The Dubliners were part of the soundtrack to my childhood, and I hated them. It was the music of my parents, and I couldn’t relate to it. Much better were the other musical strands: the ones that came from my older brother and sisters. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones were cool; traditional Irish folk music wasn’t. I’ve had a strange relationship with Ireland. After several trips as a young child, I lost all interest in the place. For 30 years I stayed away, never even considering making the brief trip over the water. Despite growing to love and understand English folk music, I managed to ignore the Irish variety. Then in 1994 or thereabouts, the Dubliners came to Huddersfield, … …
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Nottingham. I wouldn’t normally stay in a Premier Inn for work, but opted to do so this time, as there’s a Virgin Active gym next door, which opens its doors to hotel residents. But once I’d checked in, and discovered that I could watch the Arsenal-Porto Champions League game only in the bar, my plans began crumbling. Instead of two hours of noble sweat and saintliness, it was two hours of beer and pizza and televised football. Just two pints, but any alcohol at all these days seems to leave an ugly footprint on the following morning, especially when I leave the heating on all night. I’m writing this early, before heading off for a morning of meetings, and my … …
The green shoots of recovery may have been sighted at last. It’s not the economy, stupid. It’s me. In my runiverse, nothing much has gone right this year. Just eleven hours into 2010, during the Hyde Park 10K, my injury troubles began, and they’ve not let up. Four weeks later came a failed Almeria half marathon, and since then, another desolate month has passed. Just one run, two weeks ago, and that lasted a tantalising 2 miles before the calf sniper pulled the trigger again. I’ve still not run, but the last few days have stirred me from my apathy, with 4 staggering spinning classes — by which I mean they’ve left me staggering away from the gym afterwards. … …
People of Shepherds Bush, rejoice! Flavio Briatore waddles away from Loftus Road for the final time as chairman, and I can once again come out as a QPR fan without blushing. Signore Briatore fitted my club as comfortably as I fit my wife’s jeans. His awkward tenure summed up much of the ills of modern football ownership: a rich foreigner with no appreciation of the soul of British football, and particularly not at a level below the summit, lumbers in to conjure a revolution in the fortunes of the team, promising to heal a variety of ailments we didn’t know we were suffering from. Heavy on ambitious bluster (“Champions League within four years…”), but low on patience and humility. Flabbio … …
Welcome to the new WordPress home. The minimalism isn’t intentional. All efforts so far have been directed at importing the content from the old, hand-coded, HTML site, and only now can I think about addressing the decor and spartan furnishing. What’s really needed on this red letter day is a sustained, sonorous note of optimism. Ah. Instead, I offer up the absolute opposite: the thought that I’m staring at the possibility that my running days may be over. If indeed they ever began. This melancholic swamp looks familiar enough, but I don’t recall being in this deep. Two full weeks of rest after Almeria seemed like a good enough period of recuperation. Apart from a solitary spinning session a couple … …
Almeria 2010 begins with the customary pain of a 4 a.m. alarm. Barely 40 minutes later, it’s terminal chaos: part of the submissive throng oozing through Gatwick security. Flying used to be part of the pleasure of an overseas break, but no longer. It’s now a penance; a punishment for trying to escape from the prison of daily routine. We queue. We dismantle our careful packing. We remove our dignity and parade it. Want an eyeful of my life? Here you are. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I pass muster, and half an hour later it’s the more pleasant experience of coffee with the Sussex quartet: Ash (Sweder), Julie (LadyRunner), Tracey, and Simon. I flew out … …
Well at least I had the good sense to insert a caveat into this statement in the last entry: …How does this bode for Almeria? Barring unexpected events this week, I’m confident I can get round in one piece… Today an “unexpected event” did occur. Just a few days ago it wouldn’t have seemed unexpected in the slightest, but intoxicated by the success of last week’s 30 miles, I forgot that the unlikely movement away from running misfortune might have been nothing more than the swing of a pendulum. Today it made its return journey. A casual 3½ mile jog around the block, while there was still some daylight to squeeze from the afternoon. This was the innocent plan. A … …
When I talked to Phil last week about my chances of making the Almeria Half, he mentioned one of his metrics. He reckoned that if you can run twice the distance of the race during the penultimate week, you should be fine. So I set my sights on 26 miles this week. Not a huge total in times of plenty, but these haven’t been times of plenty. I was startled to see that in only one week since I started back on the sticky road to race fitness, last September, have I managed more than 20 miles in a week. And that was in November, when from nowhere I produced two 10 milers. It was the week before Ragdale, my … …
Better news. Last Wednesday’s ailing calf opened the door (….did you know a calf could do that?) to a dissolute weekend. I fear I take rest and recovery all too seriously. An excess of low living followed: beer and saturated fat outside the house, and Chianti, spicy turkey casserole, sausages and blue cheese within. On Friday, something useful did happen: a visit to Phil the sports therapist for a half hour of painful, but helpful, calf manipulation. As I slid off the massage table, barely conscious, I was expecting to see on the floor beneath me, strips of bloody, wriggling flesh, freshly gouged from my lower limbs. There’s always a brief period when I wonder how such a treatment can … …
Grim days. Before Christmas, the snow arrived like some unexpected, enchanting dinner party guest. But as she has lingered, and got ruder and more domineering, the novelty and appeal has faded. Lovely to begin with, now a damn nuisance. Go away. Another six inches of fluffy ice has descended overnight. This would have spoilt my running plans, if I’d had any. Yesterday, after 4 sofa-bound days, I judged the pavements just about ice-free enough to get out the door again. After 1.5 miles of snow yomping along the sticky road to recovery, I came across a shovel-scraped section and decided, in the immortal words of David Coleman, to open my legs and show my class. Within a hundred metres, I … …