Movember 2012

[Sweder]

It's been ages since I lost a nipple.
To elucidate, its been ages since I wore the kind of running top with which one might grate Parmesan cheese. I am now the proud owner of a pair of freshly chaffed teats that glow in the dark like a gumshoe's crafty dog-end.

It all started well. In fact the last run of this, my fifty-first year on Planet Earth, was a bit of a corker. I suited up to open the show, nipped back to the digs, did a quick Superman in my telephone-box of a room and set off into the city. Weak winter sun peeped over a ridge of ominous cloud as I shuffled passed the RAI, heading south towards the Amsterdam Bos. Bos is Dutch for 'Wood', wood in the sense of a large collection of trees. Two miles on I entered a park criss-crossed with trails. Sodden leaves covered the muddy paths leading a merry dance all over the impressive acreage. The good Burghers of the city had kindly posted a series of maps, each looking a good deal like a banker's sribble block at the end of Black Wednesday. I had no hope of navigating via these, so I set off along the outer edge, 'generally keeping the woodland on my left'. Note to self: hope is not a strategy.

Running in November is, for me, just about right. Not too cold, not too damp, crisp enough to minimise sweat and offer up a riot of colours to enjoy along the way. Canals and brackish waterways came and went as I huffed and puffed through the trees, small birds swooping across my path. I honestly had no idea how far I might run. Without food or water I'd have to think about turning for home within the first hour.

   

My plan to keep the trees on my left was soon exposed for the whimsy it was as the paths diverged for the umpteenth time, all roads seemingly leading treeward. I took my best guess and struck out, now trying to convince myself that a 'general arc left' would bring me back to the entrance. Or, at least, an entrance, for there were many. With seven miles on the Garmin and everything in apparent good order I gave thought to maybe knocking out a cheeky half. Why not? It's cool, there's probably a drinking fountain around here somewhere and besides, I still had no idea were the exit was. Two miles later I faced yet another crossroads. I took the sharp left, heading towards what I hoped was the rowing lake I'd seen an hour before. That was close to the entrance I'd used, and what do you know? I got lucky.

By the time I'd retraced my steps along the Rue Van Nistelrooy (it was something like that) I could see the RAI tower looming to my left. Relief eased the lactic burn in my legs and I struck for home, rocking up at the hotel with 11.46 miles on the clock in 1:43.09. A decent effort. As I peeled off my damp vest I realised I'd not worn this (long sleeved) top for a while. The double sting of eviscerated nipples reminded me why. The shower was a dance of discomfort, hot water welcome in all parts save those terribly tender spots. Every now and then I forgot, wincing horribly as the wounds refreshed.

And so to my favourite hostelry, 't Vliegertje, for a glass or two of Weiss Beer to see in my fifty-second year. I'm still on the wagon of course, but I'm buggered if I'm going to be a total sap about it.

On, on!