It seems churlish to open a thread for April.
There's been no running of note for some time, and there's little prospect on the immediate horizon. In usual pig-headed fashion I eschewed the well-meant advice of educated people and continued to exercise on my damaged foot. All was going well until last night, when I took full part in an excellent badminton doubles. It was blood-and-thunder stuff, all players of an equal, if less-than-impressive standard, making for a fiercely contested rubber.
Racing to pick up a drop shot from Captain Tom I felt the bruised muscle tear in mid stride. There was no doubting the familiar burn along the sole of my foot; it matched the sharp pang of painful recognition in my twisted gut. I don't know what genetic flaw makes me think I can ignore medical advice and charge about without corporeal reprisal but I need to shake it off before I do some damage that I literally won't walk away from.
I shall console myself with an evening of local culture in the company of the Mighty Plodder. Following a fantastic gig at the Bulls Head on Monday where we sat in awe, two rows back from the incomporable Never The Bride aided and abetted by the vocal colossus Rietta Austin, we're off to the Seven Sisters for a monthly gathering of session musicians and a night of high-class blues.
Anyone at a loose end on the 18th of this month should get on down to the Borderline (off Tottenham Court Road, London) where NTB and guests are playing an electric session. You won't be disappointed.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
No, better yet a superb version - couldn't call it a cover - of Whole Lotta Love.
Could have been embarassing; it was actually magnificent. Wonder if Zep would consider a female lead . . .
Quote: You idiot.
Couldn't agree more.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Congratulations to Ronan & all Marathon de Paris 2009 finishers!
Paris is a lovely city marathon, usually bathed in beautiful spring sunshine. Definitely worth a look if you fancy a change from/ can't get into London.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Grief works to its own timetable. Like an assailant in the night, it creeps up behind you to wrap its cold, merciless arms around your chest to crush your heart.
Back home this morning I answered a persistent call.
I’ve carried a niggling injury for weeks. In truth, I could have returned to the downs before today but something has held me back. Now I had to clear my thoughts, put order to chaos. There’s no better therapy than to take to the hills, so it was on with the gear and away before breakfast.
I set off under a clear blue sky, the sun about its beaming business, vowing to run without a break to test the foot, knees and general (lack of) fitness. Bewl’s not so far off and there’s a lot of work to be done to get round the warm, flat fifteen miles. Within ten minutes I was puffing like Billy Bunter trying to make the tuck shop before closing, skin swathed in sweat, burgeoning midriff wobbling. My stride felt forced, restricted, as if I were harnessed atop the giant ball of the Earth, spinning the great orb beneath my feet as the eyes of the sun burned scornful holes into my back.
To distract myself from rising discomfort I turned thoughts to journeys past. To intrepid winter training runs where friends dared one another to go the extra mile. I smiled in spite of the struggle as I recalled the Battle of Steyning –the 2007 Steyning Stinger - when the heavens opened on Rog, Moyleman and I just as we set off in the lea of the West Sussex fells. The race was the full marathon distance, off-road over a desperately tricky course. For us it was a training run, a stepping stone on the rocky road to Cape Town and the mighty Two Oceans. Relentless rain lashed the rock-strewn trails, chalky rivers of filth running off the slopes to greet our sodden, sploshing shoes.
Soaked, freezing, squinting into the horizontal deluge close to halfway I felt the pull of the ‘easy out’ offered by well-meaning marshals.
Should we wish to do the half we could take a left turn ahead. One jink to the side and it could all go away . . .
Just then the mighty Moyle called out. He’d reached the water station minutes ahead, downed a gel and was already starting to shiver.
‘Sorry geezer, need to push on; gotta keep warm’
With that and a wave he was gone, red and black hooped vest thundering through the stair-rods, away into the misty hills.
The tale repeated Sunday after muddy Sunday. We’d meet at the marina, discuss our route, Chris would declare the suggested path insufficiently demanding and find a way to add a limb-sapping mile or two. He knew what it would take to make the grade and never shirked the hard yards. He never let me shirk them either, offering logic and reason for the straining of lung and limb. Like the time we added a six mile 'warm-up’ to the Brighton Half ‘to get the miles in’. He dragged me to an impossible PB that day, albeit unofficial, cackling all the way as we embraced that marvelous through-the-field phenomenon, the Law of Diminishing Arses.
Back at the Stinger, almost two hours after we'd parted, I caught him at the top of the last ‘sting’, using his distinctive loping frame as a magnet to pull me up that gnarly, mud-slaked slope. As I staggered alongside, gasping, desperate, he turned, that wolf's grin wide, eyes sparkling through the foul rain.
‘Thought that was you – what a bloody racket!’
I attempted a rasped reply, all flapping lips and dribbling phlegm. He saved me the bother.
‘Suck it up big fella' the grin spread wider. ‘Not far now’.
That to me is what Chris was all about. Easy affection, brutal honesty, unswerving determination, wicked humour, touching respect and a rich humanity. He cared deeply about the people around him; not in a sloppy, sentimental way, but with a sincerity rarely matched. We shared a lot in our brief friendship; a love of films and music (albeit different tastes), the company of others, appreciation for a well-shaped derrier and a hearty lust for life. When I let hyperbole run riot - as I am wont to do - he would shoot me down with a well-aimed pithy observation, always well-meant, always on the money.
In the last few miles we cavorted wildly down a perilous, twisting drop, leaping over boulders, hurdling felled tree roots and sliding through rivers of silt to hit the hard-top finish side by side.
‘Let’s jog it in’ I offered, content to cruise home over the last few hundred yards, job done.
A disdainful glance, a chuckle, ‘Fuck that!’ and he was gone, leaving me trailing in his indefatigable wake.
All of which makes his not being around anymore so much harder to bear.
Today the minutes slipped by un-noticed as I crested Blackcap alone, stumbling back down the slope lost in an ocean of memories. I reached home bathed in sweat, eyes burning with happy tears, chest threatening implosion, grinning wildly. I knew Chris Moyle for three short years. I miss him.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Got along to the BHTT 5K on saturday. I was plodding lazily towards a 25 minute finish when I spied MSilv up ahead. I kicked out of my lethargy and started reeling her in, only to see her double up as if struck by a snipers' bullet 300 metres from the end. I stopped to see if she was OK and she was in real pain - must've tweaked one of those little rib muscles, very painful. We walked in together, grinning at the finish-line hecklers.
Stepping off the flight in Montreal last night I noticed what Antonio might call 'some discomfort' in my right heel and my heart sank. I'm not healed (stop it) so looks like no Mont Royal for me, which is horrible as it's one of my favorite overseas runs. Why? Here's a couple of posts that might explain . . .
After following the London Heroes (and the Bahrain GP) this morning - I had four windows open on my laptop, a prehistoric wifi connection and an overloaded Addidas info centre to contend with - I readied myself for Hurley's (where I'd enjoyed a Black Nectar nightcap last night). Brunch, an afternoon supping fine Guinness and chatting with the locals beckoned . . . but then my conscience appeared, arms folded, jaw set, beady eyes fixed in a death-ray glare, blocking the doorway.
'Look in the hotel guide; there might be a gym.'
Bollocks, there is. Off with the jeans, on with the shorts. There's no way around it - my big wobbly belly that is - I have to get on the exercise bike and/ or the tready for at least 45 minutes to keep the blubber monster at bay. Traveling, lots of down time and the resultant binges are bad enough normally. With no running going on it's a recipe for disaster. So, iPhone & earphones, Mr Gilmore & Co and a good deal of airconditioned sweat are calling. That scheduled sympatico FLM celebration will have to wait.
Have fun at the Heist tonight Brighton runners.
I should be tucking into to my first pint as you raise your glasses.
Well done all.
Footnote:30 minutes on static bike, 20 mins on treadmill (hill program). Now, where's that Guinness?
After a sweaty gym session the soundtrack of which would make a perfect overdub for a crap 70's porn flick I took to the hotel shower. Niguel and I have ruminated on the challenges of facing your shower for the first time, such as figuring out the launch protocols so as to avoid flooding the building or searing your flesh. Checking that some over-enthusiastic chambermaid hasn't seen fit to wax the porcelain (or in this case plastic) tub thus offering you the oppoprtunity to tour the local ER is also advisable. Today I was greeted by a cannon of water propelled with the ferocity of a Met riot squad, varying in temperature from ball-shrinkingly cold to Vesiuvian. Shaken and most assuredly stirred I staggered out of the bathroom/ sauna even more convinced that salvation is to be found at the bottom of a glass, and quickly.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Agree about the shower. We are currently in a fantastic hotel suite (for about £60 a night -- Vegas is astonishingly cheap at the moment, with a lot of companies cancelling fully-expensed annual drunken beanos, er sorry, I meant sales conferences and off-site strategy sessions), but a perfect score cannot be awarded because of the limp shower. Contrast with Boston where a sub-standard room was hoisted up the rankings by a superbly manly bathroom torrent. Agree about the dangers and frustrations. I always like to have a handle to grip in case the jet tries to fire me through the lofty window.
But anyway, well done on the gym session. I managed a 30 minute effort today which I'm happy with, as it's the first one since the marathon. A 5 day gap seems quite long enough. Too long away from the routine would be a bad idea, as I have a couple of 10Ks coming up shortly after we return. In tems of calories, I've probably earned no more than half a starter here in the US, but it keeps the spirits up.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Glad you survived the rigours of that Canadian shower, Sweder. Memories of calling a Calgary hotel front desk at 3am to assuage a rising flood have now been safely stowed for another year.
Meanwhile have you tried that trick with the tennis ball (for your heel, I mean) ?
Managed 45 excrutiatingly dull minutes on the static bike this afternoon.
The fact that it felt like blissful release will tell you that the preceeding eight hours of meetings were not the most engaging. Almost an hour discussing the various ways one could regulate the issue and safe return of translator headsets (which got alarmingly heated at one point) had me on the verge of dangerous hallucination. First up my fellow congress planners started to morph, one by one, into giant glasses of Guinness. This was quite pleasant until I realised any attempt to drink one of them could be misconstrued. I'd reached the Billy Liar point of pulling out a sub machine gun and straffing the lot of them when someone mercifully suggested a drinks break. Seizing the moment I let out a yelp of suprise and alarm, announced I was late, was late, for a very important date and plummeted out of the meeting room and down the Palais des Congres escalator at a perilous rate before a perfectly executed sling-shot through the glass swing doors and onto the sunlit pavement.
The reality of an hommage to Moyleman at Bewl is starting to dawn. Those fifteen relentlessly flat, mercilessly hot miles are rolling towards me. I'm trapped in a barrel of slow-setting lard. If I'm to do myself and the old boy any justice I have to break the cycle of lethargy and corporeal self-abuse. Lets look at the facts.
Yes, my heel remains painful and doesn't like it when I run.
No, I'm not getting proper treatment (which is, in an ideal world, complete untrammelled rest including minimal walking, no driving and certainly no fun whatsoever).
No, holding my foot off the floor and rolling my eyes at everyone who asks in an ugly parody of my Cocker Spaniel isn't helping.
And finally no, jumping on a static bike and pedalling furiously for the best part of an hour isn't fun, but it also isn't hurting the aforementioned appendage either.
Back in the hotel room, dripping nastily into the quite ancient 70's style carpet, I managed to wrestle the top off a beverage purchased from a deli on the way back from the Palais. It looked for all the world like some form of tomato juice. Half right. 'Clamato' is not, as I had foolishly surmised, some clumsy amalgum of brand name and the word 'tomato'. It is, horrifically, the very real blending of tomato and, quoting from the ingredients, 'dried clam broth'. It is, I assure you, quite as foul and disgusting a taste as you might imagine. Canadians (sorry Suzie) are quite, quite odd.
It's time, as the lovely Ms Hynde so succinctly said it, to stop my sobbing.
If EG can overcome mere trifles such as losing half a lower limb to do battle with the infamous Boston hills I can get off my business class seat-sized derrier and shift some sweat.
Cue stirring music (Land of Hops and Glory should do it - er, Hope) and look out world. Flabzilla's awake!
PS Niguel if you're referring to that trick with the tennis ball and a garden hose I lost her number months ago. If not, er, never mind.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Recently discovered AudioBoo courtesy of Twitter. It's a way to make mini sound recordings through your phone & publish on the internet. Not immediately useful one might think, but great fun if you're one over the eight and wobbling home through a sea of pro Tamil Tiger protesters (as I was last night). TamilBoo
Also made one for SP. This is a great development as it might mean I stop calling the Great Man in the wee small hours to transmit Diddley-Dee music live from the depths of my latest over-indulgence. FiddlerBoo
I'll repeat the footnote I left on this clip: Fine Irish Jiggery at Hurley's in Montreal. The guinness is without equal outside of the Emerald Isle, patrons warm & welcoming, bar staff saintly & prescient. Terrific spot.
One more (I'll stop soon, honest). 'Interview' with a Hurley's Barfly re: his gastro-sporting roadtrips through the USA.
Rather too short perhaps but I'm new to all this. FoodBoo
Needless to say I sincerely regret my indulgences now. Early start, woolly head, breakfast meeting, intended plod towards Mont Royal (I won't say up Mont Royal as there's more chance of me getting up . . . well, never mind), pack & check out, series of meetings in overly-warm, windowless rooms, a mercifully-brief, snatched glimpse of the Rowdies' capitulation to a resurgent Arsenal at the CH Sports Bar before diving into a cab to Dorval and the long flight home.
Just wondering if I should invest in one of these micropore facemasks for the journey. They're manufactured here in Montreal (at least the good ones are), and the thought of being entombed with several hundred coughing, sneezing travelers in an air-tight cylinder for eight hours is less than appealing.
EG & I are enjoying the Fox News coverage of the imminent pandemic, albeit in different latitudes on the same continent. Fox claim to have inside information that Mr Quaeda and his chums released a bio weapon round these parts and that Mr Obama knows all about it but is keeping shtum for the sake of world order.
So much for the calm rational approach.
Ah-choo.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Too tired and emotional following a night of journalistic endeavours (captured on AudioBoo) to write up my ugly, sweaty trapse through the Montreal streets and quayside. Suffice to say I didn't even head in the direction of the mighty hill, so concerned was I about the state of my heel and, possibly more honestly, my head, which was in severe danger of falling off. I fancied an 'easy' one, though there was little chance any kind of forward motion could be deemed 'easy'.
By way of confession I publish here a pictoral representation of my urbane (sic) plod. Of course this meant I had to stop frequently to snap the various points of interest but, c'est la vie. Something approaching 40 minutes of cart-horse style clopping through the dusty streets (no that's not me hooked up to the pink carriage; I wasn't looking that good).
It's kinda sorta in order of the run. Kinda.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
