No-no-no-no-no . . . Yesvember

[Sweder]

A misty mountain hop this morning. Hills shrouded in thick fog, air filled with moisture, not a breath of wind. Time for a man to venture out with his dawgs and Planet Rock.

The mud trails were delightfully slippery. My new Supernova's coped admirably, their rugged ridges finding grip where there seemed only gloup. Thanks to Mr Bedford's rejection slip - arrived yesterday - I sported a matching silver-grey FLM training caghoul, having bequeathed my entry fee. Whilst making the usual claims to 'breathe' whilst keeping one dry this turned out to be a portable sauna, rivulets of warm sweat running down my arms to dam up at the elasticated cuffs. Which was nice.

I loped home in a rather warm 44:56, limbs and lungs in apparent good working order. Track du jour was Blue Oyster Cult's Veteran Of The Psychic Wars, a sad lament from a dying soldier, out of hope and ammo, lying in a rain-filled ditch. Hardly a song to warm the cockles but a cracking tune for all that.

The FLM decision, whilst not a surprise, is something of a disappointment. Had I received a 'To Be' magazine -this years' covers are wittily appointed with a Hamlet-esque figure. Mine announced 'Not to Be', so I guess the lucky few will get the other version - this might have clarified my spring race thinking. Instead the thinking remains as clouded as my homeside hills. I won't take a charity place from JDRF. For one thing we've (incredibly at this early stage) filled all 100 Golden Bond places and have an extensive waiting list. Perhaps I need to employ lateral thinking; there are so many excellent yet quirky races out there. Hmm, perhaps a little event-shopping in Runners' World will throw up some interesting alternatives.

And there's still - yaaaawn - the Two Oceans. On my plod today I went over sections of the course in my mind's eye, working out pacing for the early miles, strategies for Chappies, Hout Bay and Constantia . . . oh well. Nothing for it but to get back to work. I've extended my deadline until Christmas.
If I've not decided by then I can just jolly well go on the naughty step.

[Sweder]

A truncated plod in apocalyptic conditions in the early hours. Mud, rain, wind, cold, the four horsemen galloped gleefully alongside, urging me to turn back. And I did, at the top of Wicker Man Hill. Not because I'd lost the stomach for the fight - losing stomach would in all honesty be a good thing - but because I head for Amsterdam in a few hours and there's much to be done before then.

My considerable girth had increased overnight thanks to a celebratory curry in Spice Merchant, a recent addition to Lewesian eateries and a vast improvement on the incumbant emporiums. A lively chicken jalfrezi washed down with glasses of Cobra, topped off with a staggeringly good birthday cake. My daughter and one of her school chums whipped it up after class - a Guinness and chocolate cake no less, recipe courtesy of the good people at St James' Gate, Dublin. My son, a young man yet to develop a taste for the Dark Nectar, declared it 'the best cake I've ever had.'

About 4 miles this morning.
Like bouncing one's head off a rough brick wall, it was nice when it stopped.

[Moyleman]

Hope you enjoyed your celebrations as much as I have this week.

Have a fine and dandy weekend up north and catch you soon for a race/plod.

MM

[Sweder]

Same to you young man!

Shame I'll miss the madness - send my love to Cam & Jane and a big manly hello to Rog and Dave. Be nice to get the Four Musky Beers back together over the crimbo for a muddly plod and a few pints.

May struggle to enjoy myself in Amsterdam - is there much to do in the evenings there?