December 2008

[Sweder]

A rubbish end to November and a poor start to the last month of 2008.
No running to speak of (or indeed at all) since my last missive thanks in part to a heavy travel schedule but mostly to an even heavier cold. Bugs lurk in the trapped-air biolabs that are international jets, free-falling into gaping, snoring mouths to invade and infect the weary traveler. Ugh.

Sao Paulo is a monstrous, sprawling landscape of high-rise opulence and grime-soaked shanty towns bound by rainforest. It's tough to find the heart of the place, it's like the internal organs of the city have been thrashed in a powerful blender, the top flying off to scatter the bloody contents to all points of the compass. The people are soft and brown and incredibly friendly, though the constant reminders to 'never walk alone' have a good deal more to do with personal safety than a misguided fealty to the premiership leaders.

Despite the lack of exercise I did manage to track down some staggeringly good wine at the Cafe des Arts last night. Santa Faustina Malbec, produced on the higher reaches of the Andean foothills, is a seductive mistress, stroking your throat with a warm velvet glove before crooking her elegant finger to draw you in for more. I was assured by one of my local dining companions, a passionate arm-waver quick to extol South American virtues at great volume, that when taking on a Faustina one must ensure the grapes were harvested from the upper slopes. I took his word for it. Like EG of this parish I found the fall-out involved a bleary-eyed assault on the chocolate content of my mini-bar. Incredible as the wine was I can say with great assurance it accompanied the finest steak in this lucky lifetime to date. There may be great rivalry between Brazil and Argentina on the football field but there's no danger of animosity interfering with the celebration of fine cross-border food and wine. To die for.

OK, back to work at the Transamerica Expo Centre, where wifi appears to be served via the tried and trusted medium of two coke cans connected by a rotting piece of string. Selah!

[El Gordo]

Malbec is one of those grapes that seems to work in Argentina. It's widely grown in southern France but used largely as a filler to bulk out and soften Cabernet and Merlot. In Argentina, it seems to shine on its own merits. Not that I've tried many, but the reports are always good. I really must get to South America. Those steaks always get top reviews as well. We've been talking about what to do post-Boston next year. At the moment it's a toss-up between California and South America. Would love to opt for SA but I suspect it deserves more time than we'll have.

That shanty town looks like it's made for very fast running...

Re the gym -- well it's working for me but as discussed, I have a very convenient (and usually empty) one, which helps a lot. I look forward to going now as a respite from the roads. Not sure if a man of the hills like you would ever feel comfortable in a gym, but the benefits are there alright, if you can deal with the different culture. Whatever I might currently think about music while running, an MP3 player is 100% vital in the gym. I couldn't bear all that disco-throb, which seems to be the alternative.

[Sweder]

It looks as though running opportunities will pass unrequited on this trip. Last night I missed out on a visit to the celebrated Figuera, a famous Sao Paulo dining house known best by the live fig tree growing at its heart. Instead I sweated up a storm in the plush confines of my room, downing a couple of bowls of chicken soup and little else whilst the fanatical Brazilian commentators - on a show called Propaganda - raged about the impending season denoument, with SPFC very much in the thick of the title challenge. They could have snatched victory last Sunday but nerves got the better of them, stumbling instead to a tame draw. In some ways I'm glad it held over until this weekend as I'll be safely out of here before the wheels truly come off, whichever way Lady Luck decides to cast her favour.

I'll head home at the end of the week via Miami where I'm hoping to tajke advantage of a 24 hour stop-over to soak up some sun and, wheezing chest permitting, plod along the shoreline for a mile or two. If not I may just get to finish my latest journey with Haruki Murakami on that endless Atlantic beach. I picked up a copy of After Dark, an eerie novella by the author of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. His same easy style is evident, as is his unerring eye for detail. This reminds me of my early encounters with Ian Fleming where the Great Man appeared to take perverse pleasure in describing every facet of a scene. Murakami exceeds Fleming in many ways, not least in his ability to seduce the reader into his gently hypnotic world. You accept his indulgences without complaint, so effortless is his manner. There's no anxiety for the reveal despite teasing glimpses into dark corners of the tale, no uncomfortable raising of the pulse as the carefully woven threads combine to create the story's tapestry, rather a warm embrace for each new chapter as the characters grow and blossom and the journey meanders towards it's inevitably outlandish conclusion.
Great stuff.

[Sweder]

Seven days into the new month and my first run. It feels like a month ago that I last got out. Still, it was worth the wait, brushing off jetlag with a quick scamper across frost-dusted hills under a strong winter sun. My lungs, under-used and clogged with the remnants of foul lurghie, spluttered reluctantly into life. I took a longer-than-usual (off the clock) break at the summit of Blackcap, gasping for air as a group of elderly hikers looked on in apparent concern. I held a gloved hand up to indicate I wouldn't need medical attention before stumbling back down the slope on the homeward leg.

For all the struggling I posted a decent time, my second consecutive sub-43 minute outing and a PB this year for the course. Must be the enforced taper at work! I nearly barfed up a lung when I got back in the warm but it's great to be back in them there hills.

[Sweder]

A woeful addition, but an addition none-the-less in a month of pitiful mileage so far. 3.06 kilometres in a shade over 17 minutes through slurry, mud and mist, lumbering up to the stables and back via the ploughed somme-you-like that is the rain-soaked, horse-churned South Downs Way. I collected no end of booties, endured a slide into knee-deep sludge and waddled like an inebriated duck for most of the journey.

Time was my enemy; time, and a baffling onset of misdirection and apathy. By the time I'd pfaffed around looking for gloves (not located) and leggings (previously laid out for yet another aborted run) my rendezvous with a valued friend and customer at Gatwick loomed all too large on the horizon. I almost bailed but a combination of guilt (after watching the Hastings Heroes flail themselves through the elements yesterday) and shame at having singularly failed to get out since early last week forced my hand. Well, feet.

I did manage to work up a mini-lather, huffing and puffing through the gloom, dogs at heel, cursing my early discumbolutation, pontification and general cocking about. Seems I'll do anything to avoid an honest run these days. What's that about? I don't know. I've replaced earnest endeavour with serious indulgence without any apparent concern for the damage done to stirling November progress. We are strange, quaint creatures, we humans; soft and pink on the outside and, at times, mushy and unfathomably dumb on this inside.

C'est la vie. I'm hoping for a return to better ways soon, though tomorrow night's scheduled visit to the Astoria II for the Girlschool gig suggests otherwise :o

[El Gordo]

Less than 7 weeks to Almeria....

[marathondan]

We are strange, quaint creatures, we humans; soft and pink on the outside and, at times, mushy and unfathomably dumb on this inside.

This turn of phrase reminded me of something. I'm a regular reader of Scott Adams' blog - I find him an astute observer of human nature. He holds forth that free will is an illusion, and that humans are "moist robots" - organic machines running complex but ultimately deterministic software. So, after a successful November, and with Xmas-tide approaching, was it inevitable that you would hit a sticky patch?

Sorry if that's an unhelpful comment! It was just an opportunity for some philosophical BS. Meanwhile, I suggest you rock out (preferably with all appendages in) at the Astoria and then write us a gig report out on the misty Downs.

[Sweder]

Slightly better today. A rare midday outing this, though even a full morning to mooch about didn't seem quite long enough to delay the inevitable. There are motivational issues here; something lurks in the dusty corners of my psyche, something willful and mischievous, a doleful sprite feeding me negative thoughts.
It's too cold, you're not fit, still got some of that lurghie knocking about . . .
I've not struggled this badly to get out the door for ages. Self-doubt seems to have waited for the inevitable lull, a combination of travel, work and illness dropping my guard, apathy landing a couple of hefty, cowardly blows to my burgeoning solar plexus.

And yet . . . it wasn't too bad out there. Oh there was plenty of freezing fog, and I still hadn't found my running gloves, last seen in use on the frosted fairways of Dewlands Manor last Friday. SP probably smoked them later that evening but I'd best not go there else tales of my own indiscretions be revealed. Quid pro quo, Clarice. A gentle, ice-chilled breeze cruised in from the west to raise goose-bumps on exposed, bright pink flesh. Where as last week, on my solitary sojourn into the hills, I’d enjoyed vistas and downscapes to warm the cockles, today the mist drew an ugly veil across the view. I stole a snap of the gate leading back off Mount Harry (published below), a stark contrast to the shot taken last week at the same spot.

Having reached Black Cap in reasonable time I took a breather, steam rising from my heaving shoulders as I leaned, hunched and breathless, against the miniature obelisk at the summit. Then off again, legs working hard, lungs harder still as I struck out for home. It was hard work but I was moving well and the pace seemed fair. In fact it proved to be the third consecutive sub-43 minute run at this distance; consistency from a broken schedule. Perhaps that’s the answer; less is, in fact, more. Less runs, more quality. It could catch on, especially around these parts, just at the moment.

[Sweder]

That Girlschool gig report may have to wait; I just this minute got home :o
Great night.

[Sweder]

Huzzah! A second run this week . . . whatever next? As expected it was a tad sluggish, adding a minute on to Tuesday's time. Still, I got out there (when once again I really didn't want to) so I'm pleased with myself.

A soggy old day in the hills, mist and light drizzle shrouding pathways sticky with the kind of mud that seems to want to suck your very soul through your boots. On the upslopes of Mount Harry I encountered a herd of beautiful cattle, their flanks adorned with what seemed like thick brown velvet. The muscular beasts munched steadfastly as I lumbered by, paying no heed to me or the dogs. On the return they were still there, working their way through the straw-white meadow. The sun had poked through above the distant hills to offer a blinding backdrop. Against the stark white glare the animals looked like a collection of small black holes, patches of anti-matter dotted across the hillside.

Home to some stretching (something El Gordo mentioned yesterday stuck and I worked dilligently to force my legs into incredibly uncomfortable positions). My audio company came from Rob Bernie's Planet Rock Connection. Eight songs linked by a common theme with an odd one out. I got the connection after three songs. Flash by Queen, Come back and Finish what you started, and Dr Feelgood, Dr Feelgood. I couldn't see the link until I remembered that Feelgood were fronted by Lee Brillo-pad - yes, it was cleaning products this morning. Odd one out was Spocks' Beard with Waste Away. My track du jour? The incomporable Led Zeppelin with that masterful piece of subliminal product placement Daz-ed and Confused. This started as I clawed my way up Black Cap, breath rasping, steam rising from my horribly hunched back. The key change in the song, where John Paul Jones lets fly with his remarkable bass riff whilst Jimmy Page seems to completely lose contact with reality, crashed out just as I launched into the steep, slippery descent. I hammered my legs in time with the driving beat, dipping under 3 minute kilometre pace for a few seconds. It seemed my thighs would surely detach from my hips at any moment before, just in the nick of time, the drop levelled and rose up the west face of Mt. Harry, gravity riding in to rescue my burning lungs. I was, to use the venacular, grinning like a loon.

[El Gordo]

I suspect very few Planet Rock enthusiasts would have got that one -- somehow I suspect the average listener won't be too familiar with cleaning products....

(Unlike me of course :o)

[Seafront Plodder]

To a seasoned rock veteran such as myself, the connection was obviously ridiculously easy.

Just surprised they didn't include that classic The Ace of Spades by err.....Lemmy & The Jiffs I think it was. :o

[Sweder]

Will I never learn?

Another Friday night setting the world to rights in the company of beer-filled sages . . . now to bed, facing the ugly reality of a 9am 5K . . .

The Horror . . .
The Horror

[El Gordo]

Could be worse. My own slightly wine-stained vision first read that as "beer-filled sausages"...

[Sweder]

Ill-advised as running with a skinful of Guinness may be, I'm proud of my efforts this morning. 23:26, a minute outside my post knee-gaaah! best, was fair reward for a sweaty, gasping slog. Post-run pastries and coffee were most welcome, as was the seasonal banter with a number of the Hastings Heroes.

I rounded off the morning with a visit to the Mighty Moyle. My old sparring partner was in fine fettle, grateful for the sackload of good wishes I brought from this place, embarassed by the wealth of support for his Macmillan fundraiser and looking infinitely better having spent the last few weeks stuffing his face with nosh.

My thanks to SP and Captain Tom for last night's hilarity, the former being hereby exonerated of any implied responsibility for my predeliction for pre-race imbibing. Regular readers of this column may have formed the impression that the Great Man is soley to blame for my occasional tumble from sobriety. Clearly this is not the case, and I would like to formally apologise to him for any possibly misleading statements made here in the past :p

[Sweder]

A dull old morning awaited, heavy grey clouds slouched over the south coast like moody teenagers looking for trouble. I met up with Stevio, Ade, Jill, Helen and the FLM training group. Lycra Tony and Sam, our redoubtable Mounties, arrived to escort the trainees to the Wire and back. Steve was looking for a leg-loosener after his Hastings conquest and I was happy to tag along on the understanding that he wouldn’t push it too hard. He's got previous; I've been dragged up the Snake at break-neck speed by Steve 'on an easy one' before. Ade suggested a slightly adapted Famous Residences and that sounded just about right.

My right knee is still a work in progress. After six hilly off-road miles we hit hardtop, the errant joint making itself known through a series of niggling quibbles. The pain that had lounged in my fat pad (south of the knobbly cap) has migrated to the centre, although occasionally it pops up on the outer knee-cap edge. Perhaps my knee has its very own Poltergeist. I mentioned this to Steve and he offered sound advice that, if I’m honest, I’d already given myself in those quiet, private moments in recent weeks. Once Almeria’s behind me I need to get a scan and/ or visit Withdeans’ fabled Knee Whisperer to find out what’s going on. This may or may not lead to surgery and a prolonged layoff, but there’s little point pretending all’s well until the darned thing drops off. Or, more likely, seizes up.

I was right to treat Steve's innocent assurances with caution. Having plummeted down the mud-track behind St Dunstans and hit the cliff-tops once more - this time facing west into a boistrous headwind - the curly-haired one bounced off on a seemingly effortless yet impressively swift jog, leaving Ade and I gasping in his wake. Just over fifteen kilometres in 1:32 with a decent stretch-out to follow. I’ll need to extend that next Sunday but, for now, I’ll take it to the bank. Or, at least, the sofa.

[Nigel]

I'm very glad to hear that Moyleman is in fine form and the best of spirits.

Please pass on my best wishes to him, and Merry Christmas to everyone here as well.

[Sweder]

Unlocking the mysteries of the human mind – perfect fodder for a misty mountain hop.

Thomas Harris wrote of Hannibal Lecter that he occupied his waking hours by moving through his own mind as one might the rooms of a large country house. Each ‘room’ housed something particular or personal to the good Doctor; here a theatre where he might enjoy the Marriage of Figaro; there a concert hall to indulge his fetish for chamber music; along this corridor a gallery to review his collection of rare paintings, and over there a fully stocked kitchen, replete with all manner of well-honed implements, walls hung with framed recipes for the most sumptuous feasts including some unusual, rather unsettling ingredients. Lecter visited these rooms whilst incarcerated, living a life of luxury and indulgence without leaving his cell.

Notable characters of popular culture sought chemical enhancements to expand their minds. Timothy Leary was the father of the acid generation. LSD dissolved the restrictive walls for many a sixties artist – Warhol, Giger, Dali . . . the effects all too evident in their nerveless, sometimes visceral work. In the world of literature such luminaries as William Burroughs and Hunter S Thompson fed their cerebellums on hard drugs with disturbing results, testing their endurance to the very edge of self-destruction. Some succumbed, swept up in a mental whirlpool, lost forever to society and the real world. There are many terrible tales of psychedelic adventurers living out a life on largactyl, brains permanently cross-wired by too much ‘enlightenment’. I’m reminded of an old joke:
[SIZE="1"]Mother, anxiously, to son:[/SIZE] Son, have you seen my pills? They have ‘LSD’ on the bottle.?
[SIZE="1"]Son, alarmed:[/SIZE] Screw your pills – have you seen the dragons in the kitchen?

An old band-following mate of mine, Gary ‘Newcy Brown’ Woodley, was one such lost soul. We parted company at the end of Motorhead’s Bomber tour. I went back to my dreary day job, Gary on to the hedonistic heaven that was high summer in Salisbury. He dropped six tabs of acid in one day, got arrested by two plain-clothes coppers and spent the next twenty years on a variety of controlled substances in an effort to re-wire his fried synapses. A salutary lesson in self-restraint that steered me away from hard drugs and prompted a period of knuckling down and counting my lucky stars.
There but for the grace of God go I.

Music plays a big part in unlocking my thoughts these days, especially out on a run. The delicate blend of familiar distraction and flowing endorphins can prove intoxicating, opening doors to memories long forgotten or, in some cases, deliberately locked away. I’ve not got the combination right lately. Running has become a chore; all too often I’m left, like so many of us in this helter-skelter, materially-driven world, struggling to remember where I might have left my keys. This morning, as I chugged along familiar, sticky trails, my DAB served up the Golden Earring classic Radar Love. As that familiar driving bass-line boomed in my head a long-stored anecdote began to rise through the murky waters. I turned my thoughts towards it, eager to offer a helping hand, to pull it out into the weak sunlight. Alas, it was not to be. Even as the freshly-jogged memory started to swim into focus it bumped into an impenetrable layer, like the intransigent surface of a heavily frozen lake. I could make out the thought, see its shape pushing against the opaque membrane of my subconscious, but the barrier would not yield. Exhausted, it gave up, sinking back into the darkness, a forlorn trail of tiny bubbles following it to whence it came.

The views across the downs matched my mood. Heavy cloud lay overhead, dense, lazy, barely moving – bloody teenagers again! To the south a bright, thin wedge of light beamed along the horizon. I’ve seen this before but today the phenomenon seemed premonitory, like an Arthurian mist. Later I had occasion to drive along the coast at Lancing. Out across the pond-calm ocean sat a low bank of heavy fog, rolling landward like the advancing dust-cloud from a massive explosion. Again that stretch of unfettered sky under more recalcitrant, adolescent cloud. It all made for a stunning picture and I snapped away with my inadequate phone-cam, cursing myself for not carrying a better camera.

[El Gordo]

Nice work. Plenty of resonance there, believe me.

Have you seen the HST movie yet?

[Sweder]

No . . . struggling to find a showing around here though I've been lashed to the mast of the Good Ship Christmas all week
Ideally I'd like to catch it on at the Duke of York theatre in Brighton. HST would have enjoyed that place, not least as one of his nom de plumes was Raoul Duke

[SIZE="3"]YIKES! [/SIZE]No sooner had I thought about it than I googled the cinema . . .
[SIZE="1"]Might have to slope off on Christmas Eve, right after the golf . . .[/SIZE]