OK, not entirely.
A ParkRun in Singapore, two more back in Blighty, including one this morning, a couple of hilly lopes and a game of footy.
Lewes FC have a +35s Vets side that trains on a Friday. Goodness knows why, I didn't fancy a night on the lash with the lads and headed down to the 3G facility behind the Pan Siro. I met up with a crew of has-been/ wanna-be footballers, all well past their footballing sell-by date. We stretched, we warmed up. We stood around the centre circle and someone read a prayer, of sorts.
'We are here because we love football and want to play,
We are old and easily broken.
We play to win, but we play for fun.
We all have lives and jobs away from this.
We do this for fun'
No gouging, deliberate kicking of shins, two-footed lunges, That Sort Of Thing. This was going to be hard!
But I relaxed, assured that we would be OK no matter how out of touch we might be.
It was, really, really tough. 60 minutes of constant movement. I played centre back, my preferred station, and was promptly tasked with marking Floyd. Floyd is a whisp of a man, coal-black, rapid, agile and apparently carved from granite. I had a torrid time trying to keep hold of him. He scored twice, so I guess you could say I didn't do too well. When Floyd wasn't twisting my blood I had Xavi to deal with. A vociferous (in his native tongue) Spaniard, another whippet with a penchant for sudden bursts of speed and a twist and turn or two.
We scored seven in the hour allotted, four more than the other lot. It didn't really matter, though. The game's the thing, and what a glorious thing it was, to be able to play without fear of tearing or breaking something, with people just happy to be running about on a (state of the art 3G) football pitch under floodlights.
It all seemed so much less of a good idea when Tom rocked up at Chez Sweder this morning, bound for Bevendean ParkRun. He'd swung by to pick me up, dead on 08:25 as agreed. I woke up at 08:23. I was ready, sort of, clutching socks, my runners and my hamstrings as I blinked into the morning light.
The run was tough. I lost a groin on the first big descent and scraped home in 2 seconds under 30 minutes. 'Modest' seems inadequate; Ordinary; it was ordinary.
OATR had arrived just before the off. He flew round in a course PB, some way under 25 minutes. I doffed my cap and joined him, Tom and Paula for a celebratory coffee.
We bumped into Ladyrunner of this Parrish up on the hill. Jules was waxing Almeria, musing that the dates for 2018 might be published by now. Tonight, our Almeria Whatsapp group chat buzzed and chirruped. Antonio is on the case. Joe M and Louise are up for it, Jules and Rich, most likely OATR. I haven't asked CC as yet, as he's still sore after muddying his boots at Eridge.
I've a ways to go before that, but this weekend has felt like a good start.
On, on ...
I was once the Tony Pulis of futsal...
