June

[Bierzo Baggie]

Glad to read a training report again... I was getting worried.

Running is difficult in the Summer heat at the best of times. The only solution for me is to get out very very early. If not....no runnng until September. I try to use the bike to keep things ticking over.

[Nigel]

Dalliance with triathlons, eh? That was no dalliance. That's my PB, that is.

Good to see you're still crunching the chalklands in between carousing with the Hollanders, Sweder. But what did you do to them ?

There they were, all set for Goodnight Vienna, and suddenly the dream disappeared faster than a Frank Rijkaard liquid lob at Rudi Völler.

As it happens, I toiled through your hills last week on the London to Brighton bike ride. A swift breeze up Ditchling (well, almost) followed by fish and chips on the beach, and then two of us decided to pedal back to Guildford along the Downs Link.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Not quite such a good idea by the time we stopped for a sundowner beside the Bax Castle at Christ's Hospital near Horsham. Lights were required for the final first gear attack (read: saddlesore bonk) up the desperate last hill home.

100 miles. The sort of distance which Ed Brickell would run before breakfast. And the kind of distance which makes me never want to get back on that bike again.

Until next year.

[Sweder]

There's a weird mix of emotions lingering around this place at the moment.
Some good stuff for sure - BBs impending exploits have us all scratching our whiskers in disbelief - but MLCMan's travails and El Gordo's series of setbacks add a soupcon of melancholy to our usually jovial blend.

Not sure if that had something to do with me bailing out of this morning's run or not. It certainly wasn't the weather - a fabulous summer morning had me slumped in a chair on the front porch, coffee in hand, sun-bathing at 07:15 in the a m. In England! Blimey

The dogs gave me the old one-two - 'Hello Dad! Let's go! Wag wag!' - but I wasn't buying it, deferring to recently-finished-exams Number One Son. They'll get out sometime after midday most likely. Work is full-on at the moment (I've had to blow out consecutive monthly golf days - unheard of) and what with the nightly watering patrol in my new front garden, Euro 2008, travel up the wazoo . . . I'm plain tuckered out.

As my good friend Down Under said today (and to steal an excellent line from Hawkwind) -
Hurry on sundown, see what tomorrow brings

[Sweder]

Heavy, oppressive humidity welcomed me onto the downs, my progress all the slower for the millstone of residual guilt hanging around my neck. Yesterday’s blow-out was my first this year – at least, the first time I’d laid out my running kit the night before only to walk past it the following morning without so much as a glance.

Now, toiling under charged thunderheads through fields of nervous grass, I sought to rid myself of sin, as if the sweat rolling off my reddening face would carry the badness out of me, unshackling my joyful will to run. I was rewarded with some cracking tunes, the mercurial Mr Cooper reaching to all corners of his musical larder; Radar Love, the full album version of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick In The Wall, a pinch of Tom Petty, a dash of ZZ Top.

Track du Jour was a shoo-in though; those wicked Stones boys with Sympathy For The Devil. I’ve always loved this song; it swims with murky malevolence, wreaking of voodoo, dancing into your head to play in the dark pools of your soul. The Evil One looks back over past deeds, asking for . . . not forgiveness, understanding. It sounded all too familiar this morning. As Jagger wove the tale so my mind conjured a morphing graphic; Satan, in the guise of the magnificent Tim Curry in Ridley Scott’s Legend, morphed into George W Bush, mean, beady-eyed stare slipping seamlessly into the grinning, sickly righteousness of the Blair Witch. The final change saw Blair’s features melt, dripping into the doleful, Eeyore-esque countenance of Britain’s current bungler-in-chief, Gordon ‘Butterfingers’ Brown.

I got to thinking about the dichotomy of views where the Stones and their Liverpudlian rivals are concerned. I don’t see the need for any mutual exclusivity; I’m comfortable with both shades of rock and roll, earthy voodoo sharing the paddock with Lennon and McCartney’s carefully crafted guile and intricate, polished melodies. As I flung myself off Blackcap, hurtling up the long pull of Mount Harry, the thought came full circle, Bono’s heinously criminal soundbite of a few years ago clanging horribly in my head. The glibly-shaded Celtic world-saver dubbed Gordon Brown and Tony Blair the ‘Lennon and McCartney of global development’. The man who urged us to give Peace a chance is no doubt still doing about 5000 rpm in his heaven-slung hammock. Blair, and to a marginally lesser extent Brown, are blood-lusting vampires compared with that gentle soul; murder and mayhem in name of world security? Alistair Crowley and Charles Manson more like.

No traps for the troubadours of Esapana last night. Electric Torres, unlucky Villa (he'll miss the final), the pasty Iniesta finally showing what all the fuss has been about, the redoubtable Senna, out-Viera-ing Patrick Viera with a none-shall-pass display, they all stepped up last night, whirling and dancing through the Russian ranks, cutting and thrusting, letting blood without mercy. The much-celebrated Arshavin looked a pale (if red-cheeked) imitation of the real thing, that contrast magnified by Fabregas, the magnificent Matador. Never mind all the Premiership-centric twaddle espoused on TV and radio during this tournament. I don’t care where Fabregas plies his weekly trade he was simply masterful last night, swirling his creative cape, providing penetration, guile, vision and drive. Aragones would be a fool to discount him for the final; the real star of these championships has finally been given the chance to stand up.

He crept at dusk to rancher's fields where fighting bulls are bred,
To practice skills with which his strong desire could be fed;
His sinews toned and prowess honed in those clandestine nights,
He toiled toward the cherished right to wear the "suit of lights".

[SIZE="1"]Robert G. Shubinski – The Matador[/SIZE]

The spikey-quaffed maestro put Russia to the sword; Death by a Thousand Passes. It was as beautiful to watch as it was ruthless and, at times in the second half, cruel. The will to win visibly drained from Hiddinks men, the incessant rain washing away their competitive spirit as the Spaniards twirled and skipped through their dishevelled ranks. It proved a game too far for the brave Cloggie-killers. They simply came up against a Spanish side who, at long last, believe that this is their destiny. The explosive celebration on the Spanish bench as the wonderfully-named Guiza (Geezer!) struck the inevitable Death Blow was remarkable, a great rush of National relief at the realisation that the habitual major tournament stumblers have finally thrown off the burden of expectation and slain their Dragon.

Like many Englishmen watching I muttered into my beer as the pundits pronounced Spains’ ascension to a major final as their 'first since 1984’. Hah! Call that a long wait? We've lost count.

I truly hope Spain fulfil their destiny on Sunday. To do so sensational Ces must surely get the nod.

[Sweder]

A hot, heavy chug around my usual track this evening. A strong breeze out of the south west provided a little merciful aircon as the fruits of last night's labours sprang forth to liberally soak my vest.

I tuned into the Murray/ Haas match live from Wimbledon, the Scots man-child living up to at least some of the hype by seeing off a potentially dangerous opponent. I was horrified to hear a commentator refer to 'Murray's Mound', concerned that investigative reporting may have finally gone too far. To my relief he was making reference to the green hill that rises behind centre court, formerly known as Henman Hill. I'm firmly against this arbitrary change of name. Henman Hill was a pheonomenon born of a nation's unhealthy, unlikely and at times unfairly burdensome demand for British success. The Hill has been the place for The People - Tiger Tim's People - to gather to watch the action, suck up the tension, bite their nails to the bloody quick, gnaw on onoe anothers' hair and, ultimately, inevitably, thump their tight clenched fists into the earth in frustration as another gallant effort falls inches short.

Henman Hill it was and Henman Hill it shall always be. What other preposterous alliterations might we face if, say, the next Great British Hope is a Bartram or a Pilkington? Bartrams Barnacle? Pevensey's Pimple? Heaven forfend we should rename it Murray's Mound and the hairy little blighter go and win the damned thing. What a waste of a magnificent monument to glorious British sporting failure that would be.

[Sweder]

I couldn't allow June to slip by without a last effort.
It's been a poor running month in Swederville, a 'step back' month if you will. July looks like more of the same so it's vital that I keep feeding on limited opportunities such as this morning.

Took advantage of the ungodly hour of my awakening (must put my mobile on silent tonight :o) and against the pressing weight of my ugly preconceptions mounted the hotel tready. LAX is, I'm told, not the place for an early morning (or late morning, or any time really) neighbourhood jog. Inglewood has a reputation referenced graphically in some of the most violent gangster movies including Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs. With this in mind I almost skipped to the healthclub, positively enthused at the prospect of a safe, airconditioned plod.

Note to self: must gain a degree in advanced aeronautical enginerering so as to be able to work the f*&!!* treadmill flightdeck. I spent ten minutes starting, stopping, walking, sprinting, cursing and hammering at the array of chirruping flashing lights, all to the (personal) soundtrack of Motorhead in full violent thrash. Luddites unite! Rise up and trash the machines! Beware Skynet! Call the govenor! Call the Governator!

Fifty minutes of i-pod and sweat staring at Hispanic morning television with the occasional furtive glance at some of the finest, firmest Californian buttocks a man could wish to see did a fair bit to change my view on the subject.

Same time tomorrow then
[SIZE="1"]50 minutes, six miles, couple of 'hills'[/SIZE]