A customer once told me something I’ve often applied to business which may be pertinent to running.
We were in Singapore for a telecoms conference, sipping G&Ts around the pool at the Shangri La (his tab). I’d been outlining strategies for attracting new business, asking this fellow for his valued opinion. He thought about this for a moment, took a long pull on his ice-laded drink and smiled.
‘You know, before you go chasing new business’ he said with a glint in his eye, ‘you might look at getting more out of the business you already have.’
Over the years I’ve come to understand what he meant.
Now we quite often brainstorm to see how we can increase services, and thereby extract additional revenues from events for which we’re already contracted. It’s an efficient way to improve business without a great deal of cost or effort.
How does this apply to running?
Simple really. I have a regular route that I happily chug two or three times a week. I’m looking at ways to improve, joining a gym for lunchtime sessions near work, finding new, more demanded routes, taking on more races perhaps. Actually all I need to do for starters is this; run harder.
I set off this morning with this sobering thought very much to the fore.
And, at last, a proper run.
I’ve been out a few times in the last month but this morning I got out the door and, in the words of Andy's mysterious Scicilian stone-scriber, I ran. No easy strolling start, no leaning on the fences alongside the sheep field, no cheery greeting to the gambolling race horses at the stables. I got my head down and put some effort in, barely pausing at Blackcap before pounding the homeward trail. My legs were with me from the get-go, possibly in response to a restful few weeks or last weeks’ massage.
I worked up a fair sweat, all the while listening to BBC Five Live’s Sportsweek program. The excellent Gary Richardson had the week off following his triumph at the Sony Music and Radio awards. Jonathan Ledgard took up the mic, interviewing amongst others Eggart Magnusson, relatively new owner of the Lazarus-like West Ham United, and Rick Parry, CEO of Big Cup finalists Liverpool. It’s easy for a Rowdies fan to hurl insults at Liverpool; their lack of ambition in the Premiership, highlighted yesterday by the fielding of a reserve team away to Fulham, all too apparent. How the Kop rants on about how 'you can’t buy fifty years of tradition' in a day, only to see it happen before their eyes, their new American masters drawling on about the Liverpool ‘franchise’. Ultimately though you have to take your hat off to them and say ‘what a great cup side’. They certainly know how to win matches one-on-one and could teach my beloved Lord Ferg a thing or two about tactical nouse away from home.
Magnusson is an interesting character. A ‘football man through and through’, he’s the kind of wealthy benefactor I wish my own team had had the good fortune to ensnare. He shows unwavering support for Curbishly and a real passion for the team and its fans – ‘the best fans in the whole of the premiership’. I’d take issue with him on that one – Manchester City’s long-suffering faithful were magnificent in the face of the dishonest tripe served up by their band of underperforming mercenaries yesterday. The Rowdies were there for the taking, jaded, shell-shocked, hanging on for dear life, and all City could muster were a few cheap shots and a badly missed, dubiously awarded penalty.
Not to be drawn on the rights and wrongs of points deductions or otherwise, when asked if in for the long haul the man from Reykjavik he say ‘yes’, and I for one believe him. Top flight or Championship next season the future for the Hammers looks bright.
I finished my morning blast with a solid hammer up the road to the house.
Less is more, but there’s no substitute for effort.
Five miles, 45 minutes.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Congratulations to the Mighty Rowdies on a ninth Premiership title.
But whilst we celebrate - personally I've winkled out a bottle of Aussie Pino Grigio from the Victorian Milawa stable - I wish to remove my headgear in acknowledgement of two related entities;
1) The Chelsea team for a spirited, gut-wrenching second-half effort this afternoon.
They rightly went down to 10 men . . . then battled like demons whilst Arsenal - thanks for nothing by the way - fell apart in a manner that was horrible to watch. Prosaic perhaps, efficacious maybe, workmanlike without doubt; but the players at Chelsea no matter what their collective price-tag, showed heart and guts today in refusing to be beaten on the pitch.
2) Roy Keane.
I'm on record as saying that whilst Keane is still missed at the Devilbowl for many of the attributes described above he was after all a thug. He is a man damned by his own autobiography, and is not revered in this house as he is in parts of OT. However he has accomplished something remarkable with an unremarkable Sunderland side; from nowhere to fast to top dogs in half a season.
I'm looking forward to next season's fixture list with relish.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I'm glad that Chelsea didn't win but agree that they went down fighting. Not sure that they had much choice though did they? They came out at halftime knowing htey had to score twice to keep the season alive. In reality, I suspect the bigger motivator was the dread of having to clap the Rowdies onto the pitch on Wednesday.
Mourinho has obviously realised that good grace is more endearing than his usual sneering. He came out well from the post-match interview, I thought.
Will he be there next year? I can't help feeling they'd be mad to get rid of him, yet people as rich as Abramovitch are notoriously impatient, and with the Big Cup still eluding him, we'll have to wait and see.
But congratulations to the Rowdies who've proved that you can succeed by playing great football. It would be good to see them win the FA Cup too, though my nerves are desperate for the close season to come.
Keane, with few resources, is the real star of the season. Great achievement in the circumstances. Mind you, another ManU old boy, Coppell at Reading, deserves an ovation too.
As for my own team, well, a bit like my marathons... it's more about survival than triumph. It would be nice to think that I'll run Boston in a year's time with them in serious contention. That division, as last year's play-off finalists, Leeds, have discovered, is highly unpredictable.
Still, it' s been a great season all round, with the CL and FA Cup finals still to come (not to mention the little sideshow at Stamford Bridge next week).
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A tough outing under heavy, battleship-grey cloud.
A wicked sou’westerly thrashed up from the coast, renegade raindrops whipped into my face as I struggled uphill. There’s surely no finer feeling than running into such a hoolie, mild enough for shorts and vest yet foul enough to keep all but the hardiest souls at home.
Lots of musical inspiration today from Floyd, the Peppers and my bearded Texan friends ZZ Top. Track du jour was Cheap Sunglasses, a gentle song about surviving hangovers in bright sunlight. I’d downed the best part of two bottles of vino single-handed on top of the lunchtime Guinness, a recipe for head-drums if ever there was one. I was of course celebrating the return of the King – or should I say Lord – to the top of the Premiership. It would have been better to have celebrated victory in the heat of battle but that old adage of a bird in the hand is never more apt than in professional sport.
When you get up in the morning and the light it hurts your head
The first thing you do when you get up out of bed
Is hit that street a-runnin and try to beat the masses
And go get yourself some cheap sunglasses
Spied a little thing and I followed her all night
In her funky kinda levis and her sweater kinda tight
She had a west coast strut that was as sweet as molasses
But what really knocked me out was her cheap sunglasses
[SIZE="1"]ZZ Top, Cheap Sunglasses[/SIZE]
Pink Floyd took me on up Blackcap into the teeth of the gale, the steady beat of Learning To Fly sitting perfectly with my short, fast stride pattern.
The homeward leg was a speedy affair, the howling wind at my back. I barely breathed as my feet flew over flint and tree roots, legs strong, and I wished every run could be this way.
5 miles, close to 50 minutes
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Funny choice of track du jour this morning.
For so long it seemed a nailed-on certainty that Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Live version) would walk off with the plaudits. This eased its way onto my iplod just as I crested stable rise on the homeward leg, a little after 6am. Languid clouds lay dormant in the Ouse valley, translucent leviathans sleeping in after a cool, damp night. As I watched the sun's warmth appeared to wake them. They drifted, one by one, misty zeppelins loosed from their moorings, rising gently towards the east.
The music flowed with the imagery; all was peace and tranquillity as I lumbered home, completing a painfully early four-miler before the ultimate contrast in travel; a scrambled dash across rush-hour London to meet my flight to Istanbul.
As I stretched, sweat splashing to mingle on the patio with the remains of the morning rain, an altogether different song popped up; Mystery Song by Status Quo. Those legendary chords, a bouncing, driving beat and some excellent lyrics ploughed new energy into my post-run ritual. I bopped my ligaments into shape, grinning madly as I cavorted around my front garden. God knows what the neighbours would have said if they'd been mad enough to be up this early. Mercifully, the array of curtains overlooking this ugly spectacle remained closed.
Took my gym induction yesterday, followed by a modest circuit designed to generally tighten up some of the more flabatious areas. No legwork, my calf not yet fully restored, but plenty of upper body reps and a series of ludicrous circus acts on a large polypropylene ball, allegedly designed to increase core strength. I fear a hidden camera; YouTube beckons.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:and a series of ludicrous circus acts on a large polypropylene ball, allegedly designed to increase core strength. .
Be careful in Istanbul Sweder. People have ended up in those terrible Turkish prisons before for lesser crimes than your public display of Pilates, my friend.
Sweder Wrote:Languid clouds lay dormant in the Ouse valley, translucent leviathans sleeping in after a cool, damp night. As I watched the suns warmth appeared to wake them. They drifted, one by one, misty zeppelins loosed from their morning moorings, rising gently towards the east.
That's nice.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:Be careful in Istanbul Sweder. People have ended up in those terrible Turkish prisons before for lesser crimes than your public display of Pilates, my friend.
Yeah, I saw Midnight Express too
Scared the bejesus out of me. Really rattled me coming through immigration this afternoon.
I'll behave myself . . . after a fashion
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Enjoy Istanbul Sweder - its one of my favourite cities. Waking up to the call to prayer at 5:00 a.m. is actually quite enjoyable...something you don't hear at home. And bargain for some beautiful rugs - that's an experience whether you want to buy or not. I find the Turkish people very friendly and they love to talk. So have a great time!
suzieq Wrote:And bargain for some beautiful rugs - that's an experience whether you want to buy or not.
I know my solar panel's getting a little big these days but I'm not ready for a hairpiece just yet, Suzie
Sadly this trip is little more than a day long
I'll be back in June though for around eight days when I hope to cross the Bosphorus to the Asian side of town. I believe that's where the fun is . . .
Here's the view from my hotel room right now . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Keep me posted on the Saturday am spot . . . I fancy a plod but with calf issues unresolved I'm not sure on max distance. Would love to join you two for a catch up though . . . breakie at Woodingdean? That was corking.
The 19th's iffy . . . I'm due to hit Nairobi around that time - no flights booked yet though, so still an outside chance
Update: Definitely not the Marlboro Man . . . Nairobi and stubborn calf put the kaibosh on that one. Decided (apart from Seaford and Dorney) to focus on strength and repair work only for the next month or so.
Man I hate being this sensible
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
Throughout history Istanbul has changed hands more times than a New Wember-lee Cup Final ticket.
This mighty city, spanning over 70 kilometres, where East meets West on the shores of the Bospheros, is a crazy old town. It's so full of life I'm amazed it doesnt just burst. Traveling across one quarter of the European side took the best part of two hours. Lucky for me then that my driver and recently appointed local agent, Mert, is an authority on all things Istanbul.
I made the mistake of pondering whether the people of Turkey really want to be part of the European Union. I was treated to an articulate avalanche of reasons why this is not and never should be the case. Turkey, it seems, has joined China, India and Brazil in the race to become the next generation of economic giants. Cordial relations with the EU are certainly desirable, but hypocritical sniping about Turkish human rights records are not endearing the populace to the trough-dwellers in Brussels.
One man who down the years has done more for Turkey than any invading army is Mustafa Kemal Ataturk (1881-1938) the founder of the Turkish Republic and its first President. Aptly named, this former soldier, having served the Ottoman axis as a division commander at Gallipoli, was most put out by the Allied occupation of his homeland. So much so that he trundled off into the hinterlands and amassed an army to rout the invaders and take charge of his country. Having done so he went on to reform great swathes of Turkish life. The Father of Modern Turkey (Mert's words) introduced western dress codes for men and women, separated the church from the state and embraced the previously suspicious interlopers of science and technology. He was determined to haul Turkey into the 20th Century and, before his death in 1938, Ataturk planted the seeds and cultivated the shoots of the modern, vibrant global trader we see today. He is revered here; statues abound, huge portraits hang in public areas. There's no doubting the genuine affection shown by a grateful nation.
My preconceptions of the Turks stem from reports of football-related stabbings, late-night indulgence in post-pub fast food and catching snippets of belly-dancers and opium dens on the tellybox. How wrong can you be? These people are welcoming, warm-hearted and generous to a fault.
Last night I scurried into the night to find a bar showing the Rowdies reserves take on the slightly-less-rich multimillionaires of Chelskis second string. Alor! It also just happened to be the Turkish Cup Final, live and exclusive on the other channel. Besiktas were sticking it to some other lot who looked less likely to score than Manchester City. The bar staff clustered around the flat screens, striking a pose as if for a war memorial, all hands on each others shoulders, swarthy mustachioed faces peering into to the near distance. Id met up with a fellow Rowdie supporter in the hotel bar ironically in the shadow of a giant signed & framed 2005 Big Cup Liverpool shirt, left by the Mickey Mousers after their astonishing triumph in this city. He was already ensconsed in front of a telly, beer in hand.
It's OK, he said at the puzzled look on my face.
They said they'd turn over when our game starts.
What? I say, what??? Turn over?
This is their Cup Final; Besiktas are a local outfit, one of three top flight teams from this city. Don't be bloody daft, of course they won't . . .
Flicker. Flick flick flick . . .
Cue Joe Cole, catching flies, leaping over Wes Browns homicidal lunge. I do not believe this. I waved the barman over.
Look mate . . . thanks and all that but . . .
Oh, it's OK, there's a break in the other match. We'll jump between the two.
To be honest I felt very emotional just then. I mean, switch this around for a moment. The FA Cup Final on telly in a West London boozer, the Roublettes are playing the hated Rowdies for the last bauble of the season and a bunch of Turks roll in looking to watch a meaningless match between two second-string Turkish sides.
'No problem gov, let me get the remote for you' is the least likely response they're going to get.
'Oi, Atilla, sling yer fakin'Ook' is considerably closer to the mark.
Basiktas won (I was dead chuffed for the delighted bar staff) and in some ways so did the Rowdies, their tiring youth, abetted by an aged Norwegian and the late arrival of a tiggerish Rooney clinging on for a point. Whilst devoid of true quality the game raced along at an alarming pace. Lord knows what the locals here made of it, their own match crawling as if stuck in one of the endless traffic jams that blight the causeways of Istanbul. The sight of The Special One with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp added to my satisfaction as I floated off for a blissful night's kip.
This is a fabulous place, make no mistake.
I'm back here for eight days in June.
Can't wait.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Shamed by the morning endeavours of my TOMrades I sloped off for a warm, windy whip up Blackcap. Milky-white Raki-sweat flew off my brow as I laboured into an impressive gale. The entire run was hard labour; even the east-bound tail-wind seemed intent on tripping me up rather than pushing me home. I staggered in, dripping, breathing hard; that must have taken hours . . . but the kitchen clock told a different story; a shade under 45 minutes - quick by recent standards.
Shower and sofa await.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
May 2007 - It All Starts Here
![[Image: ataturk.jpg]](http://www.expatharem.com/ataturk.jpg)