August

[Sweder]

4.98 miles in 46:12
TdJ: Texas Flood Stevie Ray Vaughan

An evening at Chateau Plodder combined with early soaring temperatures meant a cooling of ambitions this morning. Slightly groggy from the combination of Harvey's and SP's very own Poor Man's Black Velvet - made with Guinness and Scrumpy - I decided on a routine five. That was even before stepping into the Martian heat ray scorching my front patio.

Another flawless blue sky, so perfect that the half-lit moon decided to hang around for half the day to enjoy the scene, joined by a merciless sun. No sign of my friendly southerly zephyr though I donned the i-plod and set off to some mellow Pink Floyd, determined to take it easy in what could fairly be called brutal conditions for running with a woolly head. Within the first half-mile I was slick with sweat, droplets chasing off my forehead and down my nose to splash onto my chest and legs.

Plenty of horses and the occasional cyclist out today but very few runners - in fact only one that I passed, an impressive fellow in a bright orange Nike sleeveless, thundering down the west face of Wicker Man Hill as if persued by the Devil himself. I plodded on, feeling the death ray burning into my back. Good job I'd opted for my own Nike sleeveless, this one a reflective-white/ blue striped number inlaid usefully with anti-death ray material.

What I'd perceived as breathlessness revealed itself to be the merest hint of a westerly breeze, pushing into my sweat-soaked face on the homeward leg. It was just enough to make the journey bareable and keep the pace steady. In the end I was delighted - and slightly surprised - to have dropped only a minute twenty off yesterday's flying lap.

That twenty seconds can be criutial in sport - just ask Lewis Hamilton. Or Fernando Alonso for that matter. I watched the qualification debacle from the Hungaroring yesterday and it was screamingly obvious to all but McLaren super diplomat Ron Denis that the fiery Spaniard's nose is horribly bent out of shape. Moments before the start of the last qualifying laps the two McLarens pitted for a tyre change. Hamilton held pole by an impressive margin, but with fuel loads lightening the final effort would prove decisive. Alsonso was first in. Change complete, lollipop removed, Hamilton waiting and pit crew waving frantically for him to go, Alonso slowly, carefuly checked his watch, adjusted his undergarments and, when he was absolutely certain that his team mate and championship rival couldn't change gear and get out in time to grab pole, spat out his dummy and sidled out of the pits like he was off to the paper shop.

Last night the FIA demoted Alonso five places on the grid. Of course what should have happened is he should have had his racing overalls pulled down and had his petulant bare botty smacked in front of the cameras.

More early morning efforts lined up this week. The back's still playing up so with no gym on the horizon it'll be daily hill runs for a while longer. Hooray!