Following a brilliant yet tiring day watching my daughter's inauguration into the London Contemporary Dance School and having shovelled, half-asleep, a generous dollop of Victoria Station Chicken Noodles on the train home, I slumped in front of the goggle-box just as Match of the Day played out in the blurry near-distance. Woken briefly by the almost unbelievable raking of Van Persie by a clearly hopped-up Adebayor - City must dish out crack-cocaine at half-time - followed by his Neville-esque 90-yard dash to celebrate in front of furious Arsenal fans, I returned to my torpor as West Ham and Wigan slugged it out like two exhausted heavyweights nearing the end of round 12. The long slow trudge up the stairs gave me time to make up my mind; no alarms tonight. If I wake before 7am I'll run. If not, a gentle stroll with the dogs was what the gods have in store for my Sunday morning.
06:56 - ping! Headlamps on. I reached for the bedside radio for confirmation; yes, there it was, the luminous LED beaming out the horrible truth. Somewhere deep within my tortured, horribly jet-lagged carcass some dark, twisted part of me wanted to run.
Turned out to be a belter of a morning. High cloud swept swiftly out of the north-west, racing over the cliffs and across the restless grey ocean. A gaggle huddled above the marina. Stevio, tanned and lean, Ade, a cluster of newbies chirping merrily, eager for the fray. Lycra Tony - in shorts! - rocked up with a broad grin, here to guide the first-timers. Just before we set sail into the east Sarah bounced up the slope from Madeira Drive, a wide smile atop her fit form. She looked lively, clearly in great shape, so I asked what she was training for.
'Amsterdam next month' she beamed. There's no better time to be running; a few weeks shy of a marathon you're in tip top shape. Everything feels easy, your muscles are stuffed with energy, your legs feel they could go on for ever. We stood together, polar opposites of the running condition.
Still chatting at the off my best intentions of taking it easy were left slack-jawed in full teapot as I kept pace with Sarah, enthralled by her training tales and news of an impending move to Geneva where she plans to take up Directorship of a Research Institute. I marvelled at her easy banter whilst I was trying to force my gasping lungs back down my throat. Then it dawned on me that
a) this lady had finished first woman in the Great Wall marathon not so long ago and
b) I am a tub of under-prepared, gin-and-lager-soused lard
No matter. Enjoying myself despite the discomfort I covered the first three miles in 27 minutes, a good 4 minutes quicker than my optimum starting pace. Luckily Sarah was joining Steve and the belatedly-arriving Chris on the inland trail for +14 miles. I stuck to my gameplan and head for the Wire, turning at four miles for the return leg. LT, having escorted a pair of rookies to Rottingdean, was cresting the last hill as I set off. He turned to join me, filling the last few miles with stories from the Old Days, training for London to Brighton (the original course record still held by Jog Shop Sam) and avoiding/ living with running injuries.
1 hour 10 minutes for the 12.07 kilometres, a fair outing even if a somewhat false dawn. There's always that hint of a honeymoon when you return to running after a hiatus, the residual benefits of rest, uninjured muscles flexing and filling with clean, freshly oxygenated blood unhindered by lingering lactic acid, unfrayed by regular pavement pounding.
More work/ travel beckons but I'll do my best to get out a minimum of three times a week, even if I don't manage a full hour for a while. My short-term aim is to manage the 15k up and down
Mont Royal whilst back in Mapleland next month.
