February 2006

[Sweder]

I'm beginning to see a pattern emerging as race day approaches.
I've always considered myself a robust sort, an all-weather ‘sportsman’ eager to embrace the Corinthian spirit come rain or shine. Just lately I've found myself complaining, whining, about illness in the week leading up to a road race.

True, there is an unusual amount of lurghie lurking in these Sussex hamlets; prolific stomach bugs have closed local schools, and two out of four residents of Chez Sweder carry streaming colds at any one time. But when I look back at this running year (starting in Almería in 2005) I see can see a tell-tale trail of pre-race ‘illness’. 12 months ago in southern Spain I had a cold; I even got up early on race morning to jog a couple of miles to make sure I’d be OK. Brighton and Reading halves were hampered by hamstring trouble; oh, all real enough, to be sure. I’d spent a small fortune on phisyo on February and March, but I always felt these untimely twinges were convenient excuses for mediocre performance. I’ve got previous, as SP will attest. I completely missed the Dublin marathon in 2003, wasting an air ticket and a hotel booking (not to mention several days of robust Guinness-testing) thanks to an autumnal bout of bronchitis.

Now, 72 hours before the Brighton Half, instead of counting my blessings I’m totting up potential troubles; my AWAC system is on DEFCON 3, the first tingle at the juncture of nose and throat setting alarms a-whooping. My stomach is performing gastric aerobatics, gurgling and sloshing merrily like Pauline Fowlers’ perpetual motion Laundromat. What is it about the residents of Albert Square? No-one has their own washing machine. Must be something to do with the cost of white goods in the East End; perhaps it’s just that gangsters, pimps and lowlife scum are too busy dealing in death and treachery to tackle their smalls.

I’ve got to drive to Chessington this morning to visit our case-makers; gazing out of my window at cheery blue skies bordered by impressive stacks of cumulus I’ve a mind to delay the meeting by an hour and hit the hills.

See if I can shake off this bloody hypochondria.