Not the best start to a running month.
Zip so far and its the third already, work demands the main culprit. There's an outside chance of a plod in the week but its likely to be a solitary outing, and short at that.
Could this be the start of my Almería taper???
For those who missed it here's a link to my Motorhead Roadie diary - not my best work I'll admit, but hopefully it conveys the excitement of the day.
'Tis the season to be jolly.
Harrumph. All I feel at the moment is fat and under-run.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yes, I'm having an iffy time too. A long-planned get-together with a couple of mates on Thursday, work Christmas party last night, a lunch coming up on Tuesday. Not a good time to be on a health drive.
But all work and no play, eh...?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I've entered the Novo Nordisk 'Run To Change Diabetes' oceanside 5K on Thursday. It's yet another 5am start I could do without, but I get a number and a T-Shirt and its free so I'm doing it. This will in no way make up for my appalling lack of activity, but it'll be fun. 3,000 runners expected for an 06:30 start - should be quite an event.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:For those who missed it here's a link to my Motorhead Roadie diary - not my best work I'll admit, but hopefully it conveys the excitement of the day.
Excellent, excellent, excellent! Mightily well done Sweder!
Cape Town’s best efforts at a Mancunian Mizzle swirled around my window as I prized my bloodshot eyes open. Must get a very big hammer to help with that alarm clock . . .
Last night had been one of those unplanned crackers. An evening stroll on Upper Long Street from the Mount Nelson hotel, imperial elegance nestled in the foothills of the Great Table, rejoicing in the gentle warmth of a Cape Zephyr. Decked out in my best fifty quid New Delhi linen whistle and open-necked crumpled white shirt (the perfect attire for supping Shiraz in the bar at the Mount Nelson) I meandered in a happy daze. But lo! What light from yonder neon breaks? A name loomed large from the colourful street scene ahead; The Dubliner. Lawks a-mercy. It’d be rude not to . . .
Some hours later I’m swapping travelogs with a lovely couple from home making their way around the region. They’re a cultured pair, mid forties, attractive, well-heeled. She does something for the Beeb, quite high up in the background team for Jonathan Ross and Have I Got News For You; he works for IFAW, an ultruist living the dream, travelling the world to save the more vulnerable parts of our Planet.
It was all going so well. And then Benfica scored. I’d had an eye on the TV in the corner but the game looked dour. Lord Ferg had once again rolled out his ill-advised 4-5-1 to snuff out the visiting threat, but this never allows for the unthinkable, and of course it happened. We carried on chatting (he was quite keen on footie but preferred to talk about the astonishing sights of the game reserves they’d been through), my attention occasionally drawn to a flurry of red on the screen, then
Wooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!
GET IN!!!!
COME ON!!!!
My companions shrank back in horror as leaped into mid-air, Guinness perilously close to spilling, linen jacket-tails flying, left fist hurled towards the screen. The whole thing kind of slid away from there really; I took a keen interest in the second half, the MU Rowdies in full flow like a newborn bursting to life; a smacked arse does wonders for the lungs, it seems. It all became a bit of a blur after that, the glowing alarm showing numbers in the low single digits when I finally crashed through my bedroom door.
Hardly ideal preparation for the IDF 5K Run To Change Diabetes.
At least the weather had conspired in my favour. Cold, wet, a strong breeze . . . this is all to the good. The throbbing in my frontal lobes settled into a background rhythm as I joined the gathering flock under the lighthouse at Three Anchor Bay. Around 1500 hardy souls turned out for the plod, including some work colleagues from the IDF and the CTICC (Convention Centre). The Mighty Kuobus, the centres’ amiable colossus and health & safety specialist, amongst them. Kuobus is Old School Afrikaans and a lovely man to work with. His gutteral use of my native language masks an easy humour and a sharp mind.
Memories of the run itself, like those of the night before, are a bit of a blur.
I made it home in something like 24 minutes. The winner, a Fin, came in a shade outside 17 minutes, tussling all the way with a Swede, though obviously not this one. It’ll take him some time to wipe the broad grin from his chiselled features I’m sure.
If there’s a moral to this story I guess it’s don’t sink 8 pints of Guinness and a bottle of Shiraz the night before a race. Even a 5K.
There’s some serious reparations to be made when I get home.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A heavy, heavy lurch across sticky, sodden hills at dawn's early light.
Five unrelenting miles in a drayhorse stylee, the mud seeming to leap up and grab my legs like a Tony Hart claymation. My expectations, like the unwanted yet wholly deserved extra layer on my waistline, were pretty low; get through it without stopping. I reached that goal, albeit a close-run thing on the upper slopes of Wicker Man Hill and Blackcap as a spiteful wind whipped out of the west to sting my face.
I didn't time it - no use getting too depressed. This was a return to the hills and nothing more. 'More' is certainly on the menu, to be somehowy woven with the Mayfield Golfing Society AGM on Friday (spare liver on standby) and a horribly demanding 20k Sunday Snake encounter.
Oh how we must pay for our sins . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Another muddy plod into a beast of a Sou’ Wester this morning.
I elected to listen to TMS live from the WACA, the gentle tones of Agnew and Boycott helping to calm my mood. I needed a nice easy run today, the second run after a mini-break always proving marginally tougher than the first. Caution was called for, and I enjoyed a good hilly five miler at an easy, steady trot, coming home in around fifty minutes without discomfort. Funny how when you think about running slowly, about relaxing into a run, you find your time holds firm against the more harem scarem time-trial sessions. Funny . . . and infuriating. Must be something to do with efficiency of effort or some such malarky.
I added a couple of words to my vocabulary today. Panacea (pron. Pa-na-sar); cure-all, universal remedy, solution, answer. Montevescence; exuberant celebration, to skip with delight on taking an Australian wicket. Or five.
Well done young man.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Eleven muddy windswept miles under my straining belt, all the harder for Friday's Mayfield Marathon.
If only that had been 26.2 miles instead of 26.2 units of alcohol in the form of red wine, Guinness and latterly vodka & Red Bull. I consoled myself over a beautifully presented fry-up the following morning with the fact that SP looked far worse than I could ever feel. My partner in crime on and off the golf course resembled something dropped from a large lizard's bottom.
A foggy dawn-lit hour bumping around my kitchen listening to Cook and Pietersen resisting the inevitable Green and Gold Tsunami told me I was far from ready to hit the slopes. The run proved as tough as expected, lungs searing from the effort of dragging my corpulence up a series of extremely steep and slippery hills. Moyleman returned from his post Seven Sisters sabatical along with Paul and Steve, each recovering from minor ailments. We elected to take on the Residences route, leaving the cliffs at Saltdean to climb Telscombe Tye and drop down the western edge of the village. A brute of a field took us due west. Freshly ploughed and thoroughly soaked the heavy earth sucked the life from my ailing legs. Vast puddles of brackish water lurked at the summit, the extra effort needed to hop and skip around the treacherous trail almost too much to bear.
Finally the plunge into Rottingdean, the hamstring hell of Windmill Hill, around St Dunstans with the last two miles once more above the shoreline, an icy headlong blast battering the last ounce of my resolve.
Tough, harsh, all of the above; yet eleven miles banked and a pledge to keep this Sunday appointment each week until Almería.
I'll need to be up around the 30k mark by then
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sorry about that one, Sweder. It's been a long time.
I can still remember Paolo di Canio sneaking a cheeky one past Barthez, the Frenchman's arm hoisted to arrest the offending mafiosi as determinedly as any of Maggie's Orgreave policemen.
And I can remember rising to my feet awestruck and jubilant in the Bobby Moore stand as a young and still appealingly enthusiastic Jermain Defoe sprung the Mighty Reds' back four to equalise at Upton Park from a 90th minute free kick, the lightning striking from a full yard offside, as I and 33,999 other Cockneys uttered not a single word of complaint.
The Hammers skipper has suffered a lot of stick lately. Pardew's taken the rap. New manager Curbs had never beaten your team in his entire managerial career.
I can hardly believe that he has pulled it off now, old chap. So I'll have to wait till MOTD2 tonight see how young Nigel Reo-Coker achieved that unlikely feat today.
It has to be said that Man Utd dominated the game in terms of possession but their bombardments on the West Ham goal somehow never seemed likely to find their mark. I was resigning myself to a draw when Rio Ferdinand suddenly managed to turn himself inside out on the touchline. He sort of dispossessed himself, allowing Harewood to knock it sideways to Reo-Coker for a tap-in.
Must admit I was disappointed but only because of the Chelsea thing; no reflection on West Ham.
Isn't it odd how often a new manager produces a result like this? Way too early to say if the change will Curb the Hammers' bad form but with Ashton on his way back, and a few quid to invest in the transfer window, I'd say their chances are now better than even of staying up.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
You'll forgive me if I don't take up my trumpet and join your celebrations Nigel, though I do wish Curbs and his men the best of fortunes for the rest of the season.
I shared a seasonal pint with my bubble-blowing business partner last Thursday. He was all doom and gloom with Sunday's fixture casting a dark shadow over his furrowed brow. I offered the view that a new manager would conjour that extra ten percent required to repel marauders from the north; a tenner was offered in wager on a West Ham 1-0 win, but declined.
More depressing by far was the astonishing comeback at Goodison.
Of such mettle are champions forged, and whilst the title cannot be won in December it can surely be lost. MU Rowdies' recent confidence was fragile at best. Messrs Green and Reo Coker stressed it to the limit, but t'was Drogba dealt the killer blow.
In all not my most enjoyable 24 hours in sport, but without the lows wither the joys of victory?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I consoled myself over a beautifully presented fry-up the following morning with the fact that SP looked far worse than I could ever feel. My partner in crime on and off the golf course resembled something dropped from a large lizard's bottom.
Quite possibly. But then I was celebrating winning the prestigious "Heads & Tails" play-off. "Silverware" to cherish from a great day with top company! Not to mention my 5 iron at the 7th.
I struggled manfully with a monstrous duvet in the early hours, the bedspread a mythical beast wrapping its tentacles around my bones, dragging me inexorably back to blissful slumber in the Deep. Jack Frost had left his mark etched into the bedroom window, the town beyond cradled in a thick blanket of fog. It took me a while to extricate myself from the bed, my covers aided by the runners nemesis; apathy.
Ive been in love with my running this year. That is to say, running has been to me like a loved one, a soul-mate, dare I say even a mistress. Ive welcomed her embrace throughout the year whatever the weather. My heart has leaped at the thought of her, the anticipation of joining her in the mud-crusted valleys of Sussex crackling in my blood like electricity. Weve achieved great things, my running and I. We splashed through Almeria, conquered Paris in the Spring, continued our affair through the balmy days of summer and skipped hand in hand across the Jog Shop Jog. Running travelled with me to Spain, to Russia, to China and twice to South Africa. Shes rejoiced with me and shivered with me, shown me things Id surely have missed without her.
But this morning, with a gorgeous winter sun making the frosted boughs and hedgerows sparkle like diamonds, the thrill was gone. I knew something was up yesterday when I found no end of reasons to skip my Tuesday constitutional. Phoebes illness, seasonal duties, even the lure of a desk smothered in end-of-year detritus held more appeal. Wednesday morning brought us to a crossroads; get out and struggle through a chilly five miles, or fall sobbing back into the soft folds of warm cotton, beaten like a child. I thought about what running had brought to my life, both this year and in years passed; I owed her another spin around the block. I couldnt face delivering the clichés its not you; its me. Now or never you big dope.
The first mile was purgatory. Tired legs hauled my heavy carcass over crunchy, crusty earth. Air as crisp and clean as I can remember seared into my lungs. Below me the town peeped out from its smoky shroud, church spires and castle turrets like buildings in a Kingdom of Heaven. Before me Wicker Man Hill and Blackcap loomed from the mist like a pair of hairy, muddy knees poking through foamy bathwater. Plumes of steam snorted from my nose and mouth as I battled up the gleaming slopes. I tried so hard to take pleasure in this wonderland but all the while the demon on my shoulder whispered of the delights to be found in my nice warm kitchen. Past the stables and into the foothills of WMH and still no sign of enthusiasm. The climb sapped my will, it was all I could do to keep moving, yet the defiance lurking in the depths of my soul seemed to release something. As I crested the first of two summits my spirits lifted. A glance to the north revealed a whole county wrapped in cloud, the tops of trees and occasional chimney the only evidence of the world below.
Relief washed through me, warm and welcome, as I gathered speed on the down slopes; it was going to be alright. A thirty second pause atop Blackcap and the return run fed my enthusiasm, blood coursing, arms pumping, feet flying over the slippery hillside. I grinned, offering silent apology to my mistress. To have ever doubted us! For shame!
The truth is Ive been slacking.
My recent reticence no more than petulance, a refusal to acknowledge and accept my recent slide, albeit not entirely of my own making. The forms still there, hidden beneath a wobbly layer of indulgence perhaps, but it will return in time.
Heres to Fridays run.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
isn't it he 20th today or have I missed something due to the all pervading drunken haze idnduced by free "drinks and nibbles" dispensed at lunchtime today?? If not then you shouldn't find yourself wanting dear Sweder, in fact you are inf ront of yourself....:-)
I'm finding it pretty tough too. Had a reasonable round-the-blocker on Monday but beer and hearty wintry stodge, and recent fitful sleep patterns which leave me exhausted, have proved quite an ememy. Combine them with the freezing fog of the last couple of days, and I seem to have been temporarily defeated. But I can't let this continue or Almeria will start to look daunting.
That would never do.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
