Mon 4 Oct 2004

I've been rediscovering what it is to run in the dark. To be out in the pitch black, a chill in the air, is to meet yourself coming the other way. You can take the opportunity of a little reconciliation, some patching up, the chance to celebrate yourself; or you can fall into the trap of pining for those long summer evenings.

It's a personal thing. I really can't lecture others on what their preferences should be. But for me, somehow those long, warm jaunts are just too easy. Too unchallenging. The pleasure is shallow and it doesn't endure. Run in the dark, I say. Early morning or evening. Early delivers more of a shock to the system. It's a form of defibrillation. Running early on a summer morning can be a wonderful thing, but it doesn't have quite the energising impact of getting out there when the world is cold and damp and uninviting.

Not that it's cold yet. Just a little fresh. But gloriously dark and intimate. Yeah, that's the word. Intimate. The darkness turns running from a simple physical activity to something sensual and altogether more cerebral.

This evening's run was my third in three days. It's been only a week or two since I was last getting out regularly, but somehow it seems longer. It's all changed so quickly. Those runs of a couple of weeks ago belonged to an earlier season. Then it was summer. Now it's dark and cool and magical again.

And how good it feels to be able to post an entry from home on a Monday night. First time in months.

Tues 5 Oct 2004

I just read Nigel Platt's entry in his training forum, "Forty – 05.10.2004" and have decided that I can suspend my flippancy for 24 hours.

Wed 6 Oct 2004

Five runs in five days. All gentle ones (do I know any other way?) but until this morning, all good ones too. But today the white flag came out. My body was talking to me, and I'd better listen, it said.

Not only did I listen, but we had quite a robust discussion on a wide range of topics.

Yesterday morning I was up at 5:10 a.m., and out before half past. The earliest ever. This morning, my eyes opened ten minutes earlier. I lay there for a minute or two, gazing at those luminous numbers. Just long enough to ask the difficult questions (Why, when you've not had a full night's sleep for days, are you considering getting up and running four miles?), but not long enough to be persuaded that the answer (Because I'm a fool) wasn't quite good enough.

It's still not properly cold. Not January Antarctic cold. But for the first time in many months, the world was at least properly cool. Mild frost sort of cool.

I got dressed in the kitchen, listening to the report of the Edwards-Cheney Vice Presidential debate on the radio. It hadn't gone quite as well as we'd hoped. And presumed. Just 27 days left to save the world from the madness of King George.

Locking the door behind me, I noticed the clock. 5.15 a.m.

I've become the sort of person that my mother used to warn me about. I thought this as I loped down the road in my red shorts, luminescent blue tee-shirt and bright yellow Hal Higdon running cap. Always a bit unusual, now a fully fledged weirdo.

Nearly four miles, and I saw no one. Just the headlights of the postman's van on the other side of the laurel hedge near Thatcher's Farm.

Plenty to think about though. Nigel Platt's heart-breaking message on the forum. I tried replying to it several times, but nowhere I stepped was solid enough to rely on, so I kept drawing back. I thought how small my world really is. How small. And how rarely I'm forced to go places I don't ask to go. How little I know, how little I've seen.

The realisation may have been depressing, but chugging along beneath the stars, the only inhabitant of the planet, it was soon balanced by a renewed sense of wonder and encouragement about running: the great number of friends it's brought me, the appetite, the doors it's opened to areas I never knew about.

This was a multicoloured run. Deeply sombre in places, spirited in others. And though an accumulating fatigue finally forced two brief walking breaks on me, I was relieved to have got out there this morning.

Imagine a session with a psychiatrist, then going off to a party. To run at 5:30 on a cool, pitch-black morning in the English countryside is a bit like that. Yes, you're the shrink as well as the patient, and yes, the party is yours and you're the only guest. But life is what you decide it's going to be, isn't that right? I decided it would be a great party. And for the most part, it was. Yes, the catering was disappointing. But the conversation was fantastic. As for the music, well it was there if you were able to hear it.

He who hears not the music, thinks the dancer mad.

I hear the music. At 5:15 a.m., I hear it loud and strong.

Thurs 7 Oct 2004

Chavs. The word is everywhere. In southern England anyway.

Here's a picture of some, in case you're not sure what it means. Chavs of the Month, Speptember 2004

These must be extreme chavs, as this picture won the "chav of the month" competition for September. The Scots apparently prefer to call them "neds", which is said to stand for “non-educated delinquents”. According to the World Wide Words website, a chav is a member of “the burgeoning peasant underclass”. It goes on: "The subjects of these derogatory descriptions are said to be set apart by ignorance, fecklessness, mindless violence and bad taste."

The etymology is noble, incidentally. From chavi, Old Romany for boy.

Anyway, why am I talking about them? Well, I read somewhere that their habitat is characterised by the existence of cheapie supermarkets like Aldi and Lidl and Netto. I suppose I should normally be snootily glad that there isn't an Aldi closer than Swindon. But just occasionally it can be a nuisance. Like today.

Today was the release date of the latest tranche of running gear at Aldi. It's the Christmas Day of the running world. They may have a reputation (fairly or not) for selling cheap rubbish in the main, but their running stuff is good quality and stupidly cheap. Long-sleeved Coolmax tops for Ł6.99, windproof running jackets for Ł9.99, a Camelbak-type hydration rucksack for Ł7.99, and so on. Ooooh, the bargains.

As may be clear from my triumphal tone, I did manage to get to one. It's one of the few advantages with working in the heart of Chavsville. Over in Dartford, we are surrounded by emporia to serve their every need, including a massive Aldi in nearby Swanley. And so an early lunch-break was spent ferreting in the Aldi display bins for running apparel bargains.

So it all worked out quite well. After yesterday, it was time for a rest, and what better way to spend a rest day than this?

Fri 8 Oct 2004

Another 5:30 run, this time much stronger after yesterday's rest day. It was also cool enough to try out my new, cheapie long-sleeved Aldi top and running jacket. Yes, they really work.

Sat 9 Oct 2004

It's arrived. Chronicles, the first volume of Bob Dylan's autobiography - a book that no one seemed to know was even in the pipeline until the book appeared in the shops on Tuesday.

I blame and thank Dylan for most directions my life took. Blame for the bad decisions, thanks for the good ones.

I took this book out of the Amazon packaging and gazed at the cover for a while. Eventually I got to the first page, and started reading the first line. Leeds. The 6th word in Dylan's autobiography is Leeds. I had to close the book at that point and think about this. It's as far as I've got so far. 6 words.

I've enjoyed a pleasant, orderly day, despite the perplexing first half line of Dylan's book. A visit from the in-laws, an afternoon watching England beat Wales, and a good run this evening. That's 7 runs in 8 days. Things are getting back on track.

Getting back on track? Have they ever really been on track? Anyway, I'm making a special effort this time. No alcohol for a week now, and a different attitude towards food. I'm not kidding myself that I'm on another diet. I'm taking a new approach. Avoiding booze is the only hardline measure. I've decided to take a holistic approach. Giving myself very moderate targets for weight loss. But thinking of it as a long-term project. Small but steady decrements. Avoiding chocolate and alcohol and peanuts and crisps: my four terrible weaknesses, but apart from that, not getting too obsessive about food. The thing about the terrible four is that I don't care too much about not consuming them, but if I do, I want more of them.

So today I've been eating home-made bread, and enjoying a decent spag bol for lunch. The plan is that running will take care of the rest. And so far, it's working. This week my average weight is two pounds less than the average for last week.

I managed to get out for my run just before it got dark this evening. After a week of pitch-black plods, I needed some daylight to see what it was I'd been running past these last few days. One of the village pubs has closed, I see. The house by the old fire station has an impressive vine, heavy with yellowy, muscat-looking grapes. The field opposite has a dozen pleased-with-themselves racehorses. I miss all these things in the dark. But I wouldn't pass up the chance of running early in the morning, when I can see nothing. It's the very invisibility of the world that's part of the appeal. The knowledge that it's all there, somewhere, behind the curtain of night, is tantalising.

Talking of which, I'm off to bed with Bob Dylan. I have to find out what comes after Leeds.

I'll keep you posted.

Mon 11 Oct 2004

A flying visit, as I won't be around for a few days.

Another good 3.5 miles this evening in the cold and dark. Not fast, but it felt good to be out, shedding the baggage of work.

I've entered a 10 mile race next Sunday - the Cabbage Patch 10, and have to decide this week whether I'm up to it.

Sat 16 Oct 2004

Written before the critical 3pm watershed:

In much the same way that soldiers scratch their last will and testament on the back of an envelope before going into battle, I thought I'd better write this before the QPR match. My good fortune must begin crumbling soon, with the West Ham clash an ideal starting point.

So I find myself in an internet café on Shepherds Bush Green, gleaming with smug pleasure at my morning's work.

Up early to drive to Edgware to collect a new laptop. You won't have heard of Tiptop Laptops, but I've decided to give them a chance after grave customer service disappointments with Dell and Toshiba in recent times.

It's probably a boy thing, but new electronic gadgetry sends waves of delight through me. I'll enjoy its top-of-the-rangery while it lasts. I'll give it four weeks at the most. By then, helpful work colleagues will have made me aware that newer machines have appeared on the scene with faster-beating hearts as standard; bigger screens, lower weight; improved battery life, faster DVD speeds - you name it. And so the first twitchings of desire for the new generation will begin. But just for a while, let me enjoy it.

So I leave Edgware with this bundle of short-lived joy, and drive urgently to the QPR ground, to keep an appointment with the club's video-meister, Billy Rice. He's putting together a DVD to commemorate the club's one and only League Cup triumph, in 1967. I was at the game, 9 years old, and he'd asked me to be interviewed for the DVD. How nice to be ushered through the clubs innards, then asked to rake over these 37-year-old memories.

I didn't think I'd have much to say, given the passage of time. But rather typically for me (according to M), once I'd opened my mouth, that was it. Thirty minutes later, a drawer labelled 19670304 lay empty and upside-down in the far corner of my brain, and I became silent once again.

Then a recuperative wander round Books Etc, two large mugs of potent coffee, and these notes.

Later: One-nil to the Super'oops, One nil...

We won. And no one had nicked my car with the laptop in the boot. Hurrah!

Sun 17 Oct 2004 - The Cabbage Patch 10

The smug weekend continues. No PB was going spare today, but the run went better than expected, considering that my main preparation had been to reread Chapter 19 of Russell Taylor's Looniness of the Long Distance Runner - the one that deals with his experience of this race.

Perhaps that's being uncharitable to my feet, who've been manfully slapping the pavements of Dartford all week. All told, it's been a pretty good running week, followed by a corker of a weekend.

Three good midweek outings of around 5 miles apiece. I've been staying in a different hotel from usual. The location of this new one, perched as it is on the brink of Europe's biggest and busiest roundabout, hadn't offered the runner much hope at first, but it turned out to be better than feared. I discovered the gap in the wall, the entrance to the secret garden, and all was well.

People sometimes email me, asking for advice. From now on, I'm going to tell them to get lost.

It's what I did three times last week. It was dark and raining lightly. I ventured round the back of the hotel, hoping to avoid the chaos and carnage-in-waiting of the roundabout, and found a small alley leading to a housing estate. I plodded up the hill and onwards, through a playground, across a shopping precinct and down a hill past the fish and chip shop, outside which a gang of Dartford's finest chav specimens had gathered to sneer and swear and spit as I passed.

Whatever happened to the young proletarians of yesteryear? There was apparently some golden age, which sadly I managed to miss, when these young people would have expressed their disdain by wearing thin moustaches and jaunty-angled trilbies, and even these would have been tapped deferentially at each passing stranger. The real rebels may have spat their chewed tobacco on the floor of the bus back from Hammersmith Palais on a Saturday night, but we are told it didn't get much worse than that. No longer. Now they guzzle their alcopops, belch loudly and call me a "farkin' twat".

Another half mile, another dozen roadworths of sixties council housing, most now owned privately I'd think, before realising that I was nowhere to be found. Where had I gone? I was here a minute ago. Perhaps I was gone forever. The ghostly Dartford plodder, trudging through eternity. But then I decided it didn't matter much. I was sure to turn up eventually. And eventually, I did.

This happened three nights in a row, and each time it worked out just fine. I slipped into one of Dartford's dark folds each time, but I never gave up hope. The distant roar of the roundabout kept me reasonably well anchored to the hotel. (It isn't really the biggest and busiest in Europe, incidentally. I said that to try to make my lodgings seem more exotic and more exciting than perhaps they really were.)

The other good news of the week is that my everything-except-booze-chocolate-crisps-peanuts-and-chips diet is proving surprisingly effective. I was 9 pounds less... substantial this morning than I was 2 weeks ago. Which interestingly, wasn't quite the point. The New Way Of Thinking was to stop being short-termist. Just lose a steady 1.5 pounds a week for a couple of months by suspending beer and those other things, but not really cutting back too much on anything else. So I've been scoffing bread and potatoes and pasta like that gleeful man who (I bet) inhabits the fretful dreams of Atkins dieters. But the result has been more dramatic than expected. I'm sticking to my original target, however, which aims to see me shed 20 pounds by the new year, but in small steps. I'm already ahead of target, but I suspect this will even itself out gloomily soon.

This morning didn't get off to a great start. Waking at 3 a.m. on a race day is rarely a positive event. I don't think I got back to sleep again before the alarm assailed me at 7. I put it down to the caffeine and excitement of yesterday.

Unexpected motorway exit closures made the drive to Twickenham rather gripping, but I found an alternative route to get me to the Cabbage Patch pub on time, where I made my way to the makeshift starting pen, normally known as Church Street.

As I arrived, an officious lady with a clipboard said sharply: "Speedy Kenyans at the front please". I must have lingered fractionally longer than convention permitted, because she sort of peered at me over her glasses and asked: "Are you a speedy Kenyan?" The question threw me rather. It wasn't one I'd been asked to tackle before, so I'd not had the chance to prepare an answer. I had to play for time. "Not entirely", was my eventual, rather cryptic reply. It wasn't what she wanted to hear. What a look she gave me. I'd rather she'd stabbed me with her silver propelling pencil. It would have felt the same, and at least I'd have been able to flaunt the scar at work tomorrow. The required effect was achieved, and I moved quickly on towards the back of the crowd.

As I threaded my way to the back, no doubt with that I-know-my place look on my face, I checked out shoes and socks, as usual. I don't know why I do this. I suppose I'm just curious about what brands people wear. I want to know if they're a Thorlos chap like me, or a Falke fellow. It struck me, as the lens of my vision moved through this forest of lower limbs, that someone should make a documentary film about a race. I can just see it now. Channel 4, 9pm. So much drama, humour, absurdity on show, and so visual. Any film-makers out there who fancy the challenge? Get in touch.

I got to the back of the thousand or so runners and decided to shelter from the chill in the doorway of a shop that seemed to be selling black magic aids. Here I met up with the personable Dave Thompson for the first time. Dave is an occasional email correspondent, and had tried to persuade me to take his place in the race by feigning injury. That's my theory. We ran together for a mile or so, chatting about Bob Dylan and Queens Park Rangers. Most agreeable. But then I think I frightened him off by saying that he shouldn't feel obliged to stick with me if he wanted to speed up. I think he thought I was asking him to go away, because at that, he just shot off into the distance. Tragically, that was the end of my Dylan and football natterings for the day.

The race was almost pleasant, most of it taking place on leafy backstreets full of posh-looking spectators, or along the towpath of the Thames. This brought back quite unexpected memories of my first weeks of running, 3 years ago. It hadn't registered with me when I entered the race, but it was along this towpath that I first trotted self-consciously on those cool, dark evenings in 2001 when I was striving to run for more than 2 minutes without puking. I've been writing about it recently.

As always, I was there to enjoy the occasion, and to celebrate my own ability to run for ten miles, rather than to break records. Next year will see my assault on the very modest PBs set in my first year of running, and ignored ever since. This year I'm concentrating on improving midriff aerodynamics.

Races are rarely as bad as I fear they will be, and this was no exception, even though it was the longest distance I'd run since the Copenhagen Marathon on 16th May. Exactly five months ago. Nigel Platt wrote some interesting stuff on the forum recently about the pleasures of the ten mile distance. I tend to agree with his view that 10K races can be a bit short and frantic, while half marathons sometimes seem too much of a commitment. A ten miler sits between the two rather well. Long enough to impress your colleagues at work and the incredulous blokes in the pub (and let's face it, that's what it's all about), but short enough not to have to undergo special training. Satisfyingly double-figured.

Like me, perhaps. As I plodded along the grey Thames towards Richmond Bridge, I passed a little girl who shrieked "Oh Mummy! Look at that fat man!" Her mortified mother hissed: "Sabrina! You mustn't say things like that!"

Good for Sabrina, I say. Tell it like it is.

Kingston appeared, then faded again, leaving little impression on me. I have only two vicarious links to the place. I went to school with a boy called Antelope who lived here. (This wasn't his real name.) And when I languished in the wine trade, I had a dictatorial area manager who retreated to these parts when each Stalinist day had run its bloody course.

Another stretch of river path, another collection of well-to-do ladies in head scarves and twin-sets, and chaps in barbour jackets, eyes bulging from the first fiery Bloody Mary of the morning. We all grinned at each other like half-wits and exchanged polite grunts as we passed. How very civilised a race place.

My plan was to stick to a pace of around 10:30, and I pretty much managed it, with no walk breaks. The worst thing was the final mile. Reaching the 9 Mile marker, I looked at my watch and was astonished to see that I had a full 11 minutes left to get a PB. Fantastic. But 9 minutes later, with the finish line nowhere to be seen, I knew something was wrong. It seems that some jolly local had moved the marker, making that final 'mile' 1.4 miles. I didn't get the PB.

As I crossed the line, evidently looking slightly the worse for wear, I heard some grumpy old bat in a Serpentine Runners vest say "Well if he trained properly, he wouldn't feel like that". Rather unnecessary, I thought.

Also at the finish was Dave Thompson, sportingly clapping the slowbies over the line. He'd not run more than 7½ miles before, and had been a bit nervous about the step up to ten. But today he learned that he is a much better runner than he thought, managing something like 1:22 - a great effort.

Would I do the race again? Yes, I think so. Next year, of course, I intend doing the Dublin Marathon once more. The "of course" and the "once more" relate not to the act of doing the Dublin Marathon, which I've not hitherto managed, but to the intention, the broadcasting of which, on my own personal planet at least, has become an eagerly-awaited annual event in its own right. Er, where was I?, Right yes, if I do it, it will probably be the week after the Cabbage Patch, so it could... fit in well. But that's enough speculative fluff for one paragraph.

A reasonable day's work then, and an unexpected bonus: if I lump Sabrina and Serpie Bat in with the Dartford Chavs, I reckon that was easily an 'abuse PB' for the week.

Hurrah!

Fri 22 Oct 2004 - Dartford

A day off after a race is mandatory. Two days is a bit naughty, but I'll let it pass for anything over a 10K. But three days? What d'you take me for, Boy? EH? EH?

This is what I said to myself yesterday evening, after getting back to my Dartford hotel. Suitably chastised, I dutifully detogged, changed mode, retogged and decamped.

It was a new route. Inspired by my discovery that last week's hotel had a secret escape hatch into the local community, I tried the same thing with the Hilton. I made it through the wire before the alarm was raised, and was away. Dark, raining lightly, the first mile was almost countrified. Then it was back to reality with a bang as I hit part of the high street. Then a long plod past nondescript shops and takeaway emporia till I reached Dartford's outer limits. Left at the roundabout, left at another shortly after, then cutting through the business park, back to the hotel. The two roundabout are known locally by their traditional old romantic names: McDonalds Corner and Burger King Junction.

The run was bang on 4 miles, and it knackered me. Why? Well the cynic will say that I took too much time off after Sunday. But I think it was my shoes. By mistake, I'd packed an old pair - the ones I used for the London Marathon. These old things have lost their bounce, and it was always going to be a struggle. This morning I called in at the gym instead, and borrowed some bounce from the treadmill.

It isn't the same, but anything that draws sweat has to be welcomed.

Mon 25 Oct 2004 - Dartford

One of those good weekends unspoiled by obligations of any kind, apart from a faint plan to amble along to the pub to watch yesterday's big match. Nothing to do but fiddle about with my new laptop and grin to myself. The nearest I got to work was a bit of leisurely cooking and some bread-making.

But let's get the running bit out of the way before the serious business starts. I'd sort of pencilled in a longish one for Sunday, but just in time, I realised it might appear disrespectful to anyone preparing to run a marathon. Instead, I went out for a couple of short 'uns (3.5 miles).

The first one, just after 5pm on Saturday, was needed to wash away the brief disappointment of the news from Molineaux, and the second, mid-afternoon on Sunday, cleared my head for the Manchester United v Arsenal match.

I don't know why I fall for the Premiership hype time and again. It was a tedious, grumpy encounter full of languid, petulant foreigners, and pronounced upon by raspy commentators desperately trying to talk it up and shoehorn sponsors' names into their descriptions - the sort of experience that makes me grateful that I can watch proper competitive football every fortnight. That said, I have to hope we get promoted to this farcical Premiership, because just one season up there (which is all we would last, I suspect) would pay off our Ł10m debts and still leave enough to resurrect the youth academy and subsidise the free ketchup sachets once more. All the excitement of the Old Trafford event happened in the players' tunnel, away from the TV cameras, after the final whistle, where a variety of high velocity foodstuffs were distributed among the players and management, it seems.

But for those of us who had to settle for the bit on the pitch, watching this event was tough. The hype outweighed the actualité by about half a million tons.

My watery consolation was the sanctimonious pleasure I got from sitting in the pub soaking up orange juice while all around me slurred their way into hangover hell.

Fri 29 Oct 2004 - Dartford

It's been a good running week. Today's a rest day - the first for 7 days.

The light at the end of the Dartford Tunnel, so to speak, keeps flickering on then going off again. I started here in May, my boss assuring me that "It will only be for a couple of weeks". Blimey, that was nearly six months ago.

I don't mind it, in truth. I get to stop at a nice hotel with a gym and steam room and pool and all that caper. I sampled the steam room for the first time this week. I wasn't sure of the etiquette, and had to confide in a colleague whose discretion could be relied upon. Yes it's unisex, no you don't take all your clothes off, and no, it's not the done thing to fart or invite people to reveal their life story.

Phew.

It reminded me a bit of how I felt when I first arrived in New Delhi all those years ago. Middle of August. Sweating so much that every time I leant forward, my cigarette would be extinguished by the torrent running down my face.

Anyway, I sat around in this steam room, trying to identify the gender of other people through the clouds of steam and my glasses-less myopia. There was no clock, so instead I counted to 200 very slowly and deliberately. This is what being George W Bush must be like, I thought.

Talking of which, I've booked next Wednesday off work. I need to stay up and witness the terrible sport. If Bush loses, there is hope for the world. If Bush wins, we are finished. The danger is the number of Americans who think it's the other way round. I like most Americans I meet, but they revere their politicians too much. They still believe the bullshit that's pumped out. In Europe we learnt to laugh at our guys a long time ago. Derision helps keep them on their toes. We are their bosses. Never let them think it's the other way round. Over here, even if we support a particular party or politician, it's only because we decide they are less bad than the other guy. We still know they're lying to us most of the time. We tolerate them, but we never ever make the mistake of truly trusting them with our hopes. They are too valuable to give away to these people. I don't think most Americans have sussed this yet.

I need to start thinking about a spring marathon soon. There are a couple of possibilities but no decision has been made yet. I'm planning on a few half marathons: Reading and (probably) Silverstone in March. Possibly Wokingham in February. But the only definite one so far is the Almeria half in Andalucia, Southern Spain, on January 30, 2005.

So far there are four members of the Running Commentary community taking part in the Almeria event. As well as me, there's Nigel Platt and Andy Bishop ("Seafront Plodder") and Antonio, our Spanish correspondent who lives in the town, and will help to organise us. This looks like a good trip, and I hope that others reading this may be tempted to join us. It won't be hot exactly, but it will be a lot milder than the UK. The flights are dirt cheap - currently about Ł35 return** (including taxes) from London Stansted to Almeria on EasyJet. The race itself is very cheap to enter - 6 to 9 Euros, depending when and where you book. The route starts and finishes in the new athletics stadium, built for the Mediterranean Games to be staged in summer 2005. After the race, we plan to gorge ourselves on tapas, paella, cakes and decent Rioja. If you want to join us, mail me or call in at the forum and check out Antonio's posting in his training diary.

** But have just gone up another tenner

Sat 30 Oct 2004

A brief charge around the block on one of those sensational autumnal mornings. Cool, sunny and life-affirming.

The run was good, but life without a marathon to peer up at isn't the same. So I need one. The intention is already there, to run a spring marathon, but at present it's an empty peg. I need a name to hang on it.

I did briefly flirt with the idea of applying for a London place again, but with so many interesting marathons available, and so few opportunities, it seemed a shame to take part in a race that I'd already experienced. It's a good excuse to travel, so I'm looking at what's available around the end of April 2005. At the moment, the one I have my eye on is Padua, a.k.a. Padova, a.k.a. the Saint Anthony Marathon. Yes, its great claim to fame is that it has three names.

Why Padua? I've not been to Italy for a long time. And we keep saying we'd like another look at Venice, which isn't far away. And Treviso. And Padua itself sounds interesting. My mother's a big fan of Saint Anthony. She attributes everything good that's ever happened in her life to the fellow. If Padua becomes a reality, perhaps I should invite her along.

The race itself is a point-to-point, passing through seven villages. It's even slightly downhill.

To comment on this, or anything else, please visit the Forum.

<<< last month | next month >>>