November

[Sweder]

It must be something that happens as you get older, this mellowing.
Yesterday I’d felt ambivalent towards the outcome of my Summer Matchplay semi-final. Having arrived home from Bilbao (via Stanstead) at a little after 1 that morning, I shuffled off to Horam Park intent on enjoying a sunny November day on the golf course, ambitions no higher than taking the match into the back nine.

My opponent, Mike, a regular player and accomplished 4-handicapper playing on his home course, was into a serious warm-up session on the driving range. Not one to miss the opportunity of an early arrival I opted for a bacon sandwich and a few putts before the off.

By the turn I was three down and promptly lost the 10th to go four holes behind with eight to play. But I had played well, forcing Mike to win holes rather than gift-wrapping them for him. I won the eleventh and proceeded to par the next four holes, winning two of them. One down, three to play. Stony silence from Mike told me I’d made an impression. A tight 16th where I missed a mid-range putt to level the match did little to lighten the mood. Only when I drove wildly into a ditch on the penultimate hole did the banter return, Mike winning the hole and taking his place in the final. The result – 2 and 1.

I’ve never felt remotely happy about a sporting loss, and yet I felt pride in my performance, accepting that the better man won on the day. I'd made a fist of it and the match was worthy of a semi-final.

And then to the football. A ‘friendly’ against Argentina, following a series of unconvincing results on Englands’ road to Germany. I watched the game in awe; this had everything; skill, drama, passion, goals, fouls, misses. Both teams played with abandon, going for a moral-boosting win. It was hammer-and-tongs stuff, and I wallowed in the rich festival of football, so unexpected at kick off. Eventually the South Americans took the lead, and as the incomparable Rooney grimaced, his world-class chip deflected by the ‘keepers’ fingernails, that odd feeling of accepting an honourable defeat returned. 2 – 1 would be a fair result, given the balance of play, although it would be tough on the England manager. Eriksson showed tactical nouse with his substitutions, not to mention respect for the occasion by restricting himself to three.

Can this be right?
Happy to lose to Argentina? Comfortable, not to mention gracious, in defeat in a golf match?
Stating, publicly, that Eriksson actually looked like he knew what he was doing?
This mellowing malarkey is really taking hold.

And then Micheal Owen, the Ghost of St. Etienne, stole in to score with a well-placed header. 2-2.
And then he did it again, and we won, and I went completely berserk, bouncing on the sofa like a small child, grinning like a loon, shaking my fist at a bewildered Mrs S then clapping like a demented seal.

Perhaps there’s life in the old dog yet.

Oh yes, the run.
Nipped out with the Brighton bunch for a swift 12 K this morning. The Downs doze under an icy layer of freezing mist as I sped towards the coast, and thoughts turned to a possible Snake run. But the group were going to the wire and no further. With the Brighton 10K a week away no-one fancied risking injury on the heavy downland soil.

I set off as slowly as I could manage, keeping at least two people in front of me at all times. My previous run over this course two weeks ago had ended in staggering, chest-heaving ignominy, and I resolved to at least finish this one in reasonable shape.

At Saltdean Lido Jill, one of my pre-FLM downland companions, caught us up. She had competed in the Jog Shop Jog, Octobers’ gruelling 20-miler, finishing in an impressive 3 hours 27. Evidently recently employed as Satans’ Envoy she suggested that we take on the Snake together. A true temptation given my earlier thoughts. My lack of mileage and poor display last time won out, much to her dismay.

The return to Brighton was a swift one. I set off behind a young woman new to the group, determined to stay in her shadow for as long as possible. We hit the first of several sapping climbs and the pace remained steady. After three more climbs I was breathing hard. The difference this Sunday morning was in my legs; they felt strong. Another climb and I moved onto the shoulder of my companion, passing her at the summit. I pushed on, the Marina now in view, striking for home. My lungs burned as they tried to meet my body’s demands, my breathing ragged and quick, but I felt good and kept going.

During recovery as we stretched, clouds of hot breath steaming in the chilled sea air, we exchanged brief race histories. She had started running last year and already had three full marathons behind her, with a PB of 3:35. I was suitably impressed. She asked about my Half PB and looked shocked as I sheepishly revealed I’d yet to break 1:50.

‘You’re kidding. The way you left me on the hill back there I thought you’d be down in the (one hour) thirties!’

I smiled, muttering about hamstrings and lack of speed work. She nodded sagely, agreeing that such is the part-time runners’ lot. My sporting ambivalence was being tested again. This time I was less inclined to accept it, resolving silently to address a sub 1:50 Half early in the New Year.
In Almeria perhaps?