Yesterday was designated 'Fat Wednesday', a day scientifically determined to be far enough away from well-intended turn-of-the-year resolutions yet not quite close enought to summer beachwear consciousness. Now is the time for indulgence to slip silently into our daily routines. That occassional beer becomes an occassional session, the carefully monitored eating regime infiltrated by burgers and kababs. Packets of wine gums appear as if by magic in glove boxes and on beside tables.
As Leo DiCaprio said as he struggled to deal with a situation over which he had no control in Catch Me If You Can, I concur. Having convinced myself that reasonably regular running would take care of my spreading waistline complacency has morphed into full-blown foolhardiness. Last night I ordered up a room service feast - the food at Glasgow's quayside City Inn is nothing short of gormet - slurping down a large bowl of fresh leek and potato soup followed by the most wonderfully rich smoked haddock fishcakes bound with cream and laced with carmalised red onion. The apologetic rocket salad, dressed in a light balsamic vinigrette, remained unmolested. Barely had that cannonball landed in my ample belly than I was off up the road to the Snaffle Bit for more football and a large helping of Belhaven.
This would be fine and dandy if I were twenty five and burning energy like an Indian car plant, but as we know this is far, far from the truth. So this morning as I struggled to haul myself into a recently-purchased 'baggy' suit I resolved that, come rain or shine, I would take to the riverside at some stage today to at least show some resistance.
The exhibition - 'Fishing 08', an event by and for the UK commerical fishing industry - has just opened to the eerie sound of The Pipes. I'm perched on a comfy stool in the organisers' office, in all likelyhood to be left in peace for the rest of the day, a folded copy of The Times including Screen and Sports sections at my elbow and all the time in the world to read, surf and drink coffee. There are a number of excellent seafood bars in the hall laden with nautical fruit, all free of charge, with many fine wines available to wash it all down. Get thee beind me, Satan!
Best get out there then
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:. . . I resolved that, come rain or shine, I would take to the riverside at some stage today to at least show some resistance.
Ah the best laid plans of mice and lardy, weak-willed men :o
I did manage that plod, but a full 24 hours later. Yesterday I was somewhat overtaken by events. First a post-show drinks soirée, two hours supping wine and chatting with exhibitors and organisers, followed by a short cab ride to Bar Budda and yet more footie watching/ Guinness drinking before slipping next door to the wonderful Café Andaluz, home of quality tapas and fine Rioja. Several hours later I found myself in the bar at the Thistle Hotel locked in a battle of wills with the bar staff. Every time they moved to close the shutters one or another of our by now quite raucous party would call up another round. I finally hit the hay just before 3 am, not a sweaty running vest in sight.
Penance was duly paid this lunchtime with a sweaty flog along the banks of the Clyde. The sun popped out to add a little warmth, poor, cruel timing if you ask me. A shade shy of six miles and fifty minutes later I cursed every last glass of wine and pint of ale as, lobster pink, bent double outside the hotel, I tried to inhale through my toes. Not a vintage run but it was just about better than nothing. With my duties here not finished until late on Sunday and an early Monday flight home it'll be a modest start to the month. I'll have to get my finger out next week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Yesterday was designated 'Fat Wednesday', a day scientifically determined to be far enough away from well-intended turn-of-the-year resolutions yet not quite close enought to summer beachwear consciousness. Now is the time for indulgence to slip silently into our daily routines. That occassional beer becomes an occassional session, the carefully monitored eating regime infiltrated by burgers and kababs. Packets of wine gums appear as if by magic in glove boxes and on beside tables.
As Leo DiCaprio said as he struggled to deal with a situation over which he had no control in Catch Me If You Can, I concur. Having convinced myself that reasonably regular running would take care of my spreading waistline complacency has morphed into full-blown foolhardiness. Last night I ordered up a room service feast - the food at Glasgow's quayside City Inn is nothing short of gormet - slurping down a large bowl of fresh leek and potato soup followed by the most wonderfully rich smoked haddock fishcakes bound with cream and laced with carmalised red onion. The apologetic rocket salad, dressed in a light balsamic vinigrette, remained unmolested. Barely had that cannonball landed in my ample belly than I was off up the road to the Snaffle Bit for more football and a large helping of Belhaven.
This would be fine and dandy if I were twenty five and burning energy like an Indian car plant, but as we know this is far, far from the truth. So this morning as I struggled to haul myself into a recently-purchased 'baggy' suit I resolved that, come rain or shine, I would take to the riverside at some stage today to at least show some resistance.
The exhibition - 'Fishing 08', an event by and for the UK commerical fishing industry - has just opened to the eerie sound of The Pipes. I'm perched on a comfy stool in the organisers' office, in all likelyhood to be left in peace for the rest of the day, a folded copy of The Times including Screen and Sports sections at my elbow and all the time in the world to read, surf and drink coffee. There are a number of excellent seafood bars in the hall laden with nautical fruit, all free of charge, with many fine wines available to wash it all down. Get thee beind me, Satan!
Best get out there then
Aye, I heard about Fat Wednesday, though I can't help feeling it's the product of a redbrick university research department with more time (and budget) than they reasonably deserve. Either that, or the brainchild of some marketing department somewhere joining in the modern trend of making such useless pronouncements for no other reason than to publicise their own range of products.
Funnily enough it coincided with the epicentre of my latest dieting initiative so for me at least, it isn't true. That said, it's a nice sunny early evening out there. Perfect for a pint or two in the village, no?
Hmm, those damn siren voices again....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I know when to go out
I know when to stay in
Get things done
[SIZE="1"]Modern Love, David Bowie[/SIZE]
Embarked on a City-Centre Friday Night outing for the first time in a long, long while. Towards the end of the evening the average age of the desparate hoards of make-up-plastered manhunters easily exceeded sixty. I felt like the tethered goat in Jurassic Park.
As Graeme (the Event Director) and I escaped into the city streets, frantically searching for a taxi, our female colleagues followed, doubled up with cramps, tears of hysterical laughter rolling down their flushed faces. Our insolent curiosity had turned to naked wide-eyed fear as several Queen Latifa-sized women locked on, brazenly adjusting their ample, scantily clad upholstery whilst never losing eye contact as they bore down on us. It was like Night of the Living Dead in there, badly made-up zombies marauding through crowded bars steaming with jungle heat laced with estrogen. The sound of ticking biological clocks was deafening. Contracts were negotiated, signed and exchanged with a look and a nod, a fearsome parody of a frenzied Smithfield auction. Resistance was futile, our desperate scrabbling for the exits the last fevered act of the damned and the wretched.
No doubt the girls with us enjoyed seeing the shoe firmly on the other foot, but for me it was all too much.
Suggestions of a return tonight have been met with a resolve to wash my smalls and catch up with Coronation Street.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I know when to go out
I know when to stay in
Get things done
[SIZE="1"]Modern Love, David Bowie[/SIZE]
Embarked on a City-Centre Friday Night outing for the first time in a long, long while... Suggestions of a return tonight have been met with a resolve to wash my smalls and catch up with Coronation Street.
Tears of hysterical laughter are running down my cheeks... One of the funniest things I've read tonight!
"He protesteth too much" - go on, own up Sweder, you had a ball :-)
"Fat Wednesday" now I know all about that, and I have just seen some photos of me from the run last week to prove it. I've never been on a diet in my life except the seefood diet, so where do I start??
Spring has sprung, not before unseasonal snowdrifts at Gatwick saw my flight home cancelled. Eight hours of planes trains and automobiles helped me overcome the pathetic inadequacies of Britain under inclement weather.
Mashed potato clouds populated the clearest of blue skies for my eight kilometre leg-loosener. The ugly, stiff-legged limp-shuffle across the downs deserves no further description. No doubt many London Marathoners are entering the last stages of anxiety before the big day, loading the carbs, counting the hours. Good luck to all.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
After another midweek struggle on Thursday I set off for Hove Park for the 5K time trial.
I've made my feelings on short runs clear and nothing occurred this morning too change my view. Despite a low turnout, no doubt thanks to many preparing for tomorrow's FLM, I managed to trail in a lowly twenty-seventh. No idea how the time compares to my first outing two weeks ago but I wouldn't be surprised if it was a good deal slower. For one thing I didn't drink any ale last night. For another I'm suffering from a mild form of knee-knack - nothing certain but an ominous twinge has appeared at the outside/ bottom corner of my right kneecap. Could be nothing, could be devine retribution for brazenly running on hard standing.
Sorry if I sound like Eeyore just now, it's just that I'm not feeling too good about my running at the moment. Still carrying way too much lard and for the first time in an awfully long while I'm struggling to get out of bed for my morning lopes. It may be time to hang up the boots for a bit, redevelop my appetite.
I could have phrased that a little better, n'est pas? :o
Thank the Lord for Bergio Baggie. His renewed enthusiasm deserves to carry the Albion into the Premiership, let alone breath some fresh life into this place. Boing boing!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hey Sweder, cheer up! It's that time of year again...next week entries are open for the 13th "travesia integral de los Montes Aquilianos" (June 7th this year). Here's the link http://www.rutasdelbierzo.com/ Check out the photos if you've got time. I'm up for the long route as preparation for the race I dare not mention (not even to Sweder). If you fancy it I'd happily guide you around. It might just restore your faith in running
Thanks BB, though I'm scheduled to be in Amsterdam that weekend.
My BHTT results came in and I notched a 16 second PB so perhaps the skies aren't as dark as all that. Plus I hit the cheerleader trail at mile 22.5 of the FLM today - that certainly helps restore one's faith in - not to mention enthusiasm for - the healing power of running. Just watching the lad with two artificial legs powering by in the driving rain, a huge grin on his face, is enough to banish my self-indulgent whining for a bit
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yeah well there's nothing like a bit of a lay-off to recharge the batteries, let the knees recover and find some motivation again. Keeping the lard down to manageable levels is the main problem, mind. You might have to avoid SP for a bit!
Close to two thousand eager Lewesians arrived in party mood as Lewes FC welcomed Dorchester Town. Eastbourne Borough, neighbours and closest challengers, were away to Newport, trailing the Rooks by four points having played a game more. A win for Lewes would give them the title, as would anything but a win for Eastbourne.
The first half was a horribly tense affair. The visitors, themselves hovering perilously around the Blue Square South relegation zone, showed commitment and muscle, shading a first half full of endeavour but devoid of guile or real goalmouth action. When so many people make so little noise the resulting nervous tension can transmit to the players, and so it proved on this cold, drizzly Sussex afternoon. 0 - 0 at the break with the visitors happiest. Halftime banter was dominated by news from South Wales; Newport were a goal to the good. I took little comfort from this; to be crowned champions after a battling goal-less draw - or even a loss - would be anticlimactic to say the least.
The partisan crowd greeted the players back to the pitch with a mighty roar. The hardcore supporters, packed into the new(ish) west stand bounced up and down chanting manager Steve Kings' name. From the restart it was obvious that King, a man who's moulded a team to play fast, ground-based attacking football, had reminded his players of the need to play rather than engage the opposition in a midfield wrestling match. Jukebox (Andy Drury) stepped up to the challenge, bossing the midfield, winning key tackles and spreading the play. Dale Binns wriggled like an eel down the left flank, leaving Dorchesters' right back sat on his backside on several occasions with deft skill and lightening pace. With the west end hoards baying for a goal Lewes pressed hard. On the hour the tide turned. Wave after wave of red and black attack crashed into the Dorchester box only to break down at the last. The visitors' keeper proved resolute, pushing a stinging effort from top scorer Booth onto a post and showing courage to claim the resulting corner under pressure from Booth and the unstoppable Drury.
On sixty five minutes Lewes once again exploited Dorchesters' tiring right flank. Binns skinned his man, checked back inside to spear in a wicked cross that beat the centre half, the visitor's keeper scrambling the ball clear. Binns returned a sharp pass from Barness who clipped in a cross for the rampaging Booth to crash into the net from eight yards. Pandemonium! The west bank behind the goal erupted as to a man, woman and child the ground released a cacophony of joy and relief. The players clearly understood the significance of the breakthrough, engaging in a group hug in the right-hand corner before saluting the crowd.
King, keen to maintain the pressure and so keep the players focused, exchanged hard-working Matt Groves for Jean-Michel Sigere. Sigere, formerly of Bordeaux, Rushden & Diamonds and Kent giants Margate, had impressed during the half-time warm-up, sending a clear message to his masters that he knew where the goal was with a series of fierce strikes from outside the box. Dorchesters' beleaguered back four looked at each other pale-faced as the tall striker, sweat-streaked bald head shining under the floodlights, bounded across to the right flank.
They were right to be concerned. Dorchester, their busy front line always alert, pressed valliantly for an equaliser, efforts rebuffed by the excellent (if overly verbose) Jay Conroy. Sigere used fresh legs and obvious strength to run them ragged on the counter, missing a couple of chances to finish the match. A second seemed inevitable and it duly arrived on 88 minutes. Booth and Drury combined to pick a path through the centre. Drury, man of the match by a country mile, found the ever-ready Binns who once again tormented his marker, twisting inside to fire in a low cross that the 'keeper just parried behind. Drury's corner was flicked on by Booth, Sigere sliding in to head past the flailing 'keeper from close range.
Raucous celebrations continued in the stands through the final whistle, chants of 'We Are Going Up' seeming to rebound off the downland hills looming though the mist across Convent Field.
I stayed long enough to acclaim the players on their triumphant tour of a ground where I'd once played (for Kingston Kestrels Seniors). These boys have played the right way all season, meeting the physical challenges expected at this level and rising to show devastating pace and an unerring desire to win and win well. In that regard this match was a snapshot of the season; honest, physical endeavour met with and undone by equal strength with skill and desire to burn.
On then to the Blue Square Premier; one step away from the Promised Land. The Football League.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's not often that a text message saying "the dripping pan erupts" results in a little smile and nod of approval, rather than a 999 call, but that was my experience yesterday, halfway through the second half at Loftus Road.
Well done to Lewes. I hadn't realised that they are now so close to the football league. Next season there are plenty of juicy ties. I keep saying I should visit Crawley Town as I'm often down that way, outlaw-baiting. Crawley v Lewes could be on the cards, as long as there aren't even bigger football fish to fry in West London at the same time.
Talking of which, here's an extraordinary thing. I see that next year, Lewes will be playing Rushden & Diamonds. It is only 4 years, the 2003/4 season, since QPR played Rushden on the same terms, i.e. in the same league (League One). It says a lot for the possibilities of the football pyramid that fortunes can change so rapidly. As a Rushden fan, that season you'll have had trips to Hillsborough and Loftus Road. Just four years later, the Dripping Pan beckons.
It's how it should be.
Great result, and great report.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
It’s been a gentle week in my running world. Quiet too, my post-FLM voice only returning to active service on Friday. Two leisurely plods on my usual Blackcap trek, a rain-free round of golf on Friday and, yesterday, a return to the foul torture of the BHTT 5K, for the record a 3 second PB. I’ve already signed up as a course marshal – all members are encourage to do this three times a year to keep membership free – so I can look forward to an even better day next Saturday
I’ve also signed up for the Three Forts Half on May 5th. This is a tough offroad number, so with that in mind, and prompted by a post-BHTT discussion I decided to throw in a gentle Snake today. I was joined by Remy and Jill, winding up for the Copenhagen marathon, Cynthia, Marion, Sonja and Julie, a fellow BHTTer returning to running after injury. Despite the doom and gloom merchants at BBC Weather we were treated to a stunning April morning. High, thin cloud, swept away on a stiff cool breeze, strengthening sun warming our sweat-jewelled faces on the eastward cliff top lope. We chatted comfortably, swapping tales from London, revelling in a fine spring day.
As we set off from our stop at the Saltdean loos we spied a whippet-framed runner dropping down the slope behind us at pace. It turned out to be Glenn, a fellow I’d run with before. Glenn has notched a couple of impressive races on his narrow belt. The one that has me shaking my head is the Marathon Des Sables, a six-day, 151-mile endurance race across the Sahara desert. He performed ‘better than expected’, covering the ‘long day’ – the equivalent of back-to-back marathons – in a shade over nine hours. Blimey.
He told me about the race as we slugged up Telscombe Tye, wind off the right (good news; it would be shoving us up the Snake), Remy alongside to share the stories. We drank them down as if they were rare running fuel, which I suppose in a way they were. Marion and Cynthia (horribly fresh after nailing her FLM run last Sunday) bade us farewell at the summit, heading for the Famous Residences. Julie joined us as we turned west along the ridge. Her story is, in my book, no less impressive. An experienced distance runner Julie ran with Sam Lambourne back in the day when he was in full un-injured flow. She told us about their regular Wednesday lunchtime run that included the Big W, Castle Hill and the Snake. That’s some lunchtime session! She hit her PB at the FLM in 1992, coming home in 2:58 for a top 60 finish. I shook my head (again!), laughing at the company I was trying to keep today.
After a swifter-than -expected ascent of the Serpent, the helpful wind drawing most of her venom, Jill and the Remster hit the double-back towards Rottingdean, Glenn in tow. Julie and I took the straight path home, past the Racecourse and down through East Brighton Park. Despite early concerns Julie covered the distance with ease, chatting comfortably all the way. 12.8 miles in 2:02, a respectable effort for both of us. Mac’s provided the venue for coffee, sarnies and yet more running banter. Remy and Jill joined us, sun/ wind-blasted grinning, endorphined-up faces shining bright amongst the swarthy, hung-over mid-morning fry-up guzzlers.
Easily my most enjoyable outing of the year so far. Funny how running (life) has a way of renewing one’s enthusiasm when you least expect it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:Just had a look at the web site - this looks fantastic. Only, try not to turn up on the 5th, or you might be running all alone.
Quite right Cobber - of course I meant I'll be finishing on the 5th!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I know, I know . . . I was going to give it a rest.
In truth I always planned to do a bit of loping here and there, just not jabber on about it. I was getting tired of writing about the same old bit of hilltop track. But it's no use; I'm sat here knowing that I went out of a run yesterday, I've not written about it and it's eating me up, especially now that El Gordo is firmly back in the (albeit nicely padded) saddle and the forum's crackling with banter.
Tuesday's outing wasn't really much to write home about.
A seven-thirty start saw the sun up, struggling to peer through the veil of mist like a slightly soused Sultan searching for his concubines. My legs were full of lead after Sunday's surprisingly swift half. It took a good couple of miles chugging uphill to wash that through, warm blood cleansing the muscles of residual rust. I paused briefly at the turn, gazing over the vale of Sussex before launching off the 'Cap. The mist had cleared to let sunrays kiss my glistening forehead; it was almost warm out there. The hounds galloped alongside, occasionally distracted by a hint of movement in the yellow-flagged gorse. Despite the fractious weather Mother Nature seemed determined to flaunt her Spring collection; fields of laden grasses swayed, nesting skylarks bobbed and weaved, a rook banked overhead, beak laden with freshly-purloined hedgerow. I grinned, tipsy on life in this hillside haven.
The rise to the stables has seen heavy horse action in recent weeks, offering a bumpy, slippery ride for my sweaty ascent. At the top four horsemen greeted our merry band with a hail and hearty 'good morning'. Relations with the jockeys has been good lately, past clashes forgotten thanks in no small measure to Gypsy, my gangly Lurcher, having apparently lost her appetite for chasing fast-moving horseflesh.
Homeward with a tailwind, the ideal finish for a modest midweek five.
Another, perhaps on Thursday, Saturday marshalling the BHTT 5K and a Sunday Snake will make for a steady week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Slipped in a five before the heavens opened. Not a thing of beauty but it's in the bank. Right calf still stiff; reminded me of the T1000 towards the end of T2: Judgement Day. As the time-traveling assassin attempts to run through industrial coolant it starts to freeze and breaks apart from the feet up. Hasta la vista, baby.
Nothing quite so dramatic on the downs this morning but the errant muscle remains cause for concern.
Track du jour (ipod): Child In Time, Deep Purple.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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![[Image: home_champions.jpg]](http://www.lewesfc.com/images/home_champions.jpg)
