A little gym work at lunchtime following by a visit to the Annie Ironfingers dungeon for more work on the legs. Holy Mary Mother of Jesus! New levels, nay tranches, of pain delivered by this outwardly sweet, apparently caring lady. Before the horror started Annie applied Kinesiology to once again test the strength in my quads, this time with encouraging results. I’m taking all this on trust of course, but on the few outings I’ve had since the last visit my legs have felt strong, all signs of TOM fatigue apparently banished.
Anyone experienced Chinese Cups? Thought not. (My office roomy retorted that all he knew was they were 'generally smaller than average'. Hardy-har-bloody-har.) These are (as the name suggests) cups made of glass - they look a little like miniature glass bells. They're strategically arranged over an area of discomfort in the calf or hamstring, say. A sort of airgun is attached and flesh is sucked into the cup, along with (apparently) all sorts of mischeivous gremlin juice. The administrator then drags the cup along the leg, finally re-tightening to leave the flesh-screw in situ whilst they massage the recently brutalised area.
This feels very much like someone has stabbed you through the leg and is pulling the blade up through the muscle. Actually I should imagine that would be marginally less painful. Sweat poured from my brow in cartoon-style spurts as first my calves then my hamstrings burned in hellish flames of agony.
‘Oh your legs are in much better shape!’ cooed the Marquise de Sade, all the while attempting to force large amounts of massage oil through the pores in my skin and into my legs.
‘Och I’m impressed; I can dig my fingers much, much deeper than last time and you’re still really quite relaxed.’ 'That’s because I’ve fucking passed out you heartless bloody Nazi!'
I lean into the hefty, circa 1930s Tommy Gun as bullets spray across the counter, tiny transparent cups shattering in a lethal shower of lead and splintered glass . . .
‘Erm, yes . . . I’ve had a restful week and taken my vitamin B complex’ I mumbled into my sweat-soaked towel. It was pitiful. As if this simpering would in any way distract from further punishment.
‘Hmm, I need to take a look at your bands.’
Bands? Ah yes, the muscle running down the outside of each thigh, the IT band. Gentle fingers probed and prodded, then a little firmer –
‘Whoaaaargh!’
‘Yes, they’ll need some work next time you’re in . . .’
The cups? Not the cups!! Anything, really, I’ll do anything . . .
Speaking of next appointments I mentioned the forthcoming Seaford Half to which, by the way, I still harbour hopes of enticing our revitalised host.
‘Aye, then perhaps we can try The Stones.’
A hideous smile spread across that saintly Scottish visage.
‘The . . . the Stones?’
I felt like a naughty schoolboy caught fiddling under the sheets by the wicked Matron. The punishment would be severe . . . humiliating . . .
‘Oh yeeyas . . . deep heat applied via The Stones. Muscles love the warmth and the effects last for days. You’ll love it!'
Perhaps I could save up and go see one of those ladies who wear all the gear. You know, Pauline’s House of Pain, Donna’s Dungeon, that sort of thing. Manacles, whips, eating sweets in front of you without offering one . . . at least you get to ogle the stockings and suspenders, nice spike-healed boots . . .
‘Er, yeah, that sounds . . . great. I’ll book in a few days before.’
‘Excellent!’ a wee clap of the hands.
‘You’ll no regret it.’
Forgive me but I seriously doubt that.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A hot, sweaty return to the JSJ Sunday club.
Battle of Britain skies, a warm, gentle easterly to ruffle the feathers, millpond sea and lush, springy cliff top turf. My recent indulgences seeped into my Two Oceans shirt as I worked a little too hard to keep up in the early miles. Stevio and Oirish Moike set the pace, Moyleman ironing out a calf strain giving me some company. Kate, who appears to consist almost entirely of legs, bounded gazelle-like alongside, cheerily regailing us with an account of her 3:35 FLM. I felt a tad out of my depth but plodded gamely on, sucking eagerly on my water bottle.
Atop Telcombe Tye Moyleman reached an impass with his errant calf so I administered some (very) amateur massage, doing little more that attempting to grind his exceedingly tight lower leg into hamburger. Incredibly this appeared to help, the Moyle launching into a rapid descent towards Saltdean and the treacherous farmers' hill as we completed the Famous Residences in around two hours.
Relief was taken in Mac's cafe where we bumped into Barry (Reykjavik last year, Rome last month). It came as no surprise to hear that like London, Paris and Cape Town Rome was a scorcher, around 28 degrees.
No great shakes then, but a return of sorts.
Eleven warm hilly miles banked, an afternoon on the sofa in prospect.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Stretching wasn't doing a bloody thing. You must be gifted - still have some soreness after a hot bath - washed down with half a roast chicken and a pint of the black stuff @ the local hostelry.
Off to get it up, the leg that is and settle down for a good film - hmm.
Last King of Scotland or Babel.
Have a good week in Glasgee. No chance of curbing the alcoholic carbs up there my friend. I'll be interested to see how many of your three planned runs you get in.
A terrible sight awaited all FLMers on the TV news this morning.
The Cutty Sark, the world's oldest surviving tea clipper and for so long a beacon of joy at FLM mile 7, lays smouldering, blackened in her Greenwich berth. There's something utterly horrible about watching history itself go up in smoke. I've no idea who or what started the fire but what I've seen has pierced my heart as I'm sure it will millions of runners and spectators for whom she was part of a momentous day.
Sat shivering on my sofa I recalled the time in 2005 I emerged from the pedestrian tunnel on my way to the start, speaking to Niguel on the 'phone as the early sun kissed her majestic masts.
Like the ship herself, I'm gutted.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Rumour has it that Lewes FC - the Mighty Rooks - will host a West Ham United eleven on Saturday 28th July. All are welcome! Barbie at Chez Sweder post-match for all those surviving the expected Inter City Firm onslaught . . .
I'll wager a modest round of drinks a certain Mr Teves won't make the starting line-up . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Very tempting. OK, I'll try to make it. M rarely needs an inducement to travel anywhere within a credit card's throw of Brighton. Will raise the subject later.
Just please don't suggest combining it with the following day's Burgess Hill 30 mile downland challenge....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
One of those ‘born to run’ days.
Mapped out a 6 mile circuit up and down the Clyde but ended up swept along on a tide of fabulous music. I took the Clyde Pathway through the towers of steel and glass, ducking under a series of bridges spanning the arterial waterway. Into and through the tranquil Kinningy park, past the open football fields and on into heavenly leafy lanes.
I only stopped running when I realised the evening bird song was actually harmonising with Shine On You Crazy Diamond - this is not the first time tghat nature has appeared to join in with music on a run. I stopped, moved by the synchronicity of the moment, gazing dreamily at my surroundings. It dawned on me that I’d left the city.In fact . . . God only knew where I was; graffiti speckled ancient walls along the increasingly densly foliated riverbank. Through broken, rotting wooden fences I could make out a rather large dishevelled caravan park. Decrepit fairground rides lay abandoned on litter-strewn streets; a mangy cat scuttled for cover under a wheel-less, burned out transit. Well Toto, I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore . . .
I plodded on, all the while keeping an eye out for the gangs of urban pirates that no doubt lurked behind the crumbling brick facade adorned with the monikers of 'Monkey', 'Spider' and 'Chiv'. I imagined them launching down the embankment on stolen BMX bikes, a cruel parody of the kids in ET when they dashed through a suburban landscape a jizillion miles away from this one, ironically to escape the law . . . the thrill of the chase; the hunted Sasanach desperately evading the inevitable cuffed-boot kicking that comes with this kind of territorial invasion.
It was no good; at the next bridge I turned yellow-tail and head for home.
I’d been running well, relaxed, pleased to be racking up much needed paved mileage to a wonderful soundtrack. Now as my imagination ran riot my breathing took a turn for the shallow, my back tensed and began to ache; I’d be happy when I got back to the park. Of course no foul end befell me – in fact I barely saw another soul. Sadly, inevitably this failed to lighten my mood. Why is no-one else using this towpath?
Because it's a notorious gangland killing field bisected by tribal boundaries you numpty. . .
If there's one thing worse than rhetorical questions it's smart-arsed rhetorical answers from the Id.
I counted bridges, as much to distract from self-inflicted mental torture as to give me an accurate mapping reference when reviewing this route on Sanoodi. The music rescued me, too, bringing me back into line and refocusing my efforts on running steadily. It’s important to maintain a controlled breathing pattern, a steady heart-rate. After all, if you were to have an unfortunate episode here of all places . . .
Shut up!
I ducked under a particularly low bridge, rounded a shaded s-bend and re-entered the park.
Lumbering past bridges seven and eight the malty fog from the brewery across the river adding an unsavoury odour to the occasion. An adolesent wabble of wowdy webels, several weilding long sticks, perched on the roadside railings, shiny eyes following the sweaty blob as it shuffled under the bridge.
Trip trap, trip trap . . .
Back at my hotel, just after bridge 14 – 28 if you count them out and back – sweat poured like relief onto the grey paving slabs. I chuckled at the arrogant folly of a so-called seasoned traveller carting himself, i-plod clearly displayed for every vagabond to covet, across the unfamiliar backwaters of a major European city.
I guess my track du jour would have been The Members Sound of the Suburbs. It wasn’t on my i-plod but is on the free CD I got with the Sunday Times. I’ve been playing it non-stop on the DVD player in my room here. It’s a treat. I’ll plump for the last track on the following list – this honestly came on as I pulled up outside the hotel.
Discography of this evening’s run (in order, in some way to explain how I came to wander so far a-field):
Spanish Caravan – The Doors Sweet Child O’ Mine – Guns N Roses God Was Never On Your Side – Motorhead Cheap Sunglasses – ZZ Top Under The Gun – Motorhead Shine On You Crazy Diamond – Pink Floyd Matrix – Propellerheads Roadhouse Blues – The Doors Hooked – Girlschool American Girl – Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers Roundabout – Yes Free Fallin’ – Tom Petty One Night Stand – Motorhead Oh My God (I can't believe it)– The Kaiser Chiefs
Oh my God I can't believe it
I've never been this far away from home . . . Run mapped on Sanoodi
Here’s a rubbish gag for you.
It’s stereotypical, inherently racist and the only association it has to PC is if I told it in public I’d get cautioned. But it’s all my own work, so there.
Cadbury Scotland have launched a new confection locally to be known as ‘Jocklate’.
It’s extremely thick, leaves a bitter aftertaste and is crammed full of nuts.
Eyethangyou.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I undertook admirable rehydration at the Grove, a Glaswegian hostelry for the working man, soothed in the gentle arms of Belhaven Pale Ale, a smooth and most agreeable brew.
Wandering (an advisably generous description of my post-closing time cadence) hotelward I was drawn to the ubiquitous Golden Arches where I joined the flotsam of the hour. Waiting on that hideously neon-flooded concourse for what turned out to be a reasonable facsimile of a cheeseburger I observed the ugly underbelly of local life.
Oh yes, Glasgow remains a City of European Culture ™, replete with architectural adornments from that triumph of a few years ago. But the city remains a mirror for all that’s bad in the UK underclass, an insight into urban reality. I don’t swallow the doctrine hammered out by Mike Leigh and his bleeding-heart cohorts. There must be compassion and sympathy in society for sure; treat those less fortunate that oneself as one would wish to be treated, there but for the grace of God go I . . . except, no, hang on, there I don’t go. The born-again shoulder-chip, the ‘centuries of oppression’ weighing so heavily that one cannot find the heart to paw out a meagre living but one seems entirely capable of draining the pub dry whilst smoking a hectare of tobacco provided via the rock-n-roll and a few dodgy scag deals on the edge of town.
I watched a wheelchair-bound man, perhaps in his late twenties but looking much older, apparently debiliated by sheer girth, sucking on cheap cigarettes alongside his partner/ carer. Both overweight, both prematurely grey, both apparently without self-determinate thought. Their grease-stained shell suits may as well have borne the shabbily embroidered inscription of the asylum; Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. I have no idea of the personal circumstances of these two maligned night crawlers; who’s to say they weren’t charitable people heading home after a hard days graft in the homeless shelter? I’m to say. I’ve seen it so many times, in so many late night eateries and bars on the edge of the city limits.
Glasgow’s cultural veneer is as thin as the turps swilled by the homeless draped around Sauchihall Street. Culture? The only lasting culture to be found beneath the stained skirts of this nouveau-rich man’s playground belongs in a Petri dish.
Sorry for the downbeat view but I grow weary of the ‘Scots for Quality’, ‘Scotland Way-Hey’ balderdash peddled by the SNP and their ilk, especially in the business community over the years. They’d do well to indulge in a little national introspection before trumpeting a claim to their international birthright. They reach out when the hand best served is held inward to lift those in danger of being left behind in the scramble for political glory.
I well recall taking to a gentleman’s restroom in Aberdeen during what is known locally simply as The Oil Show. Some local wag had added these pearls of wisdom on the lavatory wall: Here I sit my cheeks a-flexin
Just gave Birth to another Texan
Buy Scottish
The UK participates formally and on a national basis in OTC, the largest oil and gas/ energy related trade show in the world. Except it’s not really the UK. Oh the group consists of companies from Wales, England and Norn Iron, flies the Union Flag above the individual stalls and trades as a unified 'bloc' renowned, collectively, for a history of engineering excellence. But next door, under a forest of brightly illuminated Saltire bearing the tagline ‘Scots For Quality’ stands – yes, you’ve guessed it – the Scottish Pavilion. Separately funded by STi (the Scottish Trade Initiative) this represents one of the earliest public cracks in the 300 year-old Union that binds these isles. Of course all the funding, the trade support that, incidentally, is provided in favour of the Scots by some 25% over their island cousins comes directly not from Hollyrood but from Westminster coffers, and therefore the pockets of the very taxpayers the pinched, whiny descendants of William Wallace publicly purport to despise.
Funnily enough, despite all my misgivings about the nature of Scottish Nationalism and the infinite chippiness of the indigenous Glaswegian, I like these people. There’s something inherently tough about their nature, indefinable, indefatigable.
That, and I’m a sucker for a redhead with a lilting accent.
I’ll get me redcoat.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Interesting stuff, Sweder. I agree with much of it.
Alex Salmond has to be the most irritating politician I've come across, and given the array of political lowlife we have in this nation, that is some claim.
I can't help feeling that there is more heat than light in the Scottish independence debate. If and when a vote on independence takes place, I think we'll find that the high-pitched whining ceases, as the bucket of cold realism gets emptied over their collective 'heed'.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Sweder Wrote:A terrible sight awaited all FLMers on the TV news this morning.
The Cutty Sark, the world's oldest surviving tea clipper and for so long a beacon of joy at FLM mile 7, lays smouldering, blackened in her Greenwich berth.
Had the pleasure of Rog-air's company on a brutally early sojourn to Blackcap. Recently added Glaswegian flab wobbled unkindly as, for the first time since the Mighty Plodder took to this route, I acted as tour guide around my beloved trail.
A combination of cold, crisp air, gentle rain and swirling mist made for an oddly enjoyable outing, my ugly beer-sweat inconspicuous amongst the natural precipitation. We chatted amiably about this and that; Glasgow and the world of commercial fishing, Baptism and the 40-Day fast on which Rog's flock is about to embark.
Back at Chez Sweder fresh coffee encouraged warmth into our chilled limbs.
Seaford Half next Sunday; nothing more than a leisurely stroll beckons for this lardy loper.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:A combination of cold, crisp air, gentle rain and swirling mist made for an oddly enjoyable outing, my ugly beer-sweat inconspicuous amongst the natural precipitation.
I thought you were a-knock-knock-knocking on summer's door over there??
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:I thought you were a-knock-knock-knocking on summer's door over there??
We were. But you should see it this weekend. Gales, non-stop rain and a definite chill in the air. It's a holiday weekend, and I was actually half looking forward to getting out into the garden for a change. But it's impossible.
Looks like I'll have to go for a run in it instead.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A trip to the Little Shop of Torture, a belated lunch sacrificed to sweat, the rowing machine and more undignified balancing acts on a large plastic sphere. I hope to God this is all doing some good.
Finished off with a ten minute 'cycle' which took me precisely 4.12 kilometres or, as I prefer to see it, precisely nowhere at all.
My hatred of stationary exercise continues unabated.
Back to the hills tomorrow.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It is just my imagination or you really needs a good intensiv break-out outdoors?
Well, thinks that it is just the fact of being in a gym (and how they stink out), which later makes your trips in your hills so nice. So, just be a little bit patient
Well, I hope that my impression obeys just to the fact of not 100% understandniss. Regarding this matter, now I spent a twice per week meeting with an american english teacher. He speaks in a very strange way, but thanks to RC and him, in Almeria I will talk perfect english (MLCM, you must come and hear me!). Laugh is granteed!
OK, Sw, try to feel good, as you use to do. Now in Spain all the boys are talking about football, tennis, bla, bla... It is the seasons' end here and I imagine that it is the same for all of you. So... I usually do not care about this, but, anyway, I hope that Manchester United gives you all kind of happiness
Dear Ana, how can I not be happy when I have such caring friends? My problem is indeed with the 'indoor' life . . . I would happily spend every day outside, whatever the weather.
Manchester United always bring me happiness.
This was the case in years gone by when they won nothing at all . . . because usually they play in a style to lift the spirits. It's good to see the boy Beckham fight for his place with Real Madrid and now England. He used to fight hard for club and country, but in recent years his heart seemed to go out of the game. Now his hunger is back, and we certainly need him.
I hope your American friend will tread lightly on our language
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I hope your American friend will tread lightly on our language
Well....... he thinks the world revolves around his country, so he uses to say, this is just a British expression. You know, they invent words!! Correct is .... I makes efforts for do not smile, but, sometimes, they are really so.
Do not worry, I promise telling him something, just I am waiting for having a little more confidence.
May 2007 - It All Starts Here
![[Image: _39965568_cuttyindex203.jpg]](http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/39965000/jpg/_39965568_cuttyindex203.jpg)
