In a desperate bid to stave off the inevitable Guinness Belly I dragged my weary, jet-lagged carcass off to the hotel gym last night. I would have taken to the streets but feared dodging the traffic, human and otherwise, may prove fatal.
The trek to the gym was a workout in itself. I followed a labyrinthine trail through corridors, out of the building, across roof-top gardens, past tennis courts (busy with loud, sweaty Americans) and an unoccupied pool. I ended up in another hotel, the Hyatt, wondering if I had a case against the Rennaisance Harbour View under the Trades Descriptions Act. It seems their boast of a 'fully equipped gymnasium' is misleading at best.
The air-conditioned torture chamber was all hustle and bustle, full of travellers pounding their sleep-deprived bodies at various speeds on a selection of devices. I opted for the static bike, mostly because the dreaded treadmills, all eight of them, were fully loaded. The occupants, of various sizes and shapes, plugged into their machines via a selection of headphone wires and fail-safe cords, looked for all the world like lab rats.
I set the controls for the heart of the Earth ... er, that is, a 20 minute interval session. Back in Lewes, the Mighty Rooks were well into the first half in the early RPL match (v the hitherto unbeaten 'Stoners' from Wealdstone), so I traded musical accompaniment for frantic stabs at my iphone, cursing the patchy wifi, desperate for updates via my alter-ego*, Rookmeister, on Twitter. I managed 15 minutes of uncomfortable pedalling, working up a decent lather, before one of the running machines became available. Its' user, a lady of ample proportions, staggered away as if tipsy, head wrapped in a towel, searching blindly for the water fountain. I jumped off the bike, surprised at the 'burn' in my IT bands (clearly underused in my usual pursuits) and up onto the vacant machine.
The match, still goal-less, was just into the second half as I selected 'quick start', working steadily through the phases until I reached a comfortable speed, around 7 minute/ kilometre pace. On the interval setting this cranked up to sub 6 min/ km, keeping my sweat honest and free-flowing. I bashed away for twenty minutes or so, until a combination of erractic internet and the alarming puddle of fluid forming at my feet made me stop. Thirty five minutes of cardio would have to do.
After a quick shower I scurried off the the Wanch Pub, eager to replace lost fluids and to catch up with events at the Dripping Pan. In the cramped bar a succession of local bands sought to impress a small, enthusiastic crowd on what turned out to be 'Open Mic' night. Never in the history of popular music have so many rock classics been desecrated in so short a time. On the plus side, Lewes won a penalty in the eightieth minute, Nathan Crabb tumbling in the Wealdstone box. Beckford stepped up to slam home what proved to be the only goal of the game. Yesterday my beloved Rookettes won a hard fought battle against Reading, banking their first three points in the FA Women's Premier League. I filed a match report from HK, patched together from various twitter feeds. I'm not sure if this has ever been done before, but it seemed to work. The Sussex Express thought it accurate enough to use for their mid-week edition.
*Barry Collins donned the fabled cloak in my absence. Read his superb 'Fever Pitch: 20 Years On' here. It appears on page 24 of yesterday's Rooks matchday programme. The tone will resonate with a number of RCers.
As for the 'music', the undoubted highlight was provided by a dashing, flaxen-haired youth. He lurked in the shadows, clutching his drum sticks, begging guest spots with each act that took the stage. His performance on a cover of Sweet Child of Mine was both exemplary and appropriate, seeing as he is actually only twelve years old. His Dad was on hand, beaming proudly as his son launched a blistering assault on the house kit. I briefly pondered the deluge of opprobrium such parental 'mis-behaviour' (he was there until well past midnight) would draw from an organ such as the Daily Mail, and laughed. Who gives a damn? This lad was GOOD.
His best work appears on this clip, right after the most fearful caterwauling. Trust me, this was one of the better tributes paid that terrible night. The chap's guitar was not the only thing weeping as another timeless masterpiece was mercilessly mauled. I refrained from recording that so as not to perpetuate Mr Harrison's grave-spinning agony. What was done to 'Knocking on Heaven's Door' constituted motion to war.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
