January 2010

[Sweder]

Approaching the end of the final lap on this morning's Brighton & Hove ParkRun I felt an all-too familiar twinge in the back of my right leg. It's not rocket science; my third run in 48 hours has proved a folly bordering on the dangerous. My poor, soft, sofa-dwelling hamstrings are wondering what on Earth is going on. The message was unequivocal: easy there, big fella. I throttled back (ho ho, if you had seen my appalling floundering on laps one and two you'd love that line) to ease gingerly across the line still (barely) under my personal acceptable limit of 25 minutes. Added to EG's NYD brush with his errant calf this comes as a timely reminder that New Year enthusiasms, admirable as they might be, should be tempered with an acceptance of harsh realities and the fragility of the regenerating runner's body.

Speaking of regeneration I was pleased to note the howl of anguish uttered by my offspring as the New Doctor emerged at the end of a singularly disappointing chapter in the iconic BBC series, Doctor Who. As a child I never accepted the new Doc with anything but scorn and a loudly-decreed vow to abandon the next series by way of protest. Funny how we're* wooed over time, rallying on behalf of that same cursed insurgent when his career-ending metamorphosis is thrust upon us. Wither the first female Doctor in this enlightened age? Or Doctor of Colour to borrow the popular PC vernacular? Or, given the BBC's current preoccupation with elevating homosexuals to high-profile positions, the first Gay Doctor? I suppose on that front we've had Cpatain Jack, if you'll pardon the expression. I doubt even Graham Norton could deliver a camper vision than bug-eyed, scarf-wrapped Tom Baker and his chilling catchphrase, delivered with a heart-stopping lunge; would you like a jelly baby? No wonder the Daleks took a sabatical.

An impressive turn-out on a very cold Hove Park morning. Around 200 runners out before 9am on a sub-zero Saturday reminded me that in terms of derranged people prepared to abandon a perfectly-heated duvet (not to mention toasty spouse) to venture out into hard frost and bone-chilling wind, I am not alone. The sight of the happy throng queing up after the run, steam rising from the kalaidescope of running vests in the strong winter sunshine, warmed the cockles. They looked like a stable of racehorses after a thrash across the gallops.

Good luck to all our runners at the Cross Country thrash in Stanmer Park this afternoon.
Don't forget to pack your spikes.

* 'We' being those who still have truck with the series. I willingly accept there are those amonst us who would gladly remove their own teeth rather than suffer a minute of it.