Ah, November has arrived.
Not only the promise of cooler weather - even some nice muddy trails - but also a little less traveling and a little more running. A time to step up through the gears (well, first would be a start) and get back to where I onced belonged.
Not a bad start either.
Check out Rainforest on the new RC pages for more details.
Come on people, lets get out there!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Unable to reach Mrs S so booked her in anyway! Out on the 26th back on the 29th from/ to LGW South. Will attempt to navigate the race site for race booking and hotel. I may be some time . . . but as it's 5.30 am here and I can't sleep a wink I may as well
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It' crunch time.
Returned home from Panama via New York - a true constrast in styles, not least in terms of climate - to find an invitation on my electronic doormat.
'On line entries for the 39th Two Oceans Marathon now open!'
With all the injuries flying about in here, and the realisation that the 16 week sub-six program starts next week, I'm doing a lot of chin-stroking. I fancy another bash at London next year - a sub four must be within my grasp - yet I can't help but feel there's unfinished business out there on the Cape peninsular.
My head tells me its a couple of weeks earlier and therefore might be warmer. Thanks to an indulgent month I'm in true heavyweight territory but that's surely a good reason to embark on a serious campaign. Travel plans are light between now and March . . . it's almost too close to call.
As usual the best way to gather clear perspective is to take to the hills. After a quick doze on the sofa I'll nip out with the hounds and see what the Downland spirits have to say.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Thanks to Continental Airlines having some sort of wrangle over the number of functioning toilets on their Newark-Gatwick flight (leading to a number of childish remarks about Incontinental airlines) I arrived home a good deal later than planned. Undeterred I head for the hills, albeit under the advancing, chilling cloak of dusk. Not for the first time in recent outings I suffered, my lungs having endured the smoke-fest of a number of late night Central American establishments, not to mention the more than occasional roll-up.
There's no easy way to tackle this; I have to stop, full stop. If I don't I'll return to the wheezing slave to chest infections and restricted lung capacity of a few years ago. It's actually not that difficult; stop smoking or stop running - I can't continue to do both.
A tough but enjoyable outing in fading light, winters' icy fingers chilling the sweat on my vest as I lumbered home, the twinkling lights of Newhaven dancing on the shadowy horizon. A good opportunity to test drive the latest addition to my footwear stable. I recently managed to track down some Addidas offroaders that were vaguely comparable to my beloved Climacools; Supernova trail shoes. They were lurking on the dark, musty vaults of the Jog Shop, winkled out by the great Sam Lambourne. They fit like a glove and tonight, on their maiden voyage, felt sturdy and competant as they negotiated the humps, hollows and slippery obstacles of my regular trail.
There was no epiphanal moment, no revelatory sign pointing towards or away from Cape Town next year. I'll just have to get back in the groove, take a long hard look at the schedule and commit to it. Or not. Bugger.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I've committed a great sin against my own sense of perspective and social correctness - I've gone and mentioned the C word and we're barely into November.
No doubt my twisted soul will burn for all eternity, yet I'm about to do so again in the name of a cause greater than my own. For there is a solution, dear reader, for those amongst us with relatives or friends for whom the buying of Christmas presents is one of life's horrors. The snotty Nephew, the grumbly Uncle, the sports nut next door.
"Best of British" is a celebration of the nation's greatest 100 sporting heroes, from Henry VIII to Red Rum, Roy of the Rovers to Torvill and Dean. Jon Henderson has combed through the annals of our glorious and not so glorious past to bring us the geniuses and the eccentrics, the national treasures and the villains who together have shaped our present. Trueman and W. G., Best and Edwards, racing drivers, jockeys, rowers - just what does it take to make a sporting superhero? Hendo's 100 reveals all. Opinionated and provocative, his witty character studies - accompanied by stylish illustrations - capture the essence of his subjects' greatness, re-evaluating the famous and rescuing the forgotten. But when there's a cast of thousands to choose from, and hundreds of years of history to explore, who will make the cut for the most heroic of the heroic? Find out, in "Best of British".
Hendo is a mate of mine and a stalwart of JDRF UK for many years. He's a top bloke - he's handing over his winnings from this tome to the charity - and I would lov it - really LOV it - if you would all go out and buy a copy for someone you love - or even can't stand - this Christmas. There; I've said it again. Aaaaaargh!
Best of British: Hendo's Sporting Heroes by Jonathan Henderson.
[SIZE="1"]Available from Waterstones of via Amazon.com, GBP 9.99.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's World Diabetes Day today.
Following the passing of the UN resolution on diabetes last year a host of major world cities will join hands to highlight the plight of people suffering from all types of diabetes and the urgent need to curtail the alarming growth of this dangerous condition.
The Empire State Building, one of New York's most famous landmarks, was the first building to join the World Diabetes Day campaign and agree to light up in blue. Since then the campaign has been joined by some of the world's most famous landmarks, including the Sydney Opera House, the London Eye, Leaning Tower of Pisa, Tokyo Tower, Niagara Falls, the Burj Al Arab in Dubai, the Aleppo Citadel in Syria, the Obelisk in Buenos Aires, the Sears Tower in Chicago, Christ the Redeemer in Brazil, and the building currently considered the world's tallest: the Taipei 101 Tower in Taiwan. More here.
I know about this because I'm heavily involved in the diabetes community, but unless I told you would you know about it? Would you know, for example, that the symbol for diabetes is a blue circle, that the London Eye will be lit up tonight (and has been all this week) as a giant blue circle in recognition of the day?
Trouble is just about every day these days is a 'something' day. Halloween, All Saints Day, Rock Aganist Racism, Breast Cancer Awareness, Children In Need, Ride Your Bike to School Day, Sanctuary for One Legged Lesbian Nuns . . . it's an endless tide of special days, and they all flow into one another until the edges blur and the meaning fades.
Excuse my doleful whinge - I've just endured one of those slow, painful plods that we all know so well. It wasn't ever going to be a good one, so I duly hunched my shoulders and scraped myself across the downs, wrapped in several layers against the cold in a vain effort to sweat off an extra kilo or two of accumulated sloth. How swiflty the lard gathers at this time of year; every pint seems to add an inch, every burger another roll of fat. At least I've knocked that smoking nonsense in the head. Beer's next I suppose.
My decision over TOM looms large and cloudy as ever. I visited Sam 'Yoda' Lambourne at the Jog Shop yesterday, taking in a good-sized carier full of old running shoes (Mrs S is still dancing in delight) for their 'old trainer amnesty', a sort of recycle running shoes for Africa deal. Sam was, as ever, generous with his advice, assuring me I shouldn't worry about a lack of hard top mileage, that off-road was better training and to focus on extending my long runs past the two-and-a-half hour threshold.
'That's when the body switches over, when you stop feeding off your reserves and start needing to feed off what you put in your mouth.' We talked gel strategies, the importance of getting the stomach working early in a race so that come the time for the body to find extra energy the food organ is up and running. It was a good chat, one that had me convinced of my chances to improve. Then I went out this morning and drowned that optimism in an ocean of sweat.
Whatever my decision there's a lot of work to be done.
On a happier note the Brighton 10K happens this weekend. Antonio arrives, and I'm hoping that he along with Andy, Niguel, Moyleman, SP (?) and a few others will be up for some beer and pasta at Alfrescos after the race. It's here I plan to fish for opinion and pearls of wisdom from my fellow Rcers, more pluses and minuses to add to the pot before I give it a big old stir next week and pull out the answer.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Having plugged - shamelessly, it must be said - Hendo's Sporting Heroes here and elsewhere, I made another purchase from the world of sporting literature yesterday. You might consider Searching for Heroes by Ian Wooldridge to be a direct competitor of Hendo's book. Not a bit of it. For, with due deference to the undoubted skills of the great Hendo, and in my humble opinion, Wooldridge bears comparison with no man.
There is of course no reason why one should not purchase and enjoy each book, as I have done. The fact is that the recounted tales of Woollers - the loss of whom I lamented here some time ago - is simply the finest collection of anecdotes I've had the privilidge to read. I'm only half a chapter in and already I've hooted loudly on many occasions. The Mail is publishing extracts all this week - fittingly in the sports pages - and I heartily recommend those unfamiliar with his style take a peek.
Here's a taster:
You meet all kinds of people and learn many recondite things along the sportswriting road.
You learn that jet propulsion, motorways, six-hour laundries, penicillin, plastic credit cards, secretaries who can actually write shorthand, and whisky are the seven real wonders of the world. The whisky is to brush your teeth with in India where some taps drip pure hemlock. You learn the truth of a phrase that Cliff Michelmore onced coined or quoted: take half the clothes and twice the money. You learn to cram suits, shirts and shoes into your hand-baggage to save hanging around at airports. You learn to eat only one meal in three on long-haul trips to Australia to prevent feeling like death when you get off.
and, speaking of his lack of desire to extend his education beyond two modest O levels:
There was a terrific world out there somewhere, I knew that from Hemingway, James Hadley Chase and Picture Post, and it was full of newspapers, adventure, bars, promiscuous women and men who lit cigarettes like Humphrey Bogart.
Read it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Shuffled off into persistant mizzle this morning, trying to shake off some slight knee-knack and tight hamstrings picked up on the B10K. Despite today's miserable conditions I enjoyed the run, working out some of the residual lactic acid, not to mention sweating off the Guinness from yesterday's golf day at Hever Castle. This cross-training lark can be fun.
Alone - save for the hounds - with my thoughts I reviewed the Two Oceans situation, seeking a clear path. Sadly my mind is as murky on this as the soggy downland trails; the jury remains in absentia. One thing is certain; whatever the outcome I'll start marathon training this Sunday. For should TOM be relegated to 2009 Steyning and London are back in the frame.
Despite the lack of clear thinking on running I did have a moment of clarity with regard to my professional career. More on this later. Track du jour? Either In Every Dream Home A Heartache, Roxy Music or Pearl Necklace, ZZ Top. It's a toss-up really
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well there we are - or, rather, not.
Devastated? Not really. Croatia were simply excellent - cool, calm, collected in the face of headless chickens and frightened lambs.
Is it, as Alan Hansen pompously claimed tonight, the 'low point in English (football) history'? Of course not. 'We' have no devine right to beat anyone, least of all a team playing such composed, efficient, ruthless football, ultimately topping their group with an ease that does not flatter them.
Well played Croatia. At least part-Croat broadcaster, football nut and fellow FLM 2005 finisher Adrian Chiles will be happy. His paternal side deserved their glory - and didn't they enjoy it! They will be tough to beat and good to watch in Austria and Switzerland next summer.
And what now for England? A farewell to Second Choice Steve perhaps, though I confess that I rather liked his style under pressure. Personally I'd like to see Brian Barwick fall on his sword, but hari kari isn't in vogue these days.
No doubt the recriminations will come thick and fast. How I'd loved to have asked the pundits - those same wise men who have hailed McLaren's team selections since the carefully orchestrated team-sheet leaks yesterday - if they backed his choices win, lose or draw before the kick-off. 20/20 perception will now rule the roost as those same well-paid sages rub their chins and tell us that of course those risky selections doomed us to failure. Such is the way of our national game, and such is the media merry-go-round. For my two pennuth I thought McLaren's choices were about right, though I thought the goalkeeping job should have changed hands before this crunch encounter.
Whilst Lampard's anonimity in the first half was a suprise to no-one I don't think anyone could have forseen the ineptitude of Wayne Bridge or the lack of drive in the second half from Steven Gerrard. It was a strange England performance which suggested above all a level of fear - and the resulting bad decision-making and hesitancy - that costs you big time at international level. Low point? No, I think our inglorious past on foreign terraces and in riot-torn streets deserve that dubious accolade. But we're in a rum old state and that's for sure.
A new World order? Not quite - changing European landscape perhaps.
If you like a flutter, get a few bob on the men in the chef's chequered tops.
They can go all the way in this tournament.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I watched Ray Wilkins (Sky Highlights show) hold forth on the reckless abandon with which the England team appeared to chase a third goal with the score at 2 - 2. We needed, reasoned the Bald One, to hold on to the ball, control the game, make them work harder to gain possession. I like Wilkins, always have since his killer curler against Brighton in the FA Cup Final. He appeared informed, reasoned and eloquent this evening, and with England only needing a point from the game made a good deal of sense.
An hour later I listened to Martin Keown, that well-known advocate of reasonable argument, suggest that England had sat back and invited Croatia to attack. We should, suggested the stoic defender, have chased the game, killed it off with a third goal with the score at 2 -2. I suspect Mr Keown's view stems from his experience as a quality defender, having recognised with horror the paucity of anything approaching calm in the England back four this evening.
It all goes to show that opinions are indeed like orifices:
everybody has one.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Did you catch Hanson's comment in the half-time anal-ysis when he was reviewing Croatia's second goal. We had 6 players to their 2 yet they still managed to score..."Diabolical defending, a pub side could have done better" :RFLMAO:
Frankly I'm pleased we're out. We got everything we deserved. It also means I don't have to watch us getting knocked out on penalties next summer.
I'm not unhappy that we're out, for similar yet also for different reasons.
I believe we need a root and branch review of football in England - but not just the England national set-up.
Martin Samuel wrote an insightful piece in the Times yesterday all about how we take ten year olds and stick them on full-size pitches. He calculated the equivalent for adults; it would be like playing on a pitch the size of your average Supermarket (including the service areas at the back) with a medium sized bungalow for a goal at either end. This disparity for our youth results in the big lads who can hoof it getting put at the back and the nippy lads who can chase it being shoved up front.
It seems clear that learning to love the ball is vital.
The first thing to do is reduce 10 years plus football to nine-a-side and reduce the pitch and goal size. This will in turn reduce the demoralising thrashings seen week in week out in park life.
OK, I can sense a will to love ebbing away . . . but if you can get hold of the piece do so; as someone who coached youngsters - badly and on a purely amateur basis I confess - I have to say he's spot on.
McLaren didn't resign because he wanted his remaining contract paid-off. It's symptomatic of this modern age when the mighty pound - or more accurately millions of them - rule absolutely. Second Choice Steve has gone - and El Tel with him I'm just hearing. In my view Barwick and his entire farmyard of trough-snuffling toadies need to follow.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The last minute cancellation of a London meeting presented the perfect opportunity for a lunchtime plod. I harnessed the hounds and head for the hills, i-pod on loud, grateful for a gap in the rain. In fact the sun made a rare, fleeting appearance, what little warmth provided swiftly dashed away by a spritely breeze out of the west.
The outbound lurch was a painful affair. I'd planned on a slow one but the headwind conspired with the glue-pot surface to all but stop me in my muddy tracks. I huffed and puffed, making gradual progress, drinking in the stunning views of sunlit valleys under clear blue skies. Clouds skulked on the horizon like bullies outside the school gates, desperate to cruise in for some brutal action. The wind did it's job keeping the interlopers at bay.
At the turn I sucked in some air and again dined on the vista. In the distance the peak of Seaford Head pointed out to sea, the rolling downs in between a patchwork of shadows and dark creases. It's here I shall return on Sunday, setting off on a campaign that leads I know not where.
The homeward bound proved a lot more fun. Not only did the breeze get behind me but I grew accustomed to the layers of mud clogging my new Addidas Offies and embraced the slopes of Wicker Man Hill and the climb to the stables, indulging in a little fartlek along the way. At one point, on the plummet from Blackcap, I briefly reached the giddy heights of 4 minute 30 pace. This felt marvelous until I realised that Roger Bannister (and so many since) managed to sustain far better than this for a full mile on the flat
As I crested the hill at the stables America's Ventura Highway slipped into the earphones; classic last mile warm-down music and my track du jour.
Alligator lizards in the air . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Many thanks to Antonio who recently sent me a number of photographs from the Brighton 10K weekend.
Here's one he snapped of a day-release group near the Palace Pier.
There was no obvious sign of their handlers - or nurse Ratchet - but they seem well-medicated
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A planned easy eight - Wire and back - turned into something else on a devilishly windy day. There's more here.
Meanwhile agreed to take on the Mince Pie Ten a week next Sunday when finishers are rewarded with a tasty treat. Not hard to figure out what! Proceeds go to charity and if you're a club runner there are points available. Looks like nailed-on wind and rain - what more could you wish for!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I did write something after the football but didn't get round to finishing it. (Story of my life.) Oh hang on, here it is....
[INDENT]It was a new one on me. A phone call from the medical centre on Monday morning, cancelling my appointment. The doctors rung in sick, I was told. A bit like the apocryphal sign on the restaurant door: CLOSED FOR LUNCH. I like these little conundrums. The good fortune of being knocked down by an ambulance. And so on.
Another paradox is the shambles thats the England football team. It says it all that I celebrated wildly this evening (or as wildly as you can when youre on your own in a hotel room, stone-cold sober) after Croatia scored their third, and decisive, goal at Wembley. Things have got so bad that we needed a public humiliation and through our insistence on spurning every undeserved opportunity weve been handed thats what we got. Its marvellous. Weve officially failed, humiliated by incompetence at every level, both within and beyond the team. They say that alcoholics and drug addicts can only repair themselves after theyve hit rock bottom, and that seems to apply to the national football team too. Hurrah! Weve got there at last. What a relief.[/INDENT]
I still feel the same now, 5 days later. I'm pleased that we're not going to go through all that crap yet again next summer. The flags flying from every chavmobile across the nation; the tabloid jingoism; Frank F-ing Lampard; the metatarsal dramas; the surreal assumption that we'd win the tournament -- which would last right up until the quarter-final penalty shoot-out.
We're spared it all. How good does that feel?
Incidentally, I rearranged my doc's appointment for last Wednesday, and was essentially told that my various ailments were down to 'wear and tear', and there was no evidence of anything more serious. The guy seemed to know what he was talking about. Had been an orthopaedic specialist until recently. Beginning signs of osteo-arthritis in my hands, apparently, but no knobbly bits around my knee, which would have been telling, it seems.
I was told that running would probably do me more good than harm; that I should get back out there; and that I shouldn't be put off trying for Boston.
Bugger.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Andy Wrote:I was told that running would probably do me more good than harm; that I should get back out there; and that I shouldn't be put off trying for Boston.
Bugger.
That's the sort of good news we can all do with hearing
Agree totally on the football - blimey, I don't remember saying that too often.
I feel a tiny sliver of sympathy with some of the kids up and down the land who won't be painting their faces and flying the St George's Cross next summer, but it is only the weeniest pang and it will be gone in no time.
It'll be a long and painful convalescence. As you say England are at rock bottom. I can't help but see it all encapsulated in the horrific hyperbole that is Fat Frank Lumpard. Or maybe in the nonsense about Beckham's 100th cap - who give a monkeys? You're either right for the team or you're not. Right now Beckham just about holds a place in the squad for his experience of having actually won a few things and owning a decent right foot. That will fade faster than the sickly smile on Brian Barwick's jowls after the draw in Durban if Sir David stays in LA-la land.
Whoever the next manager is - and it might as well be Steve King from the Mighty Rooks as anyone I've heard mentioned - for the love of all things sacred let the FA offer them a paltry base salary with obscene bonuses for actually qualifying for and progressing in tournaments. The so-called 'top managers' won't go for the job . . . so what? If you won't stand or fall by your own results we don't want you.
Woody Allen? Shearer, Shearer? 'Arry Redknapp?
Leave it art geezer. Between them they're lucky if they've won a game of Bingo. Alright, O'Neil won the European Cup as a player sometime in the mists of the last century, but it's hardly relevant today.
I hope the FA truly consult with 'the game' this time and come up with a radical solution. Not a one-man answer, but an England management team that prohibits the sort of bunker mentality that inevitably comes from the filth hounds of Fleet Street baying for your blood. I can see room for a Shearer type in there, someone to get a boot up a few backsides and call a spade a spade, but only in an assisting capacity.
Right now I don't care too much. Happily there's much more on the positive side of life to embrace.
Like Almería. And Boston. Come on!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No-no-no-no-no . . . Yesvember
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