Wed 1 Sep 2004 - Leeds

If youth is wasted on the young, perhaps wisdom is wasted on the old. What use is discovering it now, when more than half my life is gone already?

I was thinking about this today on my early run along the canal in Leeds. For a few minutes, I was so happy that I thought about ending it all. I thought I could tie myself in a sack with a few bricks in it, perch on the edge of the canal, and wait for some vindictive kitten to wander past and give me a shove. How pleasant to go out on a high note.

You have to imagine the scene. At seven this morning, the sun wasn't just out, it was soupy and golden the way it gets at this time of the year. I left my hotel and knew at once that all would be well. This is supposed to be a grim, urban landscape, but the canal looked implausibly gorgeous in this light. Why hadn't I noticed all that over-arching greenery before? I finally saw it today only because it was reflected so vividly in the water, which beneath this sky was as clear and as bright as a mirror. The bridges too. As I rounded each bend, each bridge was doubled by its reflection. The symmetry was almost painfully beautiful.

I managed just under 5 miles, and it would have been more if I'd not had to get back for work. The speed continues to improve too. Apart from Saturday's languid 5.5 miler, the last 4 runs have been successively quicker. I'm still well above 10 minute mile pace, but edging nearer all the time.

It was a grand run today. Apart from a scheduled one-minute walk at the halfway mark, it was 50 minutes of strong, confident running by my standards. I almost felt fit. Properly fit. How good it feels to be energised and truly awake like this. It's not a secret because I've been hearing for years that running makes you feel good. But somehow, I never thought it applied to me. It does.

Hurrah!

Sat 4 Sep 2004

It's been a good running and writing week, though you wouldn't know it from the activity on this website.

I can't recall a time when I ran 9 out of 10 days like this. I had a break on Tuesday because I was travelling, and another one today but only because I have a 10K race tomorrow.

It's been a productive writing week too which is why there's been a break in normal service here. I wrote a short story for a competition on Tuesday. Wednesday evening I caught up with some work on the book I'm supposed to be writing. This is creeping along at a snail's pace, but at least I've started again. It's a kind of barometer for my running. When I'm happy with how things are going, I want to crack on with it. I'm about 15,000 words in, with a lot more to write.

And on Thursday I wrote an article for the QPR fanzine about Sebastian H Garcia, a fan in Argentina who we've clubbed together to bring over to England for his first ever QPR match. It's too heart-warming a tale to keep to ourselves, so I'll talk more about Seb another time.

I've got to get ready for tomorrow, so that's it for now. Apologies for the truncated week. Next week will be interesting and exciting, though I may not be able to upload anything till next weekend again.

Sun 5 Sep 2004 - Heathrow Airport

There seem to be a lot of medium length words beginning with A to describe things about which I am decidedly, unquestionably, ferociously... sort of ambivalent really.

Alcohol.

Anarchy.

Arsenal.

America.

Asparagus.

This morning at 7:30, as I left home to drive to a 10K on the other side of Reading, I was reminded of another: Autumn.

Perhaps you had to be there, when the mist hung over the garden like cotton wool, and the air carried a chill, a faint wintry edge. I can't call it frost but there was a bite there that said "welcome to autumn". It happens every year, just once. The moment you know for sure that summer is flagging. The ambivalence comes from the struggle between the season's undoubted splendour, and the threat of winter it likes to frighten us with. Six months of dreary darkness? Coming right up, Sir.

Right. Here's a tip for runners new to racing. If goody bags are important to you, go for a race sponsored by a multi-national computer company. Today's 10K race was sponsored by the Oracle Corporation, no less, and they served up the sort of organisational feast you'd expect. It's a long time since I've seen so many professionally produced signs, so many beaming, smartly turned-out marshals. The medal was satisfyingly chunky, the post-race apples large and crisp. The goody bag was filled with lifestyle mints, and sachets of foot balm, pesto sauce and energy gel (better not get those mixed up), a lollipop, handy guides to the Thames towpath, vouchers for the local shopping centre and discounts for Sweatshop.

But hang on, goody bag? I'm getting ahead of myself, pretty much like the great majority of the other runners did this morning.

There were around 600 of us - a good turnout for this inaugural event. Quite a lot were Oracle employees, and there may have been an element of greasy pole manipulation in evidence. "One of my achievements this year was to run my first 10K race. This demonstrates that I am ready to take on new challenges in the year going forward."

We mustered at 8:20 for a burst of rather reluctant aerobics and to hear a couple of life-affirming speeches. While this was going on I had a look round at the runners. It always surprises and impresses me that so many people will turn out this early on a Sunday morning in some remote field, for no greater inducement than the chance to run 6 miles, or 10 or 13.1 or 20 or 26.2 miles, instead of lying in bed tending to a severe hangover and picking over some awkward recollections from the previous evening.

But this scene is replicated in dozens, perhaps hundreds of similarly remote fields all over the country. All over the world, indeed.

And every time I do it, every time I find myself entering the first stage of chronic breathlessness, usually around the 200 metre mark, when the first pin-pricks of sweat catch the early morning air, when the reality hits, the reality of having to do this for another 6 miles, or 10 or 13.1 or 20 or 26.2 miles, I ask myself the simple question: Why?

Steve Cram wrote something in the Guardian a couple of weeks back that caught my eye. He was considering whether Paula Radcliffe should run the Olympic 10K. It was a great piece of analysis, and at one point he wrote, in an almost dreamy aside:

I have often stuck by the mantra that how we do something is much less important than why we do it. If the reasons are meaningful enough then the mechanics become secondary.

Cheers, mate. I thought of this again today, and felt reassured.

The crisp autumnal blanket had almost gone now, and it was turning into a hot sunny morning. Plodding through the field alongside the river, still bunched up, I notice what people are wearing. I ask myself: why do so many people wear Nike, when they make such irritatingly smug TV ads? I'd rather do a race in a shirt made of sack-cloth than anything with that nasty swoosh on it. And then there's the usual collection of strange choices. Old-fashioned plimsolls, track-suits, rugby shirts, woolly hats, cut-off jeans.

On a bright sunny morning like today, why don't more runners wear caps? I rarely run without one, and certainly not when the sun is as hot as this. Sorry to name-drop but it was Hal Higdon who first advised me on the subject. "Expect eyesight problems later in life if you don't protect your eyes from the sun", he told me in Chicago. "Always wear a cap". By an amazing coincidence, shortly after this conversation I received an email announcing the launch of the Hal Higdon running cap. I snapped one up while stocks lasted, and have attached my head to this vibrant yellow object in every race since.

A cap keeps the sun out of your eyes in the summer, but also keeps your head warm in the winter. It keeps the rain off your face in any season. The strip of towelling inside absorbs the sweat and prevents it from streaming down your forehead into your eyes. Once the band is sodden, the sweat bursts through the material above and drips down the brim onto your knees. About one drop every two seconds I reckoned today. Better than stinging your eyes, and strangely gratifying to have your physical exertions confirmed in this vivid fashion.

The other thing I like about a cap is the way it allows you to block out the world when the going gets tough. You can pull it down so that it sort of restricts your vision. It can actually give you a sense of privacy in a crowd, a kind of unexpected intimacy at a time when you fear you may be losing control, and need to get to work on marshalling your inner resources. Maybe that doesn't really work, but the delusion helps.

Not that this sort of thing is normally called on in a 10K. Far from being an inner-resource marshalling aid, it's just, well, just a cap really. Keeps the sun out of your eyes and that's it.

"See you back here in half an hour or so", boomed the announcer just after the hooter sounded. This was met with the sort of groan you'd expect to hear from the constipation ward.

I went out way too fast. I'm always puzzled by the way we can run at a relatively fast pace in a race without realising it. I mentioned recently that I was pleased to find myself doing 10:40-ish miles, yet the first three today were 9:24, 9:48 and 10:14. I didn't notice going any faster until well into 4th mile, when I suddenly felt robbed of all energy. It was like the flicking of a switch. I had to walk for a minute or two, and from then on I just sort of pottered along, turning in casual run-walk miles, ending with a disappointing time more than 7 minutes outside my PB, over a distance measured by _colin, my GPS gadget, as 10.11 km, or 6.28 miles.

A shame. The course was flat and fast, taking us along verdant stretches of the Thames for a while before joining the gravelly towpath of the Kennet & Avon Canal for the journey into Reading town centre. Around the Oracle Shopping Centre (giving the race its ingenious title: the Oracle to Oracle 10K) and then reversing it all on the other side of the canal and back up the river to the finish.

Most races have a snapshot moment - a few seconds containing the essence of the race. Today's came at a point at the start of the second half, shortly after we'd looped back on ourselves. Suddenly we dropped down onto the canal again and chugged along beneath a line of oaks. Coming down the small slope I had a quick view of the snake of runners in front of me, and to the right the placid water with the trees, the riverside apartments and the approaching bridge all reflected in the sunshine. The faintest puff of mist lingered over the water in the distance. Something dropped from the sky and bounced off the peak of my cap.

It was a crunchy, brown leaf.

Mon 6 Sep 2004 - Galway City

Ireland can't quite make up its mind whether it's 2004 or 1952.

I thought about this as I drove through Tipperary town this afternoon. The high street looks like a film set. The innocent gaudiness of the pub facias with their ancient adverts for Guinness and Smithwick's and Harp, and the traditional butchers and bakers with their high counters and staff in white overalls, compete with internet cafés and estate agents struggling to cope with the property boom. Outside McGillicuddy's Bar, an old man in a battered trilby and farmer's jacket sat smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He must have escaped from the pages of The Mayor Of Casterbridge.

I found myself driving behind a hearse, and watched as the entire high street removed their caps and stood for a respectful moment of reflective silence.

Famine graveyard in Tipperary

At the end of the street I saw a sign for St John's Famine Graveyard, and decided to make a detour to take a look. I find it hard to pass cemeteries and war memorials without stopping for a moment.

This graveyard was set on a peaceful hillside overlooking the town, and is filled with simple commemorative stones. No names are to be found. The plaque explains: This graveyard was opened in 1847 for the burial of those who died in the Tipperary Workhouse and Fever Hospital during the great famine. Their identity is known only to God.

It was a peaceful place of course, the only sound coming from a small manual lawnmower being pushed around by a workman. I went and had a word with him. His name was Sean, and he'd been cutting the grass here for 12 years. I asked him: "What do you think about as you cut the grass here?"

He laughed, wiped his brow, and said: "Guinness, of course". Then after a pause, added, slightly more seriously: "Sure, what else is there to think about?"

A reasonable question, I thought.

An hour or so later, I came across this invitation as I drove through Limerick: Let Us Repair Your False Teeth While You Wait! Visit Mulligan's World Of Dentures!

Somehow, I managed to resist the offer. My mind was elsewhere. And I'll tell you where. It was on the only limerick that I could bring to mind.

I'll tell you about it tomorrow.

Tues 7 Sep 2004 - Newport, Co Mayo

Say "Nim".

And "foamer".

Then "nigher"

Nim-foamer

Nim-foamer nigher.

Nim-foamer nigher.

Then add a "kull" at the end.

Nim-foamer nigher-kull.

Good, now we have the right pronunciation for "nymphomaniacal".

As in "Nymphomaniacal Alice".

It's the first line of the only limerick that I know. But if you pronounce the first word wrongly, it doesn't work.

Nymphomaniacal Alice

I was thinking about this as I drove out of Galway City this morning. The importance of rhythm in writing. The train of thought began this morning because I was thinking about the rhythm of limericks, which in turn had come from my driving through the eponymous Irish city.

Nymphomaniacal Alice
Used dynamite sticks for a phallus

Oops, I should have mentioned that this is a rude rhyme. Perhaps I should have waited until after the watershed at 9pm before typing it. If you're under 16, go and ask your mum whether it's alright to continue.

So.

Nymphomaniacal Alice
Used dynamite sticks for a phallus
They found her vagina
In North Carolina
And her arse-hole near Buckingham Palace.

Galway City is a grand town. One of those alternative, happening places that make you pine for your youth, whoever he may be. Street entertainers, pavement cafés, pungent clouds of marijuana, tiddly lecturers hectoring their students about Joyce over a few pints of Guinness. I must email the Galway Tourist Office with my idea for a slogan:

Galway City. The opposite of Luton.

I hadn't intended stopping there, but it was getting dark as I drove through it, so my thoughts turned to a bed for the night. I parked up and had a wander round for five minutes before deciding that this'll do nicely. My kind of place.

None of the hotels I tried could offer me a reasonably priced bed, so I ended up in a B 'n' B in Salthill, near the beach. I've always been rather wary of B 'n' Bs since that place in Wales all those years ago with the hairs in the bath. I'll pass over that story. The usual hazard is chintz saturation, but this one wasn't too bad. It had the regulation jolly, laughing leprechaun ornaments and the lucky shamrock samplers, but at least it was en suite, and had a TV to block out the noise of the copulating Italians in the next room.

I dumped my bags and went for a wander through the town. Irish pubs are more fearsome looking than their English counterparts. Darker, older, scruffier. Until you get used to their special ambience, you tend to walk into one assuming that you will never re-emerge. I tend to glance back at the world before the door shuts, for one last, lingering, affectionate look.

The first place I went into had a jukebox playing crackly Irish showband hits from the 1950s, and a collection of likely lads leaning on the bar, grinning at me. I took it for granted that these were sadistic "well look what the wind's blown in" grins as they reached for concealed blades, and that I'd be savaged within seconds... but no. No, they turned out to be just sort of "welcome, friend" grins. Quite disorientating for a minute or two as I waited for my first pint of Irish Guinness to ascend to the bar top.

The second place was a classic chaotic, warren-type hostelry with a melange of nutters and clowns and intellectuals and musicians. Part Hieronymous Bosch, part Hogarth, part House of Commons. I grinned for an hour in this place, absorbing more Guinness, chatting to a bunch of students about how terrible the world is. And how wonderful.

On the way home I called in at the Shamrock Shanghai Takeaway for some greasy noodles and a large spring roll. Confirmation that the health drive was once again in reverse gear. Worse things happen at sea.

And the sea is where I find myself now, scribbling in this notebook, sitting on a grassy bank a few feet above the Atlantic. I'm in Newport, County Mayo. It's a rugged stretch of coastline, almost unbearably beautiful. The tide is out now, and on the rocky shore below me, I see crabs among the clumps of seaweed, and hundreds of shells. Like the sky, the distant sea is a translucent, aquamarine blue. The sun is still out, just.

This is a small peninsula extending into the ocean. Behind me is an incline, and a hundred yards or so apart, are three unremarkable buildings. Unremarkable to you at least, but not to me.

My Mother's old house

One of them, invisible from here, just over the other side of the slope, close to the other shore, is a cowshed. Before 1954 it was a small house in which my mother, her 6 siblings and their parents lived. The two houses visible from here are bungalows. The one on the right belonged to my grandparents, and is still lived in by an aunt and uncle. The other one was built by another aunt and uncle about 5 years ago, and here my mother and father are staying at the moment. I can't tell you how potent this spot is for my family and for myself. So I'll leave you to imagine that.

Along the opposite shore are one or two whitewashed cottages stuck on the hillside. "Who lives over there?" I asked my uncle earlier. "Oh, that's the IRA man", came the answer. "Don't worry", he added, "He's retired now".

Beyond those hills is a fearsome sight: The Reek. The very name used to fill me with dread when I was a child. Outsiders know it as Croagh Patrick, the mountain from which the eponymous saint is said to have banished all the snakes of Ireland. It's a ubiquitous landmark in this part of the country. Sometimes you see the tiny white box on the top that's the church. Other times you notice that you can't see it. At about 2500 feet, it's not huge, but its steepness gives it an impressive stage presence.

I look up at The Reek again, and decide that tomorrow I will climb it. My mother's old house (2)

Wed 8 Sep 2004 - Newport, Co Mayo

Struggling up Croagh Patrick this afternoon, I was sure this was to be one of those landmark feats that I'd want to write a lot about. But maybe that won't happen.

Is it a hill or a mountain? It's not very high, only 2500 feet or so, but its ruggedness and steepness make it seem more like the latter. It was a tough walk, much harder than I expected. Beyond the statue at the foot of the... mountain, the path quickly becomes a hard, rocky climb for an hour or so. Then a brief respite with a few hundred yards of grassy track, and a chance to gape over your shoulder at the view across Clew Bay and the tiny communities it services. This gentle, grassy stretch with its heart-stopping vistas acts as a kind of joint recharge: spiritual and physical, and you need it for the murderously steep final ascent to the summit.

The walk to the top took a steady two hours, but I felt well-rewarded by the panorama, which takes in miles of the Mayo coastline, and, to the south, the raw beauty of Connemara. Stupendous. Just wordlessly stupendous.

The descent is, arguably, even harder. The final, sheer, climb is on loose shale, and coming down it is treacherous. You're constantly slipping and sliding, and falling against sharp rocks. You're tired now too, making it harder to concentrate on where you're putting your feet. A stick is essential. Before I left, my uncle gave me a stout, newly-cut length of ash to take with me, and I don't think I'd have managed without it.

The whole jaunt took just under 4 hours. Driving through Westport on my way back to my B 'n' B in Newport town, I picked up a pizza, and once I'd wolfed that down with a glass or two of Beaujolais Villages, and had a shower, I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to see all of Ireland's World Cup Qualifier, a draw with Switzerland.

My bag is full of running gear, but somehow I doubt if I'll do much this week, so this was a welcome workout. For anyone reading this who may find themselves in Western Ireland sometime, I urge you to spend an afternoon on Croagh Patrick. If you're around at the end of July you could take part in Reek Sunday, joining in the mass ascent of up to 20,000 pilgrims, many in bare feet, some crawling up on hands and knees. Sounds like good marathon training.

Mon 13 Sep 2004 - Leeds

I'd presumed there'd be no more Leeds entries after my break. But it seems the plan to migrate south again last week, never got off the ground. I was also expecting to be on holiday this week too, until being told, two days before my fortnight was due to start, that my second week had been cancelled. Pitiful Bastards. Let's hope my bosses are not tempted to arrange a social occasion at the local brewery.

A mysterious event is happening in Leeds this week. No one knows for sure what it is, but it's claimed the life of almost every hotel room in the city. Rather good news for me as I have an excuse to seek out a change of scene. I've found a place in a southern suburb that I once knew rather well, though, Brideshead Revisited-like, I didn't realise that until I turned up on the doorstep.

It masquerades as a sort of country house hotel, though it's little more than a Travelodge in a park. I've no complaints with that. I like these identikit business hotels. You know what you're getting. And more to the point, what you're not.

That said, this one is a bit more... feature-rich, as we software groupies like to say. There's a gym, and... erm... other things, I suspect. I'll mention them if I find out what they are.

I last ran eight days ago, and after such a sinful absence, my penance would be severe. Unpacked, togs on and away. It had to be done. It's that first painful investment necessary to ensure the eventual payback. But as usual, it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Eight days is a long time, but up until last Sunday's race, I'd run ten days out of twelve, which must have put a bit of extra in the Bank of Residual Energy. And while my time in Ireland was filled with Guinness, greasy breakfasts, fish and chips, and packets of Toffos (no longer available in England), at least I managed a strenuous midweek workout on Croagh Patrick.

As usual, the worst thing, physically and mentally, was the extra weight I was carrying. Today I'm seemingly 8 pounds heavier than I was this time last week.

I jogged round the corner to Oakwell Park, the setting for Oakwell Hall, an endearingly ramshackle 16th Century manor house. I've been to this park once before, about 10 years ago, with a then girlfriend and her 5 year old son. I remember him rushing around in a Batman outfit, engaging invisible monsters and villains with a rather incongruous plastic sword. Coincidentally, the TV news this evening is overflowing with pictures of the protestor dressed as Batman who climbed onto the balcony at Buckingham Palace. The po-faced BBC correspondent was solemnly opining on the breach of security but of course he, like the rest of us, was secretly enjoying this nutter in fancy dress lounging on the ledge of a building full of nutters in fancy dress.

Back in the park, in between gulps of air, I was trying to recall details of my last visit here, with Mandy and Thomas. The relationship lasted for a year or so, and I suspect that the main reason for its failure was her name. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with being called Mandy, but we couldn't endure the social embarrassment of being referred to as "Andy and Mandy". This was always followed by loud guffaws, and unspokenly, we decided that it was too great a burden to bear.

What if forumite Mid Life Crisis Man had a partner called Midwife Spices Fan? They'd never have got past their first 2 or 3 gallons of Boag's on that inaugural date.

It's a wild park with hills and shady woodland trails. More than enough to keep me entertained in the week ahead.

Wed 15 Sep 2004 - Leeds

Something untoward to report. Work. After fairly stately progress with my task in recent weeks, I've had to accelerate a bit this week, squeezing my running time.

A pathetic excuse, of course. Shame on me for pulling that one out of The Lazy Bugger's Book Of Flimsy Excuses. The week has been busy, but there's always time to run, just as there is always time to read - despite what people say.

Maybe it isn't so bad. For whatever reason, I didn't get out yesterday, but I did manage 20 minutes early this morning, and another 25 this evening, on the treadmill in the small hotel gym. Sorry, the "Leisure Centre". First one I've come across since those delightful days in Dartford a few weeks ago. Does treadmill running count? I suppose it must, but it seems sort of wimpy, and even adulterous.

Something I've resolved in the last week is that I won't be taking part in the Dublin marathon at the end of next month. I'd revived my enthusiasm, or rather, the delusion that I could do enough to make it, during that successful burst of exercise a couple of weeks ago. But my gloriously gluttonous week in Ireland poured a bucket of ice-cold Guinness over the idea, and there's no going back now.

The decision also simplifies plans for the weeks ahead. A local 10K in a couple of weeks, the Cabbage Patch 10 miler in mid October, and quite possibly the Stroud Half a week later.

Mon 20 Sep 2004 - Dartford

On Saturday morning, when getting ready to go out for a run, I realised that I'd left my cap in the hotel room in Leeds. A cap is no big deal perhaps, but this is a special running cap. Bought in Chicago. It says Chicago on it, and 26.2. It's the second favourite running cap in my entire collection. I didn't want to lose it, so I called the hotel.

"Hello, this is the Gomersal Park Classic Hotel, bargain weekend breaks a speciality, Natalie [cough] speaking, how can I help you?"
"Hello Natalie, I stayed with you last week..."
"You stayed with me...?
No, I mean I stayed at the hotel last week..."
"Oh..."
"Room 128. And I think I left my cap there."
"Did you?"
"Er, yes, in the room".
[pause]
"Why was it in the room?"
"Why? Well, I like to run, and I take it with me when I go running."
[pause]
"Where did you last see it?"
"I left it hanging on the curtain pole, and forgot about it."
[pause] "Hold on please. I'll ask the housekeeper."
[Sound of other phone being dialled.]
"Is that Jane...? Jane, did you find a cat in room 128 this morning? Yes, a cat! Why? I don't know. He says he likes to take it running with him. Running. He last saw it hanging from the curtain pole..."

Thurs 23 Sep 2004 - Dartford

It's been another lax week. I suppose the final realisation that Dublin isn't going to happen for me, has delivered a dangerous message that I've been too happy to snatch at. Silly really. Running is a recipe for joy and soaring self-esteem, so god knows why I should creep into these lethargic corners as though I was gaining something. But this isn't going to be yet another burst of bloody soul-searching. I've done enough of that.

I was reminded this week of just how much of it I've done. I recently dumped all these logs into a Word document, printed them, and am now more than halfway through reading the stuff from start to finish. I have a writing project bubbling away somewhere, and it was suggested that this might help. I was startled by the quantity of the stuff. It stacks up to 340 pages of single-spaced A4, and just shy of 200,000 words.

It's been an eye-opener. What's clear is that I need to effect some kind of fundamental change to knock off a few of these targets I've lined up for myself. But not another false dawn, please. This evening, over a bottle of decent Barolo and a formidable slab of Stilton, I realised that I have to magic up a new attitude from somewhere. One that will stick. How? Let's have just one more glass of this stuff while I think about that...

Thurs 30 September 2004 - Dartford

Another written-off month.

No, hang on, let's make a slight alteration there:

Another written-off month?

That question mark makes all the difference.

Today I'm hope-gathering, and today I need that question mark.

Let's have a bit of straight talking here. I've fizzled out again, and I want this to be the last time it happens. This cycle must now be broken permanently. I know from the emails I get that there are plenty of people out there who can relate to these difficulties. I'm grateful for the encouragement these give me, and I'm pleased that my own patchy performances make others feel better about their own troughs. We're all glad to hear that we're not alone. But it worries me that the joke will wear off eventually.

It frustrates me intensely that I can't seem to sustain a long spell of proper training. Look. Running is great. It makes you feel good about yourself; it's energising; it blows away low self-esteem; it hands you mental clarity; it makes you strong and confident. It's a fine feeling, and I want it back again.

I can make excuses. I can rationalise what's going wrong, but essentially I come back to this fact: that I consistently underestimate the amount of self-discipline required to succeed. It's struck me recently that I'm on a mission, yet I'm not equipping myself properly. Succeeding requires a shift in mindset similar to the one that it took to stop smoking cigarettes 9 years ago. Before I finally stubbed out that last one, I had to confront the task intellectually, and it was only when I'd made that engagement that I finally cracked it.

What am I trying to crack here? Hmm. Not such a straightforward question. Stopping smoking has a clear and measurable aim. This running lark isn't quite so black and white. I don't want to become a wild-eyed zealot, but there have to be targets to make success measurable. I've recently read through the entire three years of running logs on this website, and it became clear that I don't have any obvious goals apart from completing a splatter of races here and there.

I always fancied the idea of being properly fit. I always liked the idea of running being a lifestyle thing, and races being part of a continuum, not just some badly rehearsed trick to perform on special occasions three or four times a year. Instead of these peaks and troughs, I want a flatter trend line.

Alcohol will have to go. Chocolate. Late nights too.

Tomorrow.

Right now I need to find a glass for my Taylor's 10 year old Tawny. My last glass of booze for a while, so forgive me if I sign off.

That fizzy late night silence, a glass of decent port and a big fat question mark to chew on. What an unbeatable combination.

See you next month. Fighting fit.

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