I am a Philistine, an Unbeliever. A self-confessed Luddite I fear change, and Im right to do so, dear reader, for change is bad. Whats brought this on? I hear you mutter as you reach for the back button on your browser. Well Ill tell ya; George effin Clooney, thats what. To be more precise the latest techno-gizmo, gotta-have, keeping-up-with-the-Clooneys caffeine-bean processor hes adhered his much-adored, salt n pepper mug to. Frustration, thy name is the Krups Nespresso XN4050 Concept Auto.
I figure myself to be of medium intelligence. Not Einstein, not Eddie the Eagle Edwards, but somewhere in with the myriad of bustling souls getting about their daily business as best they can. So when, at some un-Godly hour, in a small kitchen dominated by the looming presence of a heavily hung-over, piss-taking Seafront Plodder, I find that Im lacking the degree in advanced astro physics required to make a simple flaming cup of coffee, I get a little tetchy. It doesnt help that the big mans shoulders are shaking like the edge of Vesuvius as he watches me thrash like a frog in a blender trying to make a beverage. Mrs S was persuaded to purchase this latest shiny kitchen accessory by Number One Son. I of course saw through his cunning rouse, albeit too late. He s well aware of our collective inability to embrace new gadgets and has Machiavellian designs on moving said contraption into his lair - once weve torn whats left of our hair out trying to make the blasted thing work. Judged on my performance this morning it would take slightly less time to kill and prepared a full roast dinner than to make coffee for six guests. I like kettles, me. And instant coffee. Yeah, I know Philistine does what it says on the tin. Im not ashamed, I just want a cup of bloody coffee without the bullshit.
All this followed what you may now have surmised to have been an excursion with my re-hydration guru and his caped companion, Captain Tom. A few Guinness followed by a raid on my red wine stocks that finished a tad shy of three am. Mrs S, woken, like the Kraken, to our sheer and utter horror, railing against the noisy swine bouncing off the dining room furniture as they tried to feed SPs bizarre musical mores. Captain Tom took stock and took steps great big ones towards the door. The sight of my beloved, eyes blazing and out for blood, was enough. He scampered into the night with a cheery wave, following howls of derision trailing into the frosted night.
Now, in the hard, cold, and oh-so early light, the temperature a lusty minus eight, here I stood, dressed for the BHTT 5K, wondering what on Earth Id been thinking. Again. The run turned out OK 23:43, respectable and ahem - my best this year. SP declined my generous offer to join in, citing the fact that my shoes were more akin to canoes than footwear. I had nothing for his dainty plates so he took off for the train, destination duvet. At the park Stevio shivered, a well-wrapped (and clearly not running) Le Soft declared calf-knack and Simon, duly sniffling and equally buried under several layers, declared lurghie. There was no sign of Ladyrunner, no doubt charging her batteries for the later XC race, but no fewer than sixty souls lined up, including a handful of newbies. What were they thinking? I gave it a good go, starting slowly, as much out of respect for the slippery track as for my dulled senses and embarrassingly wobbly belly. Most pleasing was a strong finish and a lack of knee-whinge, as welcome as the run itself.
Minus eight it really is a cracking start to the year, winter-wise. I can only hope for more of the same tomorrow as we return to the valley of the White Worm and more hillside capers with the Jog Shop crew.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
-8, what's that? Never experienced it (well maybe a few times as wind chill)... it's +38 here and set to knock the top off 40 by Tuesday. Ah, lovely!
I remember talking to an 'older' American quite some years back. He said that during WWII they flew a bunch of raw recruits from Hawaii to the Army training base where he worked in North Dakota. It was -10 degrees (F, probably but either way bloody cold) when they arrived and many of the recruits had never left Hawaii before. Several of them went straight into shock and had to be taken to the base hospital.
I would perhaps not go into shock but I can tell you that it would be physically (and mentally) IMPOSSIBLE for me to get to, let alone enter, a race in minus 8 degrees: I struggle to get moving in plus 8. And after a skinful and a fight with the coffee maker it wouldn't even enter my head to attempt it!
Well the good news is the thermometer has crawled back into the black. The bad news is the Siberian Express, a brutal and savage wind straight off the arctic tundra, has arrived, bristling with chilling intent. The sun is up, albeit quivering behind a thin veil of high cloud, and of little use to man nor huddled beast. This may be the coldest one yet
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Back in the black numbers on the temp. gauge – a hearty plus 4 as I set off for the marina rendezvous. A vicious wind rattled through the town and I wondered if we’d actually find it tougher out there as a result. At first it looked as though others concurred, there being just a handful of well-wrapped runners huddled at the start a few minutes shy of the 'off'. Lycra Tony had made an effort to warm us up, donning a dazzling set of electric blue leggings. Steve asked if they were new.
‘No, they’re an old pair’ he grinned.
‘Like, mid-1960’s’ I offered, helpfully.
With barely a minute to go runners started pouring out of cars, swelling our number to over thirty. The newbies would be making their first excursion inland, heading up Telscombe Tye and into the Famous Residences for a hilly nine plus miles. I felt sure I’d repeat the straight snake run for the third week, er, running, but fate, in the shape of Nigel, had other ideas.
The first three miles passed easily, sociable chatter in abundance during a leisurely lope aimed at keeping the pack together. The expected wind had vanished and I soon came to regret two layers of gloves and a headband, warming quickly in the almost balmy conditions. At the rest point Nigel announced he’d be hitting the North Face and Yellow Brick Road before heading on into Woodingdean. As is his wont he didn't hang about, stomping off up the stairs and away, leaving us to shiver and use the facilities in turn. I know the route of which he spoke, though I’ve only run it a couple of times, most recently pre FLM 2008 with Stevio when he’d suffered calf-knack half way through a full Jog Shop Jog circuit. I didn’t think I’d go with him, but within ten minutes I’d changed my mind. Stevio led a bouncing, buoyant group up the Tye at what felt to me like a fair old rate of knots. They raced away from me, my legs labouring badly, unresponsive to my silent pleas for more thrust. It’s OK; as Van the Man'll tell you, you get days like this. It’s far better to have a shocker on a training run than on race day. When it's your turn in the barrel . . . OK, you catch my drift. I swallowed my disappointment and settled into my own pace (which wasn’t far off the leading groups' now), resigned to a slow, steady plod in the unexpectedly warm conditions. I figured a couple of the newer runners who’d joined our long-route posse might come rolling on back to me; it would be good to guide them home.
At the top of the Tye I spied Nigel loitering at the second sheep gate. He kept looking up, as if trying to spot someone. I realised that someone might be me and chugged up to him, muttering darkly about Stevio's apparently effortless hard pace, and he grinned.
‘Best jog along with me then.'
And that seemed like a perfectly reasonable option. I’ve run with Nigel a few times. He can be very competitive, but on the whole we’re well matched. Besides, a longer, slower run would be better for me (today, at any rate) than a breathless chase after Speedy Gonzales and his new disciples. I nodded agreement and we slowed up, letting the Snake group go. At the turn-off along the ridge I felt good about my choice, even though my legs still felt dissapointingly heavy. The melting mud wasn’t helping. Frost-bound trails had thawed over night to leave a sticky carpet to suck and claw at our feet, clods of earth collecting on our shoes until we were running in ugly moon-boots. We chatted amiably about friends, family, Christmas and plans for the year, until the time came to stop talking and start sucking some serious wind.
The North Face offers a formidable challenge. 62 metres of climb in less than half a kilometre on a heavy, churned-mud staircase laced with chalk and flint. It took everything I had to keep going from bottom to top, elbows pumping, feet dancing over the rough ground, breath rasping until my throat appeared to be filled with over-inflated lungs. At the top, gasping like fresh-landed fish, we grinned at one another, agreeing between gulps that we’d probably both have walked part of it had we'd been alone. That’s the great thing about running with others; there’s this unspoken challenge, a code of honour that says if you keep going I’ll keep going. It helps you push on where you might otherwise not, and in the wider scheme of things helps you develop your running by pushing your own personal envelope. Of course there's a down side, as demonstrated by my debilitating efforts to keep up with the quicks, but on the whole and with a little sensible mediation, and as in many things in life (chess, golf, tennis) 'playing' against a better opponent will occasionally get you thrashed but will generally improve your understanding of the game and, just now and again, give you a glimpse of your true potential. It can be used in races too; you find your pace well-matched to another, perhaps unknown runner, and you develop this secret 'bond'. If they drop back you pick another; if they push on you go with them. I've tried it with attractive bottoms and it works a treat :o
On then to another old friend, the Yellow Brick Road. First there’s a couple of tasty, Somme-like cattle fields, heavily scarred, full of yet more soft, clinging clods and a collection of incontinent calves ambling around a large feed dispenser by the far gate. Through that lot and onto the YBR proper, the concrete path that stretches away over the horizon for almost three kilometres. It’s eyes down, elbows out again for a steady hump up the never-ending road. Try not to glance up too often, the disappearing strip of gold-flecked hardcore can break a man's spirit faster than you can say 'bastard.' Finally that cruel wind popped out from wherever it had been lurking for the past hour to race up and into our faces. At first I was grateful, my over-heated body cooling in an instant. After ten minutes of constant battling into the icy blast I began to change my view. My face numbed, tears, dragged from my squinting eyes, ran horizontally around the sides of my face, the sweat on my shirt chilled and I started to shiver. Still, a bold effort on this first return to the Jog Shop Jog heartland and I felt surprisingly fresh at the summit in spite of myself. We turned right at the top, briefly facing the Ouse Valley, Kingston Village far below, Lewes, the Racing Stables and Blackcap off in the distance, before bearing left along the ridge across the top of the Big W. The turf was treacherous, slippery rocks nestling amongst smooth mud contriving to trip or slip us up. At last we reached the long haul up into Woodingdean, Death Valley and the Snake away to our left, soft turf yielding to our tramping tread as we climbed, climbed, climbed for what felt like forever.
I was feeling stronger on this second half of the run. The legs were still heavy but my breathing had settled down and critically there were no persistent niggles. Like last Sunday, when I’d felt compelled to tear up the Snake like a rat out of a drainpipe, I stepped on the gas, taking on the hills to get them behind me. Nigel worked hard to keep up, expressing generous admiration for my hill work. A gentle jog in from Woodingdean down through the park, more slippery, mountain-goat footing inducing some manic, high-wire arm-action, much to the amusement of the well-wrapped, roll-up-smoking dog-walkers. I even managed a few half-hearted stretches back at the marina, though in truth the bitterness of the now prevailant wind drove me into the warm sanctity of my truck long before I'd finished my routine.
22.61 kms in 2:10:30 – a good effort on a less-than top-form day.
[SIZE="1"]Top: route with North Face in red. Bottom: Elevation/ distance (NF marked)[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There are few feelings in the world that compare to the embrace of a dear friend or a long-parted lover.
That reassuring touch, familiar textures, smells, behaviour; at all feels so comfortable, so familiar, so right.
So it was with the soft downland turf this morning. After what seems like ages of rock-hard frozen ground, unyielding, rutted pathways, angular ankle-snappers and frozen puddle-traps, finally the Big Thaw has arrived. OK, so it rode in on the back of an all-embracing mist that lay heavy across the hills, reducing visibility to 60 metres at best. I didn't care. The soft bounce of the born-again turf sent waves of pleasuire through my battered, fatigue-laced legs as I chugged into the hills. The eastern rise of Mount Harry took me into darker territory, mist thickening rapidly until it was most definitely cloud. As if to underline the fact that well-known inhabitant of nimbus, rain, bade us good morrow. It was like running through an endless curtain of tiny, ice-cold droplets . . . until they too were swept aside by the real deal, slanting, intrusive, bullying rain. I didn't mind; nothing was going to dampen my ardour this morning.
Black Cap offered more of the same, visibility down to 30 metres at the peak. After a brief pause I launched for home, down into the swirling fog. I smiled as I realised the conditions - slippery, bouncy turf, occasional clusters of rock and flint, thick mist, hanging rain - replicated those fabled fells so revered in Richard Askwith's fabulous book Feet In The Clouds*.
I have to say I like it; this feels right, feels like . . . home.
A modest 44 minute round trip, objective accomplished. Several pints of Sunday's residual lactic acid eeked out of reluctant muscles, sweated out and washed away for another week. A good stretch finished things off nicely before restorative coffee courtesy of Gorgeous George and a slice of granary toast with Manuka honey. Life is good.
*[SIZE="1"]If you don't already own it, buy it. Now. It's simply the best book on off-road running out there.[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Despite the company seasonal do last night and a blink-of-an-eye trip to Amsterdam I felt reasonably fresh. This reflected in my finishing time of 22:46 (Garmin), pleasingly close to a PB despite a 3 x 100 metre detour onto slippery grass to avoid roadworks.
The post-run coffee chat centred on forthcoming races. The Terminator is on the same weekend as Brighton Half and I've now managed to enter both - now that would be a neat trick! If anyone fancies a Brighton Half place they're welcome to mine; otherwise I'll contact the organisers and tell them I can't make it.
Almeria is but two weeks off. I feel . . . OK I suppose; not exactly flying but certainly on track. Another hilly session tomorrow, either 12 or 14 depending on how I feel/ how much sleep I get tonight. My knees are . . .OK (that word again); not entirely happy, just grumbling gently with the occasional sharp twinge. As ever a watching brief is in order. If I do go 14 I'll step back next Sunday (12 or maybe even a gentle Wire); less, after all, is still more.
In the week I caught up with Some Kind Of Monster, the disturbingly brilliant rockumentary following Metallica during the writing and recording of St. Anger. It's a fascinating piece of work, filled with the traumatic ups and downs of being trapped in a room with three other people (four if you count their retained therapist, six if you include the film makers), suffering varying degrees of paranoia, egomania and alchoholism, for more than 600 days. The highlight for me was not (as I'd expected) Lars Ulrich totally losing it and screaming FUCK! uncontrollably as he stalks around the umpteenth 'team meeting' (where the band members are encouraged to 'let out their true feelings to keep the creative process on track'). It was the moment when they tell Robert Trujillo he has the gig as their new bass player. Ulrich does the formal stuff, casually announcing
'We want you to be an integral, functioning member of the band; so here's a million dollars to show we're committed.'
'Obviously' interjects James Hetfield, singer, 'you'll also get a share in the business from here on in. We just want you to know we're serious.'
That'd do it for me boys.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I really didn't fancy it this morning. Heavy legs, like two bags of stolen lead, still suffering from yesterday's 5K Parkrun torture. Almeria's within touching distance - perhaps I could start a gentle taper; you know, like good ol' C.B. 'Sully' Sullenberger, the guy who this week redefined the 'gentle approach', landing an impossibly heavy, cumbersome aircraft on the Hudson river to save 153 lives. The miles are in the tank, there's little to be gained now; I might even avoid or prevent an injury by not going out. Minute-by-minute the defence mounted an impressive case. All the while my conscience waited, tapping its foot on the loud wooden floor of my slightly fuzzy cerebellum, an almost sad look on its face as it waited for me to do the right thing.
I'm getting on better with Gorgeous George now. It's taken the best part of a week but between us we can knock out a half-decent cup of Joe. The thought of reclining on a sofa with a plate of toast, coffee, juice and Gary Lineker was terrifically tempting. While these thoughts swirled about a frenzied maelstrom raged outside, rattling windows, shaking trees and scattering birds like black confetti at a Goth wedding.
Of course I went, eventually; dragged my weary carcass off to the marina to join the burgeoning ranks of duvet-deniers, conscience sated and back in its hole for another Sunday. Man, did I ever feel creaky. I flogged my old bones across the cliff tops, chatting with Stevio, Steepler and co, staying well ahead of Gillybean so as not to offer too much of a wind-break from - or cast a gargantuan shadow over - what was, again, an almost balmy opening three miles. There was more danger of sunstroke than wind damage. So far, so mild.
Stevio announced another assault on the Snake. I was all for joining him when a couple of lads came up to me. One tall, slender, Camelback mounted, face familiar; the other squat, powerfully built, frighteningly hirsute, MP3 'phones strapped to his ears, new to me; an interloper from, it turns out, The Smoke. Gideon was his name, like the hotel Bible I thought, though further conversation with him was restricted by his antisocial music delivery appendage.
'So, you're off up the Yellow Brick Road then?'
'Well, I was just thinking . . .'
'Great; we'd love to tag along, so long as it's not too quick.'
'No danger of that. Well, OK then . . .'
And so the deal was done. The three of us set off ahead of the pack, bounding gently towards the ugly climb out of Saltdean and on up the Tye. All the while I cursed myself for not speaking up. I wasn't looking for extra mileage; I think it was the lure of 'easy pace' that turned me away from Old Snakey. To be fair the pace was modest - a kilometre short of last week at 22:13 (we stopped at the end of the park, choosing to walk to the cars from there) in just about the same time. That doesn't account for the monstrous effort required to combat the brutal flogging we got from the rampant inshore wind. From the summit of a dreadfully boggy North Face to the end of the run - about twelve kilometres - we took a solid, full-frontal battering. Up the YBR's shelter-less, cruelly exposed hillside scar (I measured the tinted concrete at a shade over 1.5 kilometres long), across the windswept summit of the Big W and on, and on, and on. My legs wailed, sore muscles complaining bitterly, knees creaking, calves solidly silent, ankles pointing out they might turn horribly at any moment on any number of deadly, slippery obstacles scattered across the rain-soaked trails. Several times I told my companions they were welcome to zip off ahead if they felt so inclined but they politely deferred, observing that I seemed fine, intimating (so my grumbling subconscious assured me) that perhaps I should stop my woeful sobbing and get on with it. I cut a forlorn figure, hunched against the tempest; Quasimodo fleeing the baying Parisien hoards indeed. Esmarelda - The hills! The Hills!
So, on with it I got. Sore, heavy-legged and generally not terribly happy to be out there, but another one banked, a shade over 22 kilometres in 2 hours 10 minutes. I stood, head bowed, sweat dripping onto my mud-splattered trail shoes, looking at the flecks of filth decorating my sodden leggings. One more weekend and then it's Armada time; all set sail for the shores of Almeria.
I can't wait.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
anlu247 Wrote:After those tough hilly 22 kms, Almería half will be a piece of cake or "pan comido" as we say here ( "eaten bread" ), S.
Yeah, annoying, isn't it? Before Christmas, he was scattering hints everywhere that a sub-2 hour Almeria would be a struggle. Certain members of the mortals group were secretly thinking there could be a seismic shock on the cards. But nah, he's gone and ruined it...
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Recovery run? Well, more a sort of analytical saunter through sodden mud and rain-lashed hills; a post-Sunday MOT if you will. Knees seem OK, legs generally tired and laced with lactic, otherwise as expected. My lower back has started to kick off though - not sure what that's about. I was involved in some manual labour yesterday, passing an endless stream of box-files into the loft at work (archiving 2001/ 2002 event files - yes, it's as glamorous as it sounds). It was unusual work so perhaps that's the cause.
I had time to reflect on several things.
Sunday's run was interesting. I'm not planning another long run before Almeria, preferring to keep any 21k powder I have left dry. And yet . . . that last outing was less than satisfactory. I guess you can't always finish on a high note. This time I'll settle for a local Sunday jaunt with the dogs, perhaps 8 miles, maybe only 5. Less, I must remind myself, is more.
Then there's this inauguration thungumy-bob this afternoon. I was elated when Obama was elected US President. It showed that anything is still possible in life, that there is hope for mankind, blah blah blah. That euphoria has been eroded slightly over the past few days, the endless stream of hysterical African-American vox-pops flooding our radios and TVs. If I hear the phrase 'from the oppression of slavery to the White House' one more time I think I'll puke. No doubt there's validity in the sentiment but please, let's give the guy a chance. I have visions of every black person in American who gets pulled over in the next few weeks smiling at the cop and saying 'go ahead, we got our boy in the big house now'.
That's not what Obama's about, or, at least, not what he should be about. The expectation levels have exceeded the Katrina/ NOLA flood-line in so many towns and cities. This man, with his carefully chosen staff, has a mountain to climb. If he's going to get out of the foothills he'll need to ditch that heavy backpack of expectation or surely perish in the quagmire of disappointment.
My old pal Hunter S Thompson observed during the Clinton campaign that the great and the good in the GOP had turned their snouts to the economic and political winds and caught the foul stench of failure on the breeze. He hypothesised that they shoved Ross Perot into the fray to torpedo Bush Senior below the waterline and so scupper the chances of Republican success, avoiding the forecast national and global nightmares. Of course it back-fired. The Great Philanderer made a pretty good fist of things, humanising the post, even if at times in somewhat less than auspicious ways. He did enough to ensure a gravy-train legacy of international delegate positions and the veritable gold-mine of the after-dinner circuit.
Some believe the McCain/ Palin ticket was similarly, deliberately, doomed. They were fall-guys, paving the way for future Republican dynasties, leaving Obama and his Democrats to push Bush's broken legacy around like the pieces of an impossible jigsaw. The odds are stacked against him. I for one wish him all good fortune in his endeavours, not least in dodging some of the bullets, real and metaphorical, likely to come his way in the weeks and months ahead.
It's a proud day for Americans everywhere, for people of all colours and social backgrounds. The election of Barack Obama shows us many things about America: that it is still a place where people can aspire to fulfil their dreams, can look beyond boundaries and reach for the stars. But also that it's a place run by and for big business, where cash is king and your best running-mate is and always will be the almighty Greenback.
Good luck Barack old son; you're going to need it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I bottled my run this morning. Look, it was raining cats n dawgs out there; the trees were bouncing off the turf like golf flags in a hurricane. Rain fell from the gutters to splatter into the frog pond, sounding for all the world like a cow pissing on a flat rock. I answered my daughters' cries for mercy and drove her and her pals into school without so much as a casual glance towards the downs.
A few hours later guilt sat heavily on my belly. Luckily for me an associate had brought a rarely-used static rowing machine into the office - 'in case anyone fancies a lunchtime session'. I'd brought my kit with me today, planning to get out after work (if the apocalypse toned it down a bit). Instead I managed 16 minutes on the rower, arms like jelly, back sore, a nice glow on my fizzog and a rewarding pool of sweat spreading across my chest. No showers means a strip-wash in the mens' room but it's a small price to pay for an eased conscience.
Some good chat in here lately about time predictions and the like. Good to see some old and new faces emerging; it's starting to feel like race season all of a sudden
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Look, it was raining cats n dawgs out there; the trees were bouncing off the turf like golf flags in a hurricane. Rain fell from the gutters to splatteer into the frog pond, sounding for all the world like a cow pissing on a flat rock.
Has the worm turned? What's going on here? I thought you liked that sort of thing....?
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Well, perhaps . . . just dreaming of balmy oceanfront running in Almeria . . . the bitter windswept hillscapes around here are hardly approriate training grounds. Worry ye not, for I am playing the first two Sabbath albums back-to-back even as we speak to re-affirm my hairy manliness!
I am Iron Man . . .
Ooh! I chipped a nail on those italics brackets :o
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I blew out the BHTT Parkrun this morning. 18 holes in foul conditions yesterday resulted in a slight twist - and, yes, a slight discomfort - in my right knee. In view of this, and a 'number' of beers with you-know-who last night, I opted for a bit of BHTT marshaling instead. Quite why the organisers entrusted their expensive TAG Hauer timing machine to the care of an un-shaven, bleary-eyed hobo I couldn't tell you; luckily I managed to time the 107 runners without mishap.
I then endured half an hour in the park cafe listening to Ladyrunner tell me and those gathered how kicking my sorry arse in Almeria has become her only reason for living. Alarmed by the blood-lust burning in her eyes I nervously assured her that I fully expect her to whale on my hide next Sunday and I wouldn't mind one bit should I trail home behind her. I'm altogether more concerned about He Who Cannot Be Named, the fabled Man In Black who appears out of recurring nightmare smog to hunt me down in those final, tortured five hundred metres in Estadio de los Juegos del Mediterráneo.
Returning home towards midday I decided to test my legs on my home trail, hooking up the hounds for a chilly downland five. All seems well; the tweak appears to be nothing more than that. I felt reasonably fresh (as I well might having run only once this week, on Tuesday). If I head out tomorrow it'll be another local 8K, maybe even in the afternoon so as to fully enjoy a lie-in and a leisurely Sunday breakfast, what would be my first for quite some time.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I'm altogether more concerned about He Who Cannot Be Named, the fabled Man In Black who appears out of recurring nightmare smog to hunt me down in those final, tortured five hundred metres in Estadio de los Juegos del Mediterráneo.
I think we'd all be delighted if he were to beat you at Almeria, and would think none the less of you if he did. But is this something that is likely to happen? He's been rather quiet about his training - are you hinting there may be something of a dark horse in the event?
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!! I was tucked up in bed still at 9am 
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