Tues 24 Sept 2002

And so, the fabled taper begins. It's the thick end of the wedge. Or the thin end, depending on your perspective.

The 'V-Board' is full of references to "taper madness". The V-Board? It's the never-explained name of Hal Higdon's Web Forum. I haven't given him a plug for a while, so I'll just remind you that Hal is a legendary American marathon runner whose training programme I followed to prepare for London in April, and have used again for Chicago. If you want to know more about this remarkable runner/artist/writer/humourist, or to learn a bit about getting started as a runner, check out his website.

A few hours after arriving in Chicago, I should be at the V-Board get-together at the Hilton, where I'll finally get to shake the guy's hand and thank him for the help I've had from his schedule, and from our internet correspondence.

So anyway, "taper madness". What is it? Hard to pin down or explain how it manifests, but it's a period of giddiness/excitement/hysteria/anxiety that precedes the big day, and generally coincides with the taper. The taper sets it off, as its arrival finally makes people realise that the race is imminent.

Five miles this evening, at a gentle pace. For the first time since March, I had the experience of running into a night both black and cold. It's a dramatic contrast with the long, warm evenings that I was squandering just a few weeks ago.

I took it very easy, partly because I didn't want to be too unkind to my legs after their heroic Sunday, but mainly because it was too hazardous to consider doing anything else. There was a moon tonight, but strangely it seemed to have little effect, and I could see virtually nothing of the road beneath my feet. It was particularly precarious on the narrow, hedged lanes we have around here. It was like running through a tunnel.

At one point a car appeared, and rather than stop and wave it past, I did something stupid. I kept running until we were about ten or fifteen yards apart, then I jumped onto the thin band of grass banking that separates the tarmac from the hedge, with the intention of continuing to run while the car went past. But the grass bank was uneven and not too solid, and instead of a graceful, gazelle-like bound upwards, then back down again, my foot landed in a rut which sent me spinning into an ungainly little semi-pirouette that nearly sent me sprawling, and twisted my ankle into the bargain.

I didn't stop but my ankle did make itself felt for a few hundred yards, and made me realise that the assumption that I'll be lining up on the shore of Lake Michigan in two and a half weeks time is a plan that I shouldn't take for granted. I could quite easily have torn my ankle badly enough to have had to have pulled out.

Lots of rustling in the hedges to report, and one very weird incident. I came to a point on the lane where there was a gap in the hedge on both sides of the road for about five yards. As I passed across this gap there was a sudden, massive sense of cold air. At first I thought it was a freak gust that had funnelled itself through the hole, but that was the strange thing: it wasn't a breeze of any kind at all. There was no moving air. It was a sort of spiritual blast; a virtual chill; a fourth dimensional, theoretical, windless gust. I even trotted back to experience it again, but it wasn't there anymore. I suspect it might have been the Grim Reaper, passing through on his way to patrol the last 2 or 3 miles of the Chicago Marathon.

Or was it just a touch of taper madness?

Wed 25 Sept 2002

The Banana Story:

Out at 6:30 this morning for a clammy 4 mile dash around the darkened village.

The run was reasonable, but as I had to get the 7:40 to Paddington, I was left with little time for breakfast.

So after my shower, I grabbed an apple and banana and hobbled off to the car. I stuffed the banana into my jacket pocket, and chomped on the apple as I drove to the station. As usual, I stopped at the newspaper kiosk, jumped out, scored a copy of The Times and hurried back to the car. Imagine my dismay to discover my banana lying dead on the pavement next to my car, squashed flat. Dropping it was bad enough, but treading on it...?

It was one of the most difficult decisions a man has to face. He's hungry. He won't get another chance of a mouthful of food for at least an hour and a half. The only alternative is a squashed banana.

I thought long and hard for about a second and a half, then glanced around to make sure no one was watching. I scooped up what remained of the poor fellow and drove to the station.

In the minute or so that I had available to me, sitting in the car park, I peered at the miserable ex-fruit lying in state on the passenger seat. It really was a sad sight. I must have trodden on the poor chap pretty hard as his guts were well and truly spilled. One internal voice urged me to do the decent thing, and consign him to the wheelie bin next to the ticket office. But another, breakfastless voice, shouted the opposite.

With only seconds left before my train was due to arrive, I knew I had to do the indecent thing. Full of self-loathing, I picked up this disembowelled object, prised it open and sort of emptied the liquidy contents into my mouth. The flavour was fine but the physical sensation was ghastly. It was cold and gritty. Not much of a consolation, but at least it was my shoe-grit that peppered the spilt flesh.

And really, I thought no more about it until mid-afternoon, when I reached over to my coat, to fish around in the pockets for a tissue. And you know what I found? Yes.

My banana.

Thurs 26 Sept 2002

Another early morning, 4 mile run. It's getting chilly out here. Two-T-shirts chilly.

Sun 29 Sept 2002

Supposed to run 12 miles today but instead I went to work. I had a vague thought about doing my run after work, on a circuit that goes along the Thames to the Tate Modern, across the Millenium Bridge to St Paul's, then along the other bank of the river back to Waterloo or even Westminster Bridge, then back to the South Bank. But I didn't.

Too much beer yesterday. Arrived in Shepherds Bush early to watch the end of the Leeds-Arsenal game on TV in the pub, and got chatting to some people, and, well, ended up having a few pints more than intended, followed by a few more after the match. Eventually M turned up to drive us back to Reading to see Road To Perdition, which I'd been looking forward to for some weeks. M claims I kept falling asleep and snoring, which I'm sure can't be true. Mind you, I did wonder why the film seemed to last only about 20 minutes.

Take my advice. Don't go the pictures if you've spent most of the day in the pub.

At least we won again.

Next week >