Hangovers are rare beasts around these parts, but one has come a-prowling today. Not a desperately savage example, but enough to keep me subdued. It’s prompted the usual self-interrogation, and taken me through the drinker’s faulty arithmetic in which two parts of pleasure somehow have to be shown to equal the three parts of pain that follow. The proposition never quite works out. It seemed such a good idea at the time. A post-race reward. Liverpool v Arsenal on the TV on the pub, and a few pints of London Pride. Exchanging manly small-talk about the referee. Then home to cook and eat the pork, swilling it down with a glass or two of Aldi’s reliable Chianti. And all very … …
Blog Posts
At last, after many weeks of trudging through a dense jungle of commitments, the weary traveller reached a small clearing. He marvelled at the sudden sense of light, and clarity. “I have been unable to see, and thus I have been invisible”, he mused. It’s been an eventful few weeks, with so much to write about that I’ve not had the time to log it. Now, finally, I seem to have arrived at a natural break between one list of overpowering assignments and the next. Best grab the chance to skim off and serve up the more newsworthy bits. We were off to a health spa last time I passed this way. At Ragdale Hall, I found that relaxation can … …
Well done M. I usually moan at her for wasting time entering competitions (“It’s just a marketing scam”), but occasionally I’m glad she ignores my advice. She’s managed to nab a 2-night stay in a suite at Ragdale Hall, a ‘health hydro’ in Leicestershire. Melton Mowbray in fact, so if the weight of healthy living becomes too burdensome, I can escape to the local town and seek solace in one of their famous pork pies. We go today. As well as a raft of ominous-sounding treatments, I’ve booked a range of fitness activities that I hope will re-ignite my flickering commitment to core exercise. As mentioned previously, a floppy, bulbous core is one of my long list of … …
Nothing wrong with a spot of mild iconoclasm. From time to time, we need to take our prejudices off the shelf, blow the dust off them, and give them a good examination. Are they still fit for purpose? Or are they just being kept for sentimental reasons? Recently, I’ve been ambushed by two long-standing prejudices. One delivered an unexpected kiss; the other, a painful bruise. I’ve long been an admirer and advocate of Julie Welch. Her book on a bunch of random characters preparing for the London Marathon, “26.2”, was one of the first running books I read. In my wide-eyed naivety, its pages provided a deceptively cosy entrance to the possibility of an unfit, middle-aged person running long distances … …
It seems to have been quite a lucky day. How does this happen? I set off after lunch, intending to zip round the block for 4 miles, but ended up banking 10.25 of the slippery buggers. The day was a beaut; mid-November, but it was actually warm out there this afternoon. Perhaps this persuaded me to eke out another mile. Then another. And another…. The run took me through the goose-coated deer park, past the lake, along my recently discovered secret path, up a mercilessly steep hill, through a forest via a bridleway that had me up to my ankles in liquid mud, down a tarmacked hill, over the level crossing, and along the canal towpath, eventually surfacing at the … …
Running is hard work. So why make it even harder for myself? This was my line of questioning as I entered the 3rd kilometre of the Brighton 10K. It was the point where I found myself struggling, or even floundering, at the realisation that I’d started too quickly. Pre-race saw the usual eye-bulging dash from the in-laws in Crawley to Brighton, followed by the Bullitt-style driving round the town, trying to find a parking place. As usual, I ended up in some sort of boutique parkery where they are pleased to swap your parking stress for financial anxiety. While M was adjusting her shopping goggles and disappearing into the Lanes, I padded down to the seafront and along to the … …
With the Brighton 10K just 2 days away, the inevitable doubts have been descending along with the grey clouds that are traditional at this event. We are in for an almighty maelstrom if the Met men are to be believed. The radio reports that the plucky population of Haywards Heath are being evacuated by boat at this very moment. One imagines a ruddy-faced Sir Bufton Tufton invoking the spirit of wartime Britain as he notionally directs operations from the saloon bar of the Dog and Duck. My reservations haven’t concerned the weather, but my perceived lack of preparation this week. It feels as if it’s been a lazy few days, though my spreadsheet records that I’ve managed 146 sweaty minutes … …
(Originally posted on the forum) I’m in another disappointing hotel in Nottingham, without the ability to upload a proper entry, but I wanted to mention today’s run. Just 4.5 miles, but apart from that ever-nasty first half mile, this was an outing that felt good at last. Last week’s 8 miler made me happy after I’d got home; this one managed to offer pleasure as it happened. It’s a while since I’ve had that experience. Perhaps “pleasure” is the wrong word. Satisfaction might be better. I feel vindicated in my belief that weight is a key factor to getting back into the groove. Since dipping below 220 pounds a couple of weeks ago, I’ve felt more confident and more … …
It’s been said before, but bears repeating: that we run only because we so quickly forget how horrible it really is. Today’s parkrun is a case in point. Here I am, peering at my spreadsheet, noting my likely future opportunities to do this weekly 5K, when barely an hour ago, floundering in the mud, panting like a runaway pig, I was resolving never to put myself through this pain and indignity ever again. I left both start and finish a bit late today. It’s always an error of judgement to ‘quickly check my emails’ in the shadow of a looming deadline. Inevitably, this session in front of the PC screen meanders into a serene browse through the usual news websites … …
The plan was for a sinewy, grunting hour in the gym this evening but I’ve been under the weather all day. I even sloped off to bed for a while at 6pm, nursing my incipient man-flu. The Grim Reaper has shown me mercy. I will give thanks by having an early night, and hope that I’ll still be alive when I wake in the morning. Against all the odds, I may even feel able to get over to the parkrun by 9am.… …