andy Wrote:"Guinness is available on draught in a couple of places in Shenzhen, the bar of the Shangi-La hotel for one, also an "Oirish" pub whose name escapes me in the Shekou area.
Great excitement at Chez Sweder this morning.
Turns out Shekou is also home to a HHH enclave.
Hashing and Guinness, eh? Hmm . . . may not be such a tough trip after all . . . mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It seems Running Commentary has fallen foul of the Chinese authorities as I am prohibited from accessing the site whilst I'm here. This also applies to my own company website and the BBC sports and news pages. Fame at last.
I'll post re: brief running experience in Shenzhen when I'm home next week.
Still hoping to hook up with the local H3 group on Saturday. Managed to find a reasonable Irish pub - McCawley's in Shekou - Guinness gets a six out of ten, Steak and Guinness pie an eight.
I'll sit back now and wait for the knock at the door and my visit to room 101 . . .
Underneath the spreading chestnut tree . . .
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I’d planned to cogitate, ponder and prevaricate to the Nth degree over this piece, yet I had to face facts; it’s just not my style. I had Grand Ideas about considering the blossoming of a new nation, comparing a people embracing cultural diversity alongside traditional communist values with the blood-soaked Mafia-driven cesspool that is post-Glasnost Russia. Two things combined to thwart such noble literary ambition; time, or the lack of it, and the fact that I fly to Moscow in the morning; perhaps not the best time to extol the virtues of the Chinese over an FSU that makes Capone’s Chicago seem like a corner shop charity.
I’ll leave such thoughtful conjecture to the experts (and the less exposed).
And so I’ll boil it all down to the bare bones of running. And how bare those meagre scraps are; two runs barely worthy of the name in fact, one hardly a shade over thirty minutes. I shan’t dwell on that first outing; suffice to say it was a torrid, sweaty affair, stolen between fitful sleep and an early start at the Shenzhen International Convention Centre (or, as I prefer to call it, SICC). The one spare evening I’d engineered for myself was frittered away in The V Bar, one of Shenzhen’s hottest nightspots for the young and the beautiful. Don’t ask how I got in, better yet don’t ask how I managed to get on stage to dance with the gorgeous, pouting Trinidadian singer during an Abba medley, much to the slack-jawed horror of my companion from the American Dental Pavilion . . . Guinness was available (albeit not much better than slightly heavy coca cola), as were (if I recall) flaming B52s and any number of ugly and intoxicating mixtures bandied about with scant regard for health or reputation . . .
I did manage a full 10K, albeit dashed off after a bout of fond farewells and immediately prior to an air-conditioned limo-ride to Hong Kong International Airport and the climax of the Ryder Cup on my laptop. As usual the clock was ticking, loud, insistent, waiting for no man, least of all me. The car would be here at 18:15; it’s now 17:05. I’m all packed, my running gear’s on the bed and my neglected, swollen body demands a minimum of five miles.
Hmm. Factor in an obligatory post-run shower and a protracted check-out procedure with new and inexperienced staff and it’s definitely all going Pete Tong.
I hit the streets outside my hotel – the Marco Polo, so new that no taxi drivers in a city of 12 million New Democratic Chinese could find it – and head for the distant green hills I’d coveted daily from my 35th floor window. I say 12 million people but this needs to be put in context. In 1979 this was a fishing village – yes, a village – lurking unseen by the outside world, the hazy spires of Hong Kong rising from the pervading smog on the horizon, as foreign, as alien a land as its possible to imagine hardly an hours’ bumpy car ride away. Today sky-scrapers reach to the skies for a bright, shiny future in steel and glass. Beside every cloud-kissing monument to a new age two towerlings rise in its shadow, shrouded in scaffold and insubstantial green plastic netting. The road from Guanghou to Shenzhen, a two hour journey on a spanking new motorway, is lined with construction on a breath-taking scale. China poured almost two-thirds of the world’s concrete last year. Steel prices have soared, scrap metal becoming the new gold as the all-consuming monster that is the People’s Republic indulges in the most productive period of internal development yet witnessed on our planet.
These people mean business.
Crossing a six-lane highway I followed a dusty, partly completed road toward those beckoning hills. I felt as Sinbad’s men - or was it Jason's? Ray Harryhousen has a lot to answer for . . . drawn by the Shenzhen Siren’s Song, the rustle of branches heavy with summer finery, the babble of cool shaded brooks and the soft chirruping of exotic birds. I yearned for the touch of nature, to run free from angular shadows and the ever-present dusty haze that drapes the city. The buildings grew smaller as I left the city until I felt sure I’d reached something like the pre-boom outskirts. I passed a modest house to find a public play area and a collection of football pitches populated by brightly coloured teams enjoying the Beautiful Game; Park Life in an Asian Stylee.
I crossed another highway, running left around a perimeter wall behind which dense lush foliage lounged in the muggy evening. I’d worked up a fair sheen by now, my lumbering hulk drawing wide-eyed interest from the indigenous pavement dwellers left gawping in my dripping wake. At last the wall yielded an opening and I entered what turned out to be Lianhua Mountain Park. Here the hectic pace of urban life subsided, hustling bustling city workers giving way to quiet couples strolling hand in hand in a peaceful haven of rolling lawns, tall evergreens and luxuriant shrubberies.
As I paused to study a wall-mounted layout three young lads jogged past, heading up the path rising into the hills, or what I now surmised to be the foothills of Lianhua Mountain. I couldn’t resist, knowing even as I set off in pursuit that this might end in glorious ignominy for the lardy round-eye. The lads kept up a reasonable pace – nothing I couldn’t live with having already tucked the best part of two flat easy miles away – and I caught them without much fuss. The tallest of the three glanced back, gave me a cursory once-over, grinned and faced the front. The instant upping of pace was both inevitable and at the same time amusing; I responded. The tall lad pushed harder as the incline grew steeper, his stockier companions falling back level with me and finally behind as we bit into the meat of the climb. I knuckled down to some hard running, not seeking to catch the guy, merely to hold station. We weaved carefully through the strolling couples, elderly groups and clusters of children, the trail showing no sign of levelling off. Far from it – if anything the angle grew steadily steeper, and I started to huff and puff with great enthusiasm and no little concern.
How long was this bloody track anyway?
Finally, mercifully, the pathway took a couple of crafty twists before reaching a plateau. I glanced back to spot the slower lads working hard to catch us, then remembered my water bottle and took a long, hard-earned slug. ‘Crouchie’ watched me and grinned as I proffered the water, returning the universally accepted gesture of polite refusal; a smile and a gently raised palm. After regaining some control over my breathing I set off again, the path dropping lazily down the far side of this part of the hill. The boys regrouped but didn’t follow as I let gravity take over, run-stumbling down the path, trying to keep my breaths shallow and easy as my body screamed for oxygen.
The path returned me to the circuitous sidewalk via a different gap in the perimeter. I guessed a left turn would eventually bring me back to the point I’d crossed the last major road – near to Shenzhen’s own Hackney Marshes - and so it proved, but not before I’d managed to completely bamboozle myself with the layout of pedestrian, cycle and vehicle lanes, running at some point in all three. The locals continued to greet me with bemused smiles and mild curiosity as I grinned and waved my way through their number. The last mile felt comfortable, blessed relief from the all-too strenuous nonsense in the park. I’d have happily gone on for a bit, but hey – tick-tock, tick-tock.
Some fifty minutes after starting out I arrived back at the Marco Polo, dripping with sweat but feeling better than I had since arriving in China. The beautiful Doorgirl, immaculate in her spanking new uniform, smiled angelically as she opened the glass door. Her smile froze as I sweat-splashed my way into the ice-cool lobby, where to my horror a number of my customers lounged in the open bar. I fixed my gaze on the elevators at the back of the area and ran on. I almost made it.
‘Hey! Hello mate!’
Paul Wilson, FDI Congress Manager and a good friend for a number of years. We’d hit the streets together in Montreal last year, and he’d been my first corporate sponsor back in the heady days of my first FLM for JDRF. We’ve built huge international congresses together in Mexico, Europe, Australia, Malaysia and India. One of the biggest yet Shenzhen had been a great success, and not without its unique challenges. We’d both be taking home a few extra grey hairs from this trip.
‘Good run?’
I hee-hawed my way through a very short and one-sided conversation, at once trying to appear chilled out and relaxed whilst desperate to infuse as much air as possible. A small puddle of sweat had formed around my feet.
Bing.
The elevator arrived. Please don’t get in, please don’t get in, please –
‘Well, I’ve gotta go meet the people from Unilever, Thanks again for a great job, have a safe trip home.’
Phew.
Gold metal doors closed as I slumped against the mirror, breath steaming the polished glass, stretching my hamstrings on the long ride up. Ten minutes, a frantic check of the room, one mostly cold shower and one more search through the cupboards and drawers for the inevitable last, vital item to pack later I’m riding back down in the lift, bags in tow.
What is it about showers and delayed perspiration?
I’d stood under that giant shower head letting the cold water rinse the heat out of me for as long as I’d dared, yet here they come, those tell-tale beads of moisture forming along the folds of my crisp, clean T-shirt. Oh well.
Less than a week at home, one maybe two outings in my hills and its off to Moscow. More alcoholic temptation, more stress and another week with limited running opportunities. I’ll still pack my boots though.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Returning from my exertions in the East I was hugely relieved to embrace my soggy Sussex hills this week. In times of intense travel I draw great comfort from the familiar; rain-soaked fields, windswept hills, bedraggled sheep and happy, panting dogs.
My first outing, on Tuesday, the day after arriving home, was swift and gratifying. My limited experience with running tells me to expect ‘return’ runs to be of good quality, laden with energy and enthusiasm. I wasn’t disappointed, clocking a ‘season’s best’ time of around 46 minutes for the hilly five miler.
Today’s run was equally rewarding and, for me, swift, in considerably less clement conditions. A brusque breeze badgered my flapping shorts, mostly helping on the outward climbs. Last night’s heavy rain lingered in the air like a boozy guest reluctant to leave the party as the sun comes up. I-Pod shuffle delivered an eclectic mixture of ACDC, Kaiser Chiefs, Stranglers and Girlschool as my thoughts turned once more to Shenzhen. I’d finally gotten around to writing up my trip last night. I’d harbored hopes of an Andy-style thoughtfully woven pieced. All this lead to was day after day of avoiding the subject until I finally strapped myself into my chair last night and furiously brain-dumped the data into my diary.
Sweder, Know thyself.
Yet this morning I realized I’d not addressed some of the issues that burn behind the bright red flag of the rising Chinese Dynasty in this new millennia. Human rights, abuse and disavowing of a disabled generation, inequalities outside the ‘western’ cities, arbitrary executions and the sale of criminal organs to the West, ecological genocide to threaten the future of our planet. In truth I saw nothing of this during my visit. Au contrare, I gawped at the positive promotion of disabled athletes on the CCTV (National telly) Channel Five. I noted a repeated commitment to the construction of green ‘lungs’ in the major cities, and chuckled at the no doubt well-founded suggestion that the authorities were ‘seeding clouds’ to ensure morning rainfall in Beijing. Pollution is the number one enemy in China, and in Beijing doubly so. The 2008 Olympics are all but upon us. The publicity-seeking moguls behind the New China are desperate for records to tumble at these games, an unlikely outcome if the competitors are wheezing to the start line like SP after a night on the rollies.
You know, the concrete I saw being poured in every corner of Shenzhen last week may well have been mixed with the blood of a million unwanted children. The daily watering of the streets, apparently to keep down the invasive dust blowing in off the inland desert plains, may well have been for my and other tourists’ benefits. I don’t really know. But I do know that we ignore this nation at our peril. We need to stay close to this China Girl, to influence and cajole her to take the right path; as the Borg might say, resistance is futile.
Speaking of girls I considered my two upcoming races.
(Eh? It’s OK, you’ll see in a minute)
The Jog Shop Jog, twenty miles of teeth-gritting, will-sapping torture, all hills and open downland, relentless, unforgiving, harsh. Lovely. And the Brighton 10K. I really don’t like 10Ks at all; they’re just not made for me. I’m an old-fashioned fellow; I like to take my time with a run. I’d best hand you over to Swiss Tony on this one.
Taking on a long-distance run is a bit like making love to a beautiful woman.
You have to earn her trust, get to know her, converse, compliment her, buy her a drink, find out what her sign is. Then when you have her lost in your charm and mutual respect take her carefully, lovingly, show her you understand her needs, talk to her, love her until you lie together sated, content in each others’ arms . . .
Ahem. Yes, well, thank you Tony, sort of.
I do like to ‘ease in’ to a race or a run. The first few miles are a ‘getting to know you’ process, learning about how I’m feeling, what I’m capable of on the day, where the energy levels are, are there any niggles to worry about. This 10K malarky’s all a bit ‘wham, bam thank you M’am’ for my tastes. There’s no prelude, no introduction; no flowers, no aperitif; hit your straps out of the blocks or you can kiss any chance of a PB goodbye. This of course is to risk the dreaded ‘blow-up’. Now, I’m not one who suffers from premature tape-crossing, but there’s plenty out there who know what I’m talking about, eh Lads? Shooting your bolt too soon? Something pops into your head right outta nowhere and says ‘hey; maybe I’ve kept myself deliberately under potential all this time! All I need to do is really get out there all guns blazing! I can break the forty-minute mark, all I have to do is commit, it’s all there . . .
These are the guys we pass as we plod on, their heads bowed, the demons driven out to plague someone else. Race plans in tatters they walk the walk of shame.
OK, I fess up, I’ve had these thoughts. I look at other runners with vastly more impressive times than me and I just can’t see the difference. It must be in the attitude, right? Wrong. As we all know too well it’s actually all in the training, the unrelenting hours of effort it takes to break through these barriers. We’d all like to think we can do it but when push comes to shove there are sacrifices to be made. Our good friend the Purple Plodder sets sail for Washington soon, a 3:15 fixed, trembling, in her sights. If she does it will it be because of some moment of enlightenment, some revelation, an inner glow bursting into dream-fulfilling light? Nope. It’ll be the weeks and months of eighty, ninety and even hundred miles banked, slogged out in all weathers, morning, noon and night. Focus. Determination. The will to win. That’s what separates the wannabes from the winners. I don’t have that extra edge; if I did I’d’ve been out on those freshly-hosed Shenzhen streets at the crack of each new dawn, chiseling my destiny for the races ahead.
I take my hat off to you, PP, you’re going for it. You’ve bundled your excuses into an old sack and tossed them into the Atlantic ocean. Best of luck, and please come back and tell us all about it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Crikey Sweder, how do you find time for all this travelling, running, writing et al? Have you been buying some of those funny Chinese herbs?
But well done mate - there's always something interesting to read and ruminate on in a Sweder blog China is indeed a rapidly growing all-devouring monster - like it or not (and there's plenty on both sides of that ledger) they are rapidly asserting themselves and we have to deal with it ... somehow.
One slightly more personal concern though - there was rather too little discussion of beer in your last posting. Are you unwell?
Sweder Wrote:OK, I fess up, I’ve had these thoughts. I look at other runners with vastly more impressive times than me and I just can’t see the difference. It must be in the attitude, right? Wrong. As we all know too well it’s actually all in the training, the unrelenting hours of effort it takes to break through these barriers. We’d all like to think we can do it but when push comes to shove there are sacrifices to be made. Our good friend the Purple Plodder sets sail for Washington soon, a 3:15 fixed, trembling, in her sights. If she does it will it be because of some moment of enlightenment, some revelation, an inner glow bursting into dream-fulfilling light? Nope. It’ll be the weeks and months of eighty, ninety and even hundred miles banked, slogged out in all weathers, morning, noon and night. Focus. Determination. The will to win. That’s what separates the wannabes from the winners. I don’t have that extra edge; if I did I’d’ve been out on those freshly-hosed Shenzhen streets at the crack of each new dawn, chiseling my destiny for the races ahead.
I take my hat off to you, PP, you’re going for it. You’ve bundled your excuses into an old sack and tossed them into the Atlantic ocean. Best of luck, and please come back and tell us all about it.
If PP gets her sub 3:15 she can indeed feel proud, and thank her great attitude and hours of training. I have nothing but praise, admiration and envy.
But we're all built differently and have arrived at this physical and emotional point through a variety of routes, experiences and pieces of good luck and bad luck. It's not defeatism but realism when I say that I couldn't train for hours and hours, and run a hundred miles a week, even as the culmination of a long period of preparation, so I try not to feel inferior.
The difficulty is separating our "can't dos" from our "don't want to dos". Our limitations from our excuses. I know I'll never run a 3:15 marathon, regardless of training and coaching. But I know for sure that I can run a sub 5 hour marathon, and this makes me believe I can run a sub 4:30 marathon one fine day. And I guess this is the key thing - having a realistic idea of what you can grasp. At the moment, my training isn't good enough to get me where I know I could get to, and this is a black mark against me. I wouldn't want to be compared with someone like PP however, who is (by our standards) exceptional. Of course Paula Radcliffe would look at PP's target and think what a nightmare it must be to have such a lowly target as 3:15. So for most of us, and certainly those with even a small competitive streak, even if it's only ourselves we are challenging, we have to find where we belong on the spectrum and do the best we can to push forward all the time.
What am I saying here? I've forgotten. I think it's to say that admirable though PP is, you can only judge yourself by what you have to work with. In your case, I think you absolutely do that. Your motivation and desire, and your celebration of all those wild lopes on the hills in terrible weather, is as impressive and as inspirational to most of us as PP seems to be to you. And I daresay that even my useless current efforts might be admired by someone or other I pant past on the streets -- bizarre though that thought may be.
Crikey, I think I've just talked myself into going for a run later.
Bah!
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Bierzo Baggie Wrote:Who's this Swiss Tony bloke?... he rings a bell.
He's a character on The Fast Show, a series of sketches screened on the BBC featuring Paul Whitehouse and chums (former sidekick of Harry Enfield). Swiss Tony is a smarmy car salesman best known for comparing just about everything with making love to a beautiful woman . . .
. . . nice.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:One slightly more personal concern though - there was rather too little discussion of beer in your last posting. Are you unwell?
Fear not MLCMan.
During an almost unbearable delay at LHR yesterday - 5 hours whilst BA sought a replacement for the 13:05 to Moscow that 'went technical' - I managed to tuck away my fair share of Murphy's in the departure lounge bar. Some way into this endeavour I ventured, slightly unsteadily, back to the BA help desk.
BA Rep: 'I'm sorry sir, we're still trying to locate a replacement aircraft.'
Sweder (Gesticulating generally in the direction of the large window overlooking the airport): 'Whaddaya mean - there must be at least a hundred parked out there!'
Finally arrrived in Moscow some time after midnight.
An hour plus taxi ride, hurtling through deserted partly-lit Russian streets, featuring an unscheduled stop for an 'inspection' by a chap in a big fur hat and large overcoat waving a nightstick, followed by a marathon form-filling exercise at the hotel before I crawled into bed a few minutes before three a.m.
Which was nice.
Oh it's the travelin' life, the travelin' life for me . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Everyone likes a tight-ass, nobody likes a smart-ass*
My agent here has done such a fine job it's odds-on for a reasonable run tomorrow. The weather is suitably gloomy - there are entire neighborhoods in need of tea and sympathy here - and I hope to track down a medium sized park to plod around somewhere close to my hotel.
Plans are afoot for a tourist-style waddle around Red Square later in the week.
Now that would be quite something.
From Gorky Park to Oligarkhs, Hammer and Sickle to Slap and Tickle, Moscow has seen more face changes than a second-rate film star.
I first came to this city in 1984; pre glasnost, full-on grim, grey USSR, all trench coats and furry hats; ‘Niet’ was the word.
The streets were dark and forbidding, the only light cast from the occasional street lamp. It was November, the Mockba river frozen and thick snow abundant, and for the first time in my life I was reprimanded for jay-walking. I've never been so frightened, before or since.
A return during the fabulous World Cup that was Italia ’90, nights shoe-horned into the Heineken Bar at the Cosmos hotel shoulder to shoulder with singing Belgians and weeping Italians. David Platt in the last minute of extra time, Champanski, the Lambada . . . so many memories. A nation in transition, post-Chernenko, the time of Gorbachev, MacDonalds on Red Square, freedom in the air, a new hope.
And now, sixteen years later I’m back; and I’ve not seen the like of this place.
Street signs blare in the October night, a parody of the true Land of the Free. The Spirit of Free Money-Making is alive and well in the belly of modern Moscow. A cab from the airport to the hotel, an hours’ bumpy ride at full speed even at two in the morning, cost me sixty quid. I assumed I’d been mugged but swapping tales with colleagues its about the going rate. Hookers populate the 'tourist' bars and lurk in the lobbies and drinking dens of the larger hotels; the air is thick with vice and corruption.
At the shiny new exposition centre at Crocus City on the northern reaches of the sprawling metropolis corruption thrives like a new-born reptile, squirming through every badly-lit passageway of business life. Use the freight elevator sir? That’ll be two hundred dollars. You need a couple of workers - Oh, you’ve prepaid a vast sum of money? Well, if you slip me a small King’s Ransom I’ll see if I can persuade them to actually do some work for you. It is an endless, exhausting cycle. The system is as faceless and intransigent as it ever was; the wheels are no longer greased with a poacket of smokes or a bottle of Vodka. Only Hard Currency will cut the ice and greed is the word.
There’s an expo here next month that well reflects the state of modern Russia.
Its called Millionaire’s Expo, and as the name suggest caters for the man who has everything but would like a bit more. Volker, my Ukranian-born, German- raised associate here, informs me that last year one visitor purchased a helicopter five minutes after entering the building. Next to this center is a shopping mall. It’s a magnificent building replete with columns and facades, a glittering marble entrance and ample parking. In the past four days I’ve seen a grand total of two dozen vehicles at any one time parked outside. Visitors arrive sheilded by a bustle of large, bald men in dark suits sporting ear-pieces and are whisked into the building with their wives or girlfriends. They emerge some hours later, the heavies laden with bags marked Prada, Gucci, Rolex and Bugati. This is not IKEA; this is not Homebase. This is not a ‘Mall for All’ – this is millionaire’s row, a private shopping facility for the New Russia.
On the running front its been a disappointing trip. I located a Hash group, meeting every Sunday at 13:05 at the Tchaikovsky Theatre to move on via car share or Metro to the start of their chase. Sadly I was up to my neck in packing crates and customers and missed a great opportunity. At Andy’s suggestion I checked out Run the Planet, finding a couple of likely circuits, one starting from Red Square, traversing the mighty river and on to Gorky Park. I hope to give this a whirl on Wednesday, my morning off. 'Gorky Park' evokes memories of the eponymous thriller made in the eighties starring William Hurt as a downbeat Moscow Copper on the trail of murder, corruption and death. It seems to me these themes, whilst morphed out of all recognition, remain at the core of life here.
Spaceba Bolshoi; Вы и настолько длинне от Moscoq
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Not in Russia it isn't.
You have to pay extra if you want to move into a new month . . .
OK, OK, so I lost track of months . . . it can happen you know.
And whilst we're on the subject of losing track . . . do please tell all about your recent lavatorial meanderings in Belgium . . .
Yes, even in darkest Moscow talk of SPs incontinental adventures is rife . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
When September ends . . . again . . .
China is indeed a rapidly growing all-devouring monster - like it or not (and there's plenty on both sides of that ledger) they are rapidly asserting themselves and we have to deal with it ... somehow.