No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds -
November!
What utter tosh.
I love November! Yeehah!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Apes of Hades, The Apes of Hades, The Apes of Hades, The Apes of Hades, The Apes of Hades, The Spades of Ace, The Space of Ades, The Space of Ades, The Space of Ades The Space of Hades, The Spades of Ace, The Space of Ades, The Space of Ades, The Space of Ades The Space of Ades, The Pace of Sads, The Pace of Sads, The Pads of Case, The Place of Sads, The Case of Ades, The Pace of Sads, The Pace of Sads, The Pads of Case, The Place of Sads, The Case of Hades, The Spades of Ace, The Space of Ades, The Space of Ades, The Space of Ades The Space of Ades, The Pace of Sads, The Pace of Sads, The Pads of Case, The Place of Sads, The Case of Pades...... ad nauseam
A gentle lope across the downs this morning to herald the new month and satisfy my newly rekindled lust for running. I'm appalled by the debilitating effect of several months' extra lard. It'll take time and steady plodding to shift it, but I'm grimly determined.
No verbal assault today.
Here's my run in pictures. Pip pip!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
For the first time in a while, and in much the same vein as the bunch of overpaid, over-rated primadonnas I watched capitulate to a poor Lille side last night, I didn't fancy it this morning. I awoke with a heart full of fear and legs full of aches and pains as Mother Nature pounded on the bedroom window. I guess she wasn't impressed with last nights' footie either.
There was never any doubt that I would plod today.
Foul as it was outside, and much though my body did grumble, I was banking those miles. I staggered up the road towards the entrance to the downs as the approaching apocalypse - blackened skies, howling wind, a swarm of dismembered autumn leaves hurtling around me - tried to convince me to turn back. Pish posh.
This was never going to be an elegant run. More a struggle akin to birth, fighting for the right to exist, to draw breath in the raging torrent of the maelstrom. But, I came, I saw, and like the specky swot who sat up all night reading books on how to prepare the fruits of the horse chestnut, I conquered.
4 tough miles tucked away before my red-eye to Bilbao.
Tired, aching a little more, sweating a little less.
And, in the words of Nina, I'm feelin' good.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Well done for getting out there today, Sweder. Up here in Berks it's been windy and wet too, but I'm safe. I've run 4 days in a row, and yesterday resolved that today I would rest, however I felt. I don't want to push it. The heel/calf have been OK but there's just a remote ache there that suggests that it could come back if provoked.
On another matter.... Paris. Just checked the site, and the race is full. Bugger. I was undecided, but was definitely moving in that direction. Should have got in last week. Anyway, no matter, need to find another now.
Enjoy Bilbao, and the Rioja.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Just arrived in Bilbao, and impressed with the number and severity of the surrounding hills. Off for a riverside plod in a minute, but will seek a steeper challenge for Sunday.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Managed a sedate 50 minutes (5 miles-ish) along the river bank this afternoon. I start work tonight at 00:01, so took advantage of the early flight arrival to bank some miles on the flat concrete.
Overcast skies and sporadic rain showers provided a pleasant temperature for this gentle Spanish stroll. The Guggenheim watched silently as I splashed first west along the opposite bank and later east in the lea of her shining metal visage. The building is remarkable, more so in 3D. I snapped some shots on my phonecam - I hope to post them when I get my own PC up and running at the weekend - but I suspect justice will not be done.
The river meanders through the city and into the commercial district, a collection of soul-less warehouses and semi-derelict dwellings. I pondered the wisdom of running too far into such a place, deciding to turn about and head back into the comparitive warmth of the metropolis.
Note for Sunday - a nice two-lap circuit of the bridges along the 2 mile stretch of river should create a challenging route for a swift 5 or 6 miles.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Bilbao? That's just up the road......
Sad to see Athletic Bilbao at the bottom of the league at the moment. They only sign local players. Can you imagine a premiership side only using players from their own region ...unthinkable. !Aupa Athletic!
At least, tumbleweed on the running front.
Bilbao is a gem, a wonderful mix of old and new. Fabulous buildings grace every corner of the city, rubbing shoulders with the futurescapes of the museum and the opera house.
Sadly I failed to get out yesterday as planned, and today will be spent chasing deliveries around the exhibition centre. The omens are good for tomorrow, and I hope to at least repeat Fridays' riverside run. Here's some snaps from that run.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Time to pay the Piper.
Contrary to my best intentions before travelling to Spain I've managed to put away more Guinness this week than I'd managed in the past two months. With the show open and the customers happy it was time to restore some mileage.
To increase my discomfort on this bright Bilbao afternoon - my distended beer barrel belly was bad enough - the sun shone with a vigour not seen so far this trip. Moi Calienté. It was no more than I deserved as I wearily started my run. I'd elected to complete the 6 bridges circuit pondered on Friday. I reckoned this would give me a fairly tight 5 mile loop (approximately 45 to 50 minutes plodding). I started slowly, through necessity rather than choice. The pace increased a little as the riverside prom filled with lunchtime strollers, many of them quite attractive. I sucked in the blubber and stepped on the gas, but this couldn't last more than 20 seconds or so each time.
The bridges proved a fun diversion, offering alternative views of the Guggenheim and the surrounding architecture. The suggestion of 6 bridges is a tad misleading - I actually crossed 3 bridges twice - and as I traversed the last for the second time I glanced at my 'phone to check on the time.
Only 40 minutes! Well, I knew I hadn't run a quick 5, so I resolved to navigated the last two crossings once more. I finished in 55 minutes, probably a smidgeon over 5 miles run, drenched in sweat, heaving like a sumo after a sprint, but pleased with myself for enduring the torture.
Here's some bridge snaps from the run.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Knowing this could be my last chance to get some in before travelling home on Friday night I decided on another bridge run this evening. I hadn't reckoned on the Security guys from the show inviting me for an apres trabajo slurp. It would have been rude to refuse.
A couple of pints of the Black Stuff later I was in a cab heading for the hotel.
To run or not to run loaded with Guinness? I had a dinner date with show management at 10 - it was now 8:45. The thought of inaction until Saturday or Sunday made the decision simple - I had to get out.
A swift change of clobber and out into the Basque evening. Heavy rain had left the sidewalks slick and glistening in the city lights. Still warm enough for shorts though, and I treated the early evening revellers to a glimpse of my sparrows' kneecaps. Time being of the essence I elected to eschew the multiple bridge route for a more eliptical one, taking the first bridge to the Guggenheim side and plodding past said structure to the last bridge on the bank. Back across and a fairly swift canter back to the Nevion. The pace, something around 9 minute miles (or so it felt), left me sweaty and breathless - nice if you're with a lady, not so hot when surrounded by loving couples heading out for dinner. I was proud of myself for a) running at all and b) putting the hammer down, albeit in modest fashion.
I have no idea of time or distance, but I'll bank 3+ miles.
An outside chance of another dash on Friday afternoon depending on the timely arrival of Spanish transport. That'll be 'no chance', then
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It must be something that happens as you get older, this mellowing.
Yesterday I’d felt ambivalent towards the outcome of my Summer Matchplay semi-final. Having arrived home from Bilbao (via Stanstead) at a little after 1 that morning, I shuffled off to Horam Park intent on enjoying a sunny November day on the golf course, ambitions no higher than taking the match into the back nine.
My opponent, Mike, a regular player and accomplished 4-handicapper playing on his home course, was into a serious warm-up session on the driving range. Not one to miss the opportunity of an early arrival I opted for a bacon sandwich and a few putts before the off.
By the turn I was three down and promptly lost the 10th to go four holes behind with eight to play. But I had played well, forcing Mike to win holes rather than gift-wrapping them for him. I won the eleventh and proceeded to par the next four holes, winning two of them. One down, three to play. Stony silence from Mike told me I’d made an impression. A tight 16th where I missed a mid-range putt to level the match did little to lighten the mood. Only when I drove wildly into a ditch on the penultimate hole did the banter return, Mike winning the hole and taking his place in the final. The result – 2 and 1.
I’ve never felt remotely happy about a sporting loss, and yet I felt pride in my performance, accepting that the better man won on the day. I'd made a fist of it and the match was worthy of a semi-final.
And then to the football. A ‘friendly’ against Argentina, following a series of unconvincing results on Englands’ road to Germany. I watched the game in awe; this had everything; skill, drama, passion, goals, fouls, misses. Both teams played with abandon, going for a moral-boosting win. It was hammer-and-tongs stuff, and I wallowed in the rich festival of football, so unexpected at kick off. Eventually the South Americans took the lead, and as the incomparable Rooney grimaced, his world-class chip deflected by the ‘keepers’ fingernails, that odd feeling of accepting an honourable defeat returned. 2 – 1 would be a fair result, given the balance of play, although it would be tough on the England manager. Eriksson showed tactical nouse with his substitutions, not to mention respect for the occasion by restricting himself to three.
Can this be right?
Happy to lose to Argentina? Comfortable, not to mention gracious, in defeat in a golf match?
Stating, publicly, that Eriksson actually looked like he knew what he was doing?
This mellowing malarkey is really taking hold.
And then Micheal Owen, the Ghost of St. Etienne, stole in to score with a well-placed header. 2-2.
And then he did it again, and we won, and I went completely berserk, bouncing on the sofa like a small child, grinning like a loon, shaking my fist at a bewildered Mrs S then clapping like a demented seal.
Perhaps there’s life in the old dog yet.
Oh yes, the run.
Nipped out with the Brighton bunch for a swift 12 K this morning. The Downs doze under an icy layer of freezing mist as I sped towards the coast, and thoughts turned to a possible Snake run. But the group were going to the wire and no further. With the Brighton 10K a week away no-one fancied risking injury on the heavy downland soil.
I set off as slowly as I could manage, keeping at least two people in front of me at all times. My previous run over this course two weeks ago had ended in staggering, chest-heaving ignominy, and I resolved to at least finish this one in reasonable shape.
At Saltdean Lido Jill, one of my pre-FLM downland companions, caught us up. She had competed in the Jog Shop Jog, Octobers’ gruelling 20-miler, finishing in an impressive 3 hours 27. Evidently recently employed as Satans’ Envoy she suggested that we take on the Snake together. A true temptation given my earlier thoughts. My lack of mileage and poor display last time won out, much to her dismay.
The return to Brighton was a swift one. I set off behind a young woman new to the group, determined to stay in her shadow for as long as possible. We hit the first of several sapping climbs and the pace remained steady. After three more climbs I was breathing hard. The difference this Sunday morning was in my legs; they felt strong. Another climb and I moved onto the shoulder of my companion, passing her at the summit. I pushed on, the Marina now in view, striking for home. My lungs burned as they tried to meet my body’s demands, my breathing ragged and quick, but I felt good and kept going.
During recovery as we stretched, clouds of hot breath steaming in the chilled sea air, we exchanged brief race histories. She had started running last year and already had three full marathons behind her, with a PB of 3:35. I was suitably impressed. She asked about my Half PB and looked shocked as I sheepishly revealed I’d yet to break 1:50.
‘You’re kidding. The way you left me on the hill back there I thought you’d be down in the (one hour) thirties!’
I smiled, muttering about hamstrings and lack of speed work. She nodded sagely, agreeing that such is the part-time runners’ lot. My sporting ambivalence was being tested again. This time I was less inclined to accept it, resolving silently to address a sub 1:50 Half early in the New Year.
In Almeria perhaps?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Argie match was indeed excellent, and even when I was just about settling for a gallant 2-1 defeat I was telling myself what an enjoyable game it had been. Funnily enough, just moments before Owen's first, I was complaining loudly to the bloke next to me in the pub that Owen was a total waste of space. I had barely noticed him through the entire match until he scored.
Glas to see that you're getting cranked up for Brighton and beyond. I'm horribly beer-swollen and undertrained, but I'm sure I'll be, er, at the top of my game next Sunday.
Gulp.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
