Opened my monthly account with a warm slog around Hove Park in the BHTT 5K Parkrun.
For some reason I started out with a dry mouth. It had nothing to do with a night out with the mighty Seafront Plodder, when I'd shown commendable restraint sticking to my two-pint limit during a stirring recital by the Seaford Allstars. I bagged a couple of snippets to give you a flavour. Sadly the PA, as is so often the case in small venues where it is entirely unnecessary, was cranked to the max, causing top-end distortion. This one's the pick of the bunch - ending of Hendricks's Little Wing. Wing2Boo
As I left my freshly restored Swedermobile the clouds parted to let the sun shine with alarming zeal, relegating the cool zephyr wafting through the leaf-rich parkland to a gentle sigh.
I arrived just before the off, time enough to rig up the iPhone to record announcements, hooter and initial trample to the opening bend. RunBoo
I spied Cam, (ne Moylebird of this parrish), blonde ponytail bobbing earnestly some 20 metres ahead. I struck out meaning to catch up, but while I lumbered past a number of floundering runners on the early inclines Cam maintained the gap. This continued around the two and a half laps until the last long downhill corner at the far end. I fumbled with more gadgetry to record the run-in only to look up and see no sign of her. Moylebird had flown. Run2Boo
I ended up bagging 23:15, considerably better than I've managed in some months. I'm pleased, but not as pleased as I am with the lack of reaction from the errant plate. It's been strangely quiet since the plod, perhaps a result of my taking advice from, amongst others, Niguel, who himself suffered PF some time ago. It's all about the stretching apparently.
I took coffee in the glorious sunshine with Cam, Jeannette and Rog-Air (or God Botherer Rog as Moyleman affectionately tagged him). Chris was the subject of our conversation, as he was again when I popped in with Cam to visit Tina, Chris beloved partner. She's a remarkable lady is Tina. Despite his terrible misfortune Chris was certainly lucky to have her standing with him. I can't think of a braver, more resiliant person.
Chris's memorial service takes place on Tuesday. I am humbled to have been asked, along with Alan (Le Soft) and Ade, two of Chris's closest friends, to say a few words. I will of course pass on the love and thoughts expressed here in recent posts, and say goodbye to my 'bruv'.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having tested the foot at Hove Park last weekend I followed up with a gentle downland five-miler on Sunday and another more robust outing yesterday morning. Sunday's plod was tough, the climb up Wicker Man Hill debilitating though I managed to maintain an ugly form of jogging throughout.
Yesterday's was a horse of a different colour. My mind raced with thoughts of the impending service for Chris and my small part in it, inducing a mental memory montage to fuel legs and lungs. Despite the battering from a firm westerly I battled up the slopes a good deal quicker than I have of late, barely pausing at the summit before plunging head-long down the dusty homeward trail. Even allowing for an untimed stroll at the very start I clocked my best time this year by far, worries about knees and dodgy feet banished. It felt good to hit sub-five minute K pace, my fears re: Bewl subsiding ever so slightly.
Of course all that good work was undone yesterday afternoon as toast followed toast in the Black Lion, Chris's friends and family mingling to swap tall tales and special memories. The service was quite lovely, filled with quotes of love and admiration, painting a picture of a man cruelly taken all too soon. A nice touch appeared courtesy of one of the Hove Park organisers who produced a bag of purple ribbons, one for each of the many runners who turned out to honour Moyleman. One of Chris's relatives asked me what the ribbons were for and I told her. She clasped my hand in hers, smiling through her tears. 'Thank you. Thank you!' was all she could say. It was all I could do to smile back.
We'll be wearing those ribbons on Saturday at the Park Run, and again at Bewl on July 5th, when I fear a horrible abundance of garish running attire. Judging by the number of people who've pledged an appearance I need to get my finger out and my entry in before they run out of places.
There's a lot more work to be done in the next few weeks, not least in the lard-loss department. Happily, with the acceptable exception of last night, I seem to be on the right track. At last.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder is far too modest to mention the moving tribute he gave for Moyleman at the service on Tuesday including the thoughts and best wishes from other RC forum members who were not able to attend. His words brought both laughter and tears to the congregation as he recalled his escapades with Chris.
Sweder, looks like the training for Bewl has started well. Good to see that you are also keeping up the training regime for the post-race rehydration as this is as equally important!
A monumental effort was needed to prize my aching bones out of bed, the alarm intruding at a desperately late 07:55. Had this not been marked as a memorial run for Chris I'd've missed it, such was my desire for my duvet and general weariness after a long week capped by an appalling drive home last night from the West Midlands.
A minute's silence was dutifully observed by another impressively large ParkRun crowd. Many of us wore purple ribbons and/ or attire. I knew before the off I was unlikely to pay further hommage with a rapid time. Soon after the hooter Simon P jogged easily alongside, bidding me a cheery good morrow before bouncing off up the slope. I felt old and tired today, my constant midriff companion taking a particularly heavy toll. Still I slogged on, boosted by marshalling Cam's encouraging words ('come on Ash, move your arse!'), finally finding a rhythm of sorts on the last lap to stagger home in 23:25 (Garmin time).
I'm off to Glasgee next week for work, not back until Sunday night. Any thoughts of missing Saturday's 5K were dispelled by the news that Glasgow has it's own Parkrun. I only need arrive at the start at 09:00 to take part, being automatically registered in the national PR database.
As Dick Dastardly might have put it, drat . . . double-drat.
Coffee and chat followed, pleasure after the pain. Ladyrunner, Cam, Gary & Mike B set of to plod stages 17 and 18 of the South Downs relay course. I was due to run with Cam on stage 17 today but luckily another more competant runner was located closer to the middle of the barrel, saving Cam a painfully slow slog and me a tough outing. Gillybean and MSilv kept me company at the cafe, later Stevio, Simon, Neil, Jason & Fi, mulling over the madness of Jasons' explosive FLM bloggage. I suggested Fi might like to add her view but sense she's still feeling a tad raw after what was a difficult day for her. Stevio threatened a report so hopefully there'll be more to read soon.
You never know, we might get one on Boston before the Summer's out . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
10CC - remember them? Great songs, poignant, refreshing, beautifully crafted, well performed. That song - I'm Not In Love - was deeply ironic, a song of self-denial. Perhaps I'm in that kind of place with my running at the moment. We'll see.
No further bipedal outings this weekend. Spent most of it traveling to and from dance institutions across London with No.1 Daughter as she underwent a series of examinations, interviews and auditions. It's tough this dance business; 153 applicants auditioned for a second round total of 25 places. That in turn will be reduced to 10 after interview
We bridged appointments with a visit to Chicago at the Cambridge Theatre, fortunate to pick up last minute fourth row tickets thus gaining the perfect worms' eye view. The story is confined to a 1930's Illinois womens' penetentiary where, apparently, expenditure was curbed by restricting inmate attire to semi-transparent lingerie. I sat slack-jawed, agog at a feast of fine flesh and, courtesy of the young lady playing Velma, some of the longest legs it's been my privilege to oggle. Mrs S leaned across at one point to whisper excitedly during an enegetic ensemble piece 'those men are incredibly flexible', to which I replied without turning my gaze from the stage 'there are men in this show?' Luckily my good lady had stocked up with kleenex portables. What thoroughly effective drool-mops they turned out to be.
This morning I snuck out for a breezy 7.5 kilometres over my local track before breakfast. It was a horrible slog, all upper chest wheezing and heavy, listless legs into a heartless wind. Even as the memory of my weary trudge through stages of the Two Oceans (the last time I'd felt this debilitated on a run) bobbed to the surface my conscience rose up to drown any thoughts of yet another tedious bloglink. The temptation to revisit races past simply highlights the lack of current personal reportage, and by assocation lack of adventures to relate. As I wrote here once before, lazy running equals lazy writing. Various elements of my life have conspired to demand more and more of my precious leisure time. I have to rationalise, take a minute to reassess, and, perhaps just for now, slide this luke-warm diary onto the back burner.
Just now running holds no joy. It's become a chore, something to be endured rather than embraced. I'm too far off the pace (and far too troubled by the basic effort of covering ground) to enjoy the rich pleasures of the hills. I need to get some hard graft done, a few ugly, workaday sessions under my straining belt, to rekindle my running passion.
Glaconman's return to these pages follows his welcome reaquaintance with fell running, something that has clearly lifted his spirits and fired his ambition. Like him, until I have something interesting to report, I'll keep my council.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well here goes, thought I would give this diary lark a go and keep the Moyle name alive and kicking! Sweder, you will be fine, just a very busy man are you not? We will have to arrange some group training runs soon, just need to get the south downs relay done and dusted first, then Mr Snake here I come! Nothing better than puffing and panting up that bastard hill, especially if you can beat old men to the top!
Take care see you soon x :RFLMAO:
Hello MB, thanks for the kick in the pants. I can always rely on you for an honest assessment. As for the ageist jibe about hammering me on the Snake we'll have to see about that Can't see me making a Sunday run for a while as work in Genoa and Bremen loom large on the immediate horizon. Good luck with the relay - wish I could be there on the support team. One day . . .
No running for me as yet here in Glasgee, though intend (yes yes, road to hell paved etc etc) to hit ParkRun in the morning, albeit likely to be extremely bleary-eyed if recent nocturnal events are anything to go by :o I have an invitation from the Lord Provost to attend a Civic Reception at the wonderfully historic, beautifully appointed City Chambers this evening. Plans are afoot to move on to a Tapas establishment where free-flowing Rioja will replace tray-mounted cocktails as the throat-charmer du jour. Rocked up at the Scotia pub (one of the city's oldest) last night to catch the Vagabonds and their eclectic bag of covers. Tried to Boo a couple of songs but plagued by good-natured banter from, amongst others, Sweder 2.0 (less than impressed with interpretations of CCR and Elvis amongst others) in the packed public bar. Here's Mr Brightside on VagaBoo . . .
Despite the Fishing Industry's penchant for doom & gloom the show has been well attended. The inclusion of a few live events, including Fishtucker trials, net-mending and fish filleting competitions, has helped, as has the inclusion of a record four full-sized fishing vessels on the show floor. Skippers and their families patrol the halls eyeing up the latest technologies for finding and extracting seafood. By coincidence the incomporable S Fry posted a link today via Twitter to a forthcoming movie on man's pathalogical plunder of the sea, recently dubbed 'the inconvenient truth for our oceans'. It'll receive short shrift from this crowd I'm sure but as their livelihoods depend on marine sustainability they'd be wise to take heed.
I'll post a Boo or two from this evenings' festivities at http://twitter.com/Sweder along with a few photos.
Provided I can keep a steady hand . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having dutifully replaced any kind of physical exertion with liberal imbibement and quantitive consumption over the last few days I had little choice but to join the local Park Run this morning. Sliding bleary-eyed from the soft, warm embrace of my duvet I fumbled in the semi-dark for my GPS. Pollok Park is home to the Glasgow ParkRun; a beautifully landscaped green space nestled in the south west suburbs. It lies approximately 5 kilometres from the SECC where I now staggered about amongst the wreckage of my hotel room in a desperate search for RC vest, shorts and shoes.
Being a glutton for punishment I chose to lope the 4.8 k to the start, figuring on half an hour for the journey. With the help of a cool breeze under heavy leaden skies I made it in 28 minutes, only to learn from the few whippet-like runners loitering at the entrance that wed be off at 09:30. So much for my warm-up plans. Cars streamed into the carpark, a procession of alarmingly honed bodies spilling onto the concourse. As start time approached there must have been close to 200 runners. I searched in vain for the expected clusters of ample figures, horrified to learn that anyone approaching normal size appeared to be a marshal. Oh well.
After our briefing, conducted in a high pitched yell from a grassy knoll, we set off, bounding down a gentle slope before thundering into the tree-lined trails that wind through the park like a tarmac rollercoaster. Theres not a hundred yards of flat running in this race. Up and down we ran, past gorgeous blossom and blooming flora, splashing through puddles of last nights rain, fording the occasional slippery mud bath. I felt OK, running within myself, having assured myself Id be happy with anything sub-25 minutes, soaking up the wonderfully cool woodland atmosphere
I cant over emphasise the number of excellent runners up here. I ran fairly well 24:23 a good outing considering the 5k warm-up yet finished 105th (out of about 180). Its hard to equate this run with PR in Hove but I reckon Idve finished around 50th 60th there. After a brief stretch I set off back to my hotel, another 4.8 kilometres starting down St Andrews Lane and finishing alongside the Clyde on the Govan road. Im pleased to have bagged (albeit slightly disjointedly) 14 hard-top kilometres in around an hour and twenty minutes running time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I spy some Royal Mail runners in the pic. I've done the JP Morgan Corporate Challenge a couple of times (a brief, over-packed, summer elbow-fight through Battersea Park, not really worth the effort IMO) and the Royal Mail team always seemed to clean up, turning in sub 20 mins for around 5.6K as I recall. I guess being chased by dogs is good interval training...
It's not often a wannabe sports journo plucks a scoop from under the purple-veined nostrils of Fleet Streets finest. Far less so that said scribe post the news right here on RC.
Tonight, at the Covent Garden Fred Perry store, for the launch of 'The Last Champion - The Fred Perry Story', I was lucky enough to chat with legendary doubles Slam winner Frew McMillan.
'I'm looking forward to hearing you sparring with (John) Inverdale on 5 Live again this year Frew' I simpered.
'Not going to happen I'm afraid' replied the congenial racqueteer. 'They've dropped me to the World Service.'
Clearly my slack-jawed gape invited more detail.
'Apparently they've got some young guns in'
Young guns? Have the Beeb gone stark raving mad? Thousands like me who care little, if anything, for tennis, once the plucky Brit's been trounced, continue to tune in to hear this rare exponent of dry South African wit. As if to underscore my point, McMillan stole the show tonight. Our co-host Hendo invited questions from the gathering.
Would (Andy) Murray be a worthy successor to the great Perry wondered one.
'What say you Frew?' ventured JH.
'They're working on the statue as we speak' flashed the instant reply.
I shared the news with assorted semi-sozzled sports writers and dismayed housewives. The reaction was one of universal disbelief. As in cricket (TMS) where sages have been usurped by google-happy Arlo White, so it seems in Tennis. Instant expert, just add water; makes it's own sauce.
Fools.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well, May turned out to be a thoroughly damp squib, and I don't just mean the ugly capitulation in Rome by the listless Rowdies.
I recorded an erratic effort; a Glasgow ParkRun, a couple of local hillside flogs and a brace of outings on the Genovese concrete. The last of these on Thursday was the most pleasing, taking me on a meander around the coast to the Fiera and onto the shadowed, cobbled streets of the old town. As ever I chose a pre-breakfast outing to avoid the cruel sun, mid-morning temperatures nudging the high 20's. The cool breeze and long shadows provided welcome cool in which to plod. Times/ pace remain modest at best but I consol myself that I'm at least getting out there.
Yesterday's home-based hilltop hop was taken close to midday with the sun at it's zenith. Once again a downland zephyr cooled my jets, allowing me to chug along without melting into the earth as surely and completely as a snowman on a Carribbean beach. I'd like to think June will offer more opportunities to run but history shows this to be unlikely. Sun-drenched grass was made for swinging sticks and I intend to do so at every turn so as to keep up with SP and Captain Tom in the MGS Summer Matchplay.
I'm at peace with my running. I have no immediate goal other than to pull on the runners from time to time, to keep the legs ticking over and, if possible, arrest the gentle expansion of my already formidable girth. Summer is never a good time for me on the trails but I'm determined to face the heat demons, if only so as to enjoy the occasional guilt-free pint of Harvey's on those balmy Sussex evenings.
Physically I'm carrying any number of niggles and pains. The nerve in my right shoulder remains pinched, restricting my golf swing and all but ruling out a return to badminton any time soon. My right knee continues to threaten uproar, my right foot reminds me to tread carefully. I'm toying with the idea of some serious gait analysis and subsequent adoption of a new running style. Some might say to do so one must have a style to begin with. It's a fair point; my tilted lope and heavy heeled tread can hardly claim to have been deliberately honed. Yet the Quasimodo Shuffle defines me amongst my kin and might, I'd like to think, be sorely missed from the winter skyline on these windswept downland hills.
[SIZE="1"]Glasgow ParkRun; Genoa Port; Genoa Street Circuit[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Can't see me making a Sunday run for a while as work in Genoa and Bremen loom large on the immediate horizon. Good luck with the relay - wish I could be there on the support team. One day . . . ![[Image: clipAttachment.jpg?1242335056]](http://audioboo.fm/files/images/0007/6188/clipAttachment.jpg?1242335056)
