April 2009

[Sweder]

Got along to the BHTT 5K on saturday. I was plodding lazily towards a 25 minute finish when I spied MSilv up ahead. I kicked out of my lethargy and started reeling her in, only to see her double up as if struck by a snipers' bullet 300 metres from the end. I stopped to see if she was OK and she was in real pain - must've tweaked one of those little rib muscles, very painful. We walked in together, grinning at the finish-line hecklers.

Stepping off the flight in Montreal last night I noticed what Antonio might call 'some discomfort' in my right heel and my heart sank. I'm not healed (stop it) so looks like no Mont Royal for me, which is horrible as it's one of my favorite overseas runs. Why? Here's a couple of posts that might explain . . .

More White Snake and the story of Maple Syrup
She Comes In Colours

After following the London Heroes (and the Bahrain GP) this morning - I had four windows open on my laptop, a prehistoric wifi connection and an overloaded Addidas info centre to contend with - I readied myself for Hurley's (where I'd enjoyed a Black Nectar nightcap last night). Brunch, an afternoon supping fine Guinness and chatting with the locals beckoned . . . but then my conscience appeared, arms folded, jaw set, beady eyes fixed in a death-ray glare, blocking the doorway.

'Look in the hotel guide; there might be a gym.'
Bollocks, there is. Off with the jeans, on with the shorts. There's no way around it - my big wobbly belly that is - I have to get on the exercise bike and/ or the tready for at least 45 minutes to keep the blubber monster at bay. Traveling, lots of down time and the resultant binges are bad enough normally. With no running going on it's a recipe for disaster. So, iPhone & earphones, Mr Gilmore & Co and a good deal of airconditioned sweat are calling. That scheduled sympatico FLM celebration will have to wait.

Have fun at the Heist tonight Brighton runners.
I should be tucking into to my first pint as you raise your glasses.
Well done all.

Footnote:30 minutes on static bike, 20 mins on treadmill (hill program). Now, where's that Guinness?

After a sweaty gym session the soundtrack of which would make a perfect overdub for a crap 70's porn flick I took to the hotel shower. Niguel and I have ruminated on the challenges of facing your shower for the first time, such as figuring out the launch protocols so as to avoid flooding the building or searing your flesh. Checking that some over-enthusiastic chambermaid hasn't seen fit to wax the porcelain (or in this case plastic) tub thus offering you the oppoprtunity to tour the local ER is also advisable. Today I was greeted by a cannon of water propelled with the ferocity of a Met riot squad, varying in temperature from ball-shrinkingly cold to Vesiuvian. Shaken and most assuredly stirred I staggered out of the bathroom/ sauna even more convinced that salvation is to be found at the bottom of a glass, and quickly.