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Thurs 3 Feb 2005Three people stand on an isolated patch of Mediterranean beach, staring at the hundreds of flamingos preening themselves at the water's edge.Behind them lie miles of mottled, lunar landscape. Over there in the far, far distance a sharp eye could just make out a line of cranes, marking the start of one of Europe's largest and most anarchic construction sites. Armies of foreigners, Germans mainly, seem to want to buy retirement homes here in Roquetas, and the skeletons of a thousand concrete mausoleums mark out the final resting place of their sunlit dreams. Se vende, se vende. Nothing exists yet, but it's all se vende. It's funny that things that are only half-built can look almost identical to those in a state of decay. It's as though the process of construction contains some admonitory, portentous glimpse of the future - if only we are alert enough to catch it. Here, we are far from the madding crowd", says Antonio suddenly. I chuckle. "A good description". "But not original, I know. I am a great reader of Thomas Hardy," he says. "Well, I don't think he originated the phrase either", I said. Antonio continued: "I once spent a week in Dorchester, the town that Hardy called Casterbridge". Then he starts to recite a long list of titles he's read. When the Hardy list is finished, he begins on George Orwell. "Homage To Catalonia, Animal Farm, Nineteen Eighty Four, Down And Out In Paris And London...." Kerching. Down And Out In Paris And London. It's a long time since I even thought about that book - perhaps decades - but I'm excited to be reminded of it. "Yes, hold on, Down And Out In Paris And London". I explained that it was one of the first 'grown up' books I ever read. How could I have forgotten it? It was the book that put a bullet through the head of my childhood. One weekend. Bang. Everything changed. Suddenly, aged twelve or thirteen, I was a semi-adult. Down And Out In Paris And London made me want to change the world, or to change myself so that I could find this other world I'd discovered in Orwell. It was the book that made me restless and dissatisfied with the life I'd been allocated. It prised open the trapdoor to adulthood, and to writing, and travelling. There isn't much conventional travelling you can do at that age, so you have to run away instead. I ran away four times. The first time was the briefest jaunt, and it's the only one I'll mention now. I was in Devon, camping with some school friends. One day I walked out of the camp without telling anyone where I was going, and hitch-hiked to Dartmoor. My destination was only 80 miles away, but to a kid on his own it seemed a very long journey. In my hand was a pamphlet I'd bought from the campsite shop entitled "Great Moorland Walks". Arriving finally in Buckfastleigh, on the eastern fringe of the moor, at 9pm, I knocked on the door of Buckfast Abbey, a Benedictine monastery dating back to the 11th century. A monk in a brown habit eventually opened the door. And what a door it turned out to be. I asked if I could stay the night. He asked no questions. Just said: "Of course. Come in". Brother Joseph was his name. He took me to the large dining hall and sat me at the end of a long, polished table. There were monks sitting at the other end, but they took no notice of me. I remember being given bread and cheese and a glass of cider. They weren't a very talkative bunch. The bed was hard, and I must have woken every time the bell struck the hour. But I was so excited by the whole thing. I wasn't afraid, and I didn't wonder if other people were worried about me. In the morning, there was freshly-baked bread and coffee for breakfast. Brother Joseph asked me what my plans were. I told him I was going to walk the Abbot's Way. There was a long pause. "It's a long path", he said. "Are you prepared?" I wasn't sure if I understood the question. Was he talking about the walk? Or something more profound? I said yes thanks, I was. As I was leaving, I surprised myself by asking: "Do you have any advice for me?" Without hesitation, he said: "Consider a career in dentistry. Dentists are in short supply, and the pay is good." With that, we shook hands, and I set off to walk nearly 30 miles across some of the bleakest moorland in England, with no food or water to fuel the journey. I was on the moor within minutes. It was love at first sight. I was a London kid, and I'd never seen landscape like this before. Bleak and pure, and utterly silent barring the... the wind in the rocks and the haunting, lonesome cry of the curlew. Within a mile, I was lost, but I didn't mind. I liked it. Some gust of joy had appeared from nowhere, and filled the sails of my imagination. On a day of no food, and only occasional mouthfuls of stream water, it was all I had to propel me through the ten hours it took to reach Tavistock. I'd been on the earth for 15 years, and here was my first taste of liberation. Needless to say, life was never the same again. I didn't mention any of this to Antonio. I just thought about it for a while, and carried on staring at those flamingos. My Dartmoor jaunt was the first bit of real travelling I ever did. But there again, I don't really know what "travelling" means. I know that it's not much to do with distance and passports. It's something to do with exploration and moving out of your normal space. Just walking to the Co-op on the corner can be pretty exciting if you keep your senses open. Every time I run I feel I'm embarking on some kind of journey. For me, it's the antidote to rain and cold. It's why I see the weather as a lubricant, not an impediment. If others do see bad weather as an obstacle or an excuse, that's fine. It just illustrates my well-worn point: that we run for different reasons and with different instincts. Almeria is a striking province, and the town itself is handsome. Unlike many of the coastal settlements along this stretch of the Mediterranean, it isn't disfigured by semi-completed hotels and apartment blocks, and hoardings offering enticements to Northern European holidaymakers. It's a real place - a regular town with wide avenues lined with orange trees, and palms along the seafront. Hidden away is an old, or at least older, quarter with narrower shopping streets. The foreign contingent (5 Brits and a Canadian) arrived at the airport around 4pm, and soon found Antonio. Renting a vehicle from an office in an old Transit van in the car park didn't fill me with much confidence, but the Fiesta Diesel was new and it got us to the elegant Hotel Torreluz without trouble. After an hour or two of R and R, we reconvened in the lobby and followed Antonio to the small race expo to collect our race numbers and goody bag. This race is tremendous value for money. For €6 (about £4), you get a tee-shirt, an invitation to the pasta dinner, a pen, a key-ring, the use of a timing chip and, at the end of the race, a sports bag and an isotonic drink. The pasta dinner at the youth hostel brought back memories of clamorous school catering, but this isn't a criticism. The slightly chaotic scene wound up the pre-race excitement a bit more, and no one minded that. No shortage of food either. Essentially we were each given two meals - a plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce, and another plate of roast chicken and salad. Plus a baguette and an apple. The evening finished with a stroll up the Rambla for a final cup of deliciously gloopy chocolate. A later-than-usual breakfast produced some anxious moments. Was I leaving enough time for the toast and banana and coffee to sink deep enough into my intestines to ensure that they stayed there? More anxiety as the hotel delivered me the wrong (albeit better) car to take us to the start of the race at the smart new stadium built for the Mediterranean Games in the summer of 2005. But all was well. We got to the start line with plenty of time to bitch about the sleek, sharp-looking Spaniards. "They'll go off too fast. We'll catch them before the end", predicted Nigel through gritted teeth. "Yeah", I said. "Remember the tortoise and the hare." A hesitant start, but we eventually moved off. The first stretch took us alongside a line of light industrial units, some new apartments, beneath a concrete bridge past some rusty railings. My race plan, to keep up with Suzie, worked brilliantly for the first mile, then fell apart. She chugged ahead of me and I decided to stick with the advice of my GPS gadget, _colin who was telling me that I was already 0.15 of a mile ahead of target. Target? I'd set the 'virtual partner' feature to 2:15. This was an optimistic aim, 5 minutes faster than my PB. Up ahead of me, perhaps 100 metres away, I could see Andy ("Seafront Plodder" from the forum), and here he stayed for the entire race. I seemed unable to make up any ground on him. Frustrating, yes, but also pleasing that he never got away. After the opening mile or so we had to move up a couple of gears. La Rambla wasn't too steep as some of my more sensitive colleagues seemed to think, but it was as long and as gruelling as a Huddersfield winter. My early optimism drained away. I felt wretched. Oh, the drudgery of trudging. Just as I was reaching the end of the first draft of my suicide note, something wonderful happened. Three wonderful things in a row, in fact. The corner was turned, and the incline came to an end. As we turned sharp left, a water station greeted us. Then the long descent began. Descent. of course. A hill is just an investment in later running pleasure, after all. Every inch of that long, slow incline was now translated into a long, fast downward slope. A fourth cheering moment came halfway down when I saw my wife, M, waving frantically - with the hand that held the video camera. But so be it. The encouragement helped, especially as I knew she'd rather have been swooning through the shoe shops or the art gallery. As I came to the end of the long downhill stretch and swung left again towards the stadium towards the end of the first lap, a motorbike drew up beside me, and the police rider gestured for me to move over to the side. For a bizarre moment I thought he wanted to check my credentials or something, but no, he was just warning me that the leaders were coming through. And what happened next reminded me why running is the king of all participation sports. The race leader appeared alongside me without warning. Made of nothing but a piece of glistening muscle, he seemed to bounce and lope along with no effort. No obvious sign of strain or fatigue, or even concentration. Instinctively, I began to clap furiously. It was all I could think to do as the world's greatest ever distance runner, Haile Gebrselassie, deigned to overtake me in a race. The sound made him throw a languorous glance my way, looking for all the world like a wistful young Nelson Mandela. The exchange of looks was fleeting. I'd love to be able to report that he smiled at me, or even raised a contemptuous eyebrow. Even better, that he pulled up alongside me and said: "Cripes, you're the geezer with that website, aren't you? I think you've got me beat this time, mate. I'm all in." But no, all I got from Haile was a glance. Then he saw the gap, and went for it, skipping past me while I was distracted... OK, so he was on his second lap, 10 miles into the race, while I was still on the first, 5 miles behind him, but still. To have Haile Gebrselassie overtake me in a competitive running race must have been the greatest thrill I've had in my short plodding career. I could have cried. While the great man veered off towards the finish line, I plunged on towards the halfway point. Approaching the roundabout where I was to turn back on myself to start the second lap, I saw my travelling companions come up the opposite side of the road, towards me. First it was Ash ("Sweder") and Nigel, followed a few minutes later by Antonio. A couple of minutes behind the plucky Spaniard came Suzie. As I reached the large roundabout, Andy was just coming out of it. We all waved and shouted as we saw each other. The second ascent of La Rambla wasn't so bad. Turning into the incline once again, my GPS 'virtual partner' told me I was 0.25 mile ahead of schedule. Terrific news, but the hill was still ahead of me, and I was beginning to feel drained and vulnerable now. I thought: if I'm still ahead of target when I turn at the top, I might just have a chance of a PB. But that was the last time I allowed those initials to enter my thoughts. This was my 27th race, and I didn't want to make the same mistake 26 times over. No chickens would be counted this time. It's a miracle, but this time I don't really feel the hill at all. Second time around, it doesn't bother trying to intimidate me again. I know what to expect now, so it's beaten. As I turn at the top to start my descent, my watch says I'm still 0.15 mile ahead of target. But I'm also tiring now, and I need to run the last 4 miles at the same rate as the first 9 to have a chance of... a chance of? Oh, nothing.... Halfway down the other side my speed increases markedly, I pull my stomach in, and try to look nonchalantly athletic. Not easy in my case, but with M's video camera visible a hundred yards ahead, worth a go. The bottom of the hill is reached, and now it's the long, windy run-in. I'm aware of only the odd gust, though later, the others complain that it was quite strong. Perhaps I'm anaesthetised now. Certainly I'm knackered. 10 miles, 11 miles, 12 miles... I tried catching Andy at one point during this period. He's been ahead of me all race, about half a centimetre high in the distance. I upped my pace slightly as I see him stop to walk. What a shock he'll get, I think with sadistic glee. But I never did catch him. He increased in height to about 1.5 centimetres at one point, but I realised this was diverting me from my main target which was to try to beat my... oh, nothing. The final mile was lonely and cold and draining, but the knowledge that it was the final mile kept it doable. Round a corner and bingo: there was the stadium. Down a very steep ramp and into the stadium, where a few hundred spectators remained to clap in the back-markers. Amongst them were Sweder, Nigel, Suzie and Antonio who gave me real encouragement as I plodded towards the finishing line. Just as I reached it, the barrier made me realise that I had another full lap to do before the true finish. This was a cruel and painful last stretch, but by now I didn't care. My watch told me what I hadn't wanted to think about - that I was going to get a 5 minute PB. What a relief that was. It was the fifth attempt I'd made to beat the half marathon PB I'd set at Silverstone in March 2003. Ash and Nigel had made 1:54, Suzie 2:08, Antonio 2:11 and the other Andy 2:14. I came in a minute later in 2:15. I came 920th out of 941. Oh yeah, and some bloke called Haile Gebrselassie made it in 1:01. But he didn't get a PB..... Huh! I have to acknowledge one of the heroes of the day: José, Antonio's brother, who followed us round the course all morning on his bike, dispensing water and snacks, and taking pictures. Back at the car, I heard Ash say: "Right, I must just ring my wife to tell her the bad news. That I'm still alive...". We stretched and munched cereal bars and scraped the salt off our faces. How good it all felt. And we run because we like it, Through the broad bright land. The revelry didn't begin immediately. We're middle-aged, remember? We had to hobble back to the hotel for a bath and a nice cup of tea. Only then could we snort a line or two of Sanatogen, and get the party underway. The first phase of the celebrations was pretty restrained. We walked down to the seafront and settled into a sunlit restaurant where we had a few beers, chomped through the plat du jour menu and enjoyed a glass or two of Cava. The carousing became a bit more traditional later that evening, when we went Guinness-hunting in a couple of the local bars. It was a good evening. All post-race evenings are good, but this one, in Spain, after a PB, spending time with some of the Running Commentary forumites, was better than usual. My fellow runners were no longer distant foghorns in the night. We'd all become real which, with some irony, made the whole thing rather surreal. It was as though a bunch of characters had stepped from a book and become flesh and blood. Profoundly enjoyable, but ever so slightly disturbing. Hard not to be overawed by the whole thing. After the Guinness ordinaire, we sank through the local lager, surfacing again in a few glasses of decent Rioja. I didn't think crianza wines were supposed to age too well, but this '96 was doing just fine. Before we left, we drank a toast to the Internet, and resolved to meet again on some other shore somewhere. Running is an odd fusion of reflective isolation and raucous fraternalism. The chance to take bites out of other people's lives, and to offer up yourself in return. Breakfast on Monday was notable for two statements from Andy - 'Seafront Plodder'. First was the lamest excuse ever. He'd love to go for a recovery run, he told us, but he couldn't because his towel was a bit damp. And if his towel was a bit damp, how could he have a shower? Then I heard him say "Tuesday? I thought Tuesday was next week." Needless to say, the towel excuse was rejected, and he was soon dragged out by Nigel and Sweder for a seafront plod, Almeria style. Our goodbyes were said. Handshakes, hugs and kisses were distributed as appropriate, in keeping with the normal rules. It had been a memorable weekend, but now it was over. M and I loaded up the hire car and drove out of town. Pictures. Tues 8 Feb 2005I seem to be in a perennial state of catch-up these days. Since the last written-up run (the Almeria Half), I've run 6 times. Some excellent adventures to report too.Talking of catch-up, I'm reminded of the first of two strange things that happened during my 15 mile slog up and down the canal on Saturday. Just as I arrived at the bridge that takes me down to the towpath, I noticed another runner, a plump, balding middle-aged guy just 20 or 30 yards away, heading towards the same bridge from the opposite direction. Ten or fifteen seconds after I'd started along the path, the man got to the bridge and set off along the canal behind me. I turned round and saw him - white tee-shirt over his generous belly, girly leggings, woolly bobble hat. I ignored him at first, my latent defeatism assuming that even this oversized plodder would catch me and overtake soon enough. But he didn't. I heard his laboured footsteps behind me for more than twenty minutes and more than two miles. I found it unsettling. Not for the first time, I'll quote that chilling stanza from Edgar Allen Poe: Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head. Because he knows a fearful fiend Doth close behind him tread. Why didn't he overtake me? Or fall way behind? But he just stayed there, a few yards behind me, like some foul phantom. Crunch, crunch, crunch on the gravel path. Eventually, I'd had enough. This guy was getting to me. Another quarter mile or so we would come to a gate across the path, and here I would stop and let him overtake me. So the gate duly appeared, and I stopped and waited. The footfalls got louder. Now they were CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH. And there he was. Except it now wasn't a "he" at all, but a rather fetching young woman in her twenties in matching red shirt and red lycra shorts. She grinned at me and said "Hi! Lovely day!" as she vanished through the gate. Watching her pretty, shoulder-length blonde hair bobbing away across the field in front of me, I marvelled at the extraordinary power of running. What other activity, apart from excessive narcotic usage perhaps, can turn a fat bald bloke into a lovely young woman? What greater endorsement could running have than this? Two miles further on, another strange thing occurred. With 4.6 miles gone, I was relieved to reach the water tap by the canal visitors' centre. Apart from the canal itself, it's the only free refreshment available for miles along the canal, so I tend to stop here for a slurp. Today I had an energy gel with me, and this seemed like a good opportunity to squeeze the stuff down my throat. So I sucked the life out of it, had a glug or two of water, then looked round for somewhere to dispose of the wrapper. A few yards away was some sort of shed or out-building with the door ajar. Through the opening I could see a rubbish bin in the far corner. So I jogged through the doorway to the far corner and threw the wrapper in the bin. Hang on! A second later, I fished it out to check the calorific intake. Then I chucked it in again, turned round and retraced my steps. "Aarrggghhhh!" SHOCK!! There, in the opposite corner, behind the door, were a couple of wooden chairs and a table, and beyond them was an old armchair, and sitting in the armchair, watching a small portable TV, headphones clamped to his ears, was a long-haired guy, 30-ish, wearing a holey blue jumper. That's all I recalled apart from the look of fear on his face that (I suspect) pretty much matched my own. I just carried on running, out the door, through the gate and back up the towpath. It was only then that I started to see the funny side. Just imagine it. You're sitting at home one Saturday morning. You've settled into your favourite armchair to watch the preview of the rugby, and you've even put the headphones on to enhance your privacy, when suddenly, bang! The door flies open and a sweaty, half naked, fat bloke rushes in, rushes over to your bin, rummages around in it, then turns round, yells at you, then runs out again looking quite deranged. I completed my 15 miles without further incident. Fri 11 Feb 2005A couple of days off running, thanks to a painful and swollen toe, but I did get out for 3½ damp, twilit miles this evening. Not a great run. One of those bloated, uncoordinated efforts that feel strangely aimless. The current plan is a long run tomorrow morning, before leaving for Mecca. Just at the moment, the prospect of 16 miles doesn't excite me.I spent today's jaunt thinking that I need to get the Almeria pictures up here soon. The website needs a pictures section. Oh God. Sat 12 Feb 2005Plodderata, God of Plod, I beseech you.I beat my chest, I offer up my last Lucozade Sport energy gel, I pull clumps of sweaty hair from my head. Why? Why, why, why? This morning I got up early, breakfasted, pulled my warm and dry kit from the washing machine, got dressed and set off on my 16 mile long run. It took 2 or 3 minutes for the first suspicions to arise. The day was grey and blustery. A carrier bag chased me up the street for a hundred yards before edging ahead. Last week Haile Gebrselassie, this week a Tesco carrier bag. I felt lifeless and demotivated. Once I'm into it, I'll be fine, I said. But I never got into it. Two miles in, I knew it wasn't going to work. I turned off the canal, up to the main road and headed back home. 4.23 miles of gritty, blowy plodding. And now of course, the house is flooded with golden sunshine. Sigh. There are compensatory thoughts ahead. The breadmaker has just beeped and delivered a warm, crusty loaf. Two thick slices with a poached egg in between, dripping with ketchup. Then the trip to Loftus Road for the visit of Preston North End. A good win today and this morning's run will be forgotten. I'll run long tomorrow. Sun 13 Feb 2005Some of the worst weather conditions of the winter said a cheery "Hi" when I woke this morning. I lay there for a while, listening to the rain sploshing in the gutter under the roof, and trickling down the walls. The windows trembled in their frames. At seven I got up to scoff a banana or two and a pint of orange squash. I stood in the kitchen looking out, thinking about December 11th 2001. The weatherman on Radio Four said go back to bed - so I did.The truth is, the weather didn't matter much. If anything, it made the prospect of a run more exciting. Better than dismal, neutral grey. More perplexing was the lethargy that I'd sensed creeping through the last week. I've just not been in the mood. Running 16 miles on a day like this when you really don't feel like it, isn't easy. So I went back to bed to think about it, and to devise some ideas for running 16 miles without it really seeming as if I was running 16 miles. A while later I got up again and mooched around for a bit. I did what I do sometimes when I have one foot in one universe and the other in some other universe. I stood on the landing halfway up the stairs and gazed out across our large, empty front garden. It's a no man's land that neatly matches my indecision. I envisage how it will look. One day. I was in danger of talking myself out of a run. In desperation, I switched on this computer to scrape some inspiration from somewhere. Unexpectedly, it was here where I found it. This website. Sweder's message on the forum, geeing himself for his own 16 miler gave me the focus I needed to get out there. I left the house at nine wearing, unusually for me, a rain jacket. I've been running about 3½ years now, and this is probably only the 5th or 6th time I've worn more than a teeshirt on the top half of my body. I've been tee-shirted in conditions far worse than today, but I was concerned about the length of time I might be out. If I got anywhere near my target I could be out for 3 hours. Three sodden hours on a sharp winter morning didn't seem advisable. The wind was strong enough to send the rain swirling up the street ahead of me. It was sort of great. A bit like jogging through a cold water car-wash. Miserable, but what's the point of feeling fed up with it? May as well enjoy the surreal nature of it all. So I laughed as heartily as you can do through gritted teeth. I did the basic 3½ miles round the block then set off for the canal. The plan had been to join it further up than normal to miss out on two miles of viscous, slippery, towpath mud. But by now I was damp and loosened up and resigned to my fate. So I what-the-helled and headed off to my usual starting point. There isn't a lot I can say about the run. I ground it out. The anglers were unusually communicative. No bikes spotted whatsoever. Three or four other runners confronted and 'Shearered', as recently discussed on the forum.  A couple of small trees blown down in the gales. The sound of shotguns across the fields.
6 miles in, the sun appeared, and I was almost enjoying myself. I reached the visitor centre and slurped a few mouthfuls of tap water. Instead of continuing up the canal I veered off and ran for a mile or two along a drab country lane with no pavements. This was no fun at all. Every few seconds a car appeared, forcing me to leap onto the bobbly grass verge. Then the long haul back again. Trudge, splash, trudge, splash. A weird thought at 14 miles. I was feeling OK. I was feeling sufficiently OK to think about extending the run beyond 16 miles. What about 18? Or why not push it out to 20 and cross off one of those nasty buggers pencilled in for later in the training schedule? In the end, I didn't. Unfamiliar, sensible thoughts about not increasing the long run more than a mile or two at a time arrived. The dangers of overtraining, and of inviting strains and tears. Instead I decided to leave it at 16, and enjoy the thought that I could have tacked on more miles if I'd needed to. Later, I discovered that Sweder had bailed out of his 16 miler with a hamstring problem. Oh, the irony. The news was bad, but it may cheer him up to know that he was the reason I was able to slay my own 16 mile monster. This evening, at last, dry and warm again, I finally made it to what must be one of the best pubs on the planet: The Bell at Aldworth. We'd strayed across the Oxfordshire border to scavenge for some haute cuisine at the Swan in Streatley. Emerging from the village after our meal, I spied a narrow, meandering lane up the hillside opposite, and remembered the rumour I'd heard from Russ, a redoubtable local beersmith, that up this very track lay one of the area's most worthy taverns. It was too good an opportunity to miss. A great pub. Tiny, ancient, quite unspoilt. Run by the same family since before the French Revolution. I had a couple of pints and silently toasted a variety of things. The joy of an authentic country pub; the joy of a good run; and on our wedding anniversary, the joy of a good marriage. And a chance too, to commiserate with Sweder and others currently suffering from injury. They may be held back, but they should take comfort from knowing that they can still help and inspire others. Cheers. Mon 14 Feb 2005Rest.Wed 16 Feb 2005 - RugbyI don't know exactly where I am.Somewhere near Rugby, in a haunted hotel - a gothic, Victorian manor house with shadowy corners and vaulted corridors. And restless ghouls. It was pitch black and freezing when I got out for a run at about 7:30 this evening. Padding down the drive, I kept a watch out for the ghostly coach and six horses that may be seen racing across the lawn on dark nights, being urged forward by the apparition of "One-Armed Boughton" who lived in the early 1700s. Nowt about tonight though. The twisty, tree-lined lane up to the main road was as hazardous a quarter mile as I've ever travelled on foot, but I made it. It was like clambering out of a pit. My prize was the opportunity to traverse a vast, floodlit industrial estate. It was a visit to another planet. Hundreds of parked cars surrounded the giant factories and warehouses, and the wide roads were lined with parked trucks. But not one human being was to be seen. Which was more frightening? This dehumanised, concrete universe, or the haunted hotel? Not much in it. It was good to be out though. After Monday's rest day, I was due to clock up 4 or 5 miles yesterday. But I slunk home from work with a cotton-wool head, sore throat and the certainty that I was in for a heavy cold. Only my nose would be running yesterday evening. If the missed run was a disappointment, then waking up this morning feeling strangely healthy made up for it. You never know what's round the next corner, do you? Gulp... Thurs 17 Feb 2005 - Rugby/ReadingDespite the procession of troubled spirits passing along the corridor beyond my door, I woke at 6 a.m. feeling refreshed and rested. I lay there for a while, listening to the radio and TV reports about today being the final day of legal fox hunting. This rather blank part of England is keen on the practice, and the local TV station paraded a long line of indignant local worthies, shaking their fist at the cruel gods.I'd planned to do a longish run, but was held back by the thought of another extended shuffle through industria. But eventually I got up, put my running gear on and left the hotel. And had a pleasant surprise. First, I found out the name of the place - Brownsover Hall. The next thing I discovered was its rather lovely rural setting - given an extra layer of mystery by the fog. Over there somewhere was the industrial estate but here, round the back of the house, was Swift Valley, a nature reserve "opened by David Bellamy for the enjoyment of the people of Rugby", according to a sign. Well at that time of the morning there were no people of Rugby for me to enjoy, but I did manage an invigorating jog along a network of cinder paths alongside a murky brown canal. None of the paths went anywhere, and it didn't take them very long to reach nowhere, but it didn't matter. I just trotted round the tracks, expelling large clouds of steam, chortling to myself. I can't explain what a relief it was to be here, and not on the gargantuan business park beyond the ring road. As I returned to the hotel, 30 minutes later, I spotted a large ginger cat trotting up the path in front of me, going in the same direction. For a moment I thought nothing of it, but then... hang on, do cats usually move like that? No. It was a fox! It's a while since I'd seen one this close. As soon as heard me, he twisted his head round to glance at me, bared his teeth, and darted into a bush. "Just one more day to go, mate", I wanted to say. How nice to see one today of all days. A chicken or a huntsman seeing those teeth would say he was growling at me. Nah. I reckon he was grinning. This evening, back home, I joined up with my local running group and went out for 4 hilly miles at a smart pace. Two runs in one day. It's a first. Tally Ho! Sun 20 Feb 2005Runner's World magazine should be renamed Déjà Vu Monthly. Or have you heard that one before? It's just that every time I read it, or rather, flick disconsolately through it, I'm strangely certain that I've seen it all before.
Thurs 24 Feb 2005"All my trials Lord, soon be over..."Perhaps not quite all of them, but at least my I.T. woes may be on their way out, with the arrival tomorrow of a new PC. Computer troubles are as dull as traffic anecdotes, so I'll not go into detail. But let's just say that I should soon be able to catch up on all sorts of mini-web projects before long - like getting the Almeria pics up and even [GASP] uploading the new site design. It's been a cold week - fab for running. Monday was particularly severe. I got home from work just as the snow began to fall. Monday is a rest day but I couldn't resist this, so I got changed straight away and did my usual round-the-block short run. And then I repeated it at 7 a.m. the following morning to enjoy the crunchy conditions underfoot and some more light snowfall. What a great start to a working day. Quote of the week from Radio Four's Today programme this morning: "If you're still reeling from the withdrawal of Pot Noodles following the Sudan One scandal, help is at hand..." Tonight was farcical. At the last minute, I decided to team up with the local running group again. The meeting place is about 3 miles away from home, and normally just a few minutes drive. But Sainsbury's must have replenished their shelves with a clean batch of Pot Noodles, because the queues to get into the place were clogging up the surrounding roads and I got caught up in the chaos. Result? I arrived at the sports centre where we meet just in time to see the group vanishing into the darkness. I parked rather lop-sidedly and pelted after them - but they'd disappeared. For a few moments I felt lost and miserable and stupid. All dressed up and nowhere to go. But then I decided, what the hell? I'd run anyway. And I did. And it was grand. Cold. Very cold. But I felt fit and strong, and polished off 4 hilly miles in a pretty decent time. Just as I was pulling out of the car park, the group arrived back. It was odd. I still felt as though I had run with them. Sort of group running on my own. Mon 28 Feb 2005The short month ends, and without wanting to tempt fate, or to sound smug, marathon training this time around seems to be going better than I expected, and certainly better than it went for Copenhagen last year or Chicago in 2002. I just feel more "up for it" than I did the lst couple of times. It makes a big difference.While I was writing that last paragraph, "Seafront Plodder" just posted on the forum to say that he had decided to defer his London Marathon entry until next year. I started to reply, urging him to reconsider, but then abandoned the message. You know if you're feeling right for a marathon or not. He's complaining that he hasn't rediscovered his appetite for the fight since the tough New York experience in November. If that's SP's judgement, it has to be respected. I'm lucky enough to be feeling the opposite at present. My appetite for a marathon is strong and eager this winter. Why? For one thing, it's a year since I went through the training. I've discharged the emotional stuff that both imprisons and liberates you. Yes of course that's a paradox. The marathon is a paradox from the first step to the last - and don't make the mistake of thinking that the finishing line is the last step. As SP has demonstrated, the marathon can continue for many months beyond the finish. Mentally I feel good, but just as important, I seem to be in better physical shape than I have been for a long time. Yesterday morning when I noted my average weight for the week, I was thrilled to see that I am at my lowest weight for two years. This is a major psychological boost, but needless to say it simply helps me to run better. It was something I identified months ago as a key target. I'm still at least 20 pounds overweight. But two months ago I was 30 pounds overweight. It means I can run faster and for longer. Despite all these positive notes, I have to report a blip at the weekend. 20 miles, I said I would do. I'm not even certain now why I said I'd do 20. It's not in the schedule. It just seemed the natural progression of the weekend sequence which this year so far has been a healthy: 6, 9, 10, 12, 13, 15, 16, 18. At least, that might appear "healthy" but it breaks one of the staple rules of marathon training - take a step-back week once in a while. So his weekend, I tok a step-back weekend. It wasn't a deliberate, mulled-over decision. I got up on Saturday morning intending to run the 20. Then I just allowed myself to be sucked into the DIY vortex, and before I knew it I was digging oer the vegetable patch and then digging up and levelling a patch of ground ready to lay some slabs for the base of a shed. The task was godawful, but unusually for me, I almost enjoyed it. Perhaps I was feeling fitter. As the afternoon drained away i knew I wouldn't do the long run, but I did down tools at about 5 o'clock and shoot out for a rapid 7 miles which left me aching blissfully and in just the rigt mood for a few pints of Good Old Boy, a fine ale from West Berks Brewery, and a Chinese takeaway. Sunday I had to continue my labours in the garden, and this time no run emerged. When the sun went down I retired to the kitchen to cook and to enjoy the first of several glasses of a decent Rioja I'd brought back from Almeria. Today was my scheduled rest day, and anyway I was too tired and hungover to run. This evening I checked my figures and found something interesting. In January I ran an average of 3.677 miles per day. In February it was 3.678. One thousandth of a mile per day more. This was quite unintentional, but it does seem to point to a bit of consistency. Tomorrow is the first of March, and I need to get the month off to a flying start.
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