- and at that time in the morning, you need all the help that's going.

This morning I left my watch at home and just jogged around my usual 3.5 mile early morning circuit. Black as pitch when I set off. Something I always notice at this time is the sound of the M4 in the distance. It's inaudible at any other time of day but this early, when nothing else stirs, it's alive. At a couple of points in the run, I can see sections of the illuminated ribbon in the distance. It doesn't intrude enough to spoil the run, but there's enough of it there to be a thought-provoking contrast to the tranquility of the lanes. The middle mile of the run is the best, through the local manorial estate. Now, even the sound of the motorway is gone. Here I can just make out the deer in the shadows of the great oaks, or faintly silhouetted against the pale grey lake.

This morning, floating past this divine scene, something unexpected and shocking happens: a single, loud gunshot, then pandemonium. Geese honking and flapping, and the plangent bleating of the deer, followed by the low drumming of their fleeing hooves. I don't know where it came from or what it signified. Just the bloody countryside doing its bloody job, I suppose.

Then back home for a slab of home-made bread and honey, and coffee. A hot shower and warm, clean clothes. It's here that the running pill starts to kick in properly, and as I stride off to the station, luxuriating in those first, fabulous waves of well-being and sheer glee, I marvel that I even considered not getting up to run.

Will I never learn?

Fri 17 Oct 2003

That final question resonated throughout Wednesday. After oversleeping and not running, the day became a kind of minefield, which I lurched across without a care, and from which I didn't emerge intact. Too much crap food and beer.

Yesterday was much better. I didn't wake up as early as I wanted to but I decided a run was worth getting the later train into London. I didn't feel great as I set off. After the excesses of the previous day, I felt listless and miserable. But again, for the final mile of the three and a half, I found myself almost bouncing along through a flock of open-mouthed schoolkids, with a smile on my face.

And something similar happened again today. I don't normally run on a Friday, but as I'd decided to work from home today it seemed too good a chance to miss. That first, dreadful mile. How horrible does that feel? It was quite a cold morning. Everyone I passed was wrapped up in overcoats and hats and gloves. And there I was, plodding stiffly past them in my underwear, pretending I was a normal, middle-aged person, with a mortgage and a vegetable plot, just like them. Have you ever had one of those anxiety dreams where you find yourself standing naked at a bus stop? Well that's me. Every morning. And it isn't a dream.

But even though it isn't a dream, I do eventually wake up, and it's the knowledge that I will wake up if only I hang on in there, that keeps me going. Somewhere between a half mile and a mile into the run, I realise I'm much warmer and looser than I was when I left home. More relaxed. Not exactly happy, but less wretched. The thin-lipped hatred I felt for everything, and for myself, just five or ten minutes earlier has started to dissolve.

As I get to the deer-park I'm feeling quite pleased with myself. I'm on the return leg now, and there isn't long to go before that toast and honey and banana and coffee and shower and warmth and energy are mine to enjoy. Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Sun 19 Oct 2003

Stopping to walk during a race is like committing mass murder, don't you think? You're a bit reluctant to do it for the first time, but once you've done it once you can't stop.

I was musing on this notion this morning, as I plodded around the Blenheim Palace 10K.

The Blenheim Palace 10K? No, I didn't know I was going to do it either. I got up around 8am today, planning on a leisurely Sunday breakfast followed by a gallop along the canal in mid-morning. I casually checked out today's events at the Runners World website, and noticed the Blenheim Palace race. What the hell? I got into my running gear, cleaned my teeth, left a note for the still comatose M, and was on my way.

About 45 minutes later I found myself in the ludicrously picturesque town of Woodstock. It looks like a film set. Antique shops, ancient inns, village green, that sort of caper. And it just happens to contain Blenheim Palace, the gaff of the Duke of Marlborough, but probably most famous as the birthplace of Winston Churchill.

Despite the white-knuckle journey to Woodstock, or rather, because of it, I got there in good time, and had no trouble scoring a late entry. Then it was back to the car for 30 minutes of shelter from the stiff, cold breeze.

Eventually we were summoned to the start to listen to someone very posh give a pep-talk over the public address system. The only bit I remember was the final instruction, that we should "have a jolly good run and bags of fun with it". I resolved to try to keep that sentiment at the forefront of my mind as I pottered around in a state of exhaustion. Because she was so posh, we all gave out a hearty chuckle and warmly applauded. She grinned like a Cheshire cat who'd just spotted her owner reaching for the Whiskas. Looked a bit like a cat too, embedded deep in her fur coat. Meanwhile, we shivered in our singlets. Twas ever thus, brothers.

And that was it. We were off. Just over a thousand of us.

This was a thoroughly pleasant and civilised venue for a race. I'd not been to Blenheim before, but the house and gardens are magnificent. The run took us across a bridge over the lake, and up a long, winding ascent through the splendour of the autumnal woods. We passed a sign saying "Warning! Pheasants!" Impressive that they had such concern for the birds' welfare that they should tip them off like this, but how many pheasants can read?

The entire race took place within the grounds, so there were few spectators. I did pass a ruddy-faced gent leaning on a shooting stick who waved his Sunday Telegraph at me, exhorting me to "Go for the kill!" But whom or what I should be assassinating wasn't at all clear to me. Which is where we came in, because it was here that I began to think about mass murder. I so very nearly ran the entire way, but halfway up the second hill I just had to have a quick breather.

Eventually we bowled up to the house itself where we descended to the starting point and back over the bridge. Mercifully we doubled-back before having to repeat the long climb, and that was it.

My time was poor -- I still haven't broken the hour mark for a 10K. Do I care? Increasingly not. The last mile of today's race was tough, but in general we all had a jolly good run, and bags of fun with it.

Tues 21 Oct 2003

Has it ever occurred to you how amazing it is that we all look different? You'd think there would have to be a limit to the number of permutations possible, given the raw material available: pair of eyes, ears, a nose, a mouth, hair colour/style, skin colour/complexion type. But no, the plausible combinations seem endless. What's surprising is how few people look strange. You'd think that many of us would have to look pretty weird to ensure that the endless variety of human appearance is maintained. But that isn't the case: apart from "tragic boffin" Dr David Kelly, who has a replica on every train I've ever travelled on, virtually every new face I see, and there must be hundreds each day, seems rational and unsurprising.

That said, the assumption is that we are unique, but how can we be sure? The possibility must be that somewhere in the world there is someone who looks just like us -- an unsettling but not totally unrealistic idea. In some ways, let's face it, it would be pretty handy if there were. Think how much money we'd save on passport photos for instance. We always end up with redundant ones, whose only purpose seems to be to provoke social difficulties when they are discovered between the pages of borrowed books, years later.

I was thinking this yesterday in the queue for lunch at the canteen of [a world-famous broadcasting organisation], when I found myself standing behind someone who looked identical to a woman I worked with in another job. The likeness was extraordinary. Eventually, I said to her: "Excuse me, I'm sorry, but you're the spitting image of someone I used to know". She replied: "Oh hello Andy, haven't seen you in ages".

Which blew my theory a bit.

It was great to see her again. When we first worked together, she was a temp, a data-entry clerk. Like most dreamy twenty-somethings, she said she wanted to get into television. To make programmes, no less. Not just any programmes; they had to be history programmes. Yeah right, I thought at the time.

"So, what are you doing here?" I asked her yesterday.

"Oh, I've just finished producing a series of history documentaries."

[awe-struck silence]

"Wow, you did it! That's fantastic! You must be really happy."

She sighed deeply. "Never been more miserable", she said. And meant it.

Which gave me much to think about. First the good news, that apparently we really can achieve our goals, no matter how outlandish they may seem. But second, the bad news: it doesn't necessarily satisfy us, or guarantee happiness.

The morning was frozen. Literally. The front garden white; the grass brittle, and crunchy with frost. It was still dark at 6:30, but there was something bizarrely inviting about the swirling cloud of freezing mist. The fog seemed sort of clammy - but it was cold clammy rather than hot clammy. Which doesn't make much sense, but what does at that time in the morning?

I even wore my Tyvek jacket -- its first outing of the season. I bought this remarkable garment for five dollars at the Chicago marathon expo, a year ago last weekend. It's made of that papery material, and designed to be disposable. The idea was that I'd wear it for a couple of miles to keep out the freezing blasts coming in off Lake Michigan. Once I'd warmed up I'd chuck it in the gutter. But I liked it too much, and instead gave it to M to keep when I first passed her after 9 miles or so. And I've used it many times since. It's not exactly a warming jacket, but windproof enough to make a real difference on cold days.

The conditions made the run a bit laboured, but still enjoyable. There's something kind of surreal about running in weather like this, and I'm seriously beginning to think I prefer it. There were a couple of great moments in the park. As I turned down the gravel path that runs along by the lake I became aware of a sudden rushing, rustling sound. It took a few moments to work out what this was, as it was still fairly dark, but eventually I realised there were a few dozen deer, who'd heard my footsteps, and begun to scatter in panic. The sound was them moving at speed through the deep layer of fallen autumnal leaves.

Then a few minutes later I came across a sight that belonged in National Geographic magazine, or one of those coffee-table books that the critics always describe as containing "sumptuous photography". A deer with a large crown of antlers, standing motionless on a mound, silhouetted by the lake. The killer touch was the sun rising through the mist, as it rolled towards me across the water.

(Note: Later, I realised that the "deer with a large crown of antlers" may have been a large dog on its way home from a fancy dress party. In that light, quite frankly, I couldn't be certain.)

Wed 22 Oct 2003

Not quite so cold this morning, just a minefield of invisible puddles instead, and a steady drizzle.

I'm beginning to hate myself for giving early morning running such a glowing review last week. I now feel unable to say "Couldn't be bothered this morning". It almost happened today. Not because the bed was too warm, but because I have a couple of minor aches that I don't want to exacerbate. One is a badly bruised toe, the other an aching back. The former happened when I stubbed my toe in the dark yesterday morning, walking into the vacuum cleaner that M had thoughtfully left in the middle of the landing before she came to bed. I later complained about this, but she explained that it was my fault that she had to leave it there. She is right about everything, so I have to accept that she is right about this too, despite the magnet-like distorting pull of my natural justice instinct. Not only that, but the cry of pain I issued on meeting this domestic appliance was loud enough to wake her, so I also got blamed for making too much noise when I get up early. Being a man is damn hard sometimes.

I was out at 6:10 this morning, a bit earlier than usual. There are a couple of major deadlines looming at work, and I thought it advisable to get the earlier train so that I have yet more time available for idle panic. It was even darker than usual. It's a funny thing, but sometimes when I'm out early it feels like morning, and sometimes it feels like night. Today felt very much like it was still last night.

In my 3.5 miles today I passed three people, and they all said "good morning". That's a pretty good hit rate. I don't know if they're being genuinely friendly, or if they've decided that an outward display of geniality gives them their best chance of survival in case I launch an unprovoked, murderous assault.

Fri 24 Oct 2003

I always enjoy planning things; such a good substitute for the inconvenience of action. Yesterday I discovered that the organisers of the Reading half marathon have opened the doors to next year's race (March 7) and this knowledge launched me into a fog of research that lasted most of the evening.

As readers of the forum will know, I'm considering a marathon in Poland in the spring. April 25. When it comes to planning, this destination now becomes my starting point, from which I have to reverse-engineer my life. Now that I've publicly mentioned the possibility of the race, the chances of making it there have risen. Wroclaw has become a firm date, if a sort of... provisional firm date. This depends on M managing to get time off, which is not a safe assumption. Trying to arrange a holiday at her place involves a process not unlike completing a tax return. The third assumption is that I'll try the Hal Higdon Intermediate I training program again (as I'd started to for my abortive assault on Dublin). If all of these hold true, this allows me to make a list of dates with attendant mileage and possible races. And that's what I've started to do.

The first observation is that the 18-week program starts on... on Christmas Eve. I, er, I see. In fact, it matters little. Pretty good even, as the first week or two of the schedule are pretty laid-back, and I'll probably be off work then, so time shouldn't be a problem.

It all works suspiciously well, actually. The days that demand 12, 13 or 14 miles runs can be matched quite neatly with half marathon races I'd quite like to do. One of them, the Bath half, I've already entered. 2004 may be the year finally to do the Bramley 20. It falls at just about the right time in the schedule (Feb 29).

I had toyed with the idea of entering London again next year, but have decided against it. The main reason is the feeling that, for me, marathons must, by definition, be few and far between. And if I'm likely to be doing only one or two per year, it seems a shame to duplicate any. There are too many interesting places and events to experience. I also want to move away from the mega-races. It was great to do the London marathon and the Great North Run, but my appetite for mass-participation races has been satisfied for the time being. I may not even do Reading next year, even though it's my local half. This isn't a snooty thing. I'm not one of those who decry large races just because there are a lot of charity runners. As the archetypal plodder, I can hardly complain about slow runners or people who stop to walk. I just feel as though I've been there, done it, read the book, got the T-shirt, watched the video (yes! I really have!), and I want to explore something else for a while.

The Poland idea has been brewing for a while, and even if the spring race doesn't happen, we will aim to have a holiday there before long.

Something I've not talked about much is that I've not been running with a watch for a couple of weeks now. At first it seemed to make no obvious difference, but now I'm beginning to appreciate the added sense of liberation it offers. Much as I'd hoped, this has opened up a new seam for me to explore. The most immediate benefit is that it reduces some of the stress of running. Just at the moment I don't much care if I'm running quickly or slowly. Watchlessness has stripped away a layer of interference. It's removed a barrier somewhere, and I feel much closer to the activity of running than I did before, when communication with what I'm doing was conducted via the gadget on my wrist; when the success or failure of a run was determined largely by the number of seconds that had vanished between the starting and finishing point. It's no way to understand running.

I need to qualify this, as it will raise a few athletic eyebrows. Using a watch has irreplaceable benefits if you belong to a particular category. If you're a competitive runner who measures progress by time and position, a watch is essential. As it is at the other end of the evolutionary scale, when you're starting out, trying to run for a minute or two between five minute walks. And when preparing for a race, wherever you are on the athletic spectrum, it's hard to do without a watch to gauge your preparedness, and to calculate what sort of pace will get you to your goal (even if your goal is just to finish). And if you put a cake in the oven and go for a run, well...

But many of us wear a watch just because it goes with the territory, and as a result, we exist in a permanent state of self-imposed pressure and anxiety. I can't speak for others, but for me I realised it was doing more damage than good. Does it really matter that today I might have run 10:30 miles whereas yesterday they were 10:10 but last weekend they were 10:40...? No, it doesn't matter at all.

I will wear a watch again, of course. Perhaps even tomorrow, when I hope to do a longish run. But for bread-and-butter midweek runs, there's no compelling reason to use one, and plenty of things to be gained from leaving the thing at home. This is a subject I'll come back to, as it's set off a few, probably rather dangerous, ideas.

Another good run this morning -- the usual 3.5 miles. Out at 6:15 or so; very cold again. I'm beginning to feel a bit fitter again, so I'll be extending some of the morning runs again soon.

Mon 27 Oct 2003

I didn't do a longish weekend run after all, just the usual 3.5 miler on Saturday before heading off to Loftus Road. Unfortunately I was laid low by a sudden and mysterious attack of drunkenness after the game, which left me... reluctant to run for ten furious miles along the hedgerows of West Berkshire yesterday morning. Oh well. So be it.

Monday is my usual rest day, though perhaps I should have got up and ran, as I missed a long run yesterday. But I didn't.

Tomorrow morning I will run, but I can't be sure about Wednesday yet, as there's another trip to Mecca tomorrow evening to see QPR take on Manchester City in the Carling Cup. As I discovered on Saturday, such a journey contains many hidden and unpredictable perils.

Wish me luck.

Wed 29 Oct 2003

It must be another sign of growing old (were more proof needed). For my birthday this year, I asked not for the new Led Zeppelin DVD, but... a breadmaker.

And I've been using this item regularly since June. In the way of most men, I spent a few hours fiddling with it, trying to persuade it to work, before, in a moment of desperation, deciding to read the instructions. Here I discovered that bread has all sorts of undesirable, invisible ingredients: sugar, salt, milk powder, vitamin C, butter... Surely all these items weren't really necessary? I decided to leave out the sugar, salt and milk powder, and added a lump of margarine instead of the butter. I produced a few perfectly edible loaves with this method, but decided eventually that something wasn't quite right. The consistency was a bit heavy. I decided to add half the amount of sugar recommended. Better. Next time I even included a pinch of salt, which brought about further improvement. Then I swapped the margarine for butter. And eventually I gave in and bought some milk powder to add to the mix. This was much more like it. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I went the whole hog, and actually made a loaf of bread with ALL the specified ingredients and in the recommended quantities. And the result? Wow! Perfection.

My bread-machine experience is a kind of metaphor for my running, I reckon. I'm told how to do something but I think, no, that doesn't sound quite right. I'll do it this way instead. Do I really need to wear shoes like that? How important are those technical T-shirts? Should I really join a running club? Surely it can't be that bad an idea to run three half marathons in three weeks? What's the point of keeping a log? Is it really necessary to stretch after a run? And so on.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I'm beginning to realise, and not without a certain amount of alarm, that these rules and recommendations may actually have some legitimacy.

What brought this on? Two things in particular: one is the growing sense that I really should consider joining a running club, or at least have a go at running with a group. There is a small local running club who run for 5 miles on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and a very much larger club in Reading (the Reading Road Runners) who meet almost every day of the week. The latter have a huge membership and a heap of resources, but I'm drawn towards the intimacy of the smaller outfit. Another possibility is the Serpentine Runners, who run in Hyde Park, in central London, on Wednesday evenings. I've always liked the idea of joining the Serpies, and their website is the best in the business. There's something appealing about the thought of finishing work, and popping along to Hyde Park for a four or a seven mile run (they offer both) with a large bunch of people. Motivation isn't normally a great problem for me, but the burgeoning winter may regard that as a challenge. A running group can only help.

Dare I do it?

The second reason for bringing this up is the relearning of the alcohol lesson. I had only three very small pints of Guinness before last night's match, but it was enough to ensure that the world that met me early this morning had a strangely remote feel to it. A sheet of very fine gauze separated me from reality, and my ears were half-filled with a quiet, distant hiss. It wasn't even too unpleasant, but was just sufficient to stop me leaving my bed and running. I didn't even feel bad about it.

The match left me feeling sad. This isn't a common football emotion. After losing 3-0 at home (albeit to a team two divisions higher than us), I'd have expected to feel angry or frustrated. But the team played pretty well, and wanted so much to win. But they just weren't good enough. I feel sorry for the players, I feel sorry for the club, and I feel sorry for the supporters - myself especially.

The football universe is in turmoil. It's become a gaudy, sterile money monster, behaving badly because it knows its time is almost up. I've never liked Chelsea especially, but the club had self-respect once. Now it is reduced to the role of a prostitute, its sole raison d'etre being the gratification of wealthy foreign criminals. Their fans have become bloated lice, or spores of some terminal venereal disease. Even the Chelsea fans I know, and like, have taken on a kind of loathsome leer when football is discussed now.

At the other end of the spectrum, the smaller clubs have just become an inconvenience to this oligarchy; the shabby cousins whose bedraggledness is not a spur for a redistribution of the game's riches, as you might expect in a civilised community, but an embarrassment and a gross inconvenience. Something to turn away from, and walk by on the other side. I always suspected this, but the anodyne afternoon at the Newcastle-Bolton match a few weeks ago really brought it home to me. And last night I just knew the game was up.

Which is no reflection at all on the Manchester City, a long-suffering football club whose own humiliating incarceration in the Nationwide has only fairly recently ended. But something about the match knocked the stuffing out of me.

No doubt I'll have perked up tomorrow, eh?

Let's change the subject. What have the Tories ever done for me? Quite a lot actually. I've made a few quid on their leadership struggles over the past few years, and I'm hoping to continue the run of luck today, with a bet on Iain Duncan-Smith losing his vote of confidence. The odds were very short (1/16), but it's a total certainty, and I've put a horribly large sum on it. When I get home (I'm writing this on the train), I'll know whether I've earned enough to pay for a couple of good meals out, or (gulp) whether I'll be cancelling our holiday in Cuba next year.

And if you're an Ebay enthusiast, you may shortly see an ad for a breadmaker. One careless owner...

[Phew...]

Fri 31 Oct 2003

How did I manage to miscalculate my winnings so badly? It must have some kind of temporary mental paralysis. The long and the short is that I didn't "earn enough to pay for a couple of good meals out", but I did accrue enough to finance a couple of evenings in the pub, the first of which I cashed in this evening.

So.

So the unfortunate Iain Duncan-Smith is no more. Is it just me, or did he remind you of a character from Wind In The Willows? I could never watch him without imagining him gnawing at a damp tree-root. At the time of writing it seems that Michael Howard is to emerge from the shadows to have a go for a while. It's a bit like a penalty shoot-out when it's 8-8:
"Who should take the next kick, Boss?"
"Erm, well who's left? Crikey..."

British domestic politics is one of the best spectator sports around, so it seems a great shame that the Tories are threatening to deprive us of a leadership election. I'd come to look forward to this biannual tournament. General elections are even better. Just like the World Cup, but a bit more entertaining.

Today I worked from home, so was able to pop out at lunchtime for a five mile run along the canal. It should have been a great one; the sun was shining, the air clean and autumnal. But as I've often found, the pleasure I get from a run is usually in inverse proportion to my expectations. It wasn't exactly a bad run, but I struggled to get a rhythm going, and seemed to lose all energy between 3 and 4 miles.

I've had a couple of emails from a Polish chap called Adam Kaminski regarding the Wroclaw marathon in April. I'm not committing myself to anything at this stage but I do like the idea of this race. There are loads of interesting races that weekend. They include: Lochaber (Scotland), Hamburg, Stratford-upon-Avon, Madrid, Padua, plus some smaller ones in Spain and France, and other exotic ones that I wouldn't consider like Bali, Brisbane and Big Sur. But a lot to choose from.

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