Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:I think we'd all be delighted if he were to beat you at Almeria, and would think none the less of you if he did. But is this something that is likely to happen? He's been rather quiet about his training - are you hinting there may be something of a dark horse in the event?
It's all a bit Sergio Leone; strategically placed sunshine, mysterious shadows, cigar smoke, haunting harmonica phrases and dust-blown tumbleweed. I can't make out his face as he chases me down. I'm running in treacle, going nowhere. The line's right there, almost within touching distance, but his silent, hot breath is on my neck. Every night he gets closer and closer, the blasted line just as far off as before. I wake up in a cold sweat, bolt upright, sheets soaked, shaking like a leaf.
Who is he?
Why's he gunning for me?
How the hell does he keep that cigar on the go and run without throwing up?
It's like Basil Copper's The Janissaries of Emilion; I only hope the outcome is less bloody.
Maybe it's Ladyrunner after all (I didn't know she smoked cigars). Who knows? I'll be glad when it's all over and I'm either scythed down in the last ten metres, the tax inspector taps me on the shoulder and says breathlessly 'you're served!', Ladyrunner flies past cackling wildly or, I suppose the obvious answer, the runner pulls alongside, the sunlight hits his face and - shock horror! - he is me. Psychology was never my strong suit but I'm sure it all means something.
It's been like that for over a week now. Frankly it's exhausting (not to mention tedious and expensive) in terms of washing & spin-drying the bedsheets every morning
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A real shocker of a run this morning. I'd set out intent on knocking out a quickie, partly to test my knee but mostly to enjoy the benefits of resting up for most of last week and missing what must've been a brutal session with the JSJers yesterday. Ten minutes in I knew the gig was up; warm, sweaty, a real slug-fest . . . it was horrible, horrible . . . a slow, ugly flounder in near-perfect conditions. I could spit. I'll go out again on Wednesday of course. Who knows? Perhaps this was one of those lethargic meanders that pop up occasionally to keep us honest . . . or maybe Time the Avenger has seen enough hubris in these hallowed halls to administer a timely kicking. All in all it was an effort so lame as to make Andy Murray's inglorious exit this morning look positively game.
I won't get too down-hearted. And the knee's fine, which is a relief. Of more immediate concern is trouble brewing for No.1 Daughter. Teenage years are without doubt the toughest and she's going through the mill. Friendship squalls, a pre-Christmas cold that won't quit, falling out with teachers, raging hormones, monstrous mood-swings, all against the backdrop of managing her diabetes. It's looking bleak for Mrs S coming to Almeria - we'll both be mortified if she can't go as it's our one chance this year for some time without our beloved children. We've had offers of help from friends and relatives but if the girl need her Mum there's nothing for it but to bite the bullet.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sorry to hear that update, Sweder. It would be disappointing for all if Mrs S couldn't make Almeria, but needs must I guess. I'm in similarly uncertain territory with my ma's health fluctuating daily.
As for the run, you've been playing this game long enough to know that these inexplicable things happen from time to time. The weird thing for me is that they often seem to be in inverse proportion to the level of expectation. Those sunny winter mornings that look so inviting are often the most unsatisfying. The good news is the observation that these things rarely happen in bunches (unless there's some other reason like an injury), so getting a duff run out of the way this early in the week should just about guarantee you a fine run in Almeria.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I agree on that last point EG - one of the reasons I'm not too down-hearted. I did expect a decent run - there were several pointers, not least the recent rest and the good weather. There hasn't been a lot of sleep to be had at Chez Sweder lately which may be a contributing factor. I'll try and get a few early nights in - that should bugger me right up
The general lack of energy was surprising though. No doubt the adrenaline rush induced by ladyrunner's start-line invective will get me into gear on the day
SP, thanks for those pearls mate. I suspect I'll manage the perfect blend of foot-in-mouth and what-not-to-say over the next few days
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Mortal . . . and, it transpires, laden with stinking cold (cheers Phoebes).
From lunchtime onwards I've been heading rapidly down-hill, and not in the lean-into-it-and-run-flat-out sense. Still, mystery solved to a degree.
Chances are it'll be gone by Saturday and I'll end up getting even more rest than I'd bargained for this week.
If that little Ethiopian chap does show his face in Almeria he may live to regret it :RFLMAO:
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:If that little Ethiopian chap does show his face in Almeria he may live to regret it :RFLMAO:
I suspect the word is well and truly out there that the RC team this year is larger than ever. None of the Africans will dare show up.
Good luck with Phoebe - I've had three teenagers (still have one) and about the only and best thing you can do is persevere: if you get through this phase without actually disowning them (and you will of course ) they actually do get the message about unconditional love and so makes them a better person. They really do turn around massively. Like a literal long run, it's hard work but ultimately incredibly rewarding.
I wouldn't worry too much about Almeria: look after yourself and you'll be over the cold in time, and you've certainly got the training under your belt to whip any Africans who do dare to show.
And don't worry about Andy Murray. He's Scottish anyhow.
Being a non-parent (or "child-free" as some would have it), some may think me unqualified to comment. But I was an appalling adolescent myself once, which I reckon gives me some insight into this.
I'm pretty sure I've mentioned this great Mark Twain quotation before, but it bears repeating:
"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned."
That's it. Eventually, we learn. But the road to that point is painful, for all concerned.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I find myself wiping a certain amount of chicken embryo off my grizzled chops this morning . . . the poor lass has a temp of 38.6 - I'm reliably informed by a concerned Mrs S this is barely below that of the surface of the sun. So it's not all been teenage pram-emptying, there's an underlying ailment that needs urgent attention. Child management is a Rubick's Cube, except every time you align one side someone comes along and re-paints some of the squares. All part of life's rich tapestry . . .
Almeria awaits and England expects. The fear and loathing gather in the shadows.
Will I be allowed to take my gargantuan box of Kleenex Mansized onto the aircraft?
Will the RC vests arrive before we have to leave?
Can Club De Mar come up with a decent omlette and fries?
And what are the chances of prying S junior out of his pit in the wee small hours to cadge a lift to LGW?
Tune in tomorrow - same Bat-time, same Bat-channel . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Despite the loitering lurghie I took to the hills this lunchtime. Relentless rain had left the turf sodden, like a shagpile carpet in a flooded basement. I splished and sploshed my way across the downs, building an impressive coating of muck and slime on my boots and bare legs. In good spirits I fought gamely, taking on the treacherous slickness of the mud-trails, sliding and skidding up and down the slopes like a demented, drunken skier. Miniature rivers ran down the chalkline, washing the flintstone and adding to the gloop soup on either side.
I pushed hard on the climbs, elbows pumping reluntant lungs like manic billows, steam pluming from my open mouth and off my rain-soaked back. Fat grey clouds sat on Mount Harry and Black Cap, grumpy squatters laden with mizzle, indolent, immovable. I scampered through their etherial amplitude, huffing and puffing, Gypsy and Willow close at heel (Tess, the wise old whippet, had made clear her intention to remain tucked up in the warm, dry embrace of her radiator-side bed).
Home in 42:20, an excellent time for the conditions and quite possibly my best since last summer's knee-knack. I still feel like I'm teetering on the cusp of something unpleasant but frankly I can't be arsed waiting for the full-blown plague. Kill or cure I say.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sorry cobber, no slight intended.
Here's a close-up of that boot.
An unkind soul might suggest that's the worst case of the 'Paulas' yet seen
It was fun out there though
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
stillwaddler Wrote:How is the lurgy? was it a Killer or are your Cured??? I do envy you your dogs.
Truth is, the jury's still out.
I felt rough as a badger's bottom last night, OK this morning . . . now I've got that horrible tickling in my throat - although that might just be Guinness withdrawal :o
Unless I develop full-blown man-flu I'll be lining up on Sunday morning.
Man, these shirts look cool . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
:RFLMAO:
