Not much to tell you I'm afraid. No-vember follows on from not-much-ctober on the running front. I've managed a few gentle plods in between wrangling man flu and traveling the globe. My waistline is showing signs of recovery (not in a good way) and my ardure for my running mistressed appears to have cooled.
This is, as I'm sure you know, cyclical. Illness (always this time of year) apathy (strikes as and when it fancies) and inconvenience combine to scupper my best-laid Ultimate Fitness ™ plans. So it was with the (aborted) 200 sit-ups program, and so it has been with my pre-Almeria, injury-free build-up.
On a positive note we delivered a stonking 2nd Friends For Life conference in Windsor last weekend. If you ever wondered about the impact our humble gathering might have on families living with type 1 diabetes, check out these parent comments. Caution: a healthy supply of kleenex may be useful.
Far less forgiveable is my failure to keep abreast of all things RC. There are people running out there - hats off to you - yet I find when inactive myself I become detached from the fraternity. This is partly self-preservation; I'm a jealous type and the thought of friends and colleagues piling up the miles whilst I wallow in self-pity and jet-lag leaves me a little frosty.
A doff of the cap to Niguel, sole survivor of Le Jog. I had intended to catch up, suffered a series of upload failures and finally threw my hands in the air screaming 'will nobody rid me of this troublesome software?' Four good knights rode out and slew Sir Thomas-a-MapMyRun in the dead of night. I confess to occasional pangs of guilt, but frankly when errant software starts to take over any part of your life it's time to say 'fcuk it'.
I'm typing this in Carluccio's at Heathrow's T5, parked next to THE couple from Diddleyboing Idaho. The silver-haired gent has more crags in his face than Mount Rushmore and a voice like Walter Matthau. I'd audioboo him if the ambient noise in here wouldn't ruin it. Speaking of AudioBoo I did a little recording at Lewes Bonfire last night (as those on Twitter know all too well). Here for your delectation is a Boo and a Youtube link from last night's festivities.
Off now to Rio for the TOC Conference. I've packed my runners, my Vibram FiveFingers and a copy of Born to Run. If I manage a plod across the sands of Ipanema you'll be the first to hear of it.[/color]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(06-11-2010, 08:57 AM)Sweder Wrote: I've packed my runners, my Vibram FiveFingers and a copy of Born to Run.[/color]
Ah well. You know this is cyclical and you know that the only way to get back on the up-cycle is to grit your teeth (Ipanema -- tough gig) and get back out there. We, your readers, know that 2011 is going to be a big year for you (assuming Point to Pinnacle comes off -- sounds like you need some kind of expert in international logistics to organise it ) so you're entitled to a bit of downtime, even if it's not of your choice. Your body might benefit from it in the "long run".
Remind me, what distance are you planning for Connemara? Or are you just going to decide on the day?
BTW I recently came across this bloke. From his PR stats on the front page (and his race report) he's definitely "one of us" performance-wise, but he only went and did an Ironman. Makes me wonder if such things might one day be achievable for mortals like us.
Thanks for the reminder Dan - yes we all need a bit of down time now and again - just mindful it's easily allowed to slip into something less helpful, like a 6 month lay-off.
Iron Man you say ... yes have always hankered after a triathlon. Sadly I swim like a brick; I'd have to have lessons in distance swimming and even then smuggle in one of those James Bond/ Jaques Cousteau style mini-propeller jobbies just to keep up. The cycling doesn't phase me as spin sessions will help. One day perhaps ...
Connemara seems a long way off. I'll need a decent December/ January to get into that kind of form. I'm hoping to follow in Julie's impressive footsteps again this winter - she whipped me into shape last January. I'm not sure how certain the Emerald Isle is now as a) our Paddy-in-Chief has gone Cuckoo and b) Point to Pinnacle may sap my finances. If I go I'm doing the Ultra and aiming for a sub-7.
My plan of a beach run every day has folded already - 1 out of 3 so far, though I'm planning an afternoon jaunt if the cloud cover holds.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(09-11-2010, 02:03 PM)Sweder Wrote: I'll need a decent December/ January to get into that kind of shape. I'm hoping to follow in Julie's impressive footsteps again this winter - she whipped me into pretty decent shape last January.
The December training starts soon for us then Ash. Tuesday mornings are good for me commencing 7th December, but failing that if you are travelling I can do Mondays or Wednesdays instead. I will get my whip ready!!
I seem to remember that you got fit very quickly last year Ash - fit enough to do a pb at Almeria.
A couple of 5k beach runs to report. Fivefingers saw some excellent surf/ sand action along Ipanema front. +30 degrees a tad warm for me but lots of great sights to distract from the heat. Planning another tomorrow and a last one on Saturday making 20k for the week - impressive by recent standards, and all 'barefoot' to boot.
Some great moments to share from my time in Rio. They really need a roaring fire and pints of foaming ale to do them justice. Highlight was crouching in the back of a taxi whilst hurtling through traffic at break-neck speed. Strange radio commentary coming from the front so I peeked over the driver's shoulder only to see he had a small television set playing in the corner of his dashboard. Oh, my, and indeed, God.
Yesterday I learned the terrible truth that me and Caipirinhas, the local rocket fuel, don't mix. Mother of all hangovers yesterday only soothed by a head-long launch into the violent Atlantic ocean followed by a toasted ham & cheese sandwich. Residual thumping nursed in Shenanigans, Ipanema's last standing Irish bar and purveyours of a decent drop (6.5 out of 10) of the Black Stuff. The tepid fare offered by the Manchester Derby almost rocked me to sleep so I hit club 40 Degrees in Lapa, the favela-based club district. Salsa, samba, games of pool and unfeasibly large bottles of anaemic lager abounded. Topped the evening off at the Marina Hotel al fresco bar with a monstrous plate of sushi and a bottle of two of a most agreeable Argentinian Shiraz, ably abetted by my customers.
Brutal? Oh yes, just received an e-mail from the organisers of a number of UK off-road 10ks, one of which, the Hard as Snails, I took part in this summer. Take a look - they're well organised and put the fun back into this, for me at least, difficult distance. I particularly enjoyed the phrase 'The inaugural Brutal run series comprises of 3 running events, across 3 fantastic MOD training venues.'
Unexploded ordnance? Just another hurdle to these Johnnies.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Walkers, runners, rollerbladers
Youngsters, funsters, Little old ladies
Lovers, loners, rock n rollers
Mothers pushing baby strollers
Samba Soccer, Volleyball
Roadside coconut/ hotdog stall
The girls from Ipanema shine
Oh how I wish they all were mine!
I finished off my week in the Ciudade Maravilhosa with a valedictory parade along the prom, a ten kilometre plod to say goodbye to a little slice of heaven. This should have been a pre-breakfast adieu but my rest day schedule lay shredded by last night’s over-indulgences. A sad yet familiar tale in these pages, I fear.
The plan had been to meet in the Lord Jim pub (two of the TOC Americas team staying on after the close of the event, and I) for a snifter before heading off to one of Leblon’s finest eateries. Alas, the best laid plans of mice and exhibitionistas ... well met in the small and increasingly crowded bar, we ordered our drinks just as a lone minstrel took to the tiny stage. He had the dark, craggy visage of Telly Savalas, replete with jauntily-angled trilby (sans lollipop). I was halfway through my second Guinness when he crashed into ‘Sultans of Swing’ before regaling us with a continuous stream of beautifully rendered rock classics. Not many escaped his homage; Bob Dylan, Guns and Roses, Pink Floyd (a hugely brave Wish You Were Here and a Dark Side of the Moon medley), REM, The Chilli Peppers ... he nailed them all. It would have been rude to leave in the midst of such artistry and the man simply refused to take a break. Hence come one thirty am we were still on our island table, surrounded by a foaming sea of what appeared to be twelve year olds imbibing a kaleidoscope of jello shots and indulging in a mass crotch-rubbing ritual that the youth of today apparently refer to as ‘grinding’. I avoided ‘grinding’ but I also managed to avoid supper. This helps to explain the trail of Doritos leading from my bathroom to the bed, where a still half-full packet hid guiltily under the duvet.
Out on the cycle path (running parallel with the white sands and thundering surf) I thanked my lucky stars for cloud cover and a temperature hovering at a merciful twenty-two degrees. Thanks to last night’s intake, I spent most of my fifty-five minutes sweating like Nick Clegg on a polygraph. I trudged along, trying to remember the advice I’d just revisited in my well-thumbed Born To Run bible – knees bent, back straight, shorter strides, foot-falls below the body, not beyond. I must have looked like an escapee from the Ministry of Silly Walks.
Sumptuous scenery distracted from the pain of my frontal lobe thrombosis. Flora and fauna of outstanding natural beauty filled the view. Curves a-plenty, tanned and toned torsos, skin-tight lycra and straining sports bras in every direction, placing my neck muscles at serious risk of terminal spasm. Three chefs, resplendent in pristine whites and clearly on a crafty communal fag break, leered without shame at three passing lovelies.
Welcome, indeed, to the Pleasuredome.
Appropriately enough I’d downloaded a classic album to review. Frankie Goes to Hollywood hit the UK music scene like a bolt of lightning in the early eighties, raising eyebrows in Tonbridge Wells with their soon-to-be-banned single, ‘Relax’. The album from whence that came is ‘Welcome To The Pleasuredome’, as fine and eclectic a musical compendium as you’ll find from that era. Just like this beautiful city, the songs are laced with warmth, humour and a homo-erotic suggestiveness that appears charming in these enlightened times. 'Relax' was banned once it became obvious that the oft-repeated chorus line was actually an instruction on how to enhance ejaculatory orgasm. I’d like to think these days the censors would laugh and let it go, though one suspects Messrs Cameron and Clegg would take a dim view given their apparent quest to drive us all into Dickensian Britain. Other songs contain more subtle references, as in ‘Krisco Kisses’ with its' noises off ‘blow me!’ howls before and after the track, but unless you're looking for trouble (or happen to be AA Gill) these don't detract from the quality of the collection.
There are some excellent covers on this seminal LP (no more ejaculate references, I promise). ‘Born to Run’ – ooh, how’s that for synchronicity! – ‘San Jose’, ‘Ferry ‘Cross The Mersey’ and a version of ‘WAR! (What Is It Good For?)' that not only gives the original a run for its money but has a natty Ronald Reagan voiceover. Add the three (count ‘em) number one singles – 'Relax', 'Two Tribes' and the hauntingly beautiful ‘Power of Love’ and I reckon you’ve bagged a fair pile of good tunes for under seven quid* *i-Tunes download offer
The production is exceptional. Holly Johnson, FGTH's cheeky front man, displays vocal dexterity and the snarling bouncing bass-lines are right up my alley. It’s tough to pick a favourite track so I’ll go for two, both superb to run to and FGTH originals to boot. The title track is rich in apropos jungle sounds samples with a driving beat at its heart that just won’t quit, the rhythm in tune with my cadence. ‘Only Star In Heaven’ is lovingly crafted, delivering pace and power and a nice change of tempo at either end.
And so to Rio, or, rather, thoughts on the sexy city that I’m about to leave. It’s a breathtaklingly beautiful place, surrounded (as all Brazilian conurbations are) by the deshevilled flavelas (shanty towns). Our hosts - Carioca - beam a friendly welcome through soft brown eyes and ready smiles. The food is excellent, with all tastes catered for. Caipirinhas are ubiquitous and popular but I’ll never drink one again after the Mother of all hangovers held me hostage for most of Wednesday following a ‘down in one’ session at the TOC welcome party. The landscape is sublime, from the ‘Close Encounters’ vista of Sugarloaf mountain to the imposing figure of Christ the Redeemer looming over Rio Centro. The ocean is warm, if a little violent at times, generous soft-sand beaches decorated with lithe exponents of Samba Soccer and Beach Volleyball. I ran a five kilometre up-and-back trail along the surfline three times this week, thoroughly entertained by joyful brown-skinned revelers playing for the hell of it whilst displaying a dizzying array of skills. Playing football for fun; just imagine that.
The streets can be mean at night – I was advised to ‘dress down’ and avoid obvious use of expensive phones or overt displays of jewellery. But it’s no more threatening than any other big city I’ve been to, including London; you just have to use your loaf.
I’ll be back. If you get the chance to visit, don’t think twice (it’s a bit of alright).
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Am still staggered, Sweder, by your ability to run under extreme duress, i.e. hungover. Especially a cachaça-based "morning after'. If you (as I suspect) mixed that in with a few pints of Guinness then you defy any form of normal, human logic.
) so you're entitled to a bit of downtime, even if it's not of your choice. Your body might benefit from it in the "long run".
