Aptly named, for my well-intentioned running yin has collided disasterously with my 24/7 on-site-life yang
No running to mention here in steamy Singapore; just long days and longer nights, time-lag insomnia haunted by cheap movies (Anaconda 3: The Offspring starring David 'The Hoff ' Hasselhoff anyone? Thought not) and in general a whole lotta perspiration goin' on ...
On my daily stroll to the Suntec Exhibition and Convention Centre, across the soon-to-be Singapore F1 circuit, where endless tendrils of lighting truss, like arrow-straight, man-made jungle vine, stretch into the distance in readiness for the high-speed nocturnal carnage, I'm accosted by a giant external TV screen. This electro-blot on the cityscape broadcasts an endlessly recycled loop of advertisements, for films, cars, hairspray and, much to my growing annoyance, Cadbury's chocolate. I have no great passion for chocolate so it's not the brutality of such heartless temptation that upsets me, rather the initially amusing but increasingly irksome children featured on the ad. You know the one - the one with the dancing eyebrows. No? Here's a reminder:
There's a very real chance that at some point in the next few days I'm going to snap, dive into the fast-flowing stream of commuter traffic to plant myself onto the bonnet of a bemused Singaporean vehicle, screaming 'for fucks sake somebody shut that fucking thing off!!!!' It would make me feel better anyway. The ad has more to say about birth control than confectionary.
I've been following the recent Aggers initiative on Twitter - #moobsarehistory and #pectember for those in the know/ saddos like me who tweet. The deluge of enthusiastic support and alleged commitment to these noble causes shown amongst my cohorts in the Twitterverse adds misery to my laconic shame as my midriff expands exponentially and my sorry excuse for runner's legs dwindle and wither. I'm currently very much resembling a beach ball on stilts. No matter; somewhere beneath the tranches of blubber a steel resolve is forming, ready to slice through the abominable abdominal lard and burst forth onto the autumnal Sussex hills in a great explosion of huffing, puffing sweat.
Sadly I'm going to have to sink further towards the bottom of the blubber barrel before I start clawing my way out, wide-eyed and bloody, into the brave new world of semi-fitness.
Another Guinness-and-gin-fuelled trip to the celebrated Raffles Hotel Long Bar awaits. Last night it was an outing to the Pacific Coast Seafood Market, elbow-deep in brow-beadingly hot chilli crab and giant mutant prawns washed down with lashings of ice-cold Tiger beer.
It is, as the popular song from 'Annie' has it, a hard-knock life
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(03-09-2009, 07:36 AM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: With the greater part of your Singapore visit apparently devoted to beer and food, it's no wonder you need a behemoth A380 to get around in. :RFLMAO:
Hey!!! I can post in my own threads ... something I guess.
More debauchery, no running (apart from a bare-foot waddle along the shoreline on Sentosa this afternoon). Happily managed to find a tranquil hostelry ne Shangri-La deep in the impressive undergrowth where I road-tested a variety of rum-based thirst-quenchers.
New theme tune: Roll Out The Barrel ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
If the flip-flops and sunnies stayed on, I guess speed wasn't of the essence. Looks like you're enjoying yourself though. The season of mists and mellow fruit breakfasts will be upon us soon enough, and the downs will call you once again no doubt...
Nothing Earth-shattering, although the heavy pounding of a swarthy lardbucket across sun-bleached hills may well have rattled a few window frames on this sleepy Sussex morning.
Inspired by the combination of a beautiful sun rise and my burgeoning belly I slipped out of the house, hounds in tow, and headed for my old stomping grounds. Cleansed by a cool, stiff westerly, strapped into my favorite old offies (webbed-foot-things on hold whilst I get back into the swing) I struggled manfully onward. No Garmin, today or for a while; it's not about times, rather how many times I can get out. Rebuilding is the name of the game; welcome to Ground Zero.
Three and a half miles tucked away, a lovely damp RC shirt, quivering limbs and a broad smile to show for it. Dogs were chuffed to be back on the run, though no doubt miffed that I ducked out of the last hill to BlackCap.
As Baden Powell is thought to have said, 'Softly, softly, chatchee monkey.'
It's quite some primate I'm trying to heave of my hunched, shuffling back
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Following a brilliant yet tiring day watching my daughter's inauguration into the London Contemporary Dance School and having shovelled, half-asleep, a generous dollop of Victoria Station Chicken Noodles on the train home, I slumped in front of the goggle-box just as Match of the Day played out in the blurry near-distance. Woken briefly by the almost unbelievable raking of Van Persie by a clearly hopped-up Adebayor - City must dish out crack-cocaine at half-time - followed by his Neville-esque 90-yard dash to celebrate in front of furious Arsenal fans, I returned to my torpor as West Ham and Wigan slugged it out like two exhausted heavyweights nearing the end of round 12. The long slow trudge up the stairs gave me time to make up my mind; no alarms tonight. If I wake before 7am I'll run. If not, a gentle stroll with the dogs was what the gods have in store for my Sunday morning.
06:56 - ping! Headlamps on. I reached for the bedside radio for confirmation; yes, there it was, the luminous LED beaming out the horrible truth. Somewhere deep within my tortured, horribly jet-lagged carcass some dark, twisted part of me wanted to run.
Turned out to be a belter of a morning. High cloud swept swiftly out of the north-west, racing over the cliffs and across the restless grey ocean. A gaggle huddled above the marina. Stevio, tanned and lean, Ade, a cluster of newbies chirping merrily, eager for the fray. Lycra Tony - in shorts! - rocked up with a broad grin, here to guide the first-timers. Just before we set sail into the east Sarah bounced up the slope from Madeira Drive, a wide smile atop her fit form. She looked lively, clearly in great shape, so I asked what she was training for.
'Amsterdam next month' she beamed. There's no better time to be running; a few weeks shy of a marathon you're in tip top shape. Everything feels easy, your muscles are stuffed with energy, your legs feel they could go on for ever. We stood together, polar opposites of the running condition.
Still chatting at the off my best intentions of taking it easy were left slack-jawed in full teapot as I kept pace with Sarah, enthralled by her training tales and news of an impending move to Geneva where she plans to take up Directorship of a Research Institute. I marvelled at her easy banter whilst I was trying to force my gasping lungs back down my throat. Then it dawned on me that
a) this lady had finished first woman in the Great Wall marathon not so long ago and
b) I am a tub of under-prepared, gin-and-lager-soused lard
No matter. Enjoying myself despite the discomfort I covered the first three miles in 27 minutes, a good 4 minutes quicker than my optimum starting pace. Luckily Sarah was joining Steve and the belatedly-arriving Chris on the inland trail for +14 miles. I stuck to my gameplan and head for the Wire, turning at four miles for the return leg. LT, having escorted a pair of rookies to Rottingdean, was cresting the last hill as I set off. He turned to join me, filling the last few miles with stories from the Old Days, training for London to Brighton (the original course record still held by Jog Shop Sam) and avoiding/ living with running injuries.
1 hour 10 minutes for the 12.07 kilometres, a fair outing even if a somewhat false dawn. There's always that hint of a honeymoon when you return to running after a hiatus, the residual benefits of rest, uninjured muscles flexing and filling with clean, freshly oxygenated blood unhindered by lingering lactic acid, unfrayed by regular pavement pounding.
More work/ travel beckons but I'll do my best to get out a minimum of three times a week, even if I don't manage a full hour for a while. My short-term aim is to manage the 15k up and down Mont Royal whilst back in Mapleland next month.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The German existentialist Paul Tillich once wrote "Astonishment is the root of philosophy"; in which case I must dare to name a new branch of philosophy called Swederism, as you rarely fail to astonish me with your postings here, sir.
12kms? 70 minutes? On those mountains?
You led us to believe you were out of condition, man!
(13-09-2009, 12:05 PM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: 12kms? 70 minutes? On those mountains?
You led us to believe you were out of condition, man!
Agreed -- it's profoundly annoying, isn't it? Let's hope he leaves his body to medical research. It will start a whole new branch of science.
The very thought of running 8 miles, or even 3, on the hills at the moment is at least a couple of weeks away. Though I did at least make it to the gym today, which I'll write about later.
But well done Sweder - bodes well.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
More dark tales from the leafy bowels of suburban Surrey.
Another venture into the murky world of the Oil Hash courtesy of an invite from Niguel of this parrish. As ever the rendezvous was cunningly disguised as an up-market gastropub, the bedrizzled car park filled with milling running folk wriggling into a variety of running regalia and lightweight windcheaters, the air filled with good-natured banter and apparently casual ponderings on the challenge ahead.
Last year we were bathed in golden summer sunlight, running through bright fields of wheat shimmering in the evening glow. Tonight we huddled under grumpy, leaden skies, the ground sodden with day-long rain, the failing light scurrying behind the thick wall of woodland all around us.
Following a safety briefing, the nub of which was 'run fast to avoid getting lost in the dark' and 'watch out for tree roots' the 'on out' was called by Hash master Alistair. We thundered into the Surrey evening, I for one thankful that the clouds appeared to have emptied their payload leaving only the residual leaf-drop to rain intermittently down upon us.
Fields adorned with lazy cows and their ubiquitous, slippery deposits yielded to a series of styles and we were into the woodland proper. Dense foliage conspired to block out the last of the waning light, making the small splodges of flour intended to mark our passage that much harder to pick out along the shadow-strewn trail. The course proved challenging; hilly, muddy, slippery and, as is the wont of the scurrilous Hash Hare, at times trecherously misleading. For those new to the world of Hashing check here.
A couple of miles in I had cause to regret my earlier fuelling strategy. Concerned that I'd not eaten well enough at lunchtime I'd panicked, purchased a box of Jaffa cakes (note: biscuits, according to Bill Bailey, NOT cakes) and proceeded to devour the lot in a sort of semi-conscious daze as I drove towards the meeting point at Wooten Hatch. Now that unhealthy amalgam of melted chocolate, orange gloop and mangled sponge sat heavily across my belly, grumbling in a most unhappy and alarming manner.
No time for gastronomic concerns; our leaders had reached a flour circle - a mark on the ground to indicate a break in the trail. Tradition dictates that there should be, within approximately 100 metres from this point, one, maybe two, but possibly up to four flour deposits indicating either a continuation of the trail or, most infuriatingly, a false trail.
'On-On!' came a cry to my left. I turned sharply to see a group of hashers hurling themselves up an impossibly steep embankment into the dark heart of the forest. I set off after them, hoping I'd work up enough speed to allow momentum to carry my carcass over the summit. Just! As I bounced off a rough-barked tree another cry rang out.
'False trail!' The lead runners had come to a flour 'X', a clear indication that our mischievous Hare had decided to have some fun.
'Bastard' I spluttered, turning back to plummet down the perilous mudslide.
Away in the distance, through large clumps of forest fauna, a new cry of 'On-On!' rang out. It sounded miles away. With a heavy heart - further burdened by my now sodden RC shirt - I lumbered off in this new direction - and the mad, helter-skelter procession of huffing, puffing humanity was once again in motion.
Forty minutes in we hit some serious climbs. The light by now was negligible; tree roots were fleeting shadows on the dim floor, overhead branches last minute Ghost-train frighteners as they leered out of the gloom. I had to dig in, pump my elbows, puff out my cheeks and strain every reluctant sinew just to keep up with the younger, altogether more bouncy hashers. On, on, up, up ... it was almost dark now. A few of the leaders, being well-prepared sorts who keep an eye on daylight times and that sort of stuff, wore head torches. The beams from their lamps danced across the trail, a wild cross between a search party and an all-night rave. I fought like the Devil to keep up, scared that I'd lose sight of these human lighthouses and be left, lost on the deep, dark woods. And then: we're saved! Headlights! Not a road, you understand ... the beer stop!
Merciful heavens this was a sight for sore legs. Two tresstle tables alongside the dim shadow of a family saloon. At one end a keg of ale, at the other any number of opened bottles of lager. I grabbed a beaker of ale and slurped greedily. This is one of the most celebrated and eagerly anticipated rituals on any Hash run - the beer stop. Some Hashes, usually those located in more remote areas, choose to save the beer stop until the end. The good people of the Annual Oil Hash elect to go with a three-quarter drinks break AND a finish-line fillip.
One of Niguel's associates announced he was in training for New York and questioned - out loud - his sanity at risking unfathomable ankle damage on such a reckless adventure. Setting off after a ten minute breather I could see his point; or, rather, I couldn't. In fact I couldn't see anything, apart from the slight contrast in shadows where trees lined the invisible trail home. Helpfully the flour-water mix appeared to be ever so slightly luminous. I could also make out - just - a rutted ridge of thick mud running along the trail. I could feel my feet twisting on landing as the ruts and troughs of this slippery path yielded to my heavy tread. This was, I told myself, utter madness. It's pitch black. I can just about make out the figures ahead of me as they run, hunched, through a tunnel of branches, completely blind, heading towards some kind of steepening descent.
There's a special kind of trust required to run, re-fuelled with beer, along tree-lined, branch-covered slippery woodland trails in the dark. Trust .. or a lack of any kind of sense. In the end there was nothing for it but to trust to good fortune, get your head down and get on with it. Somewhere in the distance, a kilometer, maybe two ahead, lay a warm pub full of ale and fine food. The options were to
a) crawl into a prickly bush to weep like a child until daybreak or
b) strike out for salvation, sanity and beer.
Remarkably we all made it. I'm even going to tempt fate and say we all made it without serious mishap, though with around 40 runners it could be we lost a few along the way and nobody thought to mention it so as not to spoil the Dunkerque spirit engendered by our unlikely survival. The Down-Down, conducted by our ruddy-cheeked, terribly smug Hash master, took place in the gloomy pub garden. You can't blame the establishment for sparing their regular patrons the ignominy of dining amidst a wild pack of steaming, sweat-soaked Hashers; we dined al fresco. My steak sandwich, when it finally arrived, tasted like the finest feast, the ale, laid on in ever-lasting (refilled by the bar staff) jugs, pure nectar.
I sat and chatted with Niguel and another of his associates - a marathon man, veteran of Paris and Dublin - until, as if to hurry us on our way, the drizzle returned to put an end to our festivities. Another cracking Oil Hash adventure; here's to 2010.
Around 7 miles, somewhwere close to 90 minutes
Below (L to R): Hash Briefing; On into the Woodland; Checking ... ; On-On!; Beer Stop; To the Victors, the spoils!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul.
Douglas Adams wrote that; and last night, after an ill-judged late-night visit to a number of Soho-based hostelries, I lived it. Or, at least, the Long Dark Witching Hour of the Soul. Make that ‘hours’, pleural.
Racing for the last train to Royston (cue the Monkeys) I caught the coat-tails of the 00:07 to Cambridge out of Kings Cross. Slumping gratefully into my seat I noticed a number of revellers in repose. Alerted of the dangers of slumbering past one’s appointed stop I (thought I) set my alarm at the correct time so as not to miss mine. Oh, poor misguided, slightly sozzled optimist! I awoke with a start as the train screeched into yet another hitherto unknown station; Foxton. Suprised and alarmed I consulted the wall-mounted station map – aaargh! Two stops past Royston and heading for Cambridge with no guarantee of a functioning taxi service. I leapt from my seat and dove for the doors, alighting in an unseemly heap on a desolate, windswept slab of concrete in the middle of gthe blackest hole in the history of black holes. Oh for the HHGTTG ... what was that on the cover? Don't Panic ...
Wandering off the platform I soon realised I was in close proximity to rock-all. Taxis were out of the question, and my iPhone-mounted SatNav gleefully informed me (in a particularly glowing manner given the inky backdrop) that I had 6.1 miles of A10 to navigate to reach my destination. The irony of being in a jam in a town called Foxton was not lost on me; nor was the realisation that I really am way too old for this crap.
Abandoning my instinct to knock out the miles in the usual fashion, clad as I was in tan business suit and rock-hard, thin-soled wingtips, I strode out to the east under a fabulous canopy of heavenly twinkles and swirls. To the west a planet-hugging shroud of high cloud crept incrementally off the radar, revealing yet more sparkling treats in the awesome galaxies above. I had ample time to ponder the folly of my ways, accompanied only by the anguished yowling of distant horny foxes and the low, baleful cry of a sleepless hound. Oh, and the occasional vehicle. Every now and then a faint rush of distance oceans intruded on the edge of my hearing, growing ever louder as another midnight road-eater approached. On one occasion I glanced back to see beams of light lapping at the roadside foliage from around the last bend, scanning towards me until the full blinding headlamp flash scarred my retinas.
Forlorn, more in hope than expectation I thrust out a lone thumb, moving onto the lurking verge so as not to join the plethora of curb-side road-kill. The roar of industrial rubber chewing up gnarled, weathered tarmac grew deafening before the mighty whoosh of the onrushing night-beast rattled my frame. I stared, resigned, as the mean, beady red tail-lights receded into the endless night, cursing my ineptitude one more time. As luck would have it I recorded the moment on AudioBoo. Here for you delectation and titillation is the result. Promise not laugh too hard-heartedly.
Marathon running came to my rescue during the difficult times. Trained to eschew the heartless time-piece at such moments I filled my head with distracting thoughts, maintaining a steady pace yard after foot-rubbing yard. Eventually the soft glow of Royston City Limits offered a beacon of hope and, footsore and dreadfully weary, I hauled my shattered carcass into the car park at Royston station and blissful, warm embrace of my faithful old truck.
A lesson learned? I very much doubt it.
On the running front there’s been nothing to speak of. I aim to join the cliff-top shamblers on Sunday for a bloated Wire-and-back. And so re-starts the re-start.
Or, in the words of Julio Double-Glazias, we begin the begin.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Foxton, gosh. My year at school had our post-A levels party in Foxton village hall. Thwarted in love, I rode my BSA Bantam into a hedge. If I had left it there, perhaps it might have been of use to you, thirty-six years later?
χαιρέτε νικὠμεν
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In the lap of the gods
I can't claim never to have done this -- I recall having to walk home to Wembley from Waterloo station in the early hours of one Monday morning.... and I spent a very forlorn night on a bench at York Station after missing my Huddersfield stop coming back from a boozy night in Manchester.
So I should feel deeply sympathetic, shouldn't I?
So why don't I? Why is my instinct to laugh rather than offer a manly shoulder on which to shed a manly tear?
Ha ha!
Ha ha ha !!!!!
Sorry!
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
RE: Slept-tember 2009 
Let's hope he leaves his body to medical research. It will start a whole new branch of science.
