Sunday 8 February 2009

Yesterday was a bad day. Maybe I was slightly hungover, which wouldn't have helped, but I felt strangely isolated. I say "strangely" because I'm pretty self-sufficient. As long as I have a computer or a book, and access to a fine wine cellar, I'm perfectly happy with my own company. But yesterday it sort of crowded in on me there for a while.

Work is relentlessly worrying. It's become 7-days a week, and will be until the end of the financial year at the start of April. In addition, the last time I ran was a week ago, and I've lapsed into comfort-eating. I've started doing the strangest things, like returning from the pub on Friday evening, and immediately setting about cooking myself a chicken Madras. It was the best curry I've had in months, but I shouldn't be eating 1200-calorie meals at midnight on top of several pints of fine English ale. I'm supposed to be dwindling towards a lissome athlete in time for April 20, but I seem to be having an extended Pete Tong moment.

To compound the sense of loneliness, M has gone away to her folks for the weekend, and my favourite pub in the village has just shut. As in forever. The Crown was actually a rather grotty boozer, but it stocked West Berkshire Brewery's fine Good Old Boy bitter. Most Friday nights, I would meet up with my CAMRA mate, Russ, to sup a few GOBs while we diagnosed the world's problems, and hammered out ideal solutions. The trouble was, I could rarely recall our conclusions. Or worse, remembered them, but had no idea what itch they were designed to scratch.

We knew that the existing landlord, Graham, was finishing on Friday, and were told that the new people would arrive the following day. But on Friday we learnt that the new people had pulled out, leaving no one to look after the shop. So it's gone dark; just the latest example of a blight that is closing 40 pubs a week in the UK. It's a contraction that will have far-reaching social consequences, yet it goes largely unmentioned. Perhaps in a turbulent sea of disastrous economic news, this trend is seen as just an insignificant bit of flotsam. Or perhaps the news machines feel powerless to stop it. Pubs have been in decline for a few years, since supermarket booze got so cheap. And the smoking ban, which I welcomed, hasn't helped. There was a noticeable instant drop in pub attendances after the ban came in, and they seem not to have recovered.

But wait while I... ooofff!..... clamber off this soapbox. There are other pubs in the village, but the closure of this one does feel like the loss of a friend -- and it may well amount to that literally, as Russ is not likely to come over this way for the more commonplace beers available in the other drinkeries. I won't suffer too much on that front. I will be happy enough with the London Pride available at a couple of places, or the St Austell Tribute Ale at the Red Lion. Not as good as GOB though, nor as cheap.

Another reason for my gloom (not to mention the general subduedness in the wake of my mother's demise) is the lack of running this week. Last Sunday, I managed a steady 12 miles on what seemed to be the coldest day of the winter by some distance. It was the same morning of the Almeria Half, which I should have been running. I even set off at the precise moment that Almeria was due to start — 9 a.m. (10 in Spain), though i wasn't to know that there was a characteristic Spanish bodge which resulted in the entire field running more than a mile before the race had to be called back and restarted, an hour later. It seems that the lead runners had taken the wrong route. That was an exciting new variation on a theme. Last year I entered the 10K, but someone had forgotten to erect any direction signs, so the 10K entrants ended up doing 13K. Quite funny really.

So anyway, I trotted 12 miles on they greyest, iciest, most hostile running day in years, my head filled with the vision of my mother's corpse from the day before. We don't often see dead people, and it's always a salutary experience. It was strange how you instantly sense that they are no longer there, even though look pretty much the same. I'm charged with delivering a eulogy at the funeral, so I was able to think of a few ideas.

I headed off down the canal, coming off after 3 miles or so to follow the hilly back lanes I've mentioned previously. It was the first time I'd done the hills since my injury at Christmas, and it was far from comfortable. In fact, it was a failure. I didn't seem to have the energy — mental or physical — to tackle them. After struggling up the first at a semi-plod, I pretty much walked up the others.

After 6 miles or so, back on the straight and narrow for a mile, a car stopped alongside me, and a harassed looking woman of about my age leaned through the window. She was lost, and close to tears. Remarkably, she went into a rant about her 93 year old father, and how she had to drive up from London each weekend to see him, and he had no quality of life, and it was doing her head in because she had so much work to do, and although he had carers attending to him, she was struggling to cope with the situation, and her mother had died 10 years earlier, and really it would be better for all concerned if the end would come for him, and is there a back road to Pangbourne as the police had closed the A340......

Easy to parody her, but I felt sympathy. I don't think she was being unreasonable or selfish. She was stressed out. It made me think that it was actually not a bad thing that my mum had gone when she did, after a short but difficult illness. She could quite easily have lingered on for years, unable to walk or do anything constructive, totally dependent on others, and becoming incoherent and miserable. It's no fun for anyone.

When I got home, I found my wife running up the drive to meet me, with a medal to put round my neck, an Almeria teeshirt, and a goody bag containing chocolate, a pen, and a couple of tomatoes. A very sweet thought.

On Monday we woke to find a dense layer of snow over our world. Around 6 inches fell in the south-east. It won't sound much to some, but it was apparently the heaviest snowfall in 18 years, and managed to paralyse London and most of the region. Many people gave up too easily, and used it as an excuse for a day off work. Despite the elements, I set off at about 10 to drive to my dad's place in London, and had no trouble at all until I reached his small side road, when I found my wheels spinning a little as I parked. The major roads were gritted but empty of traffic, making it actually quite a pleasant drive.

Plenty of sombre family business to discuss, and a visit to the funeral directors to undertake...

It was a new experience for me. We were assisted by a middle-aged cockney lady with a chemical blonde, bouffant hairstyle and a gravelly, 40-a-day, voice which seemed overwhelmingly appropriate. She knew her stuff, and in these situations, you need people who know their stuff. Like how to arrange the transportation of a body to Ireland. There are legal hoops a plenty, and this lady helped us jump through them.

The snow, which has hung around all week, became my excuse not to run. It was only today, Sunday, that the pavements have been clear enough to consider a jaunt. A week on from my last outing, and with that late-night curry on board, as well as a couple of fry-ups and a few pints of beer, I finally left the house again in my running shoes.

And what a beautiful day for it. The sun was out, and it was actually faintly warm. Uncold enough not to wear a jacket. I don't dare weigh myself, but I must have lumped on 10 pounds this week — and I felt it. The first two miles were horribly painful and lethargic. When I got to 3, I had found my stride a little better but still, there was no chance of a long run today. This was just a loosener; a reminder; a memo to self that I wasn't off the hook. I have a non-negotiable marathon to run in April, and I mustn't pretend that I don't.

Interesting times. Perhaps the lack of running contributed to the wave of misery I found myself surfing on yesterday. Certainly I felt in better spirits today, though work is still gnawing at me. It's like being tethered to a large rat. The more bites it takes, the larger and more powerful it becomes, while I diminish.

Must stop it somehow, or it will consume me. And then where will I be? But this is a project for the week after next, when this grim merry-go-round finally winds down.

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Sunday 15 February 2009

Back from Ireland. I am tempted to add blithely, "back to reality", but apart from being a useless cliché, I'm not sure it's true. Why is getting back to work, and sleeping in my own bed, any more 'real' than spending time with rarely-seen relatives, and burying my mother? The former activities are certainly more representative of normal life, but if anything are a kind of smokescreen behind which the big important things — death included — play out.

It's been a remarkable experience, but one that on the whole, went well. Our main fear the previous week was that the weather would impede us. We'd had heavy snow in the south-east, with airports being closed. Most of the family were travelling on a different flight from the coffin, so the worry was that the elements would conspire to stop one or both of us from getting to the church on time. I suppose the proceedings could have taken place even if the family wasn't there, but a burial without a coffin would have been more problematic. Anyway, it all worked out.

The rituals began in the UK on Tuesday evening, with a service at St Theresa's Church, Hatch End. This was the most sombre moment of the 3 days: seeing the coffin for the first time, even if it ended up very cheerily over tea and sandwiches, and meetings with long-lost relatives and church friends of my mother. I had been nervous about delivering my eulogy to the congregation, and when, at one point, it looked as though the priest was going to wind up the service without inviting me up, I was secretly relieved. But a helpful sister reminded him via a series of gesticulations, and before I knew it, I was pouring out my tribute. It was by far the biggest audience I'd spoken to, but the adrenaline kicked in, and I had no problems. Going by the handshakes and comments afterwards, it went down well.

Later that night, M and I stopped over at a hotel near Luton airport. Tip: This was a good move. Besides avoiding the worry of getting bogged down in traffic on the way to the airport, we were able to leave the car parked there for just £5 extra, instead of the £50-ish minimum it would have cost to have left it at one of the official car parks — most of which seemed further from the airport than the hotel in any case.

Wednesday morning, in the departure lounge, we hooked up with my father, two sisters, nephew, uncle, aunt and three cousins. A cold morning, but no snow. The mood wasn't as downbeat as you might expect. We had expelled quite a lot of the emotion the evening before, and we were off on a trip. The flight was delayed by an hour, but that was the only hiccup we encountered.

At Knock Airport, we hired a minibus and set off. I had my sat-nav with me, and followed its suggested route — much to the anxiety of some of my passengers. Instead of heading off onto the motorway, it led us down miles of narrow roads and muddy tracks. I loved it. This was real Ireland. The countryside was raw and rough, the sky grey and cheerless. An hour or so later, we arrived at Westport, where we stayed at the splendid Castlecourt Hotel. Smart, but very cheap in the low season.

Checked in, then went for lunch. This was the another in a long line of calorie-fest meals I've been forced to eat over the past week or two. Every mouthful will come back to haunt me, but for the moment I have to bow to social pressure. Still, the roast beef was excellent. And those roast potatoes.....

A couple of hours later, we were off again on our melancholy journey, this time back to Knock airport where we would meet another crowd of Irish relatives, and the coffin, coming off the 3:30 from Standsted. By now, we had become accustomed to seeing it, but the Irish contingent were seeing the coffin for the first time, and so there was quite an outpouring of grief at this point. We eventually moved off, following the hearse for over an hour in procession to the church in Newport, where there was another service. By the time we reached the church it was pitch black, and the bell was tolling. Very atmospheric. The service was short, designed to be just a sort of receiving ceremony. But the whole event took more than 90 minutes, as part of the ritual is for every person in the church to file past the coffin, and our front pew, and shake the hands of every member of the family. They express their sympathies, occasionally adding a few words of biographical context: "I'm sorry for your loss; I was at school with your mother, and my father helped your grandfather milk the cows". I reckon I shook hands with about 130 people. The odd thing was that each connection was intense and meaningful. It wasn't like being introduced to someone at a party. It was quite a profound and draining experience.

Back to Westport to catch the end of the Spain vs England game, and to consume a few pints of Guinness and a large plate of extremely fattening bar snacks.

Thursday was the big day. A half hour drive round the tiny windy lanes to Newport. This is the town my mother grew up in. Well, her house was a mile or so outside, perched between a lake and the Atlantic. I've written about it before. It's a fine town, with a spectacular viaduct, and St Patrick's Church perched on the hill: Click.

We got to the church early, before any mourners had arrived. The thick fog gave the scene a fitting backdrop. Inside the empty church, we found the priest, Canon Concannon, and ran through a few last minute details. It was a more serious and solemn service than the one in London. The church is much larger, and has a striking echo that makes the priest's chanted words even more formidable.

As a curtain closer, I repeated the eulogy, though I had to make some changes to reflect the different surroundings. I had to speak more slowly to take account of the echo. The laughs weren't so loud this time (yes, I did include a few jokes), but I was gratified to get a quite unexpected, and hearty, round of applause.

Leaving the church, carrying the coffin, was a remarkable experience. As the door opened, the doorway was suddenly hit by an explosion of sunshine. Walking through it with the coffin was like walking into a new world. Were I even more sentimental than I am, or more religious, I would say something about carrying my mother into heaven. But I'm not, so I won't. But the symbolism was powerful, and affecting. We followed the hearse to the tiny Kilbride cemetery out on the Westport Road.

I've been to only two previous burials, but I find them astonishing experiences. You can see why so many movies and TV dramas include a burial scene. They are deeply theatrical. I wasn't expecting to be asked to help lower the coffin into the ground, but I'm glad that I was. It was worryingly heavy, and in the wet mud, was quite a tricky operation. I had to wonder how many people have dropped coffins in these circumstances, or have fallen into the grave. That could be rather embarrassing. But difficult or not, I found the experience rather wonderful. A bit like being present at a birth.

Then to a local hotel for soup and sandwiches, and another round of handshakes and hugs. It took a long time to get away. I'm sure there were some people I said goodbye to half a dozen times. In the emotional mêlée, it was hard to keep track.

But eventually we did escape, and got back to the Westport hotel by mid-afternoon. I slept for a couple of hours before attending yet another set-piece family meal. At least now, with all the boxes checked, we were able to relax. Duty done, we attacked the glorious Guinness, and let my dad entertain us with stories of how he met my mother, and the bizarre courtship rituals of pre-war rural Ireland.

It's been an intense, occasionally difficult, experience, but there are a couple of positive things to draw out from it. One is the chance to renew contact with long-dormant relatives, or to meet them for the first time. Another is the discovery that there are so many decent people out there. I've been amazed at how kind and how sensitive people can be in these circumstances. Hugely heartening. Let me put on record, my gratitude to these people, some of whom will be reading this. You helped me greatly.

Yesterday, Saturday, I got out for my first run in over a week. Yet another short, round-the-block 3.5 miler. I'm under no illusions that my Boston campaign is not in serious trouble. I am in damage-limitation mode now. All I can hope to do is to get round in one piece. Any idea that I might be able to reach for a PB is well and truly defenestrated. I must put in a flurry of shortish fitness runs just to get back into the right frame of mind, then hope to start pushing long again from next weekend — though that is only 8 weeks out from the race.

Tough times are ahead.

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Monday 16 February 2009

A spot of encouragement to peer at, and be grateful for.

After Saturday's panting plod, that I did at least get through, I chanced my arm with 4½ miles or so along the canal yesterday. The sun had switched itself off by the time I got out, leaving nothing but that cold grey glow to warm my spirits. It wasn't enough. After 2 miles I jettisoned the dream of a cheeky 7 or 8 miler, and settled for the towpath version of my round-the-block standard. In the final mile, I had to walk for a couple of minutes. It's shocking how much fitness can be lost in so short a time. A week or two of minimal exercise I can deal with, but when it's shot through with comfort eating and weekday alcohol, a kind of debilitating lethargy ambushes you and sucks dry the endorphin store.

Luckily, I've been doing this long enough to know that the zest isn't destroyed; just hidden. It takes a little while to find it, but it's there alright. Tonight I picked up a couple more clues in the hunt. A day of unprocessed food, water, and an energetic hour in the gym (including 20 minutes of hard treadmill intervals), helped to get me feeling that I am at least now pointing in the right direction.

I'll be OK. The training schedule needs rethinking. The sort of rethinking that's done with a sledgehammer. From here, it's marathon training the pragmatic way. And let's face it, it always is with me, where the unexpected and unscheduled is actually the norm, if only I'd accept that. No matter. It's recoverable. I've entered the Finchley 20 mile race, and have 3 weeks and 6 days to get in shape for it. On Wednesday, after another cross-training day tomorrow, I'll try again to snatch that cheeky 7 mile tempo run. Thursday I'm in Nottingham, so may as well write that off as a rest day. Depending how work goes, I may try to check off the long run on Friday. I work weekends at the moment in any case, so it doesn't make much difference. Not sure what sort of distance I can reasonably aim for. Wednesday's 'sorta long' run, as the great Hal Higdon would have it, will tell me what to aim at. Anything in double digits I'd grab. Then on Saturday morning, perhaps an hour in the gym, and an easy recovery run on Sunday. That would be the perfect running week for me. If I manage something similar to that, I'll be sound.

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Wednesday 18 February 2009

Since the last entry, another furious gym session, raging against the step machine.

More significantly, today, 7.2 steady country miles.

I waited till my attention-seeking computer was whirring and grinding. It's become self-important — a recent habit that doesn't please me.

I made a dash for it. It was mid-afternoon and mild. How liberating, and how promising, to be able to run in just teeshirt and shorts again. Was this the first breath of spring? I hope so. We need hope.

Despite the kindly temperature, a gentle rain fell, and beneath a colourless sky I headed off towards the canal, and onto my extended round-the-block route.

This is the one that takes me off the towpath after 3½ miles and onto a long, straight enamelled path through the flat Berkshire farmland. I like this route. The canal is always a pleasure: no people, no cars, no noise, no pressure. There is just one nasty explosion in the serenity — as I leave the waterway and cross the A4, but within minutes I'm back to the calm of the farm road.

It's the road that takes me through the farm with the gargantuan canine, mentioned a few weeks ago. This time he had snarling duties elsewhere. In his place, a dozen very fine racehorses being led around the yard, and emerging from, or disappearing into, horse boxes and vans decorated with the names of stud farms. Fine human fillies aplenty too, beaming and waving at me as I passed between them. I beamed and waved back. A delicious slice of English country life to winch the spirits.

It was supposed to be a tempo run, but I decided (insofar as one makes conscious decisions about these things) that I should aim for distance rather than speed. If I'd gone for the latter, there was every chance that I'd have ended up with neither. So I took it gently, aware that I was still clawing my way back to the sort of confident, sinewy running to which I'd started to feel entitled before fate lobbed a couple of spanners in my direction. It will take a while. I could still feel a wobbliness in my legs, but there was much less of it than there was on Sunday. And there will be even less next time out.

Rest day tomorrow. Instead, 5 or 6 hours in the car, around 6 or 7 hours in Nottingham. Oh joy. It will be a long and possibly difficult day. Another therapeutic bite of rural England on Friday will be just the thing to make it all better again. As we like to say round these parts, running is the answer.

Believe me, it really is.

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Sunday 22 February 2009

A disappointing attempted long run today, but there's no disgrace attached. It wasn't for lack of effort or commitment. If anything, the opposite.

I woke yesterday with a feverish brow, throat like sandpaper, and lungs full of wheezey phlegm. I'll resist the schoolboyish temptation to be even more graphic. But it wasn't pleasant.

Today the corporeal thermostat was a few degrees lower, with the throat less raw and sore. At any other time I'd have opted to give myself another rest day but I'm starting to glance anxiously at the Boston clock, and know that I need to pull out some long runs. So up I got and out I went. As early as 2 or 3 miles I started to suspect it wasn't going to work, but I carried on, along the canal towards Reading. This is the opposite direction from usual. Not as pretty or as tranquil. The pedestrians appear more murderous and urban than their counterparts on the Newbury stretch; their children more savage and resentful; their dogs more pugnacious and irascible. It was this part of the towpath that slaughtered my fattened calf on Boxing Day, which gives me further reason to feel apprehensive.

Today was a great opportunity for redemption, but the chance was missed. A couple of miles in, I had a coughing fit that forced me to pull up. I set off again a minute later, but was already accepting that this was going to be no 12 or 15 miler. To compress the story, I ended up with 7.4 miles, which in the circumstances, I was happy with. I won't pretend this was a long run or a stepback week. I can't afford to do that. Instead, I'll think of it as another steady fitness run, and aim to reschedule my long run for a couple of days, or whenever this wheezey chest has cleared up. I won't crucify myself over not getting the long run I needed. Given the circumstances, I'd rather be pleased that I made the effort to get out there and do something, despite having a great excuse to stay at home. Looking at it that way, 7½ miles is just fine. That makes only 19 miles for the week, but the pins feel stronger than they did last Sunday, so let's look on the bright side.

Missed another QPR home game yesterday. Annoying. I have a season ticket, so I've paid for all these games, whether I see them or not. We lost though, which sort of makes me glad I wasn't there. So is the annoyance of paying the money without receiving the goods, bigger than the relief I feel at not being there to witness a defeat? A tricky one, but I go for the latter.

The reason for my absence was an AmDrams experience, supporting an old friend, Barry Serjent, in his role as Tobias in Edward Albee's A Delicate Balance. The East Lane Theatre, in Wembley, is a remarkable success. This amateur theatre group had to leave their old home in the mid-80s, when the church hall they used was being redeveloped. Faced with the prospect of having to disband after 50 years, they decided instead to build their own theatre. Yes, build, as in turning a bare patch of land into a proper auditorium with plush seats. Since then, they've added a smart bar, dressing rooms, foyer... Even more astonishing is that 95% of the planning, building and decorating has been done by the group members in their own time. Twenty years ago, when I worked in the wine business, I ran some tutored tastings to help sponsor some of the work. I'm also a seat sponsor. Somewhere among the 70 or so is one with my name on the back. I'm proud to have played some small part in its success.

The play was rather unsatisfying though. Albee is something of a wordsmith, so it's possible to close your eyes and float along on the language. But as a dramatist, I don't know where he was hoping to get with this play. If I thought that posterity, or anyone reading this now, would have any interest in my fractured interpretation of its subliminal message, I would extend this paragraph. But I don't, so I won't.

I've been feeling a bit sorry for myself the last few days for various reasons, but today I saw something that gave me the good slap I needed. As I reached the lock on the canal close to the point where I was to leave it, I saw by the water's edge, a long line of wreaths and smaller bunches of flowers, attached to many of which were innocent messages of regret and despair. It seems that a 15 year old schoolboy had gone missing on his way to school last month. Three weeks later, his body was found in the canal at this spot. Later internet research tells me that the police are still unsure what happened to him. But to read some of the tributes, and to imagine what his parents must be experiencing, was enough to hoist my eyelids, and to see the world in a different light. My anxieties over work and the marathon and a host of other things, are actually pretty trivial.

Running, and its reality electrodes, do their job once again.

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Tuesday 24 February 2009

The wheezy alarm cough woke me at 5 a.m. again, just like it has the last 2 or 3 days. I felt unrested, and despite just the single glass of wine last night, felt faintly hungover. Maybe the tiredness and the medication, mild though it is, had turned it into a more potent cocktail than it deserved to be. Damn. How likely was a decent run today? I turned the radio on low. The news is all bad again, just as it has been for the last year. It's like being in a war; or under siege, when you listen to the news in the hope that relief is on its way. But it never is.

Despite the unpromising start, I managed a productive day, and gradually started feeling better. Against the odds, by mid-afternoon I was reconsidering the chances of a run. My favourite running month of the year, March, is just around the corner. The afternoons are lengthening again. By 5.20 it was still light, and I decided to snatch the chance.

Sometimes I set off not knowing what distance I'm aiming for. Does it matter? Yes, it does. The route changes depending on the objective. A quick and easy round-the-block 3 or 4 miles means I head off left at the crossroads by the Co-op, up the quiet back lanes, through the calming, silent deer park and home again across the school playing field. A longer run, 5 to 8 miles, and I'm likely to take the right turn instead, towards the canal. Another beautifully solitary, contemplative meander. Crunchy underfoot too. It's like hearing all your troubles getting crushed. Marvellous. The canal has its own, in-built range of distance options. After 2 miles I get my first chance to turn off the towpath and come back along the main road for a 5 miler. Sometimes I might go to the next junction and turn back the way I came, the total distance being precisely 6.2 miles, or 10 kilometres. Or I take my new route, coming off the canal at that point and heading home along the farm track for 7½ or 8 miles. The canal is daylight only though. The rutted, knobbly path is lethal in the dark. And anyway, at night, they do say the whispering bushes are filled with bellicose brigands.

If I'm seeking a longer distance, I go straight ahead at the Co-op crossroads, through the village, past the Chinese and its invisible, pungent cloud of sizzling bean sprouts and ginger, and simmering black bean and curry sauces. On past the disdainful smokers outside the Falcon, sneering at my treachery. I know most of them, but we never speak as I pass. And on again, right to the very end of the high street, and onto the overgrown, little-used path, until I reach the footbridge over the motorway. The bridge is the opposite of the Narnia wardrobe, or the door into the Secret Garden, and so I must take it with some reluctance. This village is no paradise, but the footbridge, and what lies beyond it, certainly seems like some kind of infernal nether region, a wild and undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveller is likely to return unmarked. Over there, it's all concrete and coughing traffic; the charm of the retail park, and herds of grunting, disfunctional teenagers with webbed feet. I hate it, but it's a long, straight, well-lit road where you can run for anonymous mile upon anonymous mile.

And what was it to be tonight? I approached the crossroads by the Co-op, and slowed down, glancing first left then right... then straight ahead. In a half second, the decision was made, and I carried on, towards the ghastly gates of hell.

There's almost nothing to say about the experience, except that I put one foot in front of the other for the next couple of hours. I entered that hostile land with nothing, and returned with 11.51 weary miles tucked into my back pocket. In a better world, it would have been 13, but this will do me, especially on a day that had started so emptily.

Tomorrow I'll aim for an hour in the gym, before getting home to watch Juventus stuff Chelsea, then another 8 tempo miles on Thursday. This time the canal and the farm track please. Not sure after that. Saturday or Sunday I have to aim for the 14 mile mark.

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