One of my friends tried to book into the Hotel Tryp Indalo but they are now full up on Saturday. He has a room for Sunday and Monday but needs to find a hotel for Saturday night.
Can you suggest a hotel that is near to Tryp Indalo, or at least on that side of town? The plan is for him to stay in another hotel on Saturday night, bring his luggage to Tryp Indalo on Sunday morning and check in after the race on Sunday afternoon.
He is going to search on the internet of course but if you know somewhere that is not too far from us he can try there first. Many thanks!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Nothing more than a gentle lollop across the downs today. Sunshine battled with occasional cloud to rule the skies, the violent maelstrom of recent days a soothing zephyr by comparison.
The ugly horizontal rain that's beaten this part of the world like a red-headed stepchild has left a trail of sodden mud pools in its wake. The hounds splashed merrily through the sticky downland epidermis, Gypsy, the largest, splattering me with clods of wet earth as she scampered past. I spent much of my time slipping and sliding, seeking a foothold where there was none, imagining hundreds of micro-tears wreaking miniature havoc in my leg muscles.
For all that a pleasant outing, seeing me home dry (apart from the usual self-made coolant) and far less weather-beaten than usual. Track du jour would have to be Highway Star by Deep Purple, excellent for rugged hill work.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A windswept twelve and a half miler with the JSjers this morning. The newbies returned, bounce restored, to put in a consumate shift, leading the way around the Snake route, leaving me for dead at the finish.
I felt strangely subdued today, legs a little weary. Perhaps it's the lack of mid-week runs - one this week, one last week - but more likely it's the night out on Friday with SP and Captain Tom that did for me. Harveys Best and Badgers' new brew Pickled Partridge proved a tasty combination but I suffered considerably all yesterday and this morning. Loping home (after the run, not the night out), nipples glowing (I really must get some decent bodyglide), legs splattered with muddy streaks, I gave thanks to whoever might be listening that this particular run had reached its end; I was knackered and in need of a good lie down.
The best part by far today was the post-run visit to Mac's café. Double beans on toast, coffee and fruit cake helped restore energy levels to something like normal. Moyleman enjoyed a comfortable plod around the Residences route, wolfing down a full English in celebration. Lycra Tony and Cynthia joined me for a natter. It turns out Cynthia is a blog junkie, and a political blog junkie at that. Just for her then, here's a link to Ella's Blog, someone I 'met' via the excellent Roads of Stone site. There are some interesting (if you like that sort of thing) debates going on about Hillary and Obama on these sites. I find it interesting to get the American voters' perspective. Of course I used to take my US political reviews, along with a dash of tabasco and a large glass of gin, straight from the Great Gonzo himself. Hunter S Thompson covered Mr Bill's march to the White House in his wonderful collection of annecdotes, faxes and articles, Better Than Sex. He showed remarkable prescience, warning of Mr Bill's moral ambivalence way before the Big Lewinski hit the headlines. He forsaw Clinton's inauguration as The Night of The Whorehoppers; it was the beginning of the end for The Doc, a man who could no longer live in a world where the Democrats consistantly shot themselves in the foot, leaving the door ajar for Dubbya to sneak in at the last minute.
I suspect had he not shot himself in his Colorado mountain stronghold HST might just have imploded this time around.
Next stop Almería
It's funny, only six days to go and I've hardly thought about it lately. There's dinner tickets to arrange for non-running significant others, outfits to purchase (so I'm reliably informed by a gleeful Mrs S) and, er, probably lots of other things to sort out besides. For now it's a cuppa, my sofa and Wigan v Everton.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Has an Almería squad ever left these shores less well prepared?
I doubt it. My stodgy, huff'n'puff slog across the downs this morning did little to boost my confidence. Had I managed two midweek outings in recent weeks I'm sure I'd be in better shape. Actually the less is more has become less is less; the lard has settled around the middle, the legs are gradually losing any suggestion of power and the lungs have never truly recovered from the debilitating Christmas lurghie.
Still, there's much to look forward to. Shame it's all bar or resturant related, but frankly that is the principal reason that we flock to Andalucia at this time of year. It's as well not to lose sight of that.
On my travels today I considered the current political situation here in the UK.
Yesterday around 25,000 police men and women marched through London to demonstrate against what they see as a derisory pay offer - 1.9 percent. I noticed one Anthony Wedgewood Benn, former champion of the militant miners back in the bad old days of the Winter of Discontent, standing shoulder to shoulder with the grim-faced rozzers. Benn justified this apparent u-turn, albeit with a gtwenty-year gap, by saying
'I told these people when they were up against us during the miners' dispute that come their time of need I would stand with them, so here I am.'
Fair play Tony. The government insist that they cannot allow public sector pay to rise above inflation. That is, above their own 'official' inflation figures, being in the region of 2%. Most people with a functioning mind in this country know too well that very few prices are rising by 2%. Council Tax (4%) rail fares (goodness knows how much), fuel and other utility bills are going up like prices at Christmas.
Today our government, indeed our parliament, sit to debate MPs pay and a possible increase. Well I have a message for them; get real people. We voted you in and we can bloody well vote you out again. If you keep feeding us this diatribe of pulped figures and plattitudes you'll get what you deserve - booted out at the next election. Not that the next lot will be any better, but there we are.
The hills were shrouded in mist this morning. I'm not sure if it was fog, low cloud or 'mizzle' - mist and drizzle. All in all it made for a gloomy trudge, even though I picked up a little towards the end. At least I know the mist will lift, eventually. This lame-duck government, however, looks likely to continue to operate in a dense fog for some time to come.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
With you brother comrade. We too suffer the same fate - real prices rise much faster than the alleged actual inflation figure. Fuel, food and interest rates have ramped up alarmingly, while real workers are lucky to get a wage increase at all, and never above the official inflation rate.
And people wonder why I'm an arch-neo-anarcho-socialist.
Far too busy with the hectic rehydration schedule to post a full report. Just popped in to say all survived, despite the 10k route being actually 13k (!!!) and everyone complaining about various ailments, war-wounds, yadda yadda yadda. So cool to finally meet Ana and her friends Habib (Javier) and Hkkkkkjjjjjgorhkkkkjjjjgey (Jorge with lots of throat hacking), lovely to spend some time with Mrs Anlu, too.
Details and tales rude and glorious to follow. For now here's a snapshot from the post-race meal (which was wonderful) to give you a flavour of proceedings . . . adios muchacos . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I'm leaving fullsome reporting on the Big One to others this year. My own race turned out pretty well considering post-lurghie, rather flabby conditioning, mainly thanks to the excellent Moyleman who chugged along with me all the way and to the excellent support offered by the good people of Almería. The ladies did stout work, cheering us on our second ascent of Las Ramblas - one we took all too fast, putting the kaibosh on a potential course PB. 7:40 miling felt pretty impressive on that last climb, but the toll paid on the recovery descent was too high, at times slowing to 8:30 pace. Something in the mid 1:47's was more than satisfactory.
Great weather, fabulous company and some notable achievements, not least from Ana, Javier and Jorge who, as has been well-reported elsewhere, suffered at the hands of incompetent race organisers/ marshalls and completed a 13 km route instead of the scheduled 10. Steve came into this race having one previous half - last March - under his belt. He's 'run a bit' since but was, I think it fair to say, pretty nervous about the run. He walked away, having looked remarkably comfortable at every stage, with a massive PB, smashing two hours with a sub 1:56, a stunning effort.
Elsewhere El Gordo took good care of his troublesome knee, Moyleman defied imminent Man Flu and Antonio brushed off severe discomfort in his foot to finish in creditable style. All in all a grand day out, though in my humble opinion this was only the prelude to the high point of the weekend; the offroad Monday madness of the plunge from Banos Sierra Almahilla. I'll get to that just as soon as I've taken care of a small avalanche of home and work-related matters that accrued in my absence.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Welcome to the old freezerio muchachos.
Dropping fifteen degrees overnight was bad enough; the knifing wind out of the west added insult to injury. Sam 'The Legend' Lambourne always tells us it's great to run on tired legs. Well good people I'm here to tell you I did a shedload of fine work this morning, staggering over the downs like an escapee from a retirement home, hunkered down in my FLM BLBLNY* windcheater looking for all the world like a big silver rubbish bag blowing helter-skelter across the skyline.
Ah Almería! The Siren's song sang loud and clear and we rejoiced in the warmth of her hospitable bossom. Worlds collided, culturally and socially, yet we emerged unscathed, bound tighter by our differences, unified by our experiences, leg-weary, eye-bleary, happy as sandboys. I'm working up to the tale of Sunday night/ Monday, savouring the gathering of memories on my tastebuds like a wino on the waggon in a wonderful daydream. There's much to tell, all of it good and much of it funny; but I'll tease you no more.
For now it's all about stretching for your life, coaxing warm blood back into battered limbs. There's a hilly, wind-blown fifteen miler out there with my name on it, and Sunday morning shall see it delivered. Somehow
[SIZE="1"]*FLM BLBLNY = Flora London Marathon Bad Luck Better Luck Next Year[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
So, farewell then, Jeremy Beadle.
'Beadle's about', that was your catchphrase.
Not anymore.
[SIZE="1"]With apologies to E J Thribb, 17 1/2.[/SIZE]
Like many telly watchers in the '80's I saw Jeremy Beadle as a slightly comical figure of fun. Well known as a prankster of the highest order he orchestrated some wonderful stunts and wind-ups for the cameras, usually involving unsuspecting members of the public, a prized posession and heavy lifting equipment. 'Beadle's About' and 'You've Been Framed' drew massive audiences, albethey of a time before satelitte and, therefore, much choice.
His death yesterday triggered an avalanche of tributes and accolades from the great and the good about Beadle the Erudite, a man few of us knew. I was staggered to hear that this humble goatee'd television host raised 'tens of millions' for charity, owned a definitive crime libruary, was an authority on Jack the Ripper and is widely regarded by his piers as one of the warmest, most intelligent people they'd met.
What I already knew - and many of us did, if we were but to admit it - was that he knew how to tickle your funnybone without being loveable in that superficial, 'hollywood' way that seems essential today, or cruel or at the expense of those less fortunate than himself. With his simple, self-effacing style he touched the hearts and put smiles on the faces of a nation. It appears we have lost a gem.
A smug, self-serving DJ called for 'a big hand for Jeremy Beadle' this morning. Beadle famously had a withered hand, for which he took an unbelievable amount of stick, something unlikely to happen in these politically correct times. I'd like to think that perhaps his body ran out of energy having worked so ferociously to create such a huge heart.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
In the spirit of tardiness that surrounds the post-Almería 2008 festivities I finally caught up with my Garmin readouts. Here's some map data from the half marathon and the Monday Mountain Plummet.
Still holding out hope for an El Gordo race report :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
