Fab Fun Feb

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

24 hours before departure.

It has been a long, hot, humid day, but it's dark now and cooler as a gratefully received rain front comes across providing a little relief. Mrs MLCMM and I are outside in the dark, moving the pot plants from their sheltered position under the eaves out into the rain to get the benefit of what is by then a decent soaking. Then suddenly and completely unexpectedly it's daylight again, not the friendly golden sunshiney kind, but a harsh, intense, electrical kind of daylight, followed less than a split second later by an earth-shattering, ear-splitting, bowel-loosening explosion of thunder the like of which I have never previously experienced.

My immediate thought was a fairly unimaginative and naive 'Shit, that was close!' but I barely had time to consider it when a second and then a third similarly close and powerful lightning strike had us scampering indoors as fast as we could go and wondering how close we actually came to scoring a direct hit. I've experienced some pretty close lightning strikes before, but nothing as truly frightening as that. The fact that we scored three such close bolts with no warning at all only made it more frightening still.

After that however, the storm moved on, the Lord of Thunder rolling away all grumbly and irritable and seemingly now satisfied to have taught us a lesson. The only lessons I think I learned from that is that lightning can strike with no warning at all and that I definitely don't ever want to get any closer to a lightning bolt than we experienced then.

9 hours before departure.

Given our narrow escape from the wrath of Thor the previous evening, it seemed to me now that nothing could stop the journey to Almeria from being a roaring success, so I opted this morning for one last, very short taper run before the race on Sunday. Although this amounted to no more than 15 minutes of running, in true taper madness form it was anything but easy. Despite cooler conditions, I sweated my way through it with heart rate soaring, shins aching and constantly looking at the time to see if my allocated quarter hour was up yet. Had my chances of completing the Almeria half been based on this run alone, you'd give me as much chance as Donald Trump has of winning Mexico's National Civil Defence Prize.

As we know, of course, tapering is like that, and I've little doubt all will be well on Sunday.

Right. I'd better get packing.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

 Medio Maraton Almeria - T minus two days

Bam! Just like that I'm awake, not just awake, but wide awake, alert and buzzing as if I'd had two double espressos already. But I'm also very confused. It's pitch black, deathly silent and the only thing I know for sure is that I'm not in my own bed. I am reassured just slightly by seeing the luminescent hands of my watch on the bedside table. I pick it up and it tells me it's 3:45 a.m.

Uh huh. Realisation begins to seep into my wired, but otherwise befuddled grey matter. The time explains the darkness and the silence of course. The strange, but very comfortable bed is in fact in a room in a brand-spanking new hotel in the heart of Lewes in southern England. I realise where I am and why, but I don't actually need to be awake this early. Yes, Ash (Sweder) is picking me up at the obscenely early hour of 5:15 to take us and Duncan (CharlieCat5) to Gatwick Airport for our flight to Almeria, but it will only take me a few minutes to get ready, so being awake this early is a little ridiculous. I arrived in Lewes yesterday afternoon after 32 hours of travel, and yes, it's fair to say my body clock is more than a little out of whack, but with way too little sleep this is a bit much.

Still, there's an alter-ego somewhere inside me saying, "Wow! This is exciting, let's get up and go for a run!" Running at 3:45 in the morning might be a good idea back home when I'm working an early shift, but just now the rational part of me quickly quells such a notion as being so much crazy talk.

But it doesn't change the fact that I am wide awake with no possibility of getting back to sleep, so I make the most of things and get up to make coffee. I also fire up the tablet to see what's going on in the world, but annoyingly it requires a major Windows update before it will boot, and isn't going to let me get away with not doing it, so I accede to its demands and instead switch on the BBC World News on the room TV. I sip my coffee and think about the crazy day yesterday and how for a while there it looked like I might not make it to Almeria after all...

The Day Before

 

The Airbus A380 is a mighty behemoth, and I always wonder as it begins its oh so slow roll down the runway for take off how on Earth it ever reaches sufficient speed to actually get off the ground before we run off the end of the tarmac and into oblivion at the end of the strip. Of course we always do manage to somehow gently ascend with a sufficiently comfortable measure of safety and thus avoid disaster, but the astonishment never leaves me.

 

Our departure from Dubai on one of these mighty planes did, as will be clear, leave the ground safely, but did so 90 minutes late, and for a while there I saw my chances of getting to Almeria in plenty of time diminish somewhat. The aircraft had been loaded, the safety demonstration completed and we're taxiing out for take off when suddenly there's a couple of seconds of tremendous vibration and we're plunged into darkness and silence and the plane rolls to a stop, nothing now working on the plane other than the emergency lighting and the passengers' sense of foreboding. I'm sitting in the aisle seat of a bulkhead row, with two of the cabin crew sitting across from me. I'm watching them to see what they make of this unusual (to say the least) situation, and they're just looking at each other with quite concerned looks on their faces. Judging by their expressions, this was something they had neither encountered before, nor trained for.

The cause of this plunge into unexpected stealth mode was eventually revealed to us as being a failed starter motor which had died and in doing so stalled all four main engines and denied power to all of the aircraft's systems. Without a working starter, there was no option other than to tow us back to the terminal where the plane was hooked up to a truck with a large generator on its back and we were effectively jump started. It wasn't quite the same as some bloke running a set of jumper leads from his Ford Fiesta, but neither was it far removed. Despite the element of scale, the procedure was successfully attended to and we finally departed an hour and a half late.

 

It was only after we had been in the air sometime that the thought occurred to me that if the engines were to die now, there would be presumably no way of restarting them. Fortunately no such disaster overtook us. The drama of that flight didn't end there, however. After a reasonably smooth flight, we landed at Gatwick, but as soon as our wheels touched the ground the plane immediately lurched savagely to the left and would have careened off the runway if the pilot didn't implement an even more savage lurch to the right. This was so extreme that the passengers screamed, crockery and containers were jolted loose in the galley and came crashing to the floor and one of the cabin crew sitting near me yelled out a loud and involuntary "Fuck!". A third, and thankfully less severe lurch had us back somewhere near the centre of the runway and our dramatic arrival was finally, and thankfully, concluded.

Another 90 minutes and two train trips later I arrived in Lewes, greeted by a biting wind and a steady, depressing drizzle. I checked into a very comfortable hotel near the centre of town and then wandered down to the very small and excellent coffee house called 'Ground Coffee' for a restorative double espresso and to await the arrival of Sweder. We'd arranged via social media to meet there, but an unexpected bonus of this was also meeting Brian, another of the Almerian runners who happened to be nearby at the time. He saw our online exchange concerning our meeting point and so popped in to say 'hi'. It was all very civilised and put a happy gloss on the wintry weather and drama of my flight.

 

A meal at the Sweder household followed and a drink (or three) at the Elephant & Castle where we met up with Seafront Plodder (sadly not joining us in Almeria this year), Rob (OutAlongTheRiver) who is, and Brian who also called in again and so we rounded out the day in fine style.

 

I crashed into my hotel bed tired, but content and looking forward to completing the journey to Almeria with another, mercifully far shorter flight early the next morning.

Until...bam!

 

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Almeria Medio Maraton – T minus 1 day.

Bing.

My phone alerts me to a message, and I’m pretty sure I already know what it is. Yep, Ash has pulled up outside my hotel and is awaiting the pleasure of my company and the exchange of witty, scintillating banter on the trip to Gatwick Airport and thence to Almeria. OK, well those were not his exact words, which were ‘am outside’, but the sentiment was clear.

It is 5:15 a.m., and as I leave my room, the hotel’s hall lights flick on in sequence, directing me to the exit as if insisting in some passive/aggressive form on my departure. The hotel is silent and seems deserted, a sort of hostelry Mary Celeste. I drop my room key at the empty reception desk and take my leave.

Stepping outside I am greeted by a biting, icy wind, but am grateful that Ash’s Ford is waiting there – even in the dark I know it’s him by the thud of Motörhead emanating from the vehicle and which is threatening to wake the local residents. A stray cat scurries away with a mix of disgust and fear, whilst insects, attracted to the headlights drop stone dead on contact with the blast wave from Iron Fist.

My suitcase is quickly stowed in the back, and I sink gratefully into the passenger seat where for a moment I fear I have somehow wet myself until I realise the warmth I’m feeling is because the seat is electrically heated, not something we normally encounter nor need in Australia. Here though, on a dark morning in the south of England in the grip of winter, it is welcome indeed.

In quick succession we collect Duncan (CharlieCat5) from his digs, arrive at Gatwick Airport, check in our bags, clear security and catch up at Jamie’s Bakery for coffee with the many others joining us on the flight to Almeria.

After the drama of my flight from Dubai to Gatwick the day before, this short EasyJet leg to Spain was mercifully free of incident. On arrival in Almeria however, the usual Spanish cultural visage of amusing charm masquerading as slow, unravelling chaos was immediately in evidence. Ash and I were quickly off the plane and found passport control totally devoid of any officials and so we waltzed straight on through to baggage claim. An apparently unconcerned uniformed border official sauntered past us, coffee in one hand, newspaper tucked under the other arm and who then nonchalantly opened the passport control booth, forcing about 200 other passengers who hadn’t been as quick off the plane as us to queue interminably whilst this lone official checked their travel documents in between sips of coffee and glances at the back page of the paper to read the latest Barca match report. Yep, we were definitely in Spain. Hola!

Taxis to the hotel and check-in by contrast went smoothly. With time to kill before meeting Antonio our Almerian host at the expo/race number collection, Ash, Andy, Mel, Suzie and I quite naturally went in search of cerveza. A nearby bar seemed to fit the bill: dark timbers, exposed beams and the usual array of top shelf booze could have placed it as a bar anywhere on the planet but for the huge shoulders of jamón hanging overhead. Foaming half-litre glasses of Estrella Galicia completed the scene: we were in Spain, we had beer and we were content. The bar staff and the few customers were quietly cheerful and we happily chatted about the race to come, our various experiences of Spain and a slightly more earnest discussion about low-carb diets and training, and the role of beer in both.

A little later the bar suddenly filled with boisterous, enthused locals, talking loudly and casting quizzical glances at our small group of five seated at our table in the corner. I was trying to interpret some the looks we were receiving – not aggressive exactly, but neither were they the usual, friendly interactions of the more normally charming Almerians. Then the TV behind was switched on and all was revealed. An important match was about to start and clearly we were sitting at a favoured table of the football fans. No matter, it was time to head off to the expo anyhow. We drained our glasses and hiked to Medio Maratón Cuidad de Almeria Feria del Corredor: the Almeria half marathon race expo.

Ash and Andy had warned us of the shambolic, head-shaking, bizarre nature of the expo, but really nothing could have prepared us for the utter madness of it. Antonio was to meet us there, which was of paramount importance, as nothing about the process was exactly smooth, nor was it logical, and translation was difficult. We arrived a little ahead of Antonio however and so began the process as best we could without him. The first step was clear enough – head to the desk that corresponded with your race number, show your ID and you were then handed your race bib and a wrist band. The purpose of the wrist band (or maybe it was an ankle band?) was a mystery, and remains so to this day, despite the volunteers’ efforts to explain it with a mix of Spanish and sign language. Confused, I muttered ‘Si, gracias’ and walked off in the wrong direction, completely bewildered as to what to do and where to go next.

Hang on though, a couple of our group had already succeeded in getting their goody bags and pointed me to other side of the expo. The bottom part of our race bibs had some options listed on them which we had apparently requested when we paid our race entry fees weeks earlier. Most of us couldn’t remember what we had ordered, although I did recall ordering the commemorative 20th edition T-shirt. My race bib said ‘option 9’ so I went to the appropriately signed desk on the far side of the stadium, showed them my bib and was - ta da!- handed a goody bag. Nothing however, was going to be that straight-forward.

Standing in a small, bewildered huddle in the middle of the expo stadium we compared the contents of our bags. Most had received the regular T-shirt we all expected to receive as being included in the entry fee. I had no T-shirt at all, but I did get a towel, a pack of tomatoes and a small, black article of apparent apparel, the purpose of which I could not fathom, despite the best efforts of the more knowledgeable among us to explain it to me. That no-one was willing to demonstrate its use only compounded my confusion.

Fortunately at that moment Antonio arrived to save the day. It turned out that to receive my commemorative T-shirt, I had return to the same desk twice. Huh? Yes, go back to the same person at the same desk, and sure enough, at my second appearance they happily gave me the requested shirt. We were all still perplexed as to why only some of us received the regular race shirt, but it seemed that ordering and paying for an additional item such as my microfibre towel or the commemorative shirt negated our eligibility for the free one.  OK, well let’s just mark that one down to typical Spanish charm and move on. Antonio ensured everyone received at least the items they had paid for and we all left happily enough, if not just a little more bewildered than when we arrived.

But as to those tomatoes. Almeria is renowned for its tomatoes and other produce grown in city-sized fields of plasticised greenhouses, all carefully tended to by small armies of (apparent) African immigrants who pedal to and from the various greenhouses on a huge fleet of bicycles that would do Amsterdam proud. I know this because two years prior when Mrs MLCMM and I passed through here on a trip through Spain and Portugal, our GPS insisted on navigating us through this ocean of plastic with bemused, pedalling workers laughing at the crazy tourists apparently lost in their strange, alien and labyrinthine vegetative metropolis.

Tomatoes, then, are a symbol of Almeria, and where other cities proudly proclaim ’I [heart] NYC’ (or whatever), here the burnished brass signs at the roundabouts and on the tourist trinkets instead proclaim ‘I [tomato] Almeria’.  It’s all very eccentric and utterly charming.

With race numbers and goody bags satisfactorily secured, the next item on the agenda was a search of the town for rioja and tapas before retiring relatively early ahead of the big day.

I returned to the hotel tired and happy, falling immediately into a deep, restful sleep, dreaming bizarrely of being lost in Rome and feasting in local ristorantes, whose owners all seemed determined to force-feed me free meals. Not quite so bizarre a scenario as Almeria, perhaps, but odd enough to keep me interested and asleep.

 

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Medio Maratón Almeria – The 2017 Almeria Half Marathon Race Report

The weather forecast for race day had been encouraging, but when I arose the weather instead was cold, rainy, and very windy. It remained disheartening all through breakfast, but by the time we had gathered in the hotel lobby to walk to the race start (or jog there, in the case of some of the more serious among us), the rain had ceased and there was even a little weak sunshine slowly evaporating the chill. The wind, however, remained gusty and annoying.

We arrived in plenty of time, gathering in clusters to take group photos and find our appropriate places in the starting pens. It was a noisy crowd, with many running clubs represented along with many runners from the military, all gathered together and displaying their colours and their jovial, Spanish boisterousness. I couldn’t help noticing that the great majority of runners were young, male and looked very fit. The pace set in this race would undoubtedly be very fast.

If the race expo had been a little crazy and chaotic, then the actual race start was crazier still, although it came as no surprise to the Almeria regulars among us who have come to expect nothing but the unexpected from this event.

Despite their 20 years of experience running this show, one had to wonder as to the organiser’s thinking regarding the race start. It’s fair enough I suppose to have the same start time for the two races, those being the half marathon and its smaller sibling, the 9km race. It’s not even perhaps so unusual to have both events start from the same location. It of course makes sense to have separate starting pens for the two different races. But it takes bizarre to a new, bewildering level to place the starting pen for the shorter event, with its faster runners, behind that of the longer and slower half marathon. If it struck us as odd and pretty much just asking for guaranteed chaos, then our scepticism was shown to be justified from the moment the starting gun fired.

At the back of the half marathon starting pen I had gathered with Ash, Duncan, Antonio and Rob. Behind us was a 10 metre neutral zone and then the 9km starting pen, at the front of which were a great number of anxious, serious runners, nervously worrying about how they were going to weave their way through a massive labyrinth composed of more than two thousand far slower half marathon runners. Many of them had apparently devised a plan, the nature of which became immediately apparent when the starting gun fired. As we at the back of the half marathon starting pack waited patiently for those in front to move across the starting line and get under way, hundreds of 9km runners simply streamed around us and on to the footpaths to get ahead of us and get their race started with as few of the slower half marathoners in their path as possible. The chaos and confusion this caused was to us back markers simply amusing, but to the elite and serious running folk trying to get a good fast start to their race, it must have been annoying in the extreme.

My intent was to start and stay at the back end of the race and run a slow, steady pace throughout. Ash and Antonio had suggested race time goals very similar to mine, and I thought it would be nice to try and stick with them as much as possible. At the gun however, they surprised me by taking off like hungry cheetahs chasing an antelope. I kept them within sight for a few moments, but too quickly they were way ahead of me, so I slowed to my expected pace and resigned myself to running solo.

The first two kilometres were crowded and chaotic, but then the 9km and half marathon courses went separate ways, and so quite suddenly I find myself running near the very back of the race, with only pram pushers and the fat and unfit for company. I didn’t mind, but it was quite a lonely experience, and with Spanish being the only language spoken I couldn’t even understand the small amount of banter among the few people this far back in the race.

I knew that this race was largely entered by fast, club runners with the average pace well above that which I normally experience in a race, and so I expected to be in the bottom 10% or so of the field, but now I appeared instead to be perhaps in the bottom 1%, something of a novel experience for me. My poor grasp of the Spanish language and the fact that the people I had hoped to be running with had disappeared way up ahead only intensified the isolation I was beginning to feel.

Of course there was nothing to be done about it except to press on and complete the race. I was travelling comfortably enough, a little faster than anticipated, but only moderately so. And then somewhere between the 4th and 5th kilometres the unexpected happened. Up ahead, I saw Ash, and he was walking. Thinking he may have hurt himself I picked up my pace a little and drew alongside. There was no concern though, he’d simply gone out too fast and had slowed to a walk to get his heart rate back down in the zone he was determined to run in. This accomplished, we ran on together, and stayed as such for the next 13 or so kilometres, happily chatting all the way.

The wind was making sections of the run difficult, although at other times it provided a welcome push from behind. We were aiming for kilometre splits of about 6:30, but in reality we were often much faster than this, with the odd split being below six minutes and putting me a little ahead of my target time. This would come back to bite me in the final kilometres of the race, but for the moment all was well.

The race route had taken us through the old part of town and was charming, even if some of the residents and the occasional motorist didn’t quite know what was happening. It seems the race is still small enough that not all the locals are aware of its existence. We hit 10km in about 68 minutes and then from there we were running along the seafront. This section had three out-and-back sections and we were kept busy spotting our running colleagues, all of whom were ahead of us. At 11km we caught Antonio, who had strained his left calf and was struggling to maintain pace. He gamely stuck with us for a kilometre or so, but then fell back to preserve his leg and to ensure he at least finished the course, but his target time was by then out of the question.

We maintained our pace as best we could, but the wind was making pacing difficult. If we were flagging though we were buoyed at about 16km to spot Antonio’s delightful wife Carmen cheering us on from the sidelines. At 17km we turned inland gain, a long, gentle 4km ascent to the finish. At first the wind was at our backs and was welcome, but that wasn’t to last, and the closing stages started to become difficult. Or, I should say, I was finding them difficult. Ash was feeling good and chomping at the bit. With about three kilometres to go, I needed to drop the pace a little, so I bid good luck to Ash who quickly disappeared ahead whilst I slowed to a more comfortable, survival plod.

A little later I caught Rob who had started with us at the back of the race but was suffering from cramps. Too tired to say much we plodded on. Inevitably the finish came into view. The rest of our crew were there cheering us on, which was fantastic and a real boost.  I crossed the finish line thirty seconds inside my target time, normally cause for hearty congratulations as a triumph of masterful pacing and willpower. On this occasion however this had to be tempered by the fact of sore legs and the knowledge that the race had been far harder than anticipated. I wasn’t alone in thinking this. Very few of us were completely satisfied with our results, nor were any of us expecting this level of discomfort in our legs. Whether the road surface was harder than we thought, or the wind made it tricky, or perhaps just a combination of factors, it was one of the tough ones that come along unexpectedly from time to time. But if that made the post-race celebrations a little more enjoyable, then it was well worth the effort and pain.

I finished in the bottom 5% of the field, and 53rd out of 56 in my age category. This, it must be said, is a sobering result. At dinner the following day I had the extreme pleasure of being seated next to a local gentleman and long-term friend of Antonio’s named Felipe. At the age of 67 and a runner for over four decades, he ran the 2017 edition of the half marathon in a PB time of 1h48m! He credits the stress-free lifestyle of retirement for the improvement in his race times, and is proof that age has only a little to do with performance. And he is hardly obsessed with his sport, running only two or three times per week, and sometimes ‘going off the rails’ and not training at all for anything up to four weeks at a time. After talking with Felipe I resolved to reject the excuses of age and negativity of circumstance as being irrelevant to my results. Nothing, it seems, is beyond reach if one’s attitude is right. Time then, to get my head into gear and be 100% positive.

The post-race meal was a blast, and the following day’s bus trip along the coast to San Jose for a dip in the sea, relaxing and restorative.

At the end of the day, it isn’t the race, the tavernas or the seaside location that makes this such a great occasion (well okay, maybe the tavernas do help)… it’s of course the people. Running with like-minded people is always a joy, and to combine the pure delight of running with friends in a beautiful location and with such gracious hosts as Antonio and all the good people of Almeria has made this a super-special, memorable occasion.

May there be many more Almerias to come!

Oh, and a final word on the brilliance of our host, Antonio. As mentioned, those of us who had ordered and paid for the commemorative race T-shirt did not receive the standard one which we believed would have been included as well as part of the entry fee. Antonio took it upon himself to track down the race director and persuaded him to provide the T-shirts anyway, which he did and which Antonio then delivered to us! A legend and a true friend. Muchas gracias, Antonio!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Post Almeria 

It's the day after returning from Almeria. I'm standing in my son and daughter-in-law's Wimbledon flat, looking out the window at the bleak winter weather and waiting for the central heating to kick in. It's cold, it's grey and very, very bleak. The world beyond the double glazing could hardly seem more depressing. The bare trees, the dank, damp lumpy winter grass and the oh so early dusk fuel my melancholy mood. Tomorrow we fly to Sri Lanka for a brief family holiday in the warmth and exotica of a place so unlike this vision of bleakness that it seems implausible that it could even exist.

There's a strange and strong dichotomy about winter in England. For me it's the worst kind of cold - not properly cold like you get in the polar regions or high in the mountains, but the awful cold of a world that's waiting for warmth to return; marking time until flowers bloom and the sun shines strong and warm once more. But that's a long way off yet. In the garden I can see a child's playset that sits awkwardly vibrant of colour but as dormant and as untouched as the trees. It'll be many weeks, perhaps, before it hears the laughter of a child at play again.

And yet, this bone-seeping cold is also the best kind of cold, as it's this bleak, depressing climate that also produces the magical landscape of the Lake District or the Sussex Downs. It's this frigid, unwelcoming environment that also presents a challenge so many runners happily accept: go and run there, and you'll get to see what others don't. Just as the cold and the damp shapes the landscape, so it moulds the runner's soul; the harshness of the country being an inverse expression of the gentle massaging of your inner self.

We speak of the loneliness of the long distance runner, and yet we run because we know we're never really alone. The company we keep may seem to others to be just a conglomeration of bleak hills and vast empty tracts of nothingness, but we as runners know that there's magic in the landscape, and it speaks a language that strengthens the spirit, tones the flesh and clears the mind. Nothing else in my experience can do all three.           

I've spent much of the day writing my Almeria race report, but I'm not especially happy with it. Never mind, I'll let it be for now. I think what I failed to convey was the essential essence that running brings and which builds community among a group of runners such as ourselves. Of course many other activities can achieve something similar, and yet running somehow has an extra dimension. I don't know what it is exactly, and perhaps it's too intangible to convey in easy language, but staring out the window today it seemed to me that, like the landscape through which we run, the nature of running is itself a pure expression of all that's right about humanity and worthy of pursuit in a world of otherwise increasing shallowness.

Whatever it is that moved me to write this, it's very much tied up in all of you: whether you were in Almeria or not it doesn't matter. As runners, ex runners or even just someone with an interest in running, it's a bond we all share, and it's brilliant.

Thank you.

 

[Antonio247]

Post Almeria 

I've spent much of the day writing my Almeria race report, but I'm not especially happy with it. Never mind, I'll let it be for now. I think what I failed to convey was the essential essence that running brings and which builds community among a group of runners such as ourselves. Of course many other activities can achieve something similar, and yet running somehow has an extra dimension. I don't know what it is exactly, and perhaps it's too intangible to convey in easy language, but staring out the window today it seemed to me that, like the landscape through which we run, the nature of running is itself a pure expression of all that's right about humanity and worthy of pursuit in a world of otherwise increasing shallowness.

Whatever it is that moved me to write this, it's very much tied up in all of you: whether you were in Almeria or not it doesn't matter. As runners, ex runners or even just someone with an interest in running, it's a bond we all share, and it's brilliant.

Thank you.

Congrats, MLCMM, on that beautiful report and race. I should have gone with you from the beginning but I thought I could do the race under two hours ten minutes since two weeks before I had done Santa Pola in two hours eleven minutes and I felt fine with no pain and had trained quite well to be near the two hour barrier. 

I had a great time with all of you. It was a fantastic experience being with people from different countries and listening to different English accents. I'm very glad you had a good time in my hometown and I really appreciate the great effort you had to do to come here.  I'm looking forward to meeting again here and perhaps we both could do this race under two hours. 

I wish you have a wonderful time with your family in Sri Lanka. Greetings to J. and your family.

 
Saludos desde Almería

[suzieq]

Loved reading every word!  You capture the feeling of running and why we all show up in Almeria to run a race.
Hope you're enjoying a nice, warm holiday in Sri Lanka.  England can be rather bleak at this time of year.  But it's still much better than what I came home to - took me two days to finally get home and was literally planes, ferries and automobiles! (Massive snow storms)

[twittenkitten]

Hola MLCMM

It was a pleasure to meet you and a privilege to step into your world by reading your beautiful prose. It's always a window, to read someone's writing, but your words paint the scenes so tangibly - the description of lightning really got me. It is like being absorbed into another time and place for a bit. Thank you.

I am glad the isolation of the early part of the race you described was dispersed. Your thoughts on the uniqueness of running as a communal activity have also got me thinking lots.

As I write I am on a train to London to meet the friend I told you about who wants to find work on Australia. Jim is keen to know more about the space programme in Australia so I will chat with him properly today and will probably send you a note later to ask for contact details.

Louise

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Hola, and gracias, Antonio, Suzie and Louise/TK ... it was an honour and a pleasure to meet and run with you in the RC northern capital of Almeria. A blast, it was, and now indelibly etched into my memory. You've inspired me to keep running and to keep writing, so, erm, I'd better put down this bottle of Rioja and get on with it then...

Gad!

[Charliecat5]

Jim is keen to know more about the space programme in Australia so I will chat with him properly today and  will probably send you a note later to ask for contact details.

There's plenty of space in Australia... 

I'll fetch another bottle of Rioja.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

By jeep and by tuk tuk through Sri Lanka - A traveller's vignette #1 : safari jam.

Think 'safari', and images come to mind of crossing the sweeping plains of the Serengeti in a battered Land Rover while herds of zebra and wildebeest swarm past, all on the lookout for a prowling lioness or cheetah.

I knew, of course, when we signed up for a 'safari adventure' in Sri Lanka that the reality would be very different from my TV and movie-inspired pastiche images. What exactly it would encompass, I didn't know, but Born Free, it was clearly not going to be. Our driver collected us from our hotel at 05:30, not in a Land Rover, but a Jeep. Well, close enough to a Land Rover, but rather more comfortable, at least based on my admittedly limited experience of the battered beasts. As we drove through town toward the Yala National Park on the south coast where we would begin our search for exotic animals, we passed a great many similar vehicles parked outside other hotels and I knew then that this not going to be a solitary expedition. At the park entrance the truth of the matter became very clear - there would be no less than 125 vehicles on the safari today, and I wondered just how many animals we would actually see, with a not-so-small army of off-road vehicles thundering across the landscape.

Well, let me clarify that 'off road' statement a little. None of the vehicles would actually go off road today. We stayed on gravel roads for the duration of the half-day safari, which is of course, perfectly understandable. The film and TV-based images of bashing your way through the jungle or of losing your vehicle to quicksand or a charging bull elephant is a very, very long way from reality.

Speaking of elephants, we saw our first wild elephant just inside the park boundary before even leaving the bitumen. This was quite exciting, because we all thought that if we'd spotted one already before even getting properly into the park, then how many would we see throughout the whole safari? To save you, dear reader, the bother and possible anxiety of waiting for an answer to that question, I'll tell you straight up; that was to be the only elephant sighting of the day. Elephants were not the main quarry however, and are readily seen through many parts of the country anyway. Sri Lanka is famous not just for its elephants of course, but also for its leopards, which are the largest on the planet, being at the top of the food chain here. Despite having no predators, they are very shy and wary of humans. Combined with their stealth and camouflage, this makes them very difficult to spot, but the travel guides assured us that the Yala National Park would give us our best chance of sighting one.

With all vehicles dispersing along the many various tracks once we were under way, the crowd of Jeeps was not as bad as I had feared, and the list of animals and birds seen by us grew rapidly. There were crocodiles aplenty, along with water buffalo, deer, wild boar, mongoose, eagles, peacocks, giant land monitors and a staggering array of smaller birds including stunning kingfishers and parrots.

There were six of us in our Jeep: myself, Mrs MLCMM, our eldest son Christopher and his wife Tash, our driver and our park guide, so there were plenty of eyes being kept peeled for any sign of the elusive leopard. Well, as it turns out, all of the drivers and guides keep in constant contact via mobile phone, so there were far more eyes than just ours on the lookout. And so it transpired that it wasn't too long before word got out that a leopard had in fact been seen, and so began what can only be described as a safari traffic jam. If you can imagine over a hundred 4WDs converging on one remote spot via narrow, gravel roads you might begin to appreciate the strangeness of the situation. A Born Free moment it was not. Instead we sat in a queue for an hour, inching our way towards a stand of trees in which, we were told, a leopard was sleeping, apparently oblivious to the crush of humanity clamouring to catch a glimpse of it.

Park guides became point duty policemen, ensuring that vehicles remained only briefly at the allotted spot from where you could allegedly see the sleeping cat, and also ensuring that nobody left their vehicles. As our turn finally came, the guide urgently pointed us toward the appropriate point in the appropriate tree. There! He explained it was the second, darker tree, right hand side of the left hand bigger branch, lower crook. Huh? He even used our cameras to photograph the relevant spot but we saw nothing at all. Frustrated, we had to leave, but at least confident we had bagged the cat somewhere in one of the many photos we had taken, although also wondering if it would later turn out to be a pile of vaguely leopard-like rags planted there by someone.

After a breakfast break on the beach we returned the same way, the guide having taken pity on us and confirming that the leopard was in fact still there. By now water buffalo and crocodiles were beginning to seem a little passé, so another chance at spotting the leopard was welcome. Approaching from the other direction we were assured it would be easier to see, but again, we saw only a tangle of branches and leaves. Whoever it was that spotted the elusive cat had a magnificent set of eyes, I thought, or perhaps an overactive imagination. However, as we drove away, I studied the photos again a little more carefully, and sure enough there it was; in the crook of a branch where the guide had been pointing was the undeniable, sleeping form of a leopard. Having now seen it, it stood out clear as day. Well, anyway, I can at least say we saw it; it just didn't quite register at the time.

In fact, that was not to be the end of our leopard encounters. A little while later we had stopped to watch some wild boar who were off in the distance and looking agitated. The guide informed us their behaviour was indicative of a leopard in the area and on the prowl. What happened next was particularly confusing, but he suddenly claimed to have briefly seen the leopard, after which he told the driver to drive in the opposite direction and turn onto a side road where we stopped. Utterly confused as to why we had driven there I was watching the road ahead of us when suddenly everyone let out a gasp of astonishment followed by exclamations of 'Wow!' and 'Oh my God!' and 'Incredible! That was worth the whole trip!' ... somehow, despite watching the precisely the same stretch of road as everyone else, I must have blinked at the wrong moment and missed a leopard dart across right in front of us.

Well, that's the way it goes sometimes. Blink, and you risk missing one of life's truly magical moments.

The Buddhist/Hindu/Christo/Islamic Gods that favour Sri Lanka do, however, sometimes look after those of us who stupidly blink at the wrong times, and so were rewarded with an end-of-safari consolation prize of a young family of wild boar circling our Jeep in alarming cuteness, looking for freebie handouts right at the end of our adventure. Despite our lack of food to give them they graciously mooched around posing for photos for a time before trotting off to find comestibles elsewhere.

Trotting. Now there's something I ought to try sometime. Unlike the leopard that zoomed across our path today, there has been no running for me in Sri Lanka. But I have seen a leopard in the wild. Sort of.

The sleeping leopard (lower right).

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

By jeep and by tuk tuk through Sri Lanka - A traveller's vignette #2: eka, deka, tuna.

It’s 10:30pm and we’re hurtling through the backstreets of Kandy in a tuk tuk, careening around corners and shooting down side alleys as if in a chase scene from the new Bond movie. The driver is  taking a constant stream of calls on his mobile phone, speaking quickly and insistently, as if organising the getaway plane that’s to meet us if we ever escape this maze of narrow lanes and nameless byways that our driver is propelling us down, screeching around corners like there’s no tomorrow.

The reason for the haste is simple. We’re not, in fact, being chased by a Kalashnikov-wielding SMERSH agent, nor are we in danger of missing our rendezvous with a submarine off the coast. It’s simply that for the first time today the streets are not gridlocked; traffic is flowing at greater than walking pace, and the tuk tuk driver can finally complete a few fares in short time and so have a chance of maybe making a little more than a subsistence living this week.

The ride through the now cool evening air of Kandy is exhilarating, though not without some danger, and as I grip tight to the upright bar to my left I can feel the indentations of others before me who have also clung on for dear life. But after an evening of drinking Lion beer, eating exotic foods and listening somewhat incongruously to Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin in a local eatery, this ride back to our hotel is a tonic and every bit as good as a decent late-night lamb kebab with an extra zingy garlic sauce to top it off.

This then, is Sri Lanka. The first things you learn here are all to do with the roads: dealing with traffic and negotiating a reasonable fare with the tuk tuks being among the most important. It’s important to negotiate the fare before setting off, unless you want to pay five times the acceptable tourist rate if you happen to have caught an unscrupulous one. The majority are friendly, fair and helpful, but as many of them have only limited English, it pays to learn some basic Sinhalese numbers: Eka, deka, tuna being the first three.

The other extremely important thing to learn is that yes, they really do drive like that all the time. The traffic is seriously insane and unless you learn the simple premise by which it operates you’ll either get nowhere fast or die trying. You’ll certainly have your heart in your mouth until you learn to just relax and accept that it is normal to drive on the wrong side of the road and break every known road rule on every journey. The only vague road rules drivers in Sri Lanka seem to operate by are:

• The bigger you are, the more right of way you have.
  
  
  If something is on a collision course with you, slow down, blare your horn and move out of the way.
  
  
  Use your horn, always. Even if it's the middle of the night with no other traffic, sound your horn to ensure it doesn't fail through lack of use.
  
  
  Go behind anything that is crossing or blocking your path.
  
  
  Traffic signs and speed limits are advisory only and may be ignored.
  
  

It somehow works, although the death and accident rate, along with the incident of cardiac arrest among visiting tourists is alarmingly high when compared with the west. Indeed, we saw a serious accident on our first afternoon, although it seemed nothing unusual to the locals. A small sedan was upside down in the middle of the road, and a group of bystanders nonchalantly manhandled it out of harms way while a bored policeman looked on whilst waving traffic around the mess. Nobody seemed particularly surprised by any of this.

And so with our exhilarating tuk tuk ride over we arrived back at our hotel revitalised by the journey and the cooler night air. Our tuk tuk driver was also happy, having been able to give his little two-stroke tuk tuk engine full throttle, and reaching the dizzying speeds of nearly 40kmh on some of the downhill sections.

The next morning at breakfast we learned that our son Chris and his wife Tash had quite a different experience, their tuk tuk taking the same journey but nearly colliding with a car, giving them significant conniptions and causing them to read the fine print of their travel insurance.

Exhilarating and scary all in one. Sri Lanka is certainly never dull.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Befugged of Sydney writes...

I've been in something of a fug since returning home from Spain and Sri Lanka, but shook the tree somewhat with a nice little 1h40m run in the afternoon, followed by a glass and a half of a decent Grenache and then a Temazepam, something I use only very occasionally, but which used as part of a run/drink/sleeping drug cocktail finally knocked me out solid for five hours and which enabled me to wake reasonably refreshed and to function as a reasonably normal human being again. A sort of body clock reset, if you will.

The run itself prior to that was pretty damned hard thanks to my state of exhaustion and general befuggedness, but also mightily rewarding for much the same reason, and now I feel ready again to tackle a decent long run tomorrow.

It was my first run since the post-Almeria recovery plod (led by the injured but plucky Antonio on his bicycle) around the old part of town. I'd not managed to squeeze in a run in Sri Lanka, which was disappointing, but generally on holiday we like to cram in as many experiences as we can, leaving precious little time for any extra-curricula activities such as a plod. It was in any case a dangerous place to run, with heavy traffic and no footpaths anywhere at all (outside of Colombo at least) - you might say more than just a little unnerving.

But now with a good run and a decent night's kip under my belt I'm ready to head full-bottle into the training once more. I've signed up for the Sydney half marathon in May, so there's my first home-based target for the year. There are other races prior, but as I work every second weekend most of them don't fit into my schedule. As it is I have to take annual leave even just to run the Sydney half, but this is one of my favourite events, so worth the hassle and expense.

On the weight front, I'm pleased but surprised to report that I've lost a little over two kilograms since leaving for Almeria just three weeks ago. How this happened I don't know, as I definitely felt as if I was piling on the flab there for a while. However, it's all fallen away quite rapidly and I'm at my lowest weight in nearly three years, which is very encouraging. The fat melting away suggests I'm burning it up at a goodly rate now, so it will be fascinating to see how this translates to my running endurance.

Stay tuned, fat fans... more news as I burn it up.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

By jeep and by tuk tuk through Sri Lanka - A traveller's vignette #3: a roof with a view.

Our driver's level of English was good, but not excellent, and he struggled with our Aussie accents. It took some time to develop a rapport, but he warmed to us when we began asking him questions about his life, his family and so on.

What happened next was a little disturbing to begin with. Instead of driving through the town we were in and back to our hotel, he ducked down a side street and stopped outside a small bakery. Without a word of explanation he went in and made a purchase, returned to the van and drove on, still with no explanation of what he was doing. Then we were in the back streets of the town and we really were flummoxed as to what he was doing. We pulled up outside a small house and he announced we were at his family home and that he'd like us to see it and meet his family. A little concerned that our polite enquiries had been interpreted as a request to see his home and family, we cautiously went inside, where clearly we were expected. One of his numerous phone calls must have been to call home and ask them to prepare for guests.

The front room containing the comfortable chairs had been vacated for our benefit, and glasses of refreshing cool drinks handed to us. Cake that he had purchased from the bakery was sliced and handed around as well. We met his father, who was staying with him at the time, his sister and her two daughters, the girls both extremely shy but smiling and giggling all the while. Having western guests was something out of the ordinary, it seemed.

The hospitality was cheerfully extended to us, but they themselves would not participate in the eating of cake or of the drinking, and we all wondered how much cost and trouble we were causing them, especially as it seemed to be possibly the result of a slight misunderstanding. They all seemed quite comfortable with the arrangement however and went to some pains to show us the roof of their house: it was all very modest by our standards, but they were very proud of it and the view it afforded, and we did our best to show our admiration of their home.

Out the front of their home as we were leaving I pointed out to Mrs MLCMM a thorned fern growing beside the house that also grows as a particularly obnoxious perennial weed at our house which we're always struggling to get rid of. This gesticulation was mistaken as a request for a cutting, and more trouble was taken by them to cut the best part of the plant and present it to us as a gift, which we accepted with the best grace we could muster. Funnily enough, the next day, having left the cutting sitting in our hotel room, we returned to find the cleaners had taken the trouble to place it in a glass of water for us. We didn't have the heart then to throw it out until we left, carefully hiding it among other rubbish lest it was seen and thereby labelling us as callous, heartless bastards from Australia.

This generosity and hospitality among relatively poor people was frequently in evidence and really very humbling. There seemed to be no limit to the amount of trouble they would go to for us. As another example, one of our drivers had to attend a wedding in the evening, but despite our protestations wouldn't countenance leaving us until he was quite certain there was nothing more we wanted to see or do and that there was absolutely no other service he could provide for us that evening. By western standards the level of hospitality extended to us in Sri Lanka was beyond belief. That it was freely given even by complete strangers who really have every right to be a little aggrieved at the economic disparity between themselves and the west, wonderfully restored my faith in the basic goodness of humanity. And this is in a country ravaged by 26 years of civil war that killed tens of thousands, and a devastating tsunami that killed 35,000 more.

As I stood on that rooftop of our driver's home, I tried to come to terms with the contrast between the pride our host showed in his modest house and my embarrassment at what we would consider little more than a rather ordinary beach shack; but I also had to recognise that this was actually middle class by Sri Lankan standards, hence their pride and willingness to show it to us. It was a world I didn't, and perhaps can't properly comprehend. They were happy, and grateful for what they had, perhaps because of the troubles the country has been through in recent decades. It's a proud country, and rightly so. They're now getting back on their feet, and whilst there aren't too many signs of overt wealth, the first hints are there. The occasional Mercedes, the glitter of gold iPhones and the flash of designer clothes can certainly be seen in Colombo, the biggest city. Chinese money is pouring in, and western fast food outlets and chain stores are proliferating. The wealth this brings is overdue, to be sure, but we will have to hope the innate pride and hospitality of the people remains untarnished.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

A slight change to my schedule saw me sleep in this morning which meant my long run was cut short, which is a shame, but I still managed 1h40m, so I've completed two solid runs for the week, which is far better than nothing. I still feel underdone, and need a few weeks of solid base building, but fortunately time is on my side, at least for the moment. Although now that I look at it, that statement does sound a little ridiculous; contradictory, even.

I read a fascinating article today, about the findings of a study published in the Journal of Sport and Exercise Psychology that investigated the effect of cognitive fatigue on physical performance among runners. What they found was that running really is a mental game; their studies revealed that runners when mentally tired actually do run worse even when all their other measurable physical attributes (heart rate, blood sugar levels and the like) remain exactly the same. Which is why, when your head is in the right space, you can run all day (seemingly); but when it isn't, you'll have a bad run, no matter how physically fit and well you might be.

Well, I suppose that's so much duh, but it's nice to have the boffins verify this stuff.

What does it mean? Well, I guess it means I need to work on my mental game as well as putting in the miles. Mental toughness seems to be a little more than just focussing on your goals. Or is it? I'm going to have to put some thought into this.

[serious thought mode engaged]

... I'll have get back to you about that.

[Charliecat5]

What they found was that running really is a mental game; their studies revealed that runners when mentally tired actually do run worse even when all their other measurable physical attributes (heart rate, blood sugar levels and the like) remain exactly the same. Which is why, when your head is in the right space, you can run all day (seemingly); but when it isn't, you'll have a bad run, no matter how physically fit and well you might be.

It was definitely a physical issue for me this morning... although the fact I was there in the first place with those two loons kinda indicates a mental issue as well...

[twittenkitten]

What does it mean? Well, I guess it means I need to work on my mental game as well as putting in the miles. Mental toughness seems to be a little more than just focussing on your goals. Or is it? I'm going to have to put some thought into this.

[serious thought mode engaged]

... I'll have get back to you about that.

I'm really interested to hear about cognitive fatigue playing a part in performance in when running. I'm generally interested in shining a light on how all the different factors of how we operate play into being human, but specifically the mental & physical in running.

My personal experience tells me that I find it very hard to keep up a running routine when I am mentally overtaxed, despite knowing I'd benefit from the physical exertion. 

I guess mental toughness (as you put it above) may be partly about discipline. Not just discipline about goals, but getting yourself out the door, and other things that get you ready to run. I also find I need to focus on eating regularly and well if I want to train regularly and keeping myself hydrated. These simple things can fall by the wayside if I'm not mindful of them. I guess therefore that mental discipline around running form, pacing etc may also suffer when mentally fatigued? Therefore affecting performance on a specific outing?

I wonder also about considering signs or symptoms of mental tiredness as a diagnostic for my body and wellbeing. My time honoured approach is to tell myself 'to get over it, forget it and push on anyway'. That can be really useful to achieve short term goals like just getting myself out the door(!), but it often stops me from considering the deeper reasons for whatever ails me and making choices to make my life healthier. So if I notice being mentally tired and that affecting my running performance, then perhaps I should consider what else in my life is sapping my energy and reducing my performance. There may be nothing I can do about it, but then again there may be. In recent months I've chosen to take on less work so I can focus on spending time at the allotment and getting more exercise.

Anyways, just my thoughts on it rambled here pretty much as I think them so not especially deep or considered. Thanks for sharing - definitely got me thinking!

PS loved the travel diary entries from Sri Lanka!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

[serious thought mode engaged]

I'm really interested to hear about cognitive fatigue playing a part in performance when running...

My personal experience tells me that I find it very hard to keep up a running routine when I am mentally overtaxed, despite knowing I'd benefit from the physical exertion. 

This is a topic fairly frequently discussed in these fora, and a problem many of us recognise all too well... Running: when we most need it, it is often also the time that we least feel like doing it. This is the conundrum I and others have utterly failed to solve. It's also the subject of my most recent book (still available from Amazon of course, with all proceeds going to JDRF)* and will also play a significant role in my forthcoming tome (Volume 2 of The Diaries), which is now a little over half complete.

I've been through the wringer with my work over the last two years, and the two forms of therapy required to tackle this have been mindfulness, that modern panacea for many 21st century aspects of mental anguish, and running, which if anything has been touted by the medicos as even more beneficial than mindfulness and definitely better than medication. And yet, despite the fact that I fully recognise the truth of it, I found it extremely difficult during the dark times to lace up my shoes and knock off a few kilometres, and I am at a total loss to explain why. That was absolutely a 100% mental problem. Physically I was in more than fine enough form to pound out a few gentle kilometres, yet there were lengthy periods where I could not drag my sorry arse out the door for even the shortest of jogs. And I wasn't even seriously depressed (although my psychologist wanted to argue the case): I was still functioning OK; going to work, eating (yes, and drinking), talking with my family and so on, but sleep was the big problem, with work preventing it, and when I did sleep, I would dream about work which would wake me again and compound the problem.

The relevant point here is that much of that anguish could have been avoided, or at least improved significantly if I had run more often. When I did run it was difficult, which was purely a mental problem as we've been discussing, but the answer is, of course, to not give up, but to continue. Although I doubt this is unique to me, I have another particular problem with my mindset, in that just one bad run tends to destroy my confidence and motivation, which if I am not careful has me postponing my next run, and then I'm on that tricky downhill slope where the problem snowballs into a major cessation of running altogether. And I can never remember quite why, which only makes it all the more depressing thus furthering the depth of the funk I find myself in .

And that is why the next volume of my running diaries will be titled The Desperate Years, because if I don't find an answer to this conundrum, my running days are numbered, and just at that stage of life when I need them most.

I guess this is why we talk about discipline and focus so much because all too often that is the only thing that keeps us going. When we can't articulate or even remember well enough why it is that we run, at least discipline will get us through. And then you hit that magical moment when, out of the blue, in the middle of a run somewhere, you suddenly get it. It's just a feeling, perhaps, but it's a transcendental one. It's hard to explain, and even harder still to remember when you're all tired and a bit down later on, but it's life-changing, life-saving, and, of course, bloody well worth the effort.

I don't think I'm overstating things here. Running, as we keep saying, definitely is the answer. You just have to experience it to understand why. But keep at it, or you'll forget!

*Sorry for the plug, but it is for a good cause.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Zinging along with Zoe.

And I'm freefallin'
I'm letting go, Just let the melody flow
Said I'm freefallin'
I'm feelin' so like, whatever 'cause things can only get better
('Freefallin'  -  Zoe Badwi)

Wow, sometimes this running business just slaps you in the face with a 24-carat gin and tonic (erm, if you can imagine such a thing), and with amazing good timing, given my previous post. After a long, tiring six-day working week which culminated in two graveyard shifts I decided to test the waters a little with a tricky two-hour hill climb session. This, clearly, was not going to be a Maffetone session, yet I was pleasantly surprised at the relatively low level at which my heart rate maxxed out. Given my perceived exertion it was much lower than I anticipated, so that was beaut bonus.

The real bonus came afterwards though, with the best burst of endorphins I've had in many a month. Those little critters are more than welcome in my household, anytime. Welcome back, Kotter fellas.

With beer in hand, I can now say that I am genuinely back in love with running again, even on the treadmill.

Speaking of being in love, we've not had a track du jour for some time; well how about this one - I currently have this on high rotation*. I can't help but bounce along at a cracking pace to this superb track (despite the admittedly inane lyrics). She's an Aussie artist, too and it's a few years old now, but it's timeless running music, or so I reckon. I'm loving it... especially after a beer and another half a bottle of a decent grenache.

(Contented) sigh.

*That is to say, I'm playing it incessantly, like a love-sick teenager again. Well, hey, what's wrong with regressing every now and then?