February 2008

[Sweder]

Teenage years are filled with a mixture of endless angst and unknown wonders. Your future lays before you, rolled out like perfect downland hills, illuminated by the strong sunlight of self-assurance, peppered by shadows of uncertainty and doubt. These thoughts swirled around my addled head as I took to the hills under heavy, snow-laden cover. The sun teased above, bright patches threatening a breakthrough that never came.

I left my girls busily packing for Camber, home of the Len Goodman All-England Latin Dance Championships. Hours, no, weeks of practice, meticulous costume design and endless preparation come to a head this weekend; there'll be tears and triumph, laughter and pain. I'll be at home, looking after the menagerie of fur, legs and fins but my heart will be along the Sussex coast in Rye, wishing with every ounce of my being that my Mouse will dance her socks off, dance with a smile, win, lose or draw.

My feet fair flew this morning. There's no rhyme nor reason to this running lark. For ages I've struggled, feeling heavy, moaning about lack of musical inspiration, excess lard and anything else really. Today, with a bitter north-east wind slicing into my exposed arms and legs, skies heavy, wobbling belly full of spice from last night's exceptional Maharaja Tiffin at Chor Bizzare, I ate up the miles with surprising ease. Last night; Valentine's Day, a night for lovers. Or, in my case, a night to abandon my long-suffering wife (who's ascention to sainthood is surely a matter of when, not if) in order to wine and dine three delightful young ladies from the FDI. It is, as is often said, a tough job, but somebody has to do it . . . I even had the good fortune, having suggested a post-meal half in the Kings' Head in Arbemarle Street, to stumble across a magnificent pint of Timothy Taylor's Landlord. I was struck by the remarkable similarity of the ale to my beloved Harvey's Best, so much so that I had to take another, just to be sure.

Rob Bernie span the Planet Rock Connection to accompany my morning chug. What a fine collection of dance tunes with which to scale the humps and hollows of my route! The Vapours were Turning Japanese, Deep Purple screamed Fireball, Pink Floyd extolled the virtues of The Division Bell. All the while I marvelled at the apparent ease with which I scaled the climbs. I felt strong, untroubled by the bitter cold or the sticky, slippery terrain. The Brighton Half looms large this Sunday; I may have peaked too soon! But whilst my unofficial PB of last year - 1:39, whilst in the form of my life - is way off the charts my official (Chip) PB, somewhere around 1:44, just appeared, a tiny spec of ambition on my horizon. Heh heh.