Obscure perhaps, but deeply meaningful to those of us who just survived that wild rollercoaster taxi ride from Caranguejo de Sergipe to the Tulip Inn tonight. As August melds into September like a wobbly-screened 1970's TV drama flashback, life in Brazil continues to amaze and astound, though I can feel my slack-jawed incredulity wearing a little thin at some of the Salvador Daily madness I've encountered.
For now, a vow.
Knuckle down and try to patch up the monstrous tear in my hitherto successful running comeback. I'll start with a Saturday morning sojourn along the ocean shore.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Life's A Beach.
I used to have a T-shirt with that slogan writ large. Yesterday was a day off for me, a day free from the madness of the World Dental Congress and the sand-storm of idiosyncrasies that have plagued my working days this past week. I’ve sought solace in cold beer and cheeseburgers but Saturday offered a chance to spend time with that great cathartic mistress, the long run.
First, a sortie in Guinness boxers and Motorhead T-shirt to the breakfast bar to fill my coffee jug. Since day one I’ve been left no supplies for my in-room coffee machine. I'd had enough. Such is the surreal nature of this place my attire drew not one bat of an eyelid. I then pfaffed about on Twitter for a couple of hours. The sun rose high over the Centro de Convencoes da Bahia, warming my shoebox of a room at an alarming rate. Running garb donned I wondered at the wisdom of a midday run under the southern hemisphere sun. They’re rather short on ozone around these parts. To make matters worse I had somehow failed to pack proper running shorts, choosing to lump in my padded cycle pants (used for spinning) instead. They’re nice and baggy, except for the heavily elastic gripping my thighs like vicious tourniquets and the 'freshly-filled nappy' lining designed to protect one's nether regions from the ravages of a pointy cycle saddle. Importantly they are blue and so don’t clash too terribly with my trusty RC vest.
Garmin alligned, iPhone strapped on and set to shuffle, I loped off towards the ocean under a clear blue sky. After pausing to watch some highly technical football, played by locals on a gritty, sandy pitch behind high wire fences, I navigated through narrow streets lined with decrepit domiciles and precarious lean-to food shacks. We’ve been told to avoid these at all costs, certainly after dark, but I figured a large, sweaty man thundering along makes a less than attractive target for would-be muggers. I arrived at the dusty promenade unmolested, turning left (north/ east) to run along a green tarmac trail. To my right great ocean rollers raced in like wild beasts, charging across the shoreline to die a foamy death on flat, sun-baked sands. Dark skinned locals cavorted in the surf, playing impromptu Samba soccer featuring occasional sprints into the waves to cool off. I chugged along, enjoying an eclectic blend of Deep Purple, Kaiser Chiefs and the Buzzcocks. Following MLCMan’s excellent 100 minute report I'd downloaded Love Bites. Pete Shelly is, appropriately, a poet, cursed with a light, slightly effeminate voice, yet his tales of love and angst from the heady days of New Wave still resonate.
I ploughed on as the sun bit deep into my exposed shoulders and arms. Being a bear of very little brain I’d failed to slap on any sunblock. Roadside flora offered occasional shade and I resolved to follow this longest of hard-topped green miles to it’s uncertain end. This came at around seven point five kilometres. The trail performed a sharp slingshot around an unruly collection of cacti surrounding a large-breasted mermaid. I took a break, wandering into the shade to watch the locals drink beer and hack into fresh coconuts beneath garish parasols and wind-bent palms. I had, at least, remembered to stow a ten riyal note in my shorts, affording me the luxury of a chilled bottle of agua purchased from a toothless, lizard-skinned roadside vendor.
As I stood fumbling with my phone to snap a few pictures a fine specimen of a man, all oiled muscle and lithe limbs, bounded past, running barefoot along the surfline. This seemed like a splendid idea, so I set off in hot pursuit (still fully shod). The eye-watering nipple chafe on the restart caused me to pull up. The offshore breeze had sprayed me with a fine layer of salt. This conspired with my sodden vest to grind into my chest, leaving my teats glowing like fag ends in a dark pub doorway. There was nothing to do but whip off the vest. I felt sorry for the bystanders as I flogged my jiggling moobs along the beach, but there it was. Or, rather, there they were. In consolation I considered my impromptu unveiling a service. How else should the locals appreciate the parade of chiselled torsos and wonderfully upholstered, long-limbed females without such pale, flabby horror with which to compare and contrast?
I managed a manful three kilometres along the soft sand during which, distracted by yet another Brazilian beauty stretching for a misplaced volleyball pass, I received a thorough soaking from a violent, inrushing wave. I trudged off up the dunes to rejoin the hot green path, sweat dripping steadily off my furrowed brow, undercarriage sore from the ill-suited cycle shorts, legs a sorry mess of hot sweat and pooling lactic acid.
After another half hour my legs started to tighten horribly. Days of walking ten kilometres around rock hard exhibit halls had left my calves in some distress. I’d woken up in the night to find an unseen spectre stabbing my legs with cruel, thick-bladed knives. Those familiar with cramp will know all too well the desperate, sweaty scrabble to find a solid object against which to press your toes and so alleviate the torture. Now, battling into a headwind as the afternoon traffic showered me with hot smoke, soot and dust, my skin broiled, nipples a-blaze, I felt the inexorable hardening of my legs as they slowly turned to stone.
I finished in a walk-waddle, donning my rank vest once more to spare the inland inhabitants as I climbed the hill back to my hotel. A total of seventeen point four pedestrian kilometres banked in a whisker over two hours. As an added bonus I now have a wonderfully white, vest-shaped imprint on my lobster-pink body, something that, along with my freshly-peeled nipples, makes tackling my piping hot, body-pinning jet-wash of a shower something to fear.
Certainly an A+ there for effort Sweder. Sounds like it couldn't have got much worse, save for perhaps being hit by a falling coconut or palm tree. Still, you make it sound like you enjoyed it really.
"I received a thorough soaking from a particularly violent inrushing wave." I picture the sunburned, dehydrated, salt-encrusted hero, desperately searching for one final push as he scans the horizon for his hotel, when a sadistic effects technician chucks a bucket of cold water over him from stage left. Great report.
I know the grass is always greener but, for somebody who rocks-up to the same office back in Blighty every day, being stationed in far-flung places, and the degree of unpredictability that that must entail, certainly looks good from where I'm sitting. You're a lucky lad Sweder.
(06-09-2010, 12:26 PM)glaconman Wrote: I know the grass is always greener but, for somebody who rocks-up to the same office back in Blighty every day, being stationed in far-flung places, and the degree of unpredictability that that must entail, certainly looks good from where I'm sitting. You're a lucky lad Sweder.
But no Tim Taylor's on draught at those beachside bars.
Nothing is ever perfect, though Sweder's run reports get pretty close: "...leaving my teats glowing like fag ends in a dark pub doorway". Great stuff.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
You're right Dan, I did enjoy it, though you'd hardly think so reading that back. My legs have taken the battering reasonably well, though I've undone much of the good work with a bit of a session at the after-party.
Dentists may be a long way from rock 'n' roll but our screeched rendition of Roxanne - amongst a fine collection of dance tunes from Guns N Roses, U2, Metallica and, er, Spandau Ballet - recalled the halcyon days of yore when the hotel management, under seige from irate guests unable to sleep (we woke someone up on the 9th floor - we were in the ground floor bar), begged us to turn it down. It was 2.30 am. I was in the loo when this kicked off, hence this being only the tail end of the performance. Thank goodness for small mercies.
Meanwhile I managed day 2 of the sit-up program immediately after my run on Saturday, though my first week appears to have slipped silently into a second seven day period. Oh well.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
My trip to Brazil ended with something of an ugly whimper.
The following clip sums up my last day there and the 48 hours that followed:
I never feel truly 'home' until I've been out for a plod through my local hills. This morning the sun shone, birds twittered and high white clouds slid silently across a crisp blue sky. What was a boy to do?
I strapped on my (freshly scrubbed) offies* and pulled up Lou Reed's Transformer for my album of the day. It's far from ideal running music, yet somehow just right for a gentle recovery lope. A procession of classics accompanied my easy slouch across the hills, Reed's slightly distubed voice warbling through such wonders as Vicious, Walk On The Wild Side, Perfect Day and Satellite of Love.
Reed writes from his heart to yours, as if you and he were alone in a room. His words stand up without the intricate melodies (or Bowie & Ronson's production) as few lyrics can. No more clearly is this demonstrated than in the final track, a solo rendition of Perfect Day featuring jangling, uncertain guitar over soulful, off-beat vocals. Stripped of Ronson's orchestral finery the words demand attention, reach out and grab you, shake you, will you to understand. The second verse resonates with runners. Forgetting yourself, and your woes, is what this malarkey is all about.
Just a perfect day
problems all left alone
Weekenders on our own
it's such fun
Just a perfect day
you made me forget myself
I thought I was
someone else, someone good
Oh, it's such a perfect day
I'm glad I spent it with you
Oh, such a perfect day
You just keep me hanging on
You just keep me hanging on
Far from ideal running music?
Today it was just perfect.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another outing with the Brighton Belles, this time around the old Firle 20k route. The race, now upgraded to a full half marathon, takes place next Sunday.
We met in the car park of one of the finest pubs in Sussex, The Ram, under (appropriately on the 70th anniversary) Battle of Britain skies, high wispy cloud laced together by dispersing vapour-trails. All we lacked was the fierce roar of those Rolls Royce Merlins screaming in to defend our imperilled land. The wind out of the south west was strong enough for us to wonder if Tom (Roper of this parish) had chosen wisely in electing to go sailing rather than join us for a plod.
Aware that my memory is not altogether reliable I brought along a route map printed from the Firle 20 website. Having suffered a couple of false starts – wee breaks and the investigation of a prone horse by MSilv (the horse was fine, although obviously disgruntled at being yelled at this early on a Sunday) – we set off into the east. Firle Place loomed through the trees, resplendent and stately after a recent facelift. I mentioned the quality of their cream teas to a chorus of groans from my companions.
The ash-gravel trails took us past dense woodland and on through open farmers' fields. Tiny birds bobbed and weaved, darting in and out of the hip-high hedgerows, an avian homage to those dog-fighters of yore. We ploughed on past Bo Beep farm heading for Alfriston. On the outskirts of the town the trail turned right to lead us up the chalk-flint escarpment to join the South Downs Way. The climb offered a stern test, though trailing in Gillybean’s determined wake I found the hard yards gobbled up easily enough. As we crested the summit we felt the full force of the wind whipping up from Newhaven, blasting us as if to send us tumbling back down into the woodland.
The route across this section, whilst illuminated by glorious views across the Sussex weald and Lewes to the right, Newhaven harbour, Seaford Head and Cuckmere Haven to the left, was itself fairly plain. Flint-strewn, well-trod grassland tracks littered with doleful sheep and occasional clusters of cud-chewing cows, all mercifully indifferent to our presence. We passed the hardtop drop back into Firle, climbed the rise towards and past three lofty pylons and struck out for the dewponds that mark the turning point on the course. After a bit of dithering on my part (not the most adept of map-readers) we turned, wind at our backs, and set sail for home.
The plummet from the summit was wonderful. Recalling my strong finish in 2007 I opened my stride and leaned into the drop, gravity pulling me to a hair-raising three minutes thirty kilometre pace. My quads thrummed as I pounded down the hill. I’ve no doubt they’ll be dreadfully sore for spin class tomorrow. A cracking run finished off with a lovely pint (Harveys) at The Ram and a hastily inhaled roast chicken luncheon at the equally excellent Pelham Arms back in Lewes, washed down with a pint of Fursty Ferret. That's the way to kick off a Sunday.
In the event sailing was cancelled, a shame, for I'd have enjoyed running with you and your companions far more than nursing a cup of tea at the sailing club, peering at the wind and waves, and listening to far better sailors than me debate whether it was Force 4 or 5, and whether they should risk their boats. One of the great virtues of running is that there's not much to stop us; we go out even in the fiercest weather, hot, cold, wet, arid, windy...
χαιρέτε νικὠμεν
Next race(s):
In the lap of the gods
I was trying to find an old post about Panama today. I scoured the vaults here at RC to no avail. Then I remembered, we eloped with Typepad for a while. Safely bookmarked that site now. Here's a link:
Some good stuff there including a few old Moyleman reports I've just re-read over lunch. I plan to revive my retrospective (favorite old posts) one evening when there's nothing on telly (take your pick) or I'm not battered with work e-mails. I did this once before but all the links got broken* : (
* I blame my Mother-in-Law. She breaks everything else in the house.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Farewell Tess, warrior, hunter, White Peril, runner, friend.
'So many rabbits, so little time', that was your motto. We shall not see your like again.
Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom,
blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
Tess was a wild creature purporting to be a domestic pet.
She wreaked havoc for thirteen years, causing more heartache, tears of laughter and fury than a small dog can dream of. Her diminutive stature and apparent sweet nature lulled many a poor soul into a false sense of security. Her late night escapades, sneaking onto the downs to chase foxes under the Hunter's Moon, would see her trot home in the early light, thin white skin hanging in tatters from her bush-bloodied legs, a look of satisfaction on her face. She had the highest pain threshold of anyone I've ever known.
Contrary to her hell-raising life she slipped quietly into that good night. No longer able to walk for any distance, her breathing laboured, heart pounding as her tough little body failed, she looked at me yesterday and we both knew the time had come. Mrs S & I took her to the vets. I expected her to rise up, bite the vet and make a last dash for freedom but there was nothing left. She was ready to join her old pal Gypsy in those fields of gold. If you hear thunder & lightening in the next few days you'll know she's arrived.
I'm really sorry your faithfully hound has gone Sweder, crazily enough thunder and lightening has been crashing around here for the last 15 minutes or so in a most demonic fashion.
(23-09-2010, 10:41 PM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: Sorry to read of the news Sweder. So what happens now? You're fast running out of dogs... you sure you're feeding them?
Yes - too much in Willow's case according to Dr Death at the Vets.
I'll be running her little legs up the hills a bit more now Tess has shuffled off this mortal coil.
Mrs S has remarked that perhaps I should look for another Long Dog - a Lurcher, a Greyhound or perhaps another working Whippet (Tess was a pedigree - racing name 'Snowflake' - but, as we know, uniquely hardy - not exactly a 'show dog'). I'm not ready for that kind of relationship just yet - it's far too soon.
I may just start running with other people's dogs for a while.
'Oi! You! Come back with my dog!'
Play the field, so to speak
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
![[Image: 59018_1548047175139_1053853244_1570771_8305900_n.jpg]](http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs630.snc4/59018_1548047175139_1053853244_1570771_8305900_n.jpg)
RE: September 2010 ![[Image: 61696_1552757612897_1053853244_1580818_6292028_n.jpg]](http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs337.ash2/61696_1552757612897_1053853244_1580818_6292028_n.jpg)
