March 2010

[Sweder]

Despite the end of the world arriving in Sussex overnight I elected to pull on my runners and hit the hills. I can’t remember a windier, wetter, muddier outing; it was brilliant! Relaxed, Garmin-less (I’d left it attached to my lap-top at work) and with dogs in tow I stepped into the maelstrom, grinning like a fool, happy to be out in the elements.

Yesterday was a mixed bag. First my order of Chia Seeds arrived and I busied myself making my first ever Chia Fresca, preferred beverage of the Tarahumara. I followed Glaconman’s advice, warming honey and adding lemon juice (I’ll get some limes today) to the waterlogged seeds, by then clearly resembling frogspawn. The mixture tasted a good deal better than it looked, and had the desired effect (probably psychosomatic at this early stage).

Then we had the Bayern/ Rowdies match, providing a reversal of fortunes from that match in 1999. On that occasion Bayern were by far the better side, taking an early lead, hitting the woodwork as they assaulted a pitiful United team who looked lost and bewildered in the Camp Nou before Messrs Sherringham and Solskjaer combined to drive a steak through German hearts.

Last night the full moon (or was it that blasted LHC?) worked its magic as that wrong was righted. United – for periods at least – were the better team, spurning several chances to put the game to bed. They scored via their talisman in the second minute and continued to probe, though with less conviction perhaps than if they’d missed that chance. You can score too early it seems; United certainly did. Every Manchester player seemed to know that, with the away goal in the bank, the raft of chances eschewed during the first half didn’t really matter. All except one man, that man. A man who unwittingly deflected Ribery’s free kick past his own 'keeper to level the scores, who worked tirelessly to win possession ofa ball constantly given to the opposition by his sleep-walking team-mates and who, even as the coup de grace was despatched from Olich’s unerring boot, lay prone, gasping for air, grasping his injured ankle in utter despair on the halfway line. It was not quite Sammy Kufour banging his fist into the Nou Camp turf but to some, me included, it was much more significant.

The match contained some interesting cameos. Ribery versus Neville was a horribly one-sided contest between two men not known for their ability to raise a lady’s pulse (unless confronted after dark in an alley). At times it looked as if Neville were playing in front of a magic mirror; now you see your reflection (in a red shirt), now you don’t. Olich looked cursed, doomed to miss chances, to fluff his lines in front of the fervent Bayern fans, until that final, glorious side-step and assured finish past the otherwise excellent Van der Sar.

I spent most of the second half straining to hear the Five Live commentary as I scoured the Lewes streets for my AWOL teenage daughter. Free of the shackles of school (Easter break) she’d arranged to sleep over at a friend's house. The plan unravelled when said friend's father rang to say he needed P’s mobile number as 'another parent was trying to reach their daughter.' Alarm bells clanged horribly, drowning out Andy Gray's gutteral pronouncements from Munich. Why, are they not with you? They’d gone ‘into town to get some chips’ some time ago and had not yet returned. After trying and failing to contact any of them I set off in my truck to scan the streets, visions of of drunken gangs emerging from noisy pubs filling my head even as Simon Brotherton continued to wind me up by ignoring Bayern’s equaliser. He boldly continued to assert that ‘Rooney’s early strike separates the sides’ although I'd clearly seen Ribery's free kick, handed to him on a plate my his struggling doppleganger, sail into the United net not five minutes earlier. Like my daughter Brotherton came to realise the error of his ways, attoning by repeating the correct score every 90 seconds or so until Olich bagged the winner. It didn't help my mood.

Finally I found my daughter, plastered in mud (they’d been ‘up on the downs’, a euphemism in my experience for gathering with boys to smoke and drink alcohol). She observed me through weary, droopy eyes, a look of resigned surrender on her pale young face, and climbed slowly into the passenger seat. Sometimes there’s no need for words. We tracked down the person who had her phone (hence the earlier lack of response to my calls) and returned home just in time for Ruud Gullitt to spell out in his doleful, hang-dog way just how utterly dreadful United had been.

As I ran over the slick mud this morning, droplets of freezing rain whipped into my face by a rageing south-easterly blow, my mind wandered towards the weekend. For United and Rooney a season-defining week has started about as badly as it possibly could. My day-dream, welcome for the distraction it offered from the foul conditions, presented a montage. I wish I could edit film clips. If I could I’d put it up on YouTube for a giggle. It’s an amalgam of a scene from Star Wars: Return of the Jedi and the pre-Chelsea press conference at Old Trafford. In the original movie scene the Evil Emperor explains to young Jedi Luke Skywalker that the hitherto crippled Death Star is, despite it’s half-built appearance, in fact a fully operational Space Station.

In my recreated scene Lord Ferg appears in front of the sports media, suitably robed and hooded, or maybe even in his nocturnal garb of shiny black helmet replete with rasping voice-distorter, to reveal, despite the appearance of crutches and a large bandage, a ‘fully armed and operational’ Wayne Rooney in time for Saturday's crunch game. Cue cut-away shots of Ray Wilkins (played by Christopher Lloyd in full Uncle Fester regalia) recoiling in wide-eyed horror next to Ancelotti, his amazing performing eyebrow wriggling up his forehead and out of the frame.





Hmm. Perhaps I should go easy on those Chia seeds.

Anyway, the run itself was, despite the conditions, delightful. I donned leggings and windcheater and kept to a steady, relaxed pace. At certain points the terrain was pure swamp, splashing gloopy mud up my legs and soaking my off-roaders (and socks). I nearly went over a couple of times, letting out a yelp of alarm that morphed into a hysterical laugh as I avoided what would surely be a tumble that would register at CERN. The round trip took a shade under 50 minutes (according to the kitchen clock). My legs felt good as I stretched in the rain. Another spin session tomorrow, the good Good Friday Friday run with the Jog Shop (on Friday) and another cross-country ramble on Sunday should see me right for Connemara. Sort of.