January 2010

[El Gordo]

Crikey, Ray Winstone was Carlin in Scum? I never realised. That's some career he's had.

Good decision to have a rest. Makes me feel slightly better too.

[Sweder]

Oh to be in Sussex now the grass is here!
Most of the snow has had the good grace to bugger off, driven into the chalky soil by days of warm(er) rain and this morning's blast of sunshine.

No shock then to see a monster turn-out at the JSJ Brighton marina run this morning; something like 50 runners ready for the challenge. Before I left home I found the following posted on the Brighton Marathon Runners' Facebook page. This snap was taken last Sunday at the top of the Snake and bears testament to the hardy few who took on those perilous slopes.



Much the same group with a few additions today. At the top of the Snake I noticed a couple of the guys looking rather fresh and bouncy. I invited them to add a couple of miles and they jumped at the chance. We doubled back down behind the Snake, finding perhaps the only path on the hills still buried in thick, slippery snow, across to the reservoir and down into Rottingdean. On the cruelly steep Windmill climb to St. Dunstans my hamstring piped up - I plan on having that molested - sorry manipulated - this week - so I eased off. I still managed to finish strongly, running westward along the cliff-tops into a firm headwind at sub 5 minute (km) pace.

I felt a bit jaded this morning but running the first 5k with Stevio 3 minutes faster than usual helped to perk me up. 23.27 kilometres in 2:14. I'm out again on Tuesday for around 16 kilometres then off to Dubai for work before we fly to Almeria. Let the (unfortunately long) taper commence.

[ladyrunner]

I felt a bit jaded this morning but running the first 5k with Stevio 3 minutes faster than usual helped to perk me up.

I hope this is not the case in Almeria this year!!??

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I felt a bit jaded this morning but running the first 5k with Stevio 3 minutes faster than usual helped to perk me up. 23.27 kilometres in 2:14. I'm out again on Tuesday for around 16 kilometres then off to Dubai for work before we fly to Almeria. Let the (unfortunately long) taper commence.

Taper? You mean you're actually going to run less than 200km a week or so for a bit?

[Sweder]

Taper? You mean you're actually going to run less than 200km a week or so for a bit?

Funny, it does seem lke I've done a lot this month but actually I've not clocked a hundred miles for the month yet (81.25) so a little way short of those numbers. Normally I wouldn't taper for a half but it's out of my hands. Feet. Whatever. I'm off now for a ten miler across to Ditchling - a slow, easy ten at that. Hoping to get a sports massage this week or maybe next. Legs feel like piano wire.

[Sweder]

Opted for a Lone Wolf lope across the spine of the South Downs this morning. I say that but you're never truly alone when you take your pack of hounds with you. To spice things up a bit I chose to loop down into the BlackCap Nature Reserve, adding the notoriously brutal climb back up to the top of the hills that features mercilessly in the closing stretch of the Lewes Downland 10. The idea was to run to Ditchling and back on tired legs; it worked like a charm.

Up on the ridge I encounted a new phenomenon; ultra-sticky mud. The combination of warm weather (a balmy +9C today) and melted snow left a tacky trail of mud in which to plod. It felt like running in freshly-applied No More Nails. I felt certain that given the viscocity of the mud and my laboured, tardy progress I would soon surely stop, stuck fast, forever to stand there, a rotting folly testament to the madness of running folk. I skipped to the grassy bank, leaning away from the barbed-wire fence, where a more boot-friendly traction was aquired.



NB: I googled No More Nails under 'images' and this was by far the most popular hit. Clearly it may offend some; that is not my intention. I do thank my lucky stars I live in a country that, for now at least, tolerates humour in many spheres and on many levels. Thank goodness it wasn't Mo(edited).

16.8 kilometres, 5.59 ascending (with an elevation change of +/- 315 metres). I've posted the elevation map below to show the severity of that early hill; compared to that the rest was a doddle.

A note for Niguel; nice to see the 'Appy 'Ammers receive a shot in the arm with the part-purchase of the club today by Gold & Sullivan. With the former's connections in the soft porn world you can expect the matchday programmes to get a good deal more interesting I'm sure.

Musically I plugged into my iPhone and hit 'shuffle'. Some terrific stuff on there, not least Zeppelin's magnificent 'Since I've Been Lovin' You', perhaps one of the finest ensemble pieces from that wonderful band, showcasing each players' talents yet still the whole exceeding the sum of the parts. From the sublime to my track du jour. I'm not making excuses (honest) but I'm sure Number One Daughter downloaded this for a dance routine or something. It wasn't me M'Lud, gawds troof. Nevertheless when this track popped up amongst the catalogue of gritty rock along the homeward section I burst out laughing, rising to embrace the joyful spirit of the record whilst picturing the jolly round ladies singing it.

Yes, it's the Weather Girls and It's Raining Men.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Yes, it's the Weather Girls and It's Raining Men.

Now Sweder, I mentioned you yesterday to a bloke I bumped into who was wearing a Motorhead T-shirt and sporting a Lemmy tattoo (apparently on their last tour here, this guy got Lemmy to autograph his upper arm; then he went to a tattooist and had it made permanent). He even knew of your recent tour in some detail. His dedication to the band was commendable and somewhat touching, if maybe a little overdone.

Until your last post, I always thought of you in the same vein, but alas, now I see that you were in fact a Weather Girls fan all along.

Frankly, I'm disappointed. I suppose you drink shandy as well.

[Sweder]

Yes, it's the Weather Girls and It's Raining Men.

Frankly, I'm disappointed. I suppose you drink shandy as well.

This month? Ginger Beer, or mineral water. Shandy? No can do; contains beer y'know.
Sparkling if I'm feeling feisty, ice & a slice to go totally wild.
I know how to party

[El Gordo]

Yes, it's the Weather Girls and It's Raining Men.

Frankly, I'm disappointed. I suppose you drink shandy as well.

This month? Ginger Beer, or mineral water. Shandy? No can do; contains beer y'know.
Sparkling if I'm feeling feisty, ice & a slice to go totally wild.
I know how to party

For ginger beer, my wife's your man. Her favourite tipple, and highly opinionated about it she is too.

[Seafront Plodder]

For ginger beer, my wife's your man. Her favourite tipple, and highly opinionated about it she is too.

Tell her from me it tastes like soap powder and I wouldn't bath my budgie in it.

[Sweder]

For ginger beer, my wife's your man. Her favourite tipple, and highly opinionated about it she is too.

Tell her from me it tastes like soap powder and I wouldn't bath my budgie in it.

I can't agree old boy; very much depends on where you source your gear. Good fiery GB can be a joy. It beats endless bloody mineral water.
Stole a glass of delicious Cape Cab Sav last night. Rude not to; taken to top drawer Argentinian steak house (Agado) at the The Palace in The Old Town (in the shadow of the Burj Khalifa - not tempted to drag my terminal vertigo to the summit, remarkable structure though it undoubtedly is).

Looks like I'll get a chance to warm my legs this evening. There's a new park (Zabeel) across the street. Provided I can vault several carriageways swarming with wildly veering traffic should be quite pleasant.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I'm with SP on this one, ginger beer is only good for cleaning out drains (just).

[El Gordo]

I'm with SP on this one, ginger beer is only good for cleaning out drains (just).

Another philistine.

If you ever make it over here, I will have my work cut out re-programming your appreciation of pubs and beer -- of all kinds.

[Sweder]

I packed the old road runners for my short trip to Dubai more in hope than expectation. Having found out that a very decent running circuit lay just 500 metres from my apartment door I made sure to carve out some run time. Alarmingly the 500 metres included navigation across two frenetic sections of rather busy motorway. The Emirati are working hard to accommodate pedestrians here – an impressive and impossibly opulent elevated train feeds all areas of the city, the frequent stations sitting above the roads like something out of Star Trek or, if you've seen it, Speilberg's dichotomic completion of Stanley Kubricks' AI: Artificial Intelligence – yet footsloggers remain a curious sub-species, left to fend for themselves as thousands of expensive cars compete on the ferocious grand prix circuits that masquerade as public highways.

Having safely hurdled that challenge I sought entry to the park. The first set of gates were locked, the next, another hundred metres on, open. The guard in the entrance kiosk watched me lumber towards him, starting to rise from his seat. I held up a hand, as much to show I didn’t posses the 5 Dirhams required to enter as in greeting. He grinned, returned the universally friendly gesture and sat down. Permission granted.

ZA’Abeel park is a recent addition to the futurescape that is modern Dubai. All around avant-garde visions that might have sprung directly from the imagination of Philip K Dick or Isaac Asimov rise from the desert. The emphasis is on shiny steel and glass but always making room for some superbly displayed, if entirely artificial, flora. Such is the park, a blend of perfectly sculpted hillettes and gently winding trails, a utopian blend of Shangri La and Telly Tubby land. At the entrance I used (it turns out there are many) great globes rose from the ground. The first, painted blue and green to represent the Earth, had two enormous portals through which a contorted rollercoaster track ducked and dove. Adjacent orbs, each around fifteen metres high, buried in the ground at their 'waists', were similarly coloured to represent the planets. It reminded me of another iconic Sci Fi series, the wonderfully under-budgeted yet engaging Blakes’ 7. Viewed on the BBC in the late 1970’s I clearly recall having my first ever celebrity crush on New Romantic diva Servalan, Blakes’ nemesis and leader of the black-hearted Federation. She certainly buttered my beans and no mistake. Had I been forced on pain of death to make a choice between Jacqueline Pearce’s domiatrix or Sigourney Weaver’s heroic Ripley I would surely have taken the only honourable way out.


With these delicious thoughts swimming though my rapidly warming head I soldiered on, past families enjoying the various kiddie rides and play parks to a set of huge inflatable slides clearly stolen from the set of It’s a Knockout. Was this some amazing museum packed with British TV nostalgia I’d stumbled into? It sure felt that way.

Each feature or play station sat amidst manicured perfection. Respectful, immaculate trees stood guard over symmetrical miniature palms and orderly, precise shrubs bordered by what appeared to be dark purple Curly Kale. Minah birds frolicked noisily amongst the foliage, cackling and chirping to one another, no doubt warning of the large, sweaty beast thundering along the running track. Despite the sun slinking off behind Dubai’s celebrated skyline there was still plenty of warmth in the air. I maintained a reasonable cadence, something around 5 minutes 20 kilometer pace, but I had to pick myself up now and then as I flagged in the heat. After a series of gently meandering pathways I came to a junction. The path to my left lead to a pleasant boating lake; the trail ahead continued around the perimeter, and a right turn lead up and across a large expansion bridge to who knew where. I turned right, huffing and puffing up the steadily increasing incline. The bridge lead to another section of park housing an outdoor amphitheatre and what looked like a manicured car park. I chugged around the outer edge, up and across the stage and back across the bridge, much to the obvious amusement of the guards stationed at either end of the crossing.
Back in the park proper I turned right. A group of Arabian ladies strolled towards me, faces hidden by their hijabs as they chatted. I was reminded of a phenomenon I experienced when working in Tehran, where the wearing of traditional, modest attire is a matter of strict law for women. After about a week of seeing nothing but dark eyes beneath dramatically sculpted eyebrows one comes to realise how alluring such limited exposure can be. A glimpse of ankle at such a time could easily send a man into rapture.

Onwards I ran (sorry) towards an enclosed cricket ground. As I watched a stout fellow, immaculate in his whites, played a sublime front foot cover drive for four. The closest fielder did his upmost to intercept the racing white ball but to no avail. A polite smattering of appreciation echoed around the perimeter. I could see the gate through which I’d entered in the near distance and weighed up my options. I’d brought no water with me, having mis-judged the ambient temperature, and could see no obvious, reliable outlet nearby. Another full circuit would take me over ten klicks, probably unwise without refreshment. Besides, I was now liberally doused in sweat and risked being denied access to my security-gated apartment building, so I chose a small deviation around the boating lake before striking out for home.

On that final mini-lap I encountered one of MLCMan’s travelling clan. Standing astride an impressive breaking wave, beautifully balanced on a surfboard, the antipodean smiled a greeting as I dragged myself by. I've attached a shot for posterity in the hope that our friend might know him, alongside a picture of a family having their photo taken nearby. Hmm, I wonder how they can tell who was there and who was not?

Once in the cool embrace of my unfeasibly large rose-headed shower I went through my new stretching drill, imparted by the lovely Bridge (Bridgette) after my sports massage last week. Squats and lunges are what’s required to tackle my feeble quads; a session on the cruel exercise ball to address my embrassingly flabby glutes. Happily there was no such beast in my bathroom. Nevertheless I spent a good 15 minutes stretching my quads, calves and hamstrings and felt decidedly pleased with myself for the effort. My reward for this good behaviour came at supper. I was treated to a most delicious and extensive Thai menu, courtesy of our hosts at CSI and the World Trade Centre. Once again in the shadow of the Burj we sat beside open fire pits as the fountains, performing every 15 minutes, cavorted perfectly to a collection of local and international music broadcast through speakers hidden along the boardwalk.



Here’s a clip of the routine performed to the beautiful Swahilli piece, Baba Yetu.

There’s a bewildering collection of statistics that prove these fountains to be the largest, use the most water, dance the highest, blah blah blah. All that leaves me rather cold as does much of the hubristic bullshit that one trips over here. In many regards Dubai is a soul-less monument to money-lust and greed, bereft of the humanity and joie de vivre that in my view makes cities like Paris, London, New York and Sydney stand head and shoulders above these instant imposters. That said I admit watching the fountains dance as I chomped on the delicious food was no hardship, and such uncharitable thoughts were wafted away on the (artificially) scented breeze.

[El Gordo]

Nice post.

The musical, dancing fountains look like they're modelled on the famous ones in Las Vegas outside one of the massive hotels, where the strains of Frank Sinatra and other crooners provide a schmaltzy, but perfect accompaniment in the moonlight.

Never been to Dubai but it seems to be all artifice. A place built on cannibalised bits of other cultures. Kind of fascinating in its own way, but a bit like a Manchester City, where money is being used to try to build something rapidly that should be allowed to develop more slowly and organically.

The photo of the women in burkhas is hilarious:

Lady 1: "Here's me in front of the fountains in Dubai"

Lady 2: "No, you aren't in that photo"

Lady 1: "Oh yes I am.... aren't I? Oh wait...maybe I'm not..."

[Sweder]

I deleted the Man City/ Chelski analogy from my post! Didn't want to tempt fate.
Ironic (as I was telling this dyed-in-the-wool City fan over that same Thai supper) that their money should spring from this very cultural, historical desert, albeit from the Emirate down the road (Abu Dhabi)

Spot on re: Dubai EG; if it fell into the great abyss tomorrow no-one would shed a tear.
The comparison with Vegas goes way beyond the fountains. The US version is at the Bellagio I think.
And yes, they're building one of those here next year too. Strewth.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

It all looks rathe kitsch and horrid (especially the surfing 'roos). Top work though, Sweder. Nice run, great post.

[Bierzo Baggie]

WOW
Dubai futurescape, cinematic references, Sevalan from Blake's Seven...(I'd forgotten about her) Arabian ladies in hijabs, cricket, surfing kangaroos... that was some run!

Read this post while eating a cheese and anchovies sandwich.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Read this post while eating a cheese and anchovies sandwich.

Good man.

[Sweder]

Read this post while eating a cheese and anchovies sandwich.

Washed down with lashings of Ginger Beer I trust