Off to sunny Istanbul again, this time for a full week of hard work in the blazing sun. Not sure how much running's going to get done, but your money is safe if you put it on late nights and plenty of raki.
Another gym session yesterday - pbs on the rower and cycle - and another five muggy, hilly miles this morning. By my reckoning that's . . . quite a few consecutive days of gym or running. Natural law suggests I should see some benefits sometime soon but unless I'm pregnant progress is woefully slow.
Still, a good sweaty blast across the downs today.
Sacked PR and went back to the i-plod; happy days! Motorhead, ACDC, Tom Petty, Zeppelin . . . wonderous stuff. Once again the last mile or so yielded a perfectly synched song - Stairway to Heaven kept me companyfrom the top of the sheep field right to my doorstep, the final refrain drifting away as I turned the door handle. Magical stuff, but it doesn't take the award today. That goes to Texas Flood, a wonderously atmospheric blues guitar feast from the sadly missed Stevie Ray Vaughan. It must have been quite something to see that cat wail live.
There is a gym tucked away in the bowels of the Attakoy Crowne Plaza. I wonder how many times I'll get to see it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Hotel gyms tend to be unsatisfactory places, in my limited experience. Usually horribly under-equipped. I once came across a "fitness room" that consisted of nothing but a solitary exercise bike. I didn't get very far on it. :RFLMAO:
Never been to Istanbul, but if a man can run half naked through the streets without fear, I would stick to external early evening lopes, in that nice personal slot sandwiched between the work and the carousing.
Hmmm. Can one really sandwich a slot?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I'm not sure . . . I'm fairly certain one can slot a sandwich though. I intend to do just that as soon as I've loaded this pre-flight Guinness and boarded my flight . . .
. . . oh dear, I haven't started well, have I :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Ee ghad Syrrah! A delay . . . good old Turkish Airlines; a 40 minute boarding delay . . . and the gate barely a hundred paces from the departure lounge and the comforting soft lights of O'Neils . . .
. . . whatever should I do?
Cheers!!! . . .
[SIZE="1"]39 minutes later . . . [/SIZE] BingBong(in a slightly nasal, sing-song tannoy stylee) . . . Would passenger Sweder travelling to Istanbul get his sorry arse to gate eleven where a plane full of angry passengers are waiting to depart . . .
Oops :o
Three pints and a bollocking before a three hour flight.
Now that's what I call a good start!
Watch out Istanbul, here I come!
One more thing . . . there's a bit of sorrow-drowning going on here. I just learned (being totally inept when it comes to managing my calendar) that I can't partake of the Jog Shop Jog this year due to a prior unavoidable commitment. This is no small loss; with no autumn marathon on the horizon the JSJ was my sole focus for the second half of the year. It's simply too early to be winding up for TOM 2008 so I guess I'll be grubbing about for an alternative muse.
Err, the 'good news' is the 'unavoidable commitment' is a four day golf tour somewhere adjacent to Dublin with SP and Captain Tom
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:. . .
one more thing . . . there's a bit of sorrow-drowning going on here. I just learned (being totally inept when it comes to managing my calendar) that I can't partake of the Jog Shop Jog this year due to a prior unavoidable commitment. This is no small loss; with no autumn marathon on the horizon the JSJ was my sole focus for the second half of the year. It's simply too early to be winding up for TOM 2008 so I guess I'll be grubbing about for an alternative muse.
Err, the 'good news' is the 'unavoidable commitment' is a four day golf tour somewhere adjacent to Dublin with SP and Captain Tom
Shame for me too. The JSJ is 2 weeks before the Dublin mara, and I thought I'd do it this year. A little close to the race for complete comfort, admittedly, but I thought I'd just plod it anyway. I still might do it. Will have to see what else is happening.
As for autumn marathons, Beachy Head on October 27 looks like the obvious candidate. I'm presuming that a return to Dublin for the marathon 2 days later won't appeal, so I won't bother mentioning that one...
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Sorry for the blackout.
I've not seen the hotel bar let alone the hotel gym.
I am in the midst of the mother of all logistical nightmares. Midnight Express is never far from my thoughts as I battle with corruption and incompetence in the Turkish customs office
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well it's been the Hammer House of Horror here on the shores of the Bospheros. Turkish customs have had their wicked way with me without the use of lubricant and adding grit for good measure. As a result I've not even taken my gym or running kit out of the suitcase and have not seen the inside of a bar since I got off the plane last Thursday.
My Father-in-Law passed away on Monday - Mrs S is bearing up well but I'd rather be home with her at a time like this. The morning after that news came through that a wonderful friend of some 25 years standing has been diagnosed with end-stage cancer and given two months to live. You might say I've been a little subdued.
There is light at the end of the tunnel (and no, it's not an on-rushing train).
Gerbrig, a delightfully cheery, deliciously attractive lady from Der Nederlands with whom I share a service desk here in Tuyap presented me with a gift this afternoon; my very own bottle of Raki. It might see some action later. The Raki, that is.
I'll write something about my friend one of these days. I'm off to see her when I get back and will save the eulogy for when it's needed. For now its enough to say she is one of the finest exponents of rock n roll lead guitar I have ever seen - Les Paul would have been proud to see her wield her Gibson.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Cheers mate.
Not long to go now - a little over 24 hours of yelling, screaming, unbearable frustration, infinite traffic and oppressive heat. I still haven't travelled east of the airport (and into the city) but there's an enticing window of opportunity this evening. The Blue Mosque is high on my list but, after this place has lived up to it's infamous 'Welcome to Hell' greeting, the self-indulgence of an evening's belly dancing may win the day.
Of course after a week with no exercise I'll knock 'em all into a cocked hat
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
At last, back to the familiar embrace of my welcoming hills. Undirected, not influenced by the strong wind, rain fell in great heavy drops, gulped down by the greedy downland grass.
I cranked up the pace, legs rusty, back stiff, my i-pod feeding a steady stream of encouragement as I climbed into the hills. No contest for track of the day. Girlschool's Mad Mad Sister evoked memories of Kelly J in full flight. The words, the sentiment of the song reminded me of the wild child who wowed a generation with hi-powered riffs and screaming leads.
Drowned but happy I splashed home in 45 minutes, the dogs relieved to get into their warm, dry beds.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's been a funny old week.
An exchange I had with BB this morning reminded me of something very important before I set off for a morning blast to Blackcap. It was to do with why we run (or why I run at least). I remarked that it's one of the few things I do in life that I consider truly selfish, or at least entirely for my own benefit.
The last seven days has seen my Father-in-Law pass away (mercifully given his prognosis with Parkinsons and dementia), a dear friend pronounced gravely ill, another good mate arrive (as a consequence of the latter) from Japan, survival of the Show from Hell in Istanbul, the prospect of missing the Dorney Dash and Andy's 50th (happily back on the agenda) and in the midst of all that two friends from Cape Town, Jacqui and Clive, managed to spend three days in the UK and I completely missed them. I feel a bit like the cat who gets stuck in the washing machine; life is tumbling by in a mad, incomprehesible torrent. There's soap-suds in my eyes and I feel like I'm missing no end of vitally important stuff as I bump and whirl around and around. We're off to Exmouth this morning; a family gathering this evening, funeral tomorrow. Much wailing, some gnashing of teeth but hopefully a celebration of a full and busy life, of a man who achieved in business and in leisure; a sailor, a sculptor, a father, a grandfather. Mine is a suporting role and I thank my lucky stars for that.
In the middle of all this there is running. Running is a mistress; she dresses in seductive shades, luring me out with her siren song, leading me a merry dance through hills of wondrous delight. Flowers, tall grasses, thick hedgerows teeming with life, sunshine, cool breezes, breathtaking views . . . it was all there this morning. My head cleared as I pounded the soggy trails, sucking in the purity of the cool morning even as the sun rose to warm my back. Music played its part, for once carefully selected to provide a subtle backdrop. Pink Floyd added to the ambiance, the pick of the tunes Sheep from Animals.
My faithful hounds bounded along, generous with their companionship, delightful in their wild celebration of the freedom to run. I joined them, my heavy heart lifted by the pure joy of running free.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sorry of reading all these sad and bad news that are flotting around you during this last time .
Happy of "smelling" that you are able of taking everything easy, and even in the difficulties you stay with a kind of "carpe diem" leiv motiv, not only thanks to your running, but also with the rest of things that you do in a so special way.
Well, it is perhaps the best moment for being the smily Sweder that you use to be. Best of luck for this hilly race.
I capped a difficult week with the perfect finish; a night on the town with an old pal, touring Lewes hostelries to sample the best Harveys had to offer. When the alarm sounded a shade before six-thirty this morning I had cause to doubt the wisdom of such revelry.
Moyleman had offered to drive and Id all but taken his arm off. A 48 hour five hundred mile round trip to the West Country followed by a ten pint pub tour had left me, shall we say, a little jaded. Relentless rain battered the windshield on Moyleys Volvo as we hammered north towards Eton and Windsor, home of the Dorney Dash and setting for Andys lap of honour. Early hopes that the skies would clear were smothered by an endless fleet of dark clouds; we were going to get wet. Fitting really, as Dorney is also host to the exceptional Eton College rowing course, stage for the 2012 Olympic competition.
Chris and I wandered through the tented village, impressed by the number of suppliers on hand. It then dawned on us that there was to be an all-ladies Triathlon at the same venue later that day. That would explain the Zoggs tent and the purveyors of lightweight racing bikes.
Ten minutes before the scheduled start Andy chugged into view accompanied by his mate Kev. Our glorious leader sported the pre-arranged race number 50 and looked in rude health. Niguel appeared to complete our quintet and we were well met, posing for pre-race photos and swapping banter. Id decided to fly as Andys wingman as had Nigel. Im not sure how Andy felt about this at the time but we were determined. My hangover, by now settled into a steady background thrum, prohibited any attempt on a PB despite the ideal conditions (I love running in the rain). We gathered on the starting straight, a hooter sounding the off. As in Almeria this year it was hard to spot the actual start line as we lumbered forward. This didnt concern me too much; I focused on keeping an easy, steady stride.
The course was a simple one; 2.5 clicks westward along the rowing lake, across the top, back eastward along the opposite bank with a repeat of the first section, a double-back along the same side to finish just short of the boathouse. Competitors, somewhere close to a thousand in number, soon stretched half the length of the circuit. We chugged along, Nigel and I swapping stories, chirping away about everything and nothing. Andy chipped in with occasional comments, holding a resolute station between us. The rain relented slightly and I took stock of the outlying fields. In the distant mists shadows of buildings hunched down between the trees indicated the town of Eton, Windsor just beyond. Duck of various denominations dabbled in the racing lanes, indifferent to the colourful human snake winding around the circuit.
Halfway came and went, the clock time showing 30:15 as we passed. I was aware that Andys PB was pretty close to the hour but kept my council; no need to anger the running Gods at this stage! Somewhere between kilometres five and six we encountered possibly the least competent photographer in sporting history. Hanging back, clearly indicating Andys magic number and striking any number of oafish poses we lumbered towards the young clicker, only to watch in horror as she appeared unable to operate the camera (given that shed been stood there for at least twenty minutes clicking away this was, to me, incredulous). Muttering unkind oaths beneath our breaths we soldiered on. There was a sudden burst of energy to my right and Niguel rocketed off into the distance, leaving an almost dry track in his wake. He gained sufficient ground before turning to snap the dynamic duo as we bore down on him. Im sure the results will appear here at some stage.
At the 8K marker I decided it was time to take Andy out of his comfort zone, suggesting we step up the pace just a tad to start the run for home. The change was barely noticeable at first but eventually we started to overhaul some stragglers, Andy leading the way. The bungling snapper appeared once more and we resumed a neat V formation . . . only to stare slack-jawed as she once again appeared to fumble with her camera! Oh well, well have to wait and see what pops up on the official photo site.
The last kilometre mark reached I could sense the increased pace was taking its toll. Andy was breathing hard, determinedly focused on pushing for home but growing redder in the face by the minute. Nigel and I started to burble about catching a bunch of runners up ahead decked out in green club colours. This drew a grunt in response, though its not clear if this was one of affirmation or derision at our less-than-subtle attempts to dash for the line. We made ground, catching the first of the club runners just before the line. I had no idea as to our finishing time. Niguels Garmin showed 59:59, Andys 1:00 dead. Whatever its an impressive PB for the man of the hour, and much grinning and hand-shaking there was as we collected our well-stocked goody bags and delightfully bright DD medals.
Champagne served in the Glastonburical quagmire of the car park followed by a selection of fine ales in a choice Etonian watering hole completed the re-hydration. The journey back to Sussex courtesy of the Moyleman Express was further shortened by a rather pleasant snooze. Good luck to the JSJers taking on Bewl tomorrow; Im spending a rare Sunday morning in the arms of my duvet before a modest local plod.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
- and another five muggy, hilly miles this morning. By my reckoning that's . . . quite a few consecutive days of gym or running. Natural law suggests I should see some benefits sometime soon but unless I'm pregnant progress is woefully slow.
. . .
![[Image: gschool21.jpg]](http://www.girlschool.co.uk/gschool21.jpg)
