April, you Fool

[Sweder]

Grey leaden skies press early morning humidity into the cracked, unkempt sidewalks of southwest Houston. I plod wearily towards the University of Texas building, last night’s Belhaven already leaking into my Jog Shop Good Friday Run T-shirt. With the pre-Paris taper and two restful weeks post run I’ve had little practice and it shows.

I hail the firemen swabbing the decks of their impressively large Fire Engine outside station 33 on Fannin. Ahead the sidewalk separates, the right side dropping down along the concrete slopes of the Bayou. I take the low road, running heavy alongside the surprisingly clear waters. Birds bathe and swoop to sip from the stream; rodents scurry in the thick Bermuda grass and the wild Sunflowers nod sagely as I chug by.

The heavy cloud and strengthening winds suggest storms, though they’re not likely to trouble me at this Godforsaken hour. I spy a fellow runner, a Korean, heading towards me, stripped to the waist and moving at around twice my cumbersome pace. I offer a Shearer; he accentuates his rhythmic nod for one beat in acknowledgement. A cyclist follows him and I once more raise my left arm in salute. A slightly prolonged blink offers all the greeting I can hope for; less it seems can indeed be more in this State of Excess.

And speaking of excess I notice as I trudge on, my shirt now translucent with beer-sweat, every building I pass is part of this Medical community. Judging by the number of extraordinarily large people I’ve seen in the bars and restaurants tearing into various preparations of thick red meat, for the practitioners in the Texas Medical Centre the future’s bright and lucrative.

I reach Kirby (or at least I pass under the street, still long the Bayou). I swig from my water bottle, wiping the sheen from my brow; time to turn for home. I check the time on my phone – 7:02 am – yep, definitely need to get showered and down to the Reliant Centre where a stream of trucks and containers wait to be unloaded. As I turn a fish of indeterminate size and denomination skitters across the surface of the water below me. I squint in the softly brightening daylight but despite the gin-clear clarity of the stream I can’t see the creature.

I set off headlong into the breeze (it’s been pushing me along the 2 mile stretch so far, and I realise I really have lost a fair amount of form), my thoughts turn to fish. I’m possible the most hapless, hopeless rodman known to man. An early excursion with my fishing-mad brother-in-law Terry – his knowledge and abilities make Jack Hargreaves look like a novice – resulted in the necessary execution of a Jack Pike. I’d tried to free the young monster after he’d tried to swallow a lure packing enough barbs to fill a Joan Rivers show. Sadly by the time Terry had wandered along to see what all the commotion was blood and foam had obscured the target. Terry despatch the tortured creature with a single blow.

Ever since I’ve tried to ease my conscience by becoming a good Fish Husband. Four years ago I renovated our small back garden, designing a decked area with a sunken pool. I purchased a number of tiny fish – goldfish and Ghost carp – and watched in awe as they grew into monsters. I had seven in all, and named every one. Sadly 18 months ago we lost Howard. Named after Howard Hughes due to his reclusive nature. His need to wedge himself between the rocks on the bottom of the pond to rest stemmed from a swim bladder problem; he had to keep moving or he just floated up to the surface. Sadly we were unaware of this, although his failure to develop at the same rate as his cousins and decidedly gimpish swimming style was a cause for concern. Following a fin treatment session in a holding tank I left Howard over night without a means to wedge himself in. The next morning the brave little fellow had lost his fight for life, having swum to exhaustion before expiring, his drained corpse cutting a pitiful figure as it bobbed upended in the black plastic killing chamber. His brief yet inspiring battle was commemorated only by the callous flush of our downstairs loo.

Six remain; Scholesey the goldfish, once brilliant red and named after one of Englands’ finest midfield dynamos. Strangely just as his more celebrated namesake has suffered a setback, so our Scholesey has lost all his colour, turning an off-white. Does this suggest the imminent transfer of the Ginger Marvel to Spurs? Doubtful, buty a worry none the less. Flesh is another slightly larger goldfish and has always been the colour of pallid skin. Goldie is the last and largest of the non-Ghost carp, scales glistening with a creamy-yellow hue. The three remaining Ghosties are Stingray (named after Troy Tempest's submarine vehicle), Monty (a big fellow, sharing his name with the corpulent golfer) and The Bronze, equal in girth to Monty but set apart by his distinctive metallic markings. I talk to them frequently, enjoying the gift of tranquility watching them brings. Terry tells me I've grossly over-fed them but hey-ho, I've a guilty conscience to assuage.

By the time I finished reminiscing about my aquatic friends I reached the U of T building once more, turning right onto Fannin for the half mile back to the apartment. This has been the first step on my return to steady running, and it looks like being a long hard road, especially if I’m determined to sample large quantities of the fine ales on offer here. Sometimes you just have to live with your peccadilloes. Looks like there’ll be few more hard, sweaty morning runs to come this week.