2015: Resurrection

[stillwaddler]

Looks like all systems go for the Resurrection Sweder, excellent progress. Wish i could be there on the Downs..maybe next year?

[marathondan]

How's your following wind, SW?

[Sweder]

I think this worm has turned.

This morning I took a pre-flight dash around my 'long' route, adding a second loop of the Moyleman start. Breathing has settled as I come to terms with a realistic pace - average around 7 minutes per kilometre. This may be snail's pace compared to 2013 but a lot of knee-flushing fluid has passed across  the meniscii since then. Look forward, not back. Build, build and the pace will come.

The second long climb was easier than the first. On the pacier lope home, past the dew pond and a phalanx of bewildered sheep, I felt it; that keen sense of wanting more. Hallelujah. It's been a while, but there was no mistaking the strength and longing in my legs. I'd have gone round again if I hadn't a flight to catch.

Shanghai offers delights to weaken the flesh and expand the belly. I won't resist completely, but I shall counteract with gym sessions (bike/ row/ tready combos) every other day. I've packed a few vests and my Road runners.

I want back in.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

... I felt it; that keen sense of wanting more ... I want back in.

Hello.

Look out world, he's baaaack.

[Sweder]

Despite the lack of meaningful action since Thursday morning I feel compelled to comment. Not least because Charliecat MLCMMan and Dan are knocking it out of the park of late, inspirational stuff. 

Three days of striding the harsh concrete halls of the Shanghai Expo have taken a heavy toll on my legs, not least That Knee. I'm planning a gym bike session tomorrow afternoon; I hope that frees things up a tad. 

[Sweder]

Shanghai Cobble Torture

Awoke with the Mother of all hangovers. Dry mouth, banging head, aching all over. I wouldn't mind, but my total intake the night before was 2 x Guinness and 2 x Erdinger, hardly a World-class bender. C'est la vie. 

Today was always ear-marked as a gym session day. A glance across the busy Huangpu river told me the air quality in the city was about as good as it gets. Dropping my gaze to the near bank I spied what appeared to be, from 21 floors up, a park. That settled it. Road runners, Almeria Vermillion top, Lewes FC shorts, Runkeeper (remarkably functional given the Chinese penchant for blocking any form of web-based mapping tool) and a last swig of H20. 

A cool yet sunny morning met my early staggering steps. Running riverside I copped a welcome breeze, greeting passing wide-eyed locals with a half-Shearer and mumbled 'Knee How'. The 'park' was little more than a collection of shrubs and the occasional bizarre sculpture (see pic) set in an ocean of concrete and cobbles. All told I managed 5.64 kilometres at medium pace, finishing with something approaching a sprint - well, a faster lumber, anyway. Close to a 40-minute pounding left my under-constructed legs in tatters. In better news, the hangover had more or less sweated its way out. 

   

Tonight I'll fuel up on pasta and stick to Guinness. Must have been that dodgy German brew that did the damage.
This road to recovery is long and torturous. Next week needs to be a whole lot better.

[Sweder]

Death-cab for Sweder

Jesus Christ. 
He was the ghost of Ayrton Senna, a fearless man with God on his side. My cab driver, the lunatic who transported me from the Shanghai Expo Intercontinental to Pudong airport. A journey of some ninety minutes and change covered in less than half that. In rush hour. It’s the closest I’ve come to death in my fifty-three years on the planet.

6:45 am and there's no time for coffee. Rumour has it the journey to the airport any time after 7 is a lottery, best get on the road if I’m to make my flight to CDG and connection to Prague, home of SP’s Last Hurrah. 

My driver is on a mission. 
‘Nee how’. He holds up a finger. 
‘Nee how. Yes please, Terminal 1’
I slam into the back seat, pinned there for the next twenty-five terrifying minutes as we launch into the City. Every light is green, every road-sweeper and cyclist missed by millimetres. Looming concrete flashes by under slate-grey skies. Sweeping curves and glass facades, colossal, rising out of an ocean of filthy low-rise barracks, shiny-bright against a backdrop of red-grey high-rise desolation. Farewell, my old China.

Traffic thickens like cooling porridge as the rush-hour takes effect. Ayrton tuts angrily as he flicks the wheel left and right, ducking here, diving there, changing lanes like a pro on the rain-slicked freeway. But the safety car is out, flashing lights on the horizon warn of trouble ahead. In a scene straight out of Gone In Sixty Seconds my man lunges across three lanes, heading for an impossibly close exit. We must be doing sixty. A silver people-carrier sits, resolute, in Ayrton’s lane. All I can see is the tiny yellow water barrel at the intersection. That won’t slow us down much, I think, as my heart swells like a courting Bullfrog.

Before I can go into shock the brakes slam on and we power-slide behind the people-carrier, straight in front of a monstrous truck. Horns blare, Ayrton curses. I can’t breathe. I catch my driver’s wild grin in the mirror. We are going to die.

Around us manic street racers streak towards the horizon. Behold, the rat race. Most, doing at least seventy, are on the phone, eyes fixed, mouths agape as they scream into their handsets. 800 million people, racing on high octane. 800 million and not one unemployed, all on a crazy-arsed conveyor-belt to the future. Eat, fuck, procreate, die, swarming like cockroaches over the scorched Earth. Westerners come to feast on the carcass, slurping greedily on the fatty scraps. They too will be consumed, their bones ground for concrete, vacant skulls paving the new airport road. 

A black sedan sweeps past, freshly-fallen cherry blossom plastered across its tinted rear windows. Shining pink in the greyest of all worlds, they remind me of the girl's red coat in Schindler’s List, a tiny rage against the death of colour, delicacy in the heart of a relentless machine. As the dust clears I'm reminded of another movie, the prescient and rather wonderful Interstellar, where mankind fights desperately to escape the dust-blight destroying the last remaining crops. We have been warned.

The landscape falls away as the cab finally slows, high-rise yielding to the flat of the land. My fingers release their 45-minute grip on the tattered vynil seat and I manage to exhale fully. The Great Lie cradles the airport; manicured lawns, tended flower beds, neatly-trimmed trees. Too late, dear hosts, I’ve breathed your foul, corrupted air for over a week. I’m out of here. 

[marathondan]

Just a normal day's work for the cabbie, no doubt. I guess that terrifying westerners adds a little fun to the job. Enjoy your weekend in the city of Kafka.

Kafka's writing has inspired the term "Kafkaesque", used to describe concepts and situations reminiscent of his work... Examples include instances in which bureaucracies overpower people, often in a surreal, nightmarish milieu which evokes feelings of senselessness, disorientation, and helplessness. Characters in a Kafkaesque setting often lack a clear course of action to escape a labyrinthine situation. Kafkaesque elements often appear in existential works, but the term has transcended the literary realm to apply to real-life occurrences and situations that are incomprehensibly complex, bizarre, or illogical.

[El Gordo]

   

Urquell -- the original.

Hurrah! Here comes number one.....

[Sweder]

Just landed in Paris, next flight 18:15 local time.
Somewhat behind on the beer front ...

[Sweder]

Prague and Prague II: The Return lay behind me like discarded donut wrappers, sticky with the residue of guilt and carb indulgence. Ah well.
Today's lope, a swift flit around the short, steep circuit, proved one thing; my legs enjoyed the break. This morning they felt lively, eager to skip across the dried mud trails. Even the climb up the steep bridleway at the finish had me thinking 'quick feet, I can beat this stupid hill with quick, dancing feet'. It's been a while since I thought that without giggling hysterically.

Perhaps I'm still drunk.

[marathondan]

'quick feet, I can beat this stupid hill with quick, dancing feet'. It's been a while since I thought that without giggling hysterically.

Do you sing that to a tune in your head? (or worse, out loud?)

[Charliecat5]

'quick feet, I can beat this stupid hill with quick, dancing feet'. It's been a while since I thought that without giggling hysterically.

Do you sing that to a tune in your head? (or worse, out loud?)

You can hear it from this side of the valley... 

   

[Sweder]

Unsurprisingly, after a few weeks' headless rushing about and long-haul travel, along comes a truly horrible run. Mercifully short, devoid of redeeming features apart from the glorious sunrise through Arthurian mist, this outing will linger in my memory just as long as it takes to spew out the sorry tale here. 

   

The legs felt lifeless, leaden, lungs like battered sieves. My core stayed in bed, allowing my body to wobble this way and that as I laboured on. Chugging up the Moyleman start I tried every trick in the book to keep going.
Graham's over soon, you need to push on
It's only half an hour, you can run for half an hour
This hill isn't event steep, or long
Suck it up

All wasted. I ground to a halt halfway up and just walked, sucking air, sweat dripping off my bowed head. Chalk it up as 'one of those' and move on. Two minutes later I was running again. I actually put on a bit of a spurt at the end. Runkeeper cheerfully flashed up its congratulations.
'This is your 4th fastest session over this distance! You've earned a reward!'
Do, please, just fuck off. 

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Mate, maybe we should just sit in the pub and talk about running?

[Sweder]

Mate, maybe we should just sit in the pub and talk about running?

Oh, that's happening. I just think we need that little dose of pain first. Just so we feel like we earned some time in the pub ... 

[Charliecat5]

Mate, maybe we should just sit in the pub and talk about running?

Oh, that's happening. I just think we need that little dose of pain first. Just so we feel like we earned some time in the pub ... 

Hey... I set the alarm for 6:30 this morning with a run in mind.  At 7:30 I was still in bed.  Now I need to do a lunch time run otherwise Mrs CC5 is going to catch me up again.   

As some old fart said to me once, it's all about time on your feet... there's no such thing as a bad run.  

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

As some old fart said to me once, it's all about time on your feet...

Oh, I'm more than happy to spend time on my feet standing at the bar. That's cross training, a very important part of my running regimen.

[Charliecat5]

As some old fart said to me once, it's all about time on your feet...

Oh, I'm more than happy to spend time on my feet standing at the bar. That's cross training, a very important part of my running regimen.

To expand a little... there is no such thing as a bad run... but there is such a thing as a bad pint... 

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

As some old fart said to me once, it's all about time on your feet...

Oh, I'm more than happy to spend time on my feet standing at the bar. That's cross training, a very important part of my running regimen.

To expand a little... there is no such thing as a bad run... but there is such a thing as a bad pint... 

Between us I am sure we have enough experience to avoid such disappointments. At worst, we can always call upon the services of the Grand Supreme Pintmeister Seafront Plodder to guide us through the maze of delightful complexity that is English real ale.

That is to say, we'll be right on the night.