When September ends . . . again . . .

[Sweder]

I’d planned to cogitate, ponder and prevaricate to the Nth degree over this piece, yet I had to face facts; it’s just not my style. I had Grand Ideas about considering the blossoming of a new nation, comparing a people embracing cultural diversity alongside traditional communist values with the blood-soaked Mafia-driven cesspool that is post-Glasnost Russia. Two things combined to thwart such noble literary ambition; time, or the lack of it, and the fact that I fly to Moscow in the morning; perhaps not the best time to extol the virtues of the Chinese over an FSU that makes Capone’s Chicago seem like a corner shop charity.
I’ll leave such thoughtful conjecture to the experts (and the less exposed).

And so I’ll boil it all down to the bare bones of running. And how bare those meagre scraps are; two runs barely worthy of the name in fact, one hardly a shade over thirty minutes. I shan’t dwell on that first outing; suffice to say it was a torrid, sweaty affair, stolen between fitful sleep and an early start at the Shenzhen International Convention Centre (or, as I prefer to call it, SICC). The one spare evening I’d engineered for myself was frittered away in The V Bar, one of Shenzhen’s hottest nightspots for the young and the beautiful. Don’t ask how I got in, better yet don’t ask how I managed to get on stage to dance with the gorgeous, pouting Trinidadian singer during an Abba medley, much to the slack-jawed horror of my companion from the American Dental Pavilion . . . Guinness was available (albeit not much better than slightly heavy coca cola), as were (if I recall) flaming B52s and any number of ugly and intoxicating mixtures bandied about with scant regard for health or reputation . . .

I did manage a full 10K, albeit dashed off after a bout of fond farewells and immediately prior to an air-conditioned limo-ride to Hong Kong International Airport and the climax of the Ryder Cup on my laptop. As usual the clock was ticking, loud, insistent, waiting for no man, least of all me. The car would be here at 18:15; it’s now 17:05. I’m all packed, my running gear’s on the bed and my neglected, swollen body demands a minimum of five miles.
Hmm. Factor in an obligatory post-run shower and a protracted check-out procedure with new and inexperienced staff and it’s definitely all going Pete Tong.

I hit the streets outside my hotel – the Marco Polo, so new that no taxi drivers in a city of 12 million New Democratic Chinese could find it – and head for the distant green hills I’d coveted daily from my 35th floor window. I say 12 million people but this needs to be put in context. In 1979 this was a fishing village – yes, a village – lurking unseen by the outside world, the hazy spires of Hong Kong rising from the pervading smog on the horizon, as foreign, as alien a land as its possible to imagine hardly an hours’ bumpy car ride away. Today sky-scrapers reach to the skies for a bright, shiny future in steel and glass. Beside every cloud-kissing monument to a new age two towerlings rise in its shadow, shrouded in scaffold and insubstantial green plastic netting. The road from Guanghou to Shenzhen, a two hour journey on a spanking new motorway, is lined with construction on a breath-taking scale. China poured almost two-thirds of the world’s concrete last year. Steel prices have soared, scrap metal becoming the new gold as the all-consuming monster that is the People’s Republic indulges in the most productive period of internal development yet witnessed on our planet.
These people mean business.

Crossing a six-lane highway I followed a dusty, partly completed road toward those beckoning hills. I felt as Sinbad’s men - or was it Jason's? Ray Harryhousen has a lot to answer for . . . drawn by the Shenzhen Siren’s Song, the rustle of branches heavy with summer finery, the babble of cool shaded brooks and the soft chirruping of exotic birds. I yearned for the touch of nature, to run free from angular shadows and the ever-present dusty haze that drapes the city. The buildings grew smaller as I left the city until I felt sure I’d reached something like the pre-boom outskirts. I passed a modest house to find a public play area and a collection of football pitches populated by brightly coloured teams enjoying the Beautiful Game; Park Life in an Asian Stylee.

I crossed another highway, running left around a perimeter wall behind which dense lush foliage lounged in the muggy evening. I’d worked up a fair sheen by now, my lumbering hulk drawing wide-eyed interest from the indigenous pavement dwellers left gawping in my dripping wake. At last the wall yielded an opening and I entered what turned out to be Lianhua Mountain Park. Here the hectic pace of urban life subsided, hustling bustling city workers giving way to quiet couples strolling hand in hand in a peaceful haven of rolling lawns, tall evergreens and luxuriant shrubberies.

As I paused to study a wall-mounted layout three young lads jogged past, heading up the path rising into the hills, or what I now surmised to be the foothills of Lianhua Mountain. I couldn’t resist, knowing even as I set off in pursuit that this might end in glorious ignominy for the lardy round-eye. The lads kept up a reasonable pace – nothing I couldn’t live with having already tucked the best part of two flat easy miles away – and I caught them without much fuss. The tallest of the three glanced back, gave me a cursory once-over, grinned and faced the front. The instant upping of pace was both inevitable and at the same time amusing; I responded. The tall lad pushed harder as the incline grew steeper, his stockier companions falling back level with me and finally behind as we bit into the meat of the climb. I knuckled down to some hard running, not seeking to catch the guy, merely to hold station. We weaved carefully through the strolling couples, elderly groups and clusters of children, the trail showing no sign of levelling off. Far from it – if anything the angle grew steadily steeper, and I started to huff and puff with great enthusiasm and no little concern.
How long was this bloody track anyway?

Finally, mercifully, the pathway took a couple of crafty twists before reaching a plateau. I glanced back to spot the slower lads working hard to catch us, then remembered my water bottle and took a long, hard-earned slug. ‘Crouchie’ watched me and grinned as I proffered the water, returning the universally accepted gesture of polite refusal; a smile and a gently raised palm. After regaining some control over my breathing I set off again, the path dropping lazily down the far side of this part of the hill. The boys regrouped but didn’t follow as I let gravity take over, run-stumbling down the path, trying to keep my breaths shallow and easy as my body screamed for oxygen.

The path returned me to the circuitous sidewalk via a different gap in the perimeter. I guessed a left turn would eventually bring me back to the point I’d crossed the last major road – near to Shenzhen’s own Hackney Marshes - and so it proved, but not before I’d managed to completely bamboozle myself with the layout of pedestrian, cycle and vehicle lanes, running at some point in all three. The locals continued to greet me with bemused smiles and mild curiosity as I grinned and waved my way through their number. The last mile felt comfortable, blessed relief from the all-too strenuous nonsense in the park. I’d have happily gone on for a bit, but hey – tick-tock, tick-tock.

Some fifty minutes after starting out I arrived back at the Marco Polo, dripping with sweat but feeling better than I had since arriving in China. The beautiful Doorgirl, immaculate in her spanking new uniform, smiled angelically as she opened the glass door. Her smile froze as I sweat-splashed my way into the ice-cool lobby, where to my horror a number of my customers lounged in the open bar. I fixed my gaze on the elevators at the back of the area and ran on. I almost made it.
‘Hey! Hello mate!’
Paul Wilson, FDI Congress Manager and a good friend for a number of years. We’d hit the streets together in Montreal last year, and he’d been my first corporate sponsor back in the heady days of my first FLM for JDRF. We’ve built huge international congresses together in Mexico, Europe, Australia, Malaysia and India. One of the biggest yet Shenzhen had been a great success, and not without its unique challenges. We’d both be taking home a few extra grey hairs from this trip.
‘Good run?’
I hee-hawed my way through a very short and one-sided conversation, at once trying to appear chilled out and relaxed whilst desperate to infuse as much air as possible. A small puddle of sweat had formed around my feet.
Bing.
The elevator arrived.
Please don’t get in, please don’t get in, please –
‘Well, I’ve gotta go meet the people from Unilever, Thanks again for a great job, have a safe trip home.’
Phew.
Gold metal doors closed as I slumped against the mirror, breath steaming the polished glass, stretching my hamstrings on the long ride up. Ten minutes, a frantic check of the room, one mostly cold shower and one more search through the cupboards and drawers for the inevitable last, vital item to pack later I’m riding back down in the lift, bags in tow.
What is it about showers and delayed perspiration?
I’d stood under that giant shower head letting the cold water rinse the heat out of me for as long as I’d dared, yet here they come, those tell-tale beads of moisture forming along the folds of my crisp, clean T-shirt. Oh well.

Less than a week at home, one maybe two outings in my hills and its off to Moscow. More alcoholic temptation, more stress and another week with limited running opportunities. I’ll still pack my boots though.