Tuesday 6 May 2008

The Cliff edge

The trouble with a lost weekend is that the ripples of loss extend way beyond its apparent temporal bounds. At the time of reckoning, you find it's a lost week. Mine finished two days ago, but I can still sense it.

And along with mere time, plenty more gets swept out to sea: momentum, fascination, appetite, engagement. Plans and good intentions. There wasn't a whole lot of rediscovered fitness, but what there was, went. The only thing gained was around 5 pounds of pure lard. The sort that drips from takeaway curries, late-night cheese and biscuits, pizza, ice cream, bacon sandwiches, chocolate, crisps and peanuts, beer and wine.

But you know me, I like to look on the positive side of things. So I'm regarding those four days as part of the experiment. Perhaps the part that proves just how dangerous booze can be. If it's a lesson learned, I can be happy with it.

Two weeks of healthy living: abstinence from alcohol; good nutritional grub; exercise; pre-midnight bedtimes; and I felt more alive than I have done in months. I rediscovered my appetite for running and writing and reading and living. Crikey, I even cut the grass and dug a few holes in the garden without it having to be 'suggested' to me. Then Thursday came.

M had been away at her folks. I hadn't had a conversation with anyone in two days, and was beginning to get stir crazy. There was a European football semi-final on the telly, and a pub over the road that would be showing it. Hey come on fellas, surely a couple of beers, and an hour or two of inane soccer chat would do more good than harm?

Only three beers -- hardly excessive. I had to work the next day, after all. But I just had to chomp on some crisps and peanuts, and after a fortnight of holiness, I emerged into the night sensing a new devilishness in the air. The breach, albeit small, had been made. Next evening was Friday, and a holiday weekend. Aw, why not? Bang! Indian takeaway with all the fat-laden accessories, bottle of wine. Ice cream.

Saturday, I had a call from a mate about meeting up for 'a couple of pints'. Hmm. Hard to have just a couple of pints of that legendary West Berkshire brew, Good Old Boy, so often recommended in these pages. And Sunday was football day, and a trip to Loftus Road. At a time of low resistance, there was little chance of avoiding the habit carved so deep by so many years. Beer and football, and Chubby's Famous Giant Cheeseburger. And once I'd got home? Well, with a bank holiday the next day... was it such a sin to crack open a bottle of decent claret to lubricate that wedge of unctuous Dolcelatte, and that half brick of richly flavoured, mature farmhouse Cheddar?

And here, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have the crime laid out before us, like a patient etherised upon a table. Four days of delicious, filthy pleasure.

Then yesterday, the bill arrived.

I lay in bed for a while, nursing my reinflated midriff and shrunken ego. And I realised that I'm losing my love affair with beer. It's not that I drink excessively by the standards of a lot of people I know, and have known. But it's all the baggage that comes with it: the junk food, the apathy, the collapse in morale; the drawing down of the blinds on the world outside. Life becomes an altogether more internalised experience. The last couple of weeks, before the weekend, were a reminder of how fresh and vital the world can be. Inexplicably, I'd kinda forgotten.

A few sentences ago, I wrote: "Four days of delicious, filthy pleasure." I hesitated as I typed those words, because it struck me then, that perhaps there is no longer that much pleasure in it. Or not usually.

Trouble is, I have an idealised vision of perfect drinking joy. In my imagination, I am visiting an old country pub on a winter's day, at the end of a walk. The evocative sounds: creaking hand-pumps; the burble of friends in happy conversation; the deep clurruck of pint glass on mahogany bar; the crackle of the wood fire, and the glow it transmits to the nutty-red liquid. Or change the scene: here I am, swooning over the rich, multi-layered scents in a fine red Bordeaux -- leather and blackcurrant and farmyard and tobacco -- and sharing the joy in the company of good friends and fine food.

But how often do I manage to hit these high notes? Once or twice a year? Admit it. It's all an apparition. Those ads for Stella Artois that evoke ancient European tradition and brewing perfection? It's a damn lie. I had a pint of Stella last weekend, while waiting for my takeaway, and was struck by the essential soullessness of the product. It was little more than a big fizzy glass of cold water, with only the metallic bite of alcohol to give its existence the faintest raison d'etre. Why do we tolerate this? Why do we willingly pay £3.40 or so for a pint glass full of this joyless junk drink? What is the point of it?

It's not the first time I've thought this: that most of the time, when I have a drink, I engage not with genuine pleasure but with assumed pleasure. Until now, I've driven the idea away, because abstinence seemed an even duller option. But the last couple of weeks have made me reassess that. I found my inner Cliff Richard, and was shocked and embarrassed at how good it felt.

I don't like the idea of not drinking again, but I want to strip away some of the easy assumptions. As a habit, it's become tedious. Maybe it's an age thing. Even though only drinking a couple of evenings a week on average, I'm not sure that my Friday nights in the pub are as much fun as I think them to be; and more important, recovery takes longer than it used to. It would be good to restrict drinking to genuinely worthwhile occasions, instead of spectating as I ooze along the groove of routine.

It's probably clear, but I'll spell it out anyway to ensure I feel the full painful weight of the fact: I've done no running in the past week. It's a set-back, but not a defeat. The week hasn't been wasted; it was invested in some valuable experience, and I'll use it. I've consulted the doctor in me, and he's written the prescription: no alcohol for at least four weeks. Let's see where that gets me. Will I be screaming for relief, or with relief?

Stay tuned and find out.

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Sunday 11 May 2008

Always brightest before the dawn

The landscape may look kinda familiar. We've been here before.

I'm in that odd position of trying to rally the inner troops, while knowing that the last few battles have been lost. Boston, Dublin, Two Oceans... all had high-decibel fanfares, but all dwindled into ponderous bass horn finales. I sent out all the invitations but didn't turn up at the party.

But things are different this time. Oh yes.

I may have managed to crank up the determination and enthusiasm again but I'm still reluctant to seem too gung-ho. I'll offer just a few flakes of information:

I'm keen to run a marathon this year. I've entered Nottingham (September 14), largely because I go there a lot with my job, and am developing an affinity with the place. The usual 18-week training begins in two days time. Will I make it? Hard to say: I'm still working on basic fitness and weight loss, and it's unclear just how much progress I can make over what period, but if necessary I'll drop down to the Half in Nottingham, and aim instead for a later marathon. There are a couple of British Isles candidates, both of which I consider every year, and occasionally even enter, without (of course) actually getting there: Loch Ness on October 5, and Dublin three weeks later. There are also a variety of European races through October that I've previously looked at longingly from a distance: Berlin, Amsterdam, Venice...

So there's no shortage of possibilities. But at the moment, I'm heading for Nottingham.

It makes sense to sound a gentle note of caution. My head, as they say, is right, but the simple facts are these -- that I still can't run for more than four or five minutes without a walk break, and I'm 24 pounds heavier than I'd like to be when starting a marathon plan. Looking on the positive side, a couple of weeks ago I couldn't run for more than one minute without stopping, and I was 34 pounds heavier than the initial target. So progress is being made, and would have been made quicker if I hadn't dropped off the edge last week, and taken four days to climb back.

I squeezed myself back into the running groove two days ago, and have had a couple of outings since. Last night's run, at nine o'clock, was encouraging. I stuck to a strict pattern of 4 minutes jog, 1 minute walk, but for the first time since my resurrection, I was able to maintain this till the end of my four miles or so. And I even felt quite strong and confident at the end, which hasn't happened for a while.

More later. Now? Now, I mow the lawn to build up the stash of brownie points required to buy a peaceful few hours in front of the TV this afternoon, and a glut of football. The show begins at noon with one of the Championship play-off games, followed by a mildly interesting Celtic game, and then the main event. Last day of the Premier League season today, with Man Utd and the despicable Chelsea equal on points. At the other end of the table, three clubs struggle to be the one to avoid relegation. My hope is that Manchester United will win the league, and that Reading will be relegated. My fear is that.... but no, let's not invite disaster. Some may say I've done enough of that already in this entry.

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Sunday 18 May 2008

As a pasty-faced youth, I was handed down a chemistry set by a swotty cousin. It was never clear to me what I should do with this boxful of powders and vials, but that didn't stop me occasionally mixing up a few chemicals in arbitrary fashion, along with some water and usually, for some unknown reason, a splash of malt vinegar and a fistful of sugar. I suppose that vinegar was the most volatile liquid available to me at that age, and so became a key ingredient in my quest for a ceiling-busting explosion. These concoctions also gave me an insight into the art of the German wine maker, but this incidental benefit was lost on me until some years later, when I found myself lounging in the wine business for a while.

I'd forgotten all about these juvenile explorations until this week, when I rolled up at the Cockliffe Country House Hotel, in Arnold, Nottingham, and found the room had a... bouquet sharply evocative of those sunday afternoons in the garage. And surprisingly, it wasn't especially unpleasant. Maybe it was sweetened by the nostalgia.

I visit this city regularly but haven't had much luck with hotels in my price range. Those in the city centre can be noisy, and inconvenient for drivers. I'm never happy handing over my car keys to some grinning kid on a work experience programme. So I've started exploring the outer fringes, where the hotels are usually attached to green patches. This week's green patch was the 65 acre Burntstump Country Park. A good place to be at the start of a putative marathon campaign.

The dog-eared Hal Higdon Novice schedule was finally located last week beneath an alien spacecraft -- or was it an unused fondue set? -- at the back of the attic. Ah yes, here we are. Week 1 of 18. Three 3 milers, and a long weekend run of 6 miles. A long run of 6 miles...? Hmm. That's what it says.

But wait. There's been a major development in the world of Hal Higdon marathon plans. It seems he now has a Novice Schedule II, which has Week 1 as 3-5-3-8. This sounds more exciting, though this reaction is soon tempered by the reminder that I'm still chronically unfit. Best stick with the tried and tested for the moment.

So Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday saw me turn in my introductory 3 milers. None was elegant or easy but at least they can be added to my spreadsheet, and forgotten about. The first one saw me finally turn in three miles of continuous jogging, without a walk break. Runs 2 and 3 were in the Nottingham country park, and contained topographical features that I would call "hills". Others may describe them differently. But they were challenging enough for me to have to pause briefly.

I discovered something on these runs that everyone reading this already knows. Something I should know too. It was this -- that some music makes you run faster. Music while running is often discussed, or at least mentioned, in the forum, so of course I knew that listening to an MP3 player or radio is distracting and enjoyable. But what I listen to is just music for entertainment. After all, who could fail to be moved by Pete Seeger crooning "Casey Jones" to the accompaniment of a plaintive banjo? But at one point on the Wednesday run, just as I was about to take a rest after the third of the 'hills', the Kaiser Chiefs popped up with Everyday I love You Less And Less, and my physical shell sort of zoomed off a few yards ahead of where my cognitive being remained, taking a breather. I caught up with myself soon enough, and found that the song's rhythmical aggression continued to drive me forward, at a faster and more regular rate.

Next evening, I turned the shuffle off on my iPod, and instead chose a couple more Kaiser Chief songs, followed by some other rockers -- the Kinks, the Doors, Springsteen, that sort of thing. And had a broadly similar result. I say "broadly" because they seem to have to fit into a particular pattern that Everyday I love You Less And Less has. It doesn't muck about. Just drives you along.

With this in mind I put together a running playlist for this morning's 'long run' down the canal towpath. It started off well. Perhaps too well. The first three miles seemed easy and steady. Then? Well, rather embarrassing to admit, but it was something akin to 'hitting the wall' in a marathon. A sudden draining of energy, and I had to stop. Yes it was a warm and sunny day, and perhaps I really should have had something to eat earlier on to give me some energy reserves, but still -- three miles?

So perhaps the music had done its job too well this time. Maybe I over-reached myself, at a time when I'm still building some basic fitness. I did continue with a fitful jog-walk, and my watch tells me that I covered 7.58 miles, the longest jaunt since the Almeria 13K in January. But I know that this was actually a very poor attempt at a long run: just three good miles and four stop-start. Still. It's put a few miles of some sort into my legs, even if the quality wasn't perfect. After doing no running at all for months, then just 6 miles in each of last week and the one before, doing 17 this week has to be regarded as a step in the right direction. Looks like I'll have to think again about my approach to running music though.

Some better news. Weight. I've knocked off that first stone. 234 pounds when I restarted, just under a month ago, and now hovering around 220. And that period includes the extended lost weekend I wrote about recently, when I demolished most of my gains up to that point. I'd hit something that was starting to feel like a plateau until this past week, when the extra activity seems to have pushed me on again.

How have I managed it? Not by starvation: I seem to have been eating constantly for the past month. The main change has to be a lack of alcohol. Apart from that 4 day period over the bank holiday, I've kept away from the pub, and my wine rack has lain undisturbed. As frequently explained in these pages, this has a major effect on my weight, less for the intrinsic calories in booze (though these are real enough), but for all the junk food I find myself shovelling in at the same time. As a result, I've had no cheese and biscuits, no crisps/peanuts, and nothing sweet apart from tons of fruit. My current drink of choice is nothing more lethal than sugar-free orange squash.

I should try the little-and-often option with these entries. A stack of exciting news is awaiting expression, but I've run out of time. Here are some pictorial clues to what I intended discussing:

Perhaps next time.

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Monday 26 May 2008

One track mind

Having discovered the secret of eternal youth, I'm feeling pleased with myself.

Last entry, I mentioned my success in running with the Kaiser Chiefs. This led me to try putting together a playlist of music of a similar pace, in the hope of extending the effect. But I couldn't get it to work seamlessly enough. Then I remembered podrunner, a free service provided by DJ Steve Boyett. He mixes 60 minutes worth of beat-laden electronica into one continuous track but (and here's the clever bit) each chunk of music is the same pace from start to finish. Today I plugged myself into 'a churning urn of burning funk' -- a throbbing hour at 150 beats-per-minute (bpm) called Square One, followed by another at 152 bpm.

And it really worked. The first test was passed last Tuesday, with an unbroken 5 miles along the canal. Today I managed a barely-believable 9 miles around the rain-thrashed streets of suburban Reading, with just one brief walk-break after an hour or so to fiddle with my iPod and glug something wet and blackcurranty.

It's been a patchy week on the running front. Monday to Thursday was good, with no enforced run-walks at last. A 3.5 miler on Monday was followed next day by the aforementioned 5.15 canal miles. Then another 4 on Thursday to set me up for something indecently long at the weekend. But tragedy struck in the shape of a pint glass. Yes, my promised 4-week abstinence was truncated to 3. There's something about a holiday weekend that lures one into the pub, then drags you by the nose to the Chinese restaurant for a takeaway. Saturday was similarly written off.

The ship steadied itself again yesterday, but felt a shade too overladen to move from its cosy berth. Bad news. It meant three successive runless days, and the cardinal sin of no long run. The gurus preach that this is the one not to miss -- but I missed it. Feeling ashamed and dirty, I sloped off to bed last night, resolved to run longish today.

This morning I woke to the sound of heavy rain drumming on the roof and splashing against the window. Sheesh. Had I run long yesterday, this would have been a rest day, and I could have I lain there, smug as an over-endowed mongrel. Instead, I listened to the wind whistling beneath the eaves and thought: "Oh dear". Eventually I slipped out of bed and peered through the curtains. Before me, a typically grim spring bank holiday scene. I could see oceanic puddles forming on the pavement outside, and watched the fir trees along the main road bending in the wind. At least there would be no wintry chill to struggle against. I peered at the scene for a minute or so, until I suddenly realised there was no longer any dread. Instead, here was some kind of excitement at last.

I've been positive about running again recently, but it's a long time since I reminded myself that running affords a pleasure that must be earned. Twenty minutes later, I was starting my shift.

The run was never fast, but it was tough enough. I eschewed the canal towpath this time and went for a road run that I'd found on MapMyRun. I wanted to try a new route, and this seemed as good as any at around the 8 mile mark -- my target. I'd run on many of these roads before with the local running club, but had never stitched them together quite like this.

The route was interestingly unremarkable. The first two or three miles had me tracing the A4 into Reading -- a cheerless stretch of road, only tolerable when you're strapped into your MP3 player, with a high decibel disco mix pumping fitness propaganda into your brain. Not everyone will find the thought appealing, but try it and see. The mesmerising throb becomes strangely compelling after a short while, and it really does help to keep your feet moving. Indeed, I was in danger of entering some sort of profound trance-like state, but fortunately a souped-up Ford Fiesta filled with jeering chavs made a detour through a major puddle to ensure that I received a tsunami of gritty rainwater. Oh how we laughed.

The truth is that it was raining so heavily, I barely noticed the drenching.

The deluge continued as I turned into the road fringing Prospect Park. Shortly afterwards, I came up behind a couple standing at the rim of a pavement puddle, as though uncertain how, or if, to proceed. I called out a greeting and ploughed through the water, reminding myself of just how liberating and life-simplifying this whole running business can be. For an hour you are king of your own universe; and its legislature, allowed to shed rules and social norms that would only obstruct and inhibit you.

Around this point I came across the first modest hill, and briefly considered walking. I resolutely crushed and ejected the thought, resolving not to stop until the first hour of bone-quaking noise had expired. Then a second hill appeared, a little steeper than the first, but I kept the rhythm going and pressed on.

At last, there was no more pulsating electronica, and I was able to rediscover walking. My drink was in a foolishly non-resealable pack, so I had to drink it all, inflating my stomach to a state bordering on the non-viable. What to do? Would I ever run again? Only one thing for it -- prod the iPod. Bring on the next hour of medicine and get going. Which I did, chugging on for another 4 miles without a pause.

Just over the 9 mile mark I turned off my watch and drifted to a halt, delicately doing a few calf stretches against a pillar box while an elderly lady stared open-mouth at me, clearly thinking I was trying to push it over. I completed my homeward journey with a warm-down walk, listening to a couple of Clannad tracks to add to the floaty sensation.

I'm genuinely astonished at the power of the podrunner tracks, though they pose two disconcerting questions: 1) How long can I continue to listen to this stuff without suffering a cataclysmic mental breakdown? and 2) Is it not some form of performance-enhancing drug? For training purposes, I don't suppose it matters, but I wonder if this partly explains why some people get so panicky when the subject of banning MP3 players in races comes up? Is this what some people are listening to when they race, and have they become dependent on it as a performance aid?

Whatever the answers may be, I'm happy to have discovered another weapon to help with the struggle. It's not a remedy for everyone, but a desperate man like me won't ask too many questions. The bottom line is that I ran 9.1 continuous miles through a filthy torrent, and it feels good.

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