January 2013

[Sweder]

Happy New Year all.
Love, London 2013

   

My last post of 2012:

2012, this sporting Annus Mirabilis, is almost done.
London 2012, Tour de France, Ryder Cup, Manchester City's late, late title grab (choke), Chelski's hijack in Munich, Murray's US Open, England's dramatic test wins in India ... The highlight for me was crying my eyes out in the Olympic Stadium as I cheered Mo Farrah home to Olympic Gold in the 10k on 'Super Saturday'. I'd dreamed for years of being there just for that race. The elation, the remarkable wall of sound, the improbable perfection of that golden hour, will live within me for the rest of my days.

I wrapped things up today with a 3.5 mile run that included a quartet of lung-busting sprints, each two minutes long. The wind whipped light rain into my face as I pushed tired legs through the mud. In spite of that, perhaps because of it, I relished the feeling of my body running out of oxygen, the loss of shape, of form, as fatigue took hold. The recoveries in between were little more than rag-doll jogs.

December finished up at just over 207 kilometres, a mediocre training week for Mo, pure running gold for me. My year total is 1154.8 kilometres, or 721.75 miles, a nip over 60 miles per month on average. None of that means much to me. What I care about is how I feel at this point looking forward. And I'm feeling good.

If you're in the running doldrums, just not feeling the love, fear not. If the will is within you, you will find a way back. The one thing I've learned this year is you can't hurry form, you have to work up to it along that long, hard road. To those of us still out there plugging away, may the road/ trail/ rock/ grass/ mud rise to meet you.

Here's to a rude and glorious 2013.

[Sweder]

Welcomed January with a sun-kissed five miler in the western Lewes hills. Has a New Year's Day ever been quite so glorious? A sharp wind out of the west, blue, ironed bed-sheet skies and the Great Orb perched high, beaming heartily. Numerous walkers, some with dogs, others swinging small children between them, peppered the downs. The hounds cavorted wildly, chasing each other in and out of the gorse at break-neck speed.

My joy was dampened this morning by the sad news that CMJ, one of cricket's most eloquent devotees, died this morning. Along with Arlott, Johnners and Trevor 'The Boil' Bailey he forms part of a formidable TMS team in the afterlife.

Janathon, the chilly cousin of Juneathon, starts today, an excuse to run/ walk/ cycle/ swim/ workout and to blog about it, every day of the month. I have conveniently included microblogging site Twitter in my definition of 'blogging', sparing regular readers here from more nonsense than usual.

On, on.

[Bierzo Baggie]

I have conveniently included microblogging site Twitter in my definition of 'blogging', sparing regular readers here from more nonsense than usual.
On, on.

Hey, but don't forget us non-twitterers... i'd, sort of, like more of the same if you don't mind...

Happy new year Sweder and here's for an incident-packed 2013 of running adventures for you and your dogs ...and your readers!

[Sweder]

Quick update: managed to pick up 'the bug' last week. Having studied the intricacies of our upstairs toilet bowl for most of Friday evening I've laid off running for a couple of days. Already feeling better but I'll wait until I'm feeling tip top before heading back out there.

[Sweder]

The time had come to go to the aid of my wilting body. In Geneva and all points Suisse thereafter for a week of business and blarney with Le Grande Fromage of this Parrish, I am once again living la Vida Loca courtesy of a hotel chain. Wrangling incomprehensible shower systems, struggling with uncooperative electronic room cards, frittering hours away trying to access English language TV stations, you name it.

Yesterday I arrived late, somewhat chirpy after a restorative late, late breakfast at Jamie's Italian at Gatwick's North Terminal. This monster is a feast for the eyes. Here, take a look if you don't believe me. Yum.

   

As a token waft towards my daily physical effort I floundered on the floor of my room in my skimpies, attempting sit-ups and squat thrusts. I wasn't in the mood, so I retired to watch an excellent program on English Winter Rituals that featured Lewes Bonfire and CBS in particular whilst eating possibly the most expensive small can of Pringles it is possible to find.

This morning I pedalled my wares at the EASL (European Society for Study of the Liver) and the FDI (Federation Dental International) with favourable results. When I reached my room this evening I had a few choices:

1. Slump on the bed with the latest Iain M Banks, order something unhealthy (pizza) via room service and crash out with the TV blaring
2. Shower (after the usual freeze me/ scald me/ strip off my skin palaver), dress and head into town for a beer and to 'see what's cooking in Geneva on a Tuesday night' or
3. Hit the gym

Three, as you know, is the magic number.
I wriggled into a brand new pair of Addidas shorts - MEDIUM if you don't mind. MEDIUM - and pulled on my conspicuously filthy runners. The Mövenpick Airport Hotel and Casino Sky Gym is located not in the clouds but on the fourteenth floor. Here sat the usual depressing aray of treadmills and weights machines. A few sweaty souls puffed and crunched their way to new year nirvana. I hit the treadmill. And here we find yet another of those MENSA-grade conundrums we weary travellers face all the time. How does the bloody thing work? It was an Advanced Gusset Modulator Treadmill 9000 (or something) with a flight deck to make the cockpit of a 747 green with envy. Digital offerings paraded across the screen along with a scrolling LED.

... SELECT PROGRAM ...

Ok, now ... here we go, no ... Wait a bit, there are some diagrams coming up ...

... SELECT PROGRAM ...

Well that wasn't very long, was it? The least you could do is pause for a few sec -

... SELECT PROG - BASH BASH BASH BASH

I hammered a series of codes and numbers into the keypad, almost snapping my index finger as I prodded away blindly.

JUST START. It's not an episode of A.I., you're not HAL. You're a fucking treadmill. TREAD.

Whirrr. And tread it did.
The screen informed me, impassively despite my unreasonable behaviour, that I had selected program 5 - Hill Intervals. The session would last thirty minutes. Off we went at a most pedestrian pace. I hit the 'UP' button. We moved faster until finally we were up and indeed running. The session unfolded much as the LED had suggested. Starting at 4 bricks up from zero (slightly raised) for two minutes, moving up to 9 bricks (quite steep) for the next two, back down, so on and so forth. I jabbed the pace up after a couple of passes and soon enough beads of sweat started popping out on my forehead. Another factor I always discard at these indoor sessions is room temperature. The gym, now populated by half a dozen other hard-working bodies, was like a sauna. I started to sweat profusely. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my neck. Rivers of perspiration started pouring out of me, splashing the dashboard and the running mat below. I pounded on, determined to finish the program, swigging wildly from a stubby bottle of Vittel as I did so. This continued for the remaining 26 minutes.

At last we were done. I was soaked, my 2011 Almeria shirt translucent. A lithe lovely, swooshing along on a low-level exercise bike, watched me dismount. I tried a smile. I hate to think what that must have looked like.

Next up thirty minutes of upper body strength work, a few sit-ups and a bit of planking on one of the exercise balls. I hopped onto an upright static bike to cool down for ten minutes, covering around the same distance as I had on my 30 minute run. The run burned 500+ calories, the cycle less than 80.

Now to deploy option 2 and get those calories back.

[El Gordo]

Bloody hell.

---------------

And if you have your iPad and Wi-Fi, Teleboy is the TV app you need.

[Sweder]

Thanks for the tip bit it's not showing in my app searches (not as an iPad app, anyway).
Headed downstairs in the hotel - there's a top Teppan Yaki join in-house, Kamome. Scanning the web for Ryman Premier & FA Cup latest over a Kirin.

[Sweder]

Check out the latest Rooks match day poster.
The original ticket stub is genuine!

   

[El Gordo]

Thanks for the tip bit it's not showing in my app searches (not as an iPad app, anyway).
Headed downstairs in the hotel - there's a top Teppan Yaki join in-house, Kamome. Scanning the web for Ryman Premier & FA Cup latest over a Kirin.

[Look away non geeks:] Weird. I can't find it either in App Store, yet I am sitting watching crystal clear Newsnight on it right now. Might be something to do with where your account is registered, as it's a Swiss service. (And my account is now registered in the UK too, but was reg in CH when I installed the app). Another option would be to use an IP-masker to get iPlayer. Or there is always the good old radio.

How's the weather down there? Getting nippy up here. Looks like a spot of snow by the weekend.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Would you people speak English please? The only word I understood was "gusset", and I'm not sure I fully comprehend the context in which it was said.

Sheesh - someone should get out and do some running around here.

[The Beast of Bevendean]

Non-stop swinging 68 1000 watt freak-out, eh? You've just given me the theme for the Burra Mem's 60th

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Non-stop swinging 68 1000 watt freak-out, eh? You've just given me the theme for the Burra Mem's 60th

I'm cancelling my UK visit this year - clearly I won't understand anything anyone says...

[Sweder]

Triathlon Dan of this Parrish reminded me that it's been ten years since SP dragged me off my sofa and into a pair of running shoes. My first race was the Brighton Half Marathon in March 2003. My second? The London Marathon, a month later.
What a long, strange trip it's been

To celebrate I've splashed out on some new Mizuno Wave Harrier 3s. Oh my, what a joy they are, to behold and to wear. Like coming home, all snug and welcoming.

   
The Precious

[marathondan]

Here's to the next decade, Sweder!

[raises Gatorade]

[marathondan]

I'm cancelling my UK visit this year - clearly I won't understand anything anyone says...

Surely at least you're at least familiar with rhyming slang? For example, when Sweder refers to planking in his hotel room...

[Sweder]

My Swiss adventure is over, but what a time we had.
First up it was a pleasure to spend time in the company of Le Grande Fromage. The man is in his element, surrounded by efficiency and tranquility with a backdrop that Peter Jackson would relish. He's in good form as he wrestles with the challenges of what to do next in terms of physical and literary challenges.

The perfect host, EG worked out a plan to tour the region on consecutive days, filled with wondrous vistas, convivial eateries and the occasional bar. We shredded those plans on the first night, sitting up until 5 am chomping on cheese and supping fine wine whilst a succession of vintage 'Big Match' football programmes played out on the telly. One, a dramatic victory for West Brom over Man United from the late '70's, invoked a debate so passionate it saw us standing, raging at each other, fingers pointing at the screen, eyes bulging. I had seen a heinous crime committed, a tackle that would in today's non-contact game have seen an instant red card. EG saw no such thing. We both wailed and howled, each seeing what he wanted to see. No amount of slow-mo replays could convince either that he was mistaken. It was a wonderful occasion, one I shall cherish. Sport is about passion and conviction. We were both passionate, and almost certainly should both have been convicted. The truly great thing about this is that friends can vehemently disagree on something in this way without any detrimental effect on the weekend.

When we crawled from the wreckage late next morning, EG served up his home-made Bircher Muesli with juice and coffee on the side. Miraculous stuff, really tasty, it restored me to rude health and I was ready to attack the day. We set off down the hillside to catch the boat to Rapperswil. The shiny, smooth-sliding Lake-beast cruises around the hamlets and towns up and down the great body of the Zürisee, picking up and dropping off passengers along the way. We took coffee in the onboard restaurant, discussing the day ahead. Despite gloomy weather - persistent mizzle, low cloud and general greyness - Rapperswil thrilled me. The ancient castle towering above the town, quirky follies, an impressive moss-stained maw yawning out of the castle rock, a plethora of comely dwellings and inviting bars laced together by winding, climbing cobbled streets. The views of the distant cloud-capped mountains took my breath away. We took the train up to Einsiedeln, home to an imposing monestary and one of the finest pizzerias you'll find anywhere. We sloshed and slipped along dimly lit, snowy streets, snapping shots of the monastery against the fading daylight. On arrival back in Horgen we popped into the stationside bar to enjoy a tall glass of Schneider Weiss, a most agreeable German Weissbier, watching the locals gather before they hopped the train into Zurich.

The next day, following considerably more sleep, I awoke determined to go for a run. EG pointed me in the direction of the local forest, assuring me, should I get lost, that so long as I was going downhill I'd be headed for the lake. I could work it out from there. I wanted to run for about an hour, tops. My left heel still ached from the unfortunate encounter with my Mizuno Ascends (never again), the blister now gone but a small hole and bruised flesh remains. I set off under crisp, clear skies, trusty, battered old Wave Harriers on my feet. A smattering of overnight snow lay round about, crunching nicely under foot. Soon enough I bade farewell to the pavement, diving left in amongst the tall pines. Winding trails took me deep into the heart of the forest. A babbling brook meandered through the centre, pine straw path running alongside, occasionally criss-crossing, the water. The sun peeped through the leafy canopy at the far end, casting mystical shadows across the trail, picking out out the iridescent green of the moss-covered boughs. It felt like another world. On, on I ran, up slopes of slippery shale, down steep, muddy steps until I came to a clearing where a large pool formed at the base of a rocky escarpment. A waterfall cascaded into the pool, crystal-clear water running back towards me. The submerged stone shone smooth, polished by the stream to a marble-like lustre.

Alongside the pool stood a stairway to heaven. At least, it seemed to climb that high. It was just wide enough for people to pass, made of stainless steel coated in ice. I ran up as best I could, sliding a gloved hand along the rail. Below me the sound of cascading water reminded me of the drop should I slip. At the summit the metal grid continued around the rock, carrying me ever on into dense woodland and an ever-narrowing, steepening gorge. I scampered down a steep slope to sling-shot up the other side, only to realise halfway up I'd climbed the wrong side of the valley. The lake was now behind and to my left, down, across and up a steep wall of mud and rock. Ah well. I carried on, breaking clear at the top into snow-flecked farmland. I jogged around a few outbuildings, noting the great walls of chopped wood piled up to the eaves, sucking in the unmistakable smells of wet, incontinent farm animals. With no obvious path back to Horgen I had to about-face. Ten minutes later I stood atop the opposite side of the valley, gulping cool Swiss air as I drank in the view. Below me the hillside dropped away towards the lake. The opposite shore winked and twinkled as sunlight danced on windows and metal. Small craft slid silently across the water like ugly, flat-headed birds.

   

I dropped down the hill, hit the road and turned west, heading back into Horgen. The climb up to EG's lair sucked the wind out of me and I was relieved to recognise his appartment block just as I started to really struggle. 57 minutes, around 4.6 miles in all. An unexpected, rather pleasant journey.

That afternoon we took off for Chur, home of a hitherto unvisited (by either of us) H R Giger bar. In truth the bar was a little disappointing, as was the QPR v Spurs game (0-0) we stopped off at McDonalds* to watch on EG's iPad. The fabulous scenery more than made up for these minor set-backs. Majestic snow-coated mountains soared above us, clouds clinging halfway up. Quite the sight, even for one who has never (and has no intention of) strapped on skis. We returned to Horgen late that evening, taking a peaceful beer aboard a parked-up bar-boat before tucking into Andy's home-made chicken curry. Right lovely it was too.

Many thanks to EG for indulging me and for playing the perfect host. I hope to return in the summer with my good lady. Rumour has it there's a rather tasty Blues festival in Rapperswil at the end of June.

*McDonalds have free wifi. We may or may not** have partaken of junk food.
**I had a Royale with Cheese

[El Gordo]

I barely recognise this magnificent host you describe. Far too generous, just as you were with your wallet.

After despatching you on Sunday I fell asleep again and watched the weirdest of dreams -- occasionally taking part in the action. When I awoke I sat at my computer and tapped out a very brief description of our weekend for the website. That'll do nicely, I thought. But it wasn't posted and sitll isn't. If I knew why not, it would explain a number of mysterious things.

But anyway, it was a grand 2 or 3 days. All too rare for me to have non-family company over here. As you say, there were a number of plans that never made it to fruition. The boat trip to Rapi should have been preceded by a long walk through the other forest to Adliswil, a cable car up to the top of the panoramic ridge that winds all the way down into Zurich. This glorious 5 or 6 mile hike would have taken us down to the city quay where the boat starts its journey. Instead, we picked it up here an hour or so later. No matter.

And the trip to Chur was originally conceived as a much wider circuit to take in Lucerne, Interlaken, the Eiger and Jungfrau. That said, the weather was so grim that I'm not sure we'd have seen much.

But yes, a most agreeable 2.5 days, and one we should repeat, but as you say, perhaps with the civilising influence of a spouse or two. I'm sure this will reduce the likelihood of 4am disputes over McIlroy's shameful playacting.

Some snaps

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Now I'm *really* looking forward to my trip to El Gordo Land in a few months time! And by the sounds of it, a good thing Mrs MLCM will be there too.

[El Gordo]

Now I'm *really* looking forward to my trip to El Gordo Land in a few months time! And by the sounds of it, a good thing Mrs MLCM will be there too.

Amen Brother, as the great man would say. Some fragments of a plan are starting to rattle around up there.

[Sweder]

With today's golf called off without so much as a flake falling I welcomed the chance to add another morning plod to my calendar. By the time I'd got to the bigger hills we faced a flesh-ripping blizzard. Still wearing shorts - it's just not cold enough for the Max Wall outfit - my knees turned bright pink, frozen beads clinging to the extended leg hairs like tiny jewels. My face glowed as the icy barbs lanced in.

Lanced? Yes, well, perhaps the least said about last night's Doprah Winfrey debacle the better. Nicole Cooke was good value on the radio this morning, pulling no punches in her condemnation of a duplicitous man who has successfully sued no end of people and businesses over the years based on an ugly lie. Armstrong says he didn't seek an advantage, only to 'keep pace with everyone else'. Fuck off, Lance. And get your wallet ready. It's about to take a pounding.

The hounds frolicked, loving the feeling of the cool, crisp carpet under their galloping feet. I chugged along, more concerned with remaining upright. I needn't have worried. These new Mizuno's are the dog's Cajones, grappling with the slipperiest flint and frozen ruts without so much as a slip.

Earlier this week I'd been out for some short, sharp speed sessions. Yesterday was a toughie, an incremental speed trial. 60 seconds flat out, 60 seconds recovery, 120 seconds flat out, 60 seconds recovery then 4 minutes at quicker-than-race pace. I was disappointed at the oxygen deficiency on the first section. This improved on the longer sprints, mainly because my pace dropped. Pace was sub 6 m/m, sub 6.30 m/m and bang on 7 m/m respectively. On Tuesday I banked 10 x 30 second sprints with 30 second recoveries, working as hard as I could. My glutes hummed with the effort.

I'll get back to all this in February. For now, Almeria looms large on the horizon so after Sunday's planned long run with the ladies it's taper time. My race plan remains to go out hard. My fear is that I'll be left hanging on for too long at the end, slowing down way short of the full distance. Yet I see no point in plodding round in two hours. Might as well give it a shot, eh?

The Team RC/ GB Almeria squad lines up like this:
Julie, Cam, Gillybean, Marian, Simon plus one, Louise (@pinkyandnobrain on twitter). The latter is a late conscript from Lewes who I've run with a couple of times. She has youth and enthusiasm on her side. I don't know yet if she's entered the half or the 9k, but with more than a smattering of Espanol in her locker I expect she will have a cracking time.

On, on.