These entries first appeared in the abortive TypePad blog.

Saturday 1 September 2007

Running.

Remember that?

It's not been a great summer, in more ways than one. Inexplicable. It started off in handsome fashion, with a perfectly reasonable spell of pre-marathon-training-training. In the weeks leading up to the end of June, I was slapping those streets around three times a week, building up a decent head of steam for the 18 weeks of focused, planned, disciplined plodding that would edge me ever-closer to my marathon PB in Dublin at the end of October.

The culmination of the preparation was perfect. The first week of the 18 ended on my birthday, with a very florid-faced 10K PB at Dorney in the company of Sweder, Moyleman and Nigel, all of this parish. Race over, we retired for a few hours of civilised rehydration at the Watermans Arms in Eton. Or at least I did, along with a collection of others non-drivers.

What a splendid launching pad for an athletic summer. That was the idea, but it hasn't happened. Not even any decent excuses. There was one Monday when I woke with a nasty pain in my left knee which persisted for a few days. And a spot man-flu came visiting on another week, but nothing too bad.

I simply haven't felt like it. I haven't fancied it. No better reason than that.

Motivation is the key to this game, but sometimes I feel it draining out of me -- at roughly the same rate as West Berks Brewery's excellent hoppy bitter, Good Old Boy is being poured in at the other end.

It's always been an obstacle for me, but I really thought that this year I had it cracked. I hadn't.

But if one of the worst things about this cliff-edge pursuit is the knowledge that the good intentions you rely on can crumble quite unexpectedly and throw you onto the rocks far below, then one of the very best (having experienced this a number of times) is the knowledge that it's not so hard to clamber back up again.

I'll drag out this tortured metaphor a little longer by reporting that I'm still reclining down here, peering upwards, trying to fashion a strategy from nothing but a fear of total humiliation -- which is actually a pretty good raw material, it has to be said.

Its damage-limitation time. On my calendar are these races:

Windsor Half Marathon -- Sept 30
Dublin Marathon -- Oct 29
Brighton 10K -- Nov 20 (?)
Almeria Half Marathon -- end of Jan 08
Boston Marathon -- April 08

One month to a half marathon, two months to the fully monty. I've got some chance of making it to Windsor, much more so than making it to the Dublin finish. But let's see. To make things more complicated, there are two weeks of exotic holiday to squeeze in somewhere. (More of that soon.) I've said all along that Boston is the big target, but I don't want to slip too easily into assumptions about wimping out of Dublin. The stats are grim though: 10 runs in July and a grand total of... 3 in August. Same old story: too much beer and ice cream.

The good news is that I've moved the site over here to a TypePad blog. Various good reasons for it, mentioned elsewhere, but one of them is to shame myself into getting out there again.

When I don't run, I don't write. When I don't run I don't feel quite as positive. Running makes things more effortless, and creates an appetite and an enthusiasm that gets things done. It's the silver bullet, and that's why it's time to get going again.

I'm waddling around with 12 pounds of lard hanging off my torso that wasn't there just 2 or 3 weeks ago. It's time to shake it off. Tomorrow, I'm outta here.

First day of the month. A good day to start recreating yourself.

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Sunday 2 September 2007

select runner_name from race_entries re, races r
where re.race_id = r.race_id
and r.name = "Reading O2O 10K"
and re.runner_desc = "fat bloke"

Imagine the horror when my name popped up.

When fessing up my race calendar yesterday, I didn't fess quite hard enough. There was the little matter of the O2O 10K, scheduled for 9 o'clock this morning.

A particularly painful moment in the 2004 Copenhagen Marathon (which is like saying "a particularly wet moment while swimming the English Channel") came at around the 20 mile mark. Now the 20 mile mark of a marathon is painful enough, but it was around then that we ran past the Carlsberg brewery, followed by a series of lakeside drinkeries, outside which hundreds of grinning Danes raised their foaming, golden,ice-cold glasses at us as we struggled past, scarlet-faced and throats like sandpaper. I've hated Carlsberg ever since.

But they do make good TV ads. Carlsberg don't organise 10K races, but if they did, I suspect they'd produce something similar to the Reading O2O 10K. This race employs a secret ingredient that isn't a secret once you learn what the O in O2O stands for. All you do is get it organised and sponsored by one of the wealthiest corporations in the universe.

Apart from the actual running involved, this was a very enjoyable experience. Those 6.21 sweaty miles in the middle spoilt it a bit.

I was pretty scared by the prospect, if I'm honest. 10K is nothing to a hardened pounder like me, but after my recent... inconsistency, I drove over to the Thames Valley Business Park in East Reading, with some nervousness. I did try geeing myself up on the journey. To use the reassuring words of a seasoned decorator, called in to repair some damaged wallpaper: "Everything is recoverable". (Crikey, why was I not too embarrassed to type those words?)

I'm not even sure that it's true. But it's almost true, and that's good enough even if it's not quite so snappily inspiring: "Most things are recoverable -- up to a point, like."

The glittering organisation was apparent within a kilometre of the venue, with professionally produced roadsigns, and an advance platoon of the regiment of marshals out there today, all kitted out in smart royal blue teeshirts replete with the race name on the front and SUPPORT STAFF on the back. There were swarms of them all over the course and at the start/finish -- pointing, clapping, proffering opened water bottles, shouting encouragement, and all the while, mentally drafting fiendishly complex, nested SQL queries ready for Monday morning.

The roadsigns and grinning marshals multiplied as I neared the car park entrance, and there was no let-up once through the gates. As I parked, I could hear some sort of regimental sergeant-major bellowing commands -- though I later found this to be just the aerobics instructor warming up the masses.

Jogging the hundred yards or so to the start was quite a struggle. This wasn't a good sign. I met up with a few members of my running club, and had to explain why I wasn't wearing the club singlet today: I didn't want to bring shame on them. They looked at me quizzically, as if to say: "Well it's a bit late to be thinking that, isn't it?"

I have to be a bit careful when talking about the club. They got a bit sensitive about a jokey remark I made on the old RunningCommentary once. They haven't really twigged that I operate on a faintly whimsical plane. I'd better spell it out: The previous paragraph is a total lie, pretty much like everything I write. No one else has ever complained...

I tried to have a pee in bush, but couldn't even manage to do that. Things were not looking good.

The hooter hooted, the runners ran, the sun shone.

The race was nowhere near as bad as I feared. I set off with only one objective: to get round -- despite being pretty round already. Ho ho. After an inert August, 6.2 miles would do me very nicely, thanks. Not a day for attempted PBs. Very much a jog; a training run.

And that's what it was. A 5 mile jog, a two minute walk, then another jog for a mile, all punctuated with brief meetings with plump ladies, panting for England. A nice bunch of runners, it should be said. Full of chat and encouragement. Several I spoke to were doing their first or second race, and it reminded me that 10K really is quite a big deal for most people. It also prompted the thought that for me, and I suspect a lot of these people, running isn't really about running at all, but something more nebulous.

To many runners, it will sound a bit too worthy to talk about challenging oneself. It's a 10K, not an ultra-marathon. But you could tell from some of the entrants today that it was a pretty formidable task. I don't have such a good excuse, being a relative veteran these days, but one who is let down by athletic inertia and fluctuating motivation: a negative side-effect of living in a village containing 6 pubs. But perhaps this will be the fillip I need.

At last, the finish appeared through the trees. The squeal of the chip mat said it all.

Collected the superb medal, good quality shoe bag, drink bottle, banana, muesli bar... blimey, this was a goody bag approaching the legendary Almeria Half Marathon quality, though no UK race will ever come close to the value of that excellent race.

That's it. A good first step on the long haul back.

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Wednesday 5 September 2007

Of all the excuses for not running, "I'm too busy" seems the least convincing. It's when things are at their most chaotic that an hour of solitude is worth most.

Solitude isn't the same as loneliness, and isn't the same as isolation. For me, it's a time of peaceful, almost meditative disconnection from the chaos of everyday life.

Maybe it's not a time at all, but something more akin to a place. Running is another country, a self-defined territory with a population of one -- or one thousand. It's up to you. It's a state all on its own: a state of mind, and you are the sovereign. King and slave handcuffed; panting escapees from the asylum. It's your world.

You don't have to be physically alone to experience this liberating state. It still works when you run with others. Even while you're talking to them. I can't call it an imaginary world, because it's real enough. Just not physical. It's a portable, metaphysical universe. When you're done with it, you can scrunch it up and push it into your running shoes, ready for the next time out.

Just a short plod with the local running club to report. Only 3.5 miles, but hilly and testing. I needed the break, and benefited from it. Things are crazy at the moment. Popping out for a run was like taking a brief holiday from the madness of the day.

Phew.

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Monday 10 September 2007

At 6:30 this morning, Tokyo was humid and bright, and about as exciting as a city can reasonably hope to be. The hotel receptionist, the concierge, and the line of expectant porters had been too polite to notice my ridiculous appearance as I strode past them. Instead, we all bowed to each other, and said nothing.

It was the same outside. On the elevated glass walkways that link the Park Hotel with Shimbasi Station, not one of the suit-and-tied salarymen on the way to the office gave me a second glance. Exercise is de rigeur. I like that.

My GPS watch wasn't so keen, however, and didn't kick in until a couple of concrete miles had slipped by. Annoyingly, it finally found a satellite just as I vanished inside the huge covered fish market, one of Tokyo's great sights. I've not seen more chaos in a confined space since I last stared, bug-eyed, at the antics of the QPR defence. Unlike the fine men in hoops however, I got the impression that these guys really did know what the plan was, and what seemed like chaos was actually determination, slick efficiency, and a keen work ethic.

We'd noticed it from the moment we stepped outside the airport terminal at Narita, and went to find the limousine bus to take us into the city. A large group of brown-uniformed bus company operatives busied themselves with an enthusiasm never seen in the UK. As the buses came in, these guys (and women) literally sprinted up and down the line to get there first, all for the honour of being able to do the most dragging and loading of cases. All was done with a minimum of gesturing and visible organising. People knew what to do and they did it. As our bus pulled away from the kerb, a line of them bowed deeply -- as though taking a deserved curtain call.

Another courtesy ambush awaited us at the hotel, where we were surprised to find the reception on the 25th floor, and our room six floors above that. The view over the city reminded us of Chicago, where we were even higher up than this. Our first view elevated glimpse of Tokyo was at night, with the darkness adding to the drama. Peering down through the avenue of skyscrapers into the illuminated heart of the city was like a scene out of Bladerunner.

We were knackered (and are still, two days later) but it was impossible not to go out for a late night wander. The restaurants were all closed, but down by Shimbasi Station, a major intersection, there were hundreds of tiny, neon-lit noodle bars, most containing one or two stray Nighthawks, or other, more showily attired human remains: evident leftovers from drunken nights out. Stopping off at the noodle bar seems to be the equivalent of grabbing a kebab on the way home from the pub in cities at home.

We gradually worked out the system for acquiring food. You have to pre-pay at machines outside, making your necessarily rather arbitrary selection from a series of grainy, indistinct snaps of the dish's highlights. You present the resulting ticket to the counter staff inside, and find somewhere to sit. A few minutes later, the meal arrives.

It was quite exciting, not being entirely sure what would be landing in front of us. As it happens, we were fortunate. My noodle soup had a scattering of angry red chilli across the surface, while M's version had a more benign mushroomy tone. This is entirely how things should be.

I was sorely tempted to escort M back to the hotel then jump in a cab to some Irish bar somewhere to watch the England v Israel game with, I suspect, a raucous gang of Brits. (The idea of an Irish bar being full of ex-pats always raises a smile.)

But my lifelong Moriarty, common sense, got the better of me on this occasion, and I was forced to resist the temptation. My suspicion, that an England without Frank Lampard might be a side worth watching, seems to have been borne out by the reports I later read and heard via the blessed BBC.

Instead, I returned to the hotel room and settled down to watch Australia play Japan in the Rugby World Cup. Perhaps it was something to do with the country in which I found myself, but I felt certain that Japan would pull off a shock victory. But alas, jet lag was the only victor, and just as the match began, I fell into a profound slumber where my vivid dreams confirmed Japan's superiority over the fumbling antipodeans.

It wasn't the only sporting shock to rattle Japan recently. I can reveal the news, just in, of a major upset in the Sumo finals currently being staged in the capital. Direct from the news ticker outside the building in which I write, and spied as I returned from this morning's casual run: "Hakuho falls to Ama in shock on 1st day of autumn sumo. Mongolian grand champ Hakuho dumped at the hands of countryman Ama."

Yesterday was spent wandering around Rippongi, a rather grotesquely swish shopping development, seeking a suitable means of honouring M's 50th on Tuesday. Surrounded by smart designer boutiques and grand purveyors of leather trinkets, she is in her element. And while this necessary-evil aspect of the trip was always going to be slightly exasperating, I have to say that in a quite different way, I'm also in mine.

Like the sign outside one department store: "All pets must be carried by hand, or in carrier bags."

Lost in Translation perhaps, but all a bit of a laugh, and with plenty more to come.

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Wednesday 12 September 2007

I'm tapping this out on the Shinkansen Express, otherwise known as the bullet train, from Tokyo to its anagrammatical cousin in the west, Kyoto. Hard not to marvel at technology at any time, but Japan rises above all previous gasp marks by reaching into areas previously considered not just untouched by modern technology, but untouchable. Like lavatories.

Sitting on the loo in the Tokyo hotel room was something akin to being strapped into the cockpit of a Formula One racing car. As you place your weight on the seat it instantly starts its low, comforting throb, and warms up. A cold arse in Tokyo is now as unthinkable as a modern office without climate-control. The control panel (yes, the toilet seat control panel) lights up, invitingly. A red LED flashes. You can shower your bottom over a wide range of intensities, temperatures, durations. Or I can go for traditional bidet sprinkling. Or I can choose from a menu of operations I daren't investigate.

It's just one of the many pieces of evidence m'lud, and here I rest my case.

Ten thousand years ago, the unwitnessed flutter of a butterfly in some dank primordial forest, launched the Japanese onto an evolutionary orbit that very, very nearly coincides with mine -- but doesn't quite. It's OK though. They are delightfully nuts, and I like them.

Like most boys of my post-war generation, I grew up with the idea, gleaned from the comics of the day, that 'the Japs' were all murderous sadists, ready to disembowel you at a moment's notice. The irony of this prejudice, which may or may not have been ankle-deep in fact at some point (and let's face it, the Burmese railway didn't get there by magic), is that there's virtually no crime in Japan these days -- notwithstanding a couple of high profile murders of English girls in recent years. Apparently umbrella theft is on the increase, and giving the authorities some cause for concern. But that's about the best they can do. Pah!

I'm impressed by the seeming lack of CCTV here, and the absence of excessive security. The other night, arriving back at the hotel after midnight, we entered the building via the third floor elevated walkway. We walked through three sets of automatic doors before finding that the lift didn't operate from this floor after 12 o'clock. So we had to retrace our steps, back through the dark glass corridors and across the impressive chrome and glass mezzanine, past all the huge, framed photographs that are part of a current exhibition, then down some steps into the main lobby of the huge office building (the Shiodome Media Tower), and out through the entrance to the street, from where we could walk round the corner and into the main hotel entrance. And all of this without seeing any security guards or CCTV. Unthinkable in the UK, where a city-centre location like this would soon be filled with pissed-up kids shagging, and spraying the walls with vomit and graffiti.

It's always surprising how quickly and easily one falls into coping mode in unfamiliar environments. Even here, where I thought it would take much longer than it has done. I hadn't been looking forward to our trip across the city to link up with this train, as it involved switching two train lines operated by different companies, and bureaucracy: exchanging our vouchers for rail passes, and reserving particular seats on a particular train. But it was a breeze, despite the language cul de sacs. We may do things in different ways, but the desires remain the same. So it takes only a little imagination and a willingness to understand, to clear the fog. The difficulty for me is not in understanding the Japanese, but understanding the mentality of the foreigners (particularly Americans, it must be said) who constantly complain about people who don't speak English in their own countries, or not in sufficient detail to cater for all their needs. The answer's simple to me. If you don't think they speak enough English, then speak to them in Japanese.

My own Japanese isn't that extensive: sodoku... origami... karaoke... teriyaki... er... alligator...

Alligator? An aide-memoire for arigato, or thank you. It's a word I unaccountably struggle to remember, around a thousand times a day. This logoamnesia is highly inconvenient, as the word has become something of a linguistic Swiss army knife for me. The way I use it, it means hello, excuse me, please, and even: "Is there coriander in this because if there is, my wife will be a bad mood for the rest of the evening?" -- as well as pretty much everything else. I just wish I could remember it instantly. If I've not cracked it by the end of the week, I'll have to postpone my "Learn to say Goodbye" campaign, due to begin at the weekend.

I've not managed to run since the previous early morning trot. There really hasn't been the chance. We've been ravaged by jet lag, though last night's sleep was finally more successful. It's weird to feel normal again.

I'm hoping Kyoto will offer up more opportunity to that athlete buried deep inside me.

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Monday 17 September 2007

Today is Respect For The Aged Day in Japan, so cut me a bit of slack, please.

This is going to be brief, as I've resolved not to spend too much time in front of a computer on this holiday. I've got 30 minutes before my rendezvous with M, so here goes.

First a couple of lip-service running notes. The Windsor Half (Sept 30) has been cancelled due to the royal park being shut -- a foot and mouth casualty. I'm secretly pleased. Damn, I've gone and admitted it in public...

I may as well state the obvious. I can feel my cheeks reddening as I type this, but it has to be done. Dublin looks extremely unlikely now. I was hoping to get a few decent runs in in Japan but the temperature's in the 90s (around 34/35 Celsius I think), and extremely humid. Impossible. For me, anyway. It was pretty much my last hope to prepare for a late-October marathon. I may just have to start again. I feel bad about it, but that's life. I'd rather focus on what I can learn from this rather than beat myself up too much. Maybe I should just accept that summer running isn't for me -- and therefore, autumn marathons aren't for me. So, barring a miracle, no Dublin for me. I've been down this humiliating route before, at least twice, and here I am again. Sorry guys, but there we are. I hate typing those words -- yet again.

At least when I get back to the UK I should be greeted with the sort of perfect running weather you get in autumn and spring. If that doesn't work, nothing will.

We're having a great time in Japan. What a country this is. It isn't the cheapest holiday out there, but it's been fascinating and nearly all fun from start to finish. I'll write something a little more considered later, or when I return, but just to fill in a few blanks:

Spent 4 days in Tokyo, mooching round the shops and visiting a few of the main tourist sites. Tokyo Tower, the Imperial Palace, a couple of Shinto shrines and a temple or two. At Meji Shrine, I was moved by the custom of noting your prayers on a slice of wood, and hanging it alongside those of others. Made me think about the global community, and how we all yearn for the same things. Uncharacteristically for me, I was deeply affected by the spirituality of the place. It made me focus on the things that deep down, really matter to me, and I felt compelled to add my own fervent prayer. (See pic.)

Then onto Kyoto via the Bullet Train, where we've been based for the past 5 or 6 days. Another fine city, filled with antiquities -- including ourselves. Again, we've shamelessly played the tourist, which after all, is what we are. Crossed off the main sights, and managed to squeeze in some traditional Japanese theatre which is something of an acquired taste, I'd say. Not one I've yet acquired, anyway. Highlight of that day was geisha-spotting in the backstreets around the town centre. Extraordinary-looking women who emerge at night and flutter down the street to their place of work. I was one of the many who assumed that geishas were little more than high class call girls. Not at all, it seems. They entertain men by merely singing, dancing, playing musical instruments and reciting poetry. (It says here...)

Managed to squeeze in a trip to Tadg's Irish bar to see (according to the chalkboard outside) the "All Bracks" play Portugal. The English football was on just a bit too late for an early bird like me (though back in the hotel room I did enjoy Chelsea's humiliating draw with Blackburn).

The last three days have seen us outside the city, making use of our Japan Rail passes: one of the great bargains available to the traveller here.

-- A day in Himeji to look round the spectacular castle, stopping off at Kobe on the way home for a plateful of their celebrated beef.

-- Today, Nara, the ancient capital of Japan. Interesting, but we're templed-out now.

-- Yesterday, Hiroshima. This was significantly more affecting than anything I've seen on this trip so far, and I'd like to take more time before writing about it.

Whoever it was who said "travel broadens the mind", was on to something.

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Sunday, 30 September 2007

I was lying in bed this morning, later than usual, listening to the 5 Live sports programme hosted by Gary Richardson. There's something admirable about the way this grinning rotweiller elicits information from the unsuspecting.

His line-up today included the insufferable GIles Clarke, who's just been elected chairman of the England and Wales Cricket Board. This ghastly fellow used to be one of my bosses when I worked in the wine business. He tried to get me sacked once for "fomenting rebellion on the shop floor", after I'd organised a round robin letter, complaining about having our usual Christmas break reduced. I could tell a few tales about this man, but of course I'm far too ethical for that. While sober.

But it was another guest I wanted to mention -- Paula Radcliffe. Despite writing one of the dullest books of all time, she remains a hero to me. Olympic glory looks destined to remain beyond her grasp, but the series of heroic, record-breaking big city marathons she ran through the early part of this decade, are enduring memories.

I have a particular affection for the gal. We ran the London Marathon together in 2002, as well as Chicago in October of that year. She then popped up at the Great North Run in 2003, the year I made it up there. By this time we were virtually on speaking terms. Indeed, I did once meet her briefly, at the Chicago Marathon post-race shindig. She looked as radiant as anyone who'd smashed the marathon world record just a few hours earlier would, and was in a sufficiently good mood to shake my hand and grin at me as I effusively congratulated her on behalf of a grateful British nation.

As a result, I've always had a Radcliffe spot that's a little softer, I suspect, than most people's Radcliffe spot. So anyway, when that delicate, little-girlish home counties' accent appeared this morning, I took note, and tugged the duvet away from my left ear.

She's returned to the running community after nearly two years, so we have even more in common than I first thought. Her excuse -- having a baby -- is arguably better than mine -- having an attack of midlife inertia. Today she runs again in the Great North, and spoke of her excitement at getting back to road running. It was enough to force me out of bed, pull on my running gear and pop out for a modest 3.5 miles.

Such a paltry distance, particularly on a weekend, is nothing to feel elated about, but it's a start. And it's a start that I need. I've run just once in three weeks, and it's time to get cranked up again. It wasn't a great outing, but I expected that. Slightly more worrying is the left ankle twinge I've had since returning, but I'll assume that was just a lazy summer's farewell jibe.

Running has many reasons. I get a bit race-centric on this website sometimes. And yes, Boston, Almeria, Brighton, and Reading are all stageposts I have to prepare for, and reach. But there are plenty more enrichments available, and I need a couple right now. Most pressingly, I start a new job tomorrow, and need to relearn the art of thinking. It's not something I've had much cause to do over the past year or so. A run each morning is like a Popeye can of spinach. It's the miracle pill... the silver bullet... the fabled boot up the arse that sends you on your way, eyes blazing like torches. I need to get those daily headfuls of fresh ideas back.

Running is where you get 'em.

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