10CC - remember them? Great songs, poignant, refreshing, beautifully crafted, well performed. That song -
I'm Not In Love - was deeply ironic, a song of self-denial. Perhaps I'm in that kind of place with my running at the moment. We'll see.
No further bipedal outings this weekend. Spent most of it traveling to and from dance institutions across London with No.1 Daughter as she underwent a series of examinations, interviews and auditions. It's tough this dance business; 153 applicants auditioned for a second round total of 25 places. That in turn will be reduced to 10 after interview
We bridged appointments with a visit to
Chicago at the Cambridge Theatre, fortunate to pick up last minute fourth row tickets thus gaining the perfect worms' eye view. The story is confined to a 1930's Illinois womens' penetentiary where, apparently, expenditure was curbed by restricting inmate attire to semi-transparent lingerie. I sat slack-jawed, agog at a feast of fine flesh and, courtesy of the young lady playing Velma, some of the longest legs it's been my privilege to oggle. Mrs S leaned across at one point to whisper excitedly during an enegetic ensemble piece 'those men are incredibly flexible', to which I replied without turning my gaze from the stage 'there are
men in this show?' Luckily my good lady had stocked up with kleenex portables. What thoroughly effective drool-mops they turned out to be.
This morning I snuck out for a breezy 7.5 kilometres over my local track before breakfast. It was a horrible slog, all upper chest wheezing and heavy, listless legs into a heartless wind. Even as the memory of my weary trudge through stages of the Two Oceans (the last time I'd felt this debilitated on a run) bobbed to the surface my conscience rose up to drown any thoughts of yet another tedious bloglink. The temptation to revisit races past simply highlights the lack of current personal reportage, and by assocation lack of adventures to relate. As I wrote here once before, lazy running equals lazy writing. Various elements of my life have conspired to demand more and more of my precious leisure time. I have to rationalise, take a minute to reassess, and, perhaps just for now, slide this luke-warm diary onto the back burner.
Just now running holds no joy. It's become a chore, something to be endured rather than embraced. I'm too far off the pace (and far too troubled by the basic effort of covering ground) to enjoy the rich pleasures of the hills. I need to get some hard graft done, a few ugly, workaday sessions under my straining belt, to rekindle my running passion.
Glaconman's return to these pages follows his welcome reaquaintance with fell running, something that has clearly lifted his spirits and fired his ambition. Like him, until I have something interesting to report, I'll keep my council.
