Jesus wept, that image of Steve Bruce is brutally close to home.
We kid ourselves - or, I should say, I kid myself - that we're making inroads, working on fitness, staving off the inevitable slo-motion tumble into a world of brittle bones creaking under layers of solidified lard. The veil of self-delusion was whipped away this morning by a hot, thick wind straight out of Hades.
I joined the small but merry band of Exhibitionists in the hotel lobby at 07.30 sharp. Mike and Paul, sales manager and lead journo for the esteemed soon-to-be-on-Have-I-Got-News-For-You organ, World Cargo News, a large (similar size to me) chap I'd not met and Ted Sheldon from Power Pools Plus. Ted and I have history following a rather awkward standf-off twelve months ago at this very event, albeit in Cartagena. Ted, a seemingly decent chap of diminutive stature and Jewish-American descent, took exception to my (completely valid) scale of charge for what he saw as 'a bit of shipping'. Having received his cargo he then welched on the deal, not only refusing to pay but telling anyone not swift enough to drop a shoulder that I was scalping him in broad daylight.
The impass was addressed by the event manager (who sided firmly with me) and a deal - one of those that leaves all parties with the lingering taste of Old Ashtray - was brokered. The Gods had had a chuckle and sat us in adjacent rows on the flight to Miami. Silence has never been stonier. Now, here we were, at stupid o'clock, two of five about to run through the streets of Panama City towards the old town. Ted stared at the floor as I tried to bore holes into his unfeasibly large nose from ten yards. Introductions were made, hands shaken. And lo, a few minutes later, the soothing balm of a shared run had us shoulder to shoulder. Not, as I had imagined, trying to shove one another into the snarling fenders of on-rushing traffic, but chatting happily about running history and, if you can believe it, our families. Funny old world.
Our route took us through the filthy backstreets, across hot lanes of nervous vehicles and on a crazy slalom through a stream of barely-awake rush-hour pedestrians, lost in a web of earphone cable and tired resignation. Once over a series of walkways we hit the ocean front. Since my last visit, in 2011, this has been remodelled to reflect Panama's improved fortunes. Brick-paved paths denoted walk/ run/ cycle lanes as they swept us past the statue of Balboa, past perfectly precise shrubberies and lawns, all the while affording us a glimpse of the city's spires sparkling in the morning sun.
With the obstacles removed we upped a gear or two, and that's where I started to really flounder.
Large Man had disappeared. I breathlessly enquired where he'd gone.
'Oh he wasn't going far' quipped Mike, apparently beathing through the top of his head, so level and coherent was his reply. I swallowed hard and knuckled down. It wasn't that we were flying - far from it. But a lethal combination of lack of run-time and a raft of disasterous dining choices had me in Big, Sweaty Trouble.
To lighten my mood yet further it turns out Ted 'Nemesis' Sheldon has less body fat than Kate Moss and a spring in his step that would trouble Tigger. 'Tall' Paul Avery, as laconic a Kiwi as you'd wish to meet, is a 3:10 Marathon man, Mike Forder a habitual ParkRun enthusiast. I was doomed. Paul and Ted pulled away, leaving Mike and I to chat along behind. I say chat, it was very much a one-way conversation, interupted only by the occasional gasp and a fair aount of wheezing. Mike didn't get where he is today by being short of a word or two. He set out his manifesto for the remainder of Tottenham Hotspurs' season as the weight of liberated sweat started to pull my running shirt off my shoulders.
We slogged on for another half mile, Mike seemingly oblivious to the fact that my legs were slowly sinking into the paving. I was running on empty.
'Mike, mate, hold up. I'm going to stop in the Old Town, do a bit of sight-seeing, grab a coffee'
This was mostly true. I could see the faded pastel facades of Old Panama ahead. I quite fancied a stroll through the skinny streets, perhaps a cafe con leche or two, snap a few shots whlist I drip-dried and my face returned to something approaching human.
'Oh, right, yes of course. Well, I've got to get back and open the stand. Catch you later.'
And there he was, gone around the corner. I could have wept, would have wept if I'd had any fluid to spare. Mine was all running freely out of my hair, cascading off my nose and into my revolting rag of a top. I pulled up to a gentle stroll, making exaggerated stretching motions with my arms just in case anyone (Ted) happened to see me. As I recovered a modicum of composure I took notice of my surroundings. I was still on the pedestrian causeway, just outside the Old Town. Ahead lay a treasure-trove of dark, twisted streets, cracked facades and swarthy folks, loitering in the shadows like ghosts of a bygone age.
The obligatory cujos and a fair number of feral cats littered the pavements. What struck me right away was the change since 2011. Almost every building was at some stage of renovation. Steel girders propped up a wall here, rudamentary scaffolding held men scraping off old paint there. Few buildings had glass in the windows. Every now and then I'd spy a completed building. A boutique hotel, a handsome coffee shop, a well-stocked florist, a snazzy Bistro. Like a chameleon, the town was changing it's colours, from impossibly decrepit to new age retro chic. Well well. I thought of the swarthy ghosts and the homeless beasts. What next for these street-walkers? Surely they won't be part of the New Wave. No sooner will wealthy businessmen out-number toothless juice-sellers than the authorities will round up the flotsam and ship it off to the real barrios on the edge of the wilderness. The animals will be beaten, driven away or just shot. My heart felt as heavy and limp as my shirt as the shiny penny dropped. How long did they have? Not long, I'd wager. Needs must when the Devil drives, and there's nowt so swift and ruthless as the Demon Dollar. Another corner of the world stripped and plastered for our delectation. Fuckers.
After a coffee and a bottle of agua - I always stuff a Twenty in my sock, just in case - I set off for home, enjoying my own pace and the sights as I returned to the Metropolis. Through the fish market (ripe as all hell), past the gangs of coal-black vulture-like seabirds dabbling in the oily mud and onto the shiny brick road to the land of steel and glass. My Run Keeper flatly refused to fire up on the outward leg but I managed to clear it's boggled mind in the Old Town cafe. 5.9 kilometres back for a round trip of 11 and change, with a good 30 minute half-time break.
The Exhibitionists, high on bullshit and niche banter, have screamed off into the night. Not I. I'm sat at my desk in an ice-cold room having scarfed an acceptable chicken ceasar salad and necking a botte of water. The war on sloth and blubber starts here.
