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An Indian Taper
They weren't vultures, they were kites. I'll never be a professional writer, I just can't do guiltless embellishment. I wanted them to be vultures, but they weren't. And it wasn't a hobbling lamb it was a pile of dead chickens. There, I can sleep soundly again tonight. I apologise.
Talking of kites, the day before the marathon there's the kite flying festival of Sankrandh. The focus of this festival is Gujarat and Rajastan. We were in Jodhpur a couple of years ago at this time of year and it was quite a sight. But there will be kite flying in parts of Maharashtra. People will take to their rooftops to fly their kites. The aim is to 'cut' your opponents kite; this dual being called a 'Pecha'. The kites themselves are very light, usually made of light wooden stalks and tissue paper. But it's the string that's important: it has to be thin and strong and will usually be strategically coated with ground glass.
As far as the running is concerned I'm very much enjoying my taper. I've had five light runs so far (40 - 60 mins), and the feeling has been one of carefree enjoyment. The only run I havn't enjoyed was one during the hottest part of the day, after a 2-day lay-off and half a bottle of Indian port the previous night. But even that wasn't too bad. For the first time the seriousness of getting the training done has been replaced with a feeling of occassional mild satisfaction. It's not like I know which questions are going to appear on the exam; but I seem to have at least covered the subject reasonably well. A strange feeling for me, I must say.
I also received some positive news about the climate in Bombay. We'd been invited to a South Indian family's house for a tradional breakfast of idli (a light, white dumpling), coconut chutney and sambar (a daal soup); followed by a lunch of Hyderabadi style mutton with wada (a savory donut). One of the daughters said how Bombay was much cooler since the flooding last year: the temperature and humidity had dropped. Great, I thought. What a relief. Then I looked at what she was wearing: salwar kameez, jacket, trainers, wooly hat. Then I looked at what I was wearing: shorts, sandals, thin kurta, head complete with beads of sweat. I took a small pinch of salt from the dubba and carefully sprinkled it on my sambar.
I'm also gaining some notoriety around these parts. I was out on Zeta the other day (my Vespa scooter, a 1963 Italian import, no less) when a couple of chaps pulled level with me on the rubble that passes for a road around here. 'Not running today', the pillion said, motioning with two fingers. 'Later' I said, smiling. Big grin. Head-wobble. Grin back. Overtakes. Beautiful.
Tonight I ran through two seemingly endless columns of young soldiers marching up the small suburban street near the flat. As I ran between the two lines it felt as though they had been sent in my honour. I was only yards from the entrance to the colony. I quickened my pace and raised my head. This was a sign, no doubt. The end of the beginning.
I've managed to procure another toy since arriving here, apart from young Zeta. Harbajan: a single cylinder, 4 stroke, 350cc, 1959 Royal Enfield Bullet. He needs some work to the shocks, electrics and a few original bits need to be found. But I can't wait to hit the open roads in England with this thudding old beast. Giving them names seems abit girly, but they've got real character these machines, so why not? My VW Passat is called .... a VW Passat. But two wheels ... Harb and Zeta ... forever.
So it's Bombay the day after tomorrow, Friday. We'll take the morning train up and have a couple of days to relax before the race. Glaconwoman belongs to Bombay, it's her patch. So there'll be much excitement as we take our stroll along Marine Drive, drink sugarcane juice and eat puris from the stalls, shop along Fashion Street and ride the 'locals' up to Andheri and beyond.
I'll try and post another entry from there. Otherwise: Smoke me a kipper. I'll be back for breakfast.
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