Oktober

[Sweder]

There’s few oppressed nations in the world can hold a candle to the Russians.
From Napoleon to Hitler every jack-booted wannabe next ruler of the world has taken on the might of the Russian People only to see their ambition smashed on the jagged, frozen edge of this rock-hewn race.

You can see the inherent hardness etched into the faces of the men and women going about their daily business. Grey faces under grey skies, it sure is grim. ‘There ain’t no love in the heart of the city, there ain’t no love in the heart of town.’ The words ran through my head as I plodded heavily along Kapelsky Street and onto Prospekt Mira, the traffic-laden, fume-choked monster of a freeway leading south towards Lubyanka and the Bolshoy. The sea of red tail lights shining through the misty drizzle reminded me of another song; Frank Zappa’s City of Tiny Lights. The music video is a heady mix of morph-like animation (one of the first to use stop-motion techniques later seen in the Peter Gabriel video for Sledgehammer) and super-speed camera work using the lights of cars and trucks to form an endless slithering snake through a night-time metropolis. This particular collection of lights was, by contrast, going nowhere fast, or even at all. Yesterday it took us close to two hours to travel twenty miles from Crocus City to our hotel in Suschevsky; a joyless daily experience that won't be missed. My colleagues, event organizers one and all, managed the boredom by loading the minibus with cases of beer and a bottle or two of wine. Admirable foresight, except surprisingly (considering their vocation) no-one calculated that ladies drinking a lot of liquid on a long bus journey might require the occasional pit stop. Suffice to say the journey home was peppered with mad dashes for the roadside bushes, much to the delight of the strong-bladdered amongst us.

There must be love in the heart of this city but the people of Moscow keep it well hidden, like their repressed counterparts in the original Orwelian nightmare. Perhaps its under a spreading Chestnut tree but I’m buggered if I can find one in this concrete jungle. Public displays of affection can be construed as weakness, and here we have a nation with a proud tradition of resilience and survival to uphold. When Moscovites smile they can light up a room, but the chances of catching such an act in the open air is as likely as catching the Pope sneaking in to Ibrox.

My destination of choice today was Freedom Park (also known as Victory Park), enticingly portrayed on my city map as a green oasis, home to the Dostoevsky museum, the theatre of the Sovietsky Army and a large lake. It looked packed with wonders of the former USSR and I could barely contain my enthusiasm as I hit the streets.

I passed countless locals, their shoulders hunched as if burdened by the pervasive bleakness. Rusted metal lay abandoned on the roadside against the crumbling shell of a building, glass long since gone from the windows, the front door AWOL and litter spilled out onto the sidewalk. I received the occasional cursory glance as I shuffled past the bus queues and loitering locals but didn’t risk a Shearer. These people remain oppressed, they’ve no time for foreigners. The jackboots may have been replaced by polished brogues, the chin-straps and hard-hats by Hollywood smiles and dark suits, but its still a case of meet the new tyrant, same as the old tyrant.
Survival is everything; give them nothing.

My route, somewhat improvised (the map dry, safe and, laid out on my bed back at the hotel, utterly useless) using the impressive needle of the Ostankino tower as a reference point, took me over a railway bridge. There was every chance I might spot a steam engine, still in frequent use I’m told, but not this time. The tracks lie dormant, as unloved and unemployed as so many of the people appear to be.

After three miles or so I spied the edges of what I hoped would be the park. Autumn is in full flow here, the rusty leaves entirely in keeping with the faded surroundings. This yellow-brown carpet was definitely getting thicker, the promise of untainted air lifting my spirits. Sure enough a few moments later I arrived at the edge of a large boating lake. Beyond the boathouse I could make out the park gates where Mothers and Babushkas – Russian Grandmothers – pushed prams and pushchairs along leaf-strewn pathways. I felt overwhelming relief as I pounded after them into the welcoming arms of the forest.

Freedom/ Victory Park deals in freedoms on several levels.
The museums and monuments scattered through its acreage pay homage to the fallen defenders of the city and exalt the repulshion of would-be invaders. There’s a small hill in the park where it is said Napoleon waited on his horse for the keys to Moscow. Sadly for Boney he was foiled by Moscows' greatest defender of all; the mighty Russian winter; the only key he'd see after that was the gaolers' turning in the lock on St Helena.

What a shame then that due to a blend of general incompetence, late night draining of a long line of Corona Extras and a tragic inability to read a tourist map I managed to miss the wonders of this particular landmark by several miles.

The freedom I felt today as I plunged on gamely through the leafy lanes was that of the mind and of the soul, to be savored no matter the name of the park. For here, in the cold heart of the cruel concrete beast that is Moscow, lay a small pieced of heaven, a sea of tranquility, Narnia without the wardrobe. The vision of meandering pathways lined with old-fashioned street lamps and Victorian-style balustrades took my breath away. A pity as by now drawing enough breath was a bit of a problem. The enforced inertia of recent weeks had left me sluggish, wheezy. An hour into my Moscow jaunt I’d about sweated out all the fluid I could spare and fought for breath like a mountaineer nearing the summit. I relaxed my pace and snapped a few shots of my surroundings. No doubt my camera-phone will do little justice to the aura of the place, but hopefully these grainy images will, for me at any rate, recall the magic I felt at that moment.

I still had to get back to the hotel, shower and get to Crocus City before four pm. I set off once more in the direction of the telecom tower (one of the first buildings to be surrounded by the National Guard in the event of an attempted coup, I’m told. He who controls the broadcasters and all that) knowing so long as I had sight of its heavenward spike I would find my way home. The drizzle, fairly constant all day, finally gave it a rest, though I was already saturated by a mixture of rain and sweat. I couldn’t have got much wetter if I’d jumped in the boating pool.

With the park behind me and the roar of endless traffic just ahead I approached the railway bridge when I heard a fearful shriek, the sound of a thousand lost souls wailing in unison; a steam engine! I dug deep, picking up pace, desperate not to miss this blast from my past. Sure enough thick plumes of steel-grey and dirty white smoke appeared, and finally the engine itself, pistons pumping as it hauled its carriages under the bridge. What fabulous luck! My eyes filled as fond memories of another age flooded through me.

Grinning like a fool I pushed on, determined to get back without a walk-break, still desperate for water. I glanced at my ‘phone; I’d been plodding for about two hours. Even at my modest pace I must’ve banked 20k or so, way too far without a drink. Back at the Holiday Inn I stretched out against a large wooden flower tub, much to the horror of the doorman. My calves and hamstrings made their displeasure known in the strongest terms, yet I ignored the whinging and carried on stretching, mindful that another couple of days patrolling the hard concrete floors of the exhibit halls would magnify the consequences of an insufficient warm-down.

I'm out of here on Saturday night. A week to go and it'll be Jog Shop Jog time.