Tues 4 June 2002

At last, the great day had arrived. The Queen's Golden Jubilee... And what better way of celebrating this display of old monarchs than by running as fast as possible away from the TV?

Next week, four and a half months of training for the Chicago marathon starts. The plan had been to get at least 3 or 4 weeks of preliminary loosening-up under my belt before the serious stuff began, but after some deliberation, I chose the beer and donuts option instead. I've had seven weeks of shore leave since the London Marathon, mostly filled with calories and alcohol and lethargy, and it's been completely splendid.

Seven weeks? Seems longer than that since I've been unable to find my socks and heart rate monitor strap. The socks resurfaced eventually but I gave up on the HRM: overkill for today.

It was strange to be back in running gear again. Mixed emotions. Familiar and comfortable on one level. Daunting on another. Weather warm but not sunny - good running conditions. I set off walking, tentative. No idea what to expect. Well, perhaps that isn't true. I was expecting to struggle and flap about breathlessly like a landed fish. My pessimism had me setting my stopwatch to signal 10 minute spells as I thought I should aim for alternating 10 of walking with 10 of running. But I got bored trying to walk for the first 10 minutes, so at the 5 minute mark I took a deep breath - in both senses - and burst... into an explosive jog. I giggled a bit. For a moment running seemed weird and unnatural, though surprisingly pleasant. I could feel the blood pouring through my legs again, uncoiling them, unwrapping them. It was like the sensation of finally being able to stretch your legs after sitting in a cramped position for hours. Lovely. The plan was to run for a total of thirty minutes.

I headed out along the canal, past a grinning lady polishing the brass rails on her barge. She shouted good morning. The grin was cheerful, not derisive - I think. Further along, I passed the lake where a shoal of anglers were mustering for a day's fishing, and then nothing more. Just the tranquility and silence of the canal.

The ten minute mark came and went. I kept running. After 17 minutes I stopped and turned back, arriving back at my starting point just on 35 minutes. I was pleased. Thirty five minutes without stopping was better than I could have hoped at this stage. It was just a gentle jog but surprisingly and hearteningly easy. A good sign.

We have two days off work to celebrate the Jubilee, and this was as good a way as any. The only dampener was all the negative stuff I've been reading about England's draw with Sweden in the World Cup on Sunday. It wasn't the result or the performance that irked me, but the irrational reaction to it. Have England ever started a tournament well? Despite reminding as many people as I could that England were unlikely to win, but that we shouldn't panic, the nation is in a state of collective distress. Silly buggers.

Thurs June 6th 2002

Depending on the velocity of my social life, this might turn out to be my last run before the real enchilada, next week.

The south-east of England has been ankle-deep in viscous, grey rain for much of the past few days, and it was still drizzling this evening as I set off for a simple 30-minute jog. I had intended stepping out last night, but the rain was tumultuous. Had the training programme-proper started, I'd have had no choice. But it hasn't, so I did, and I didn't.

Out of the gate and right, away from the canal. The towpath of the Kennet & Avon is a great place to run but if I head that way too often its appeal will evaporate. The idea is to reserve it for those long, unpredictable Sunday runs, where its tranquillity might salve the pain of the bad ones, or further enhance the joy of the good ones.

In any case, we are still new to the area and I've plenty of other places to explore. Tonight I threaded my way up a local lane that is a cut-through to the busy A340. Fortunately it remains unknown and unused to most drivers, and I was passed only once in the half mile to the main road, which I crossed and continued towards Bradfield.

I tried running faster than usual, but within 5 minutes a red-hot poker had started to appear in my throat and make its way down into my lungs, and I had to slow down again.

My plan was to run for 15 minutes then turn back. The turning point came halfway up a murderous hill: the bleeping of a watch never sounded more merciful. I suspect I'll be getting to know this hill well over the next few months. There is much splendid West Berkshire countryside to discover. It was still raining steadily as I started back, but not hard enough to spoil the view across the fields towards Burghfield. This is a pretty part of the world in which to live and run. We're lucky to be here. Early days, but at long last I feel no great desire to be somewhere else.

Again, the only anxiety I felt was football-related. Tomorrow's rendezvous with destiny: England v Argentina in the World Cup. I find it odd to hear the Scots and Irish complaining that England fans are always over-confident. I see only the opposite: too much pessimism. Despite the wall-to-wall gloom on the football messageboards at the moment, I've no doubt whatsoever that we'll not be beaten by them. I won't tempt fate by predicting a definite win, though that wouldn't surprise me. No chance of defeat, that's all I know for sure.

Sun June 9th 2002

We beat the Argies, and despite a weekend of national celebration, in which I played a full part, I managed a final, preliminary run today.

This time it really bucketed down. The tracksuit top was almost superfluous - it took just a few minutes to reach saturation point.

Today I explored another new little lane that we were told about last night during a get-together with our new neighbours. It was a good night. I'd still been slightly drunk from a crazy Friday evening, largely spent carousing in a post-match frenzy in a bar near Euston Square, but I might just have carried off the pretence that I was a reasonable neighbour. Hope so, as they all seem nice people along here.

So I pounded the lanes for 40 minutes this time, the only highlight being a shout from a cyclist as she splashed past in the downpour: "You're completely mad mate, just like me!" Having a hint of what the next 18 weeks might have in store, I suspect she wasn't far wrong.

Next week >