RunningCommentary

Join me in Peabody, Massachusetts, where the country music is playing softly in the hotel ballroom. I sit directly beneath the gargantuan chandelier and stare down at the swirly carpet, trying to avoid eye contact with the other 60 or 70 suckers. Suddenly I hear footsteps approaching, and a voice cries: “Ah, and you must be Reg Varney!” Must I? Oh god, yes, I must. Why do I find it so hard to resist putting stupid names on unimportant forms? “Reckernised the English accent when you came in”, he explains, with a grin the size of Uncle Sam’s Y-fronts. “Figured that must be you, Reg. I’m Spencer from U-taw, and I’ll be speakin’ this evenin’ “. I shake hands with … …

Early yesterday morning, I’m wandering round the garden with a cup of coffee, inspecting the newly-planted, but ailing, beech hedge, and offering a bit of encouragement to my sauvignon blanc vine by attacking its neighbour with some blunt secateurs. The usual thrush twitters in the usual cherry tree. All is well in rural Berkshire. A few hours later, I’m on another continent, crawling through the traffic outside Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox, peering up at the top of the bleachers where a congested line of jubilant silhouettes can be seen punching the air. Some feverish internet hunting this past week couldn’t produce an affordable ticket, so this particular Things I Must Do Before I Die box … …

I woke at around 6 this morning and listened to the rain swishing the new gravel drive. As I sank into bed last night I promised myself to get up early and run. It didn’t happen, but I managed the next best thing. Working locally these days, I was able to wangle myself an extended lunch break – enough time to pop home, get changed, run 4 miles, shower, change back and return to work without anyone noticing I’d been gone a bit longer than usual. The run was better than I feared it would be. A break of 13 days and a bout of gluttony is usually enough to ensure a whimpering, bloated, intermittent run-walk of a plod. It … …

So. John Tyndall is dead. Founder of the British National Party. I met this horrible man once. No, twice. I was at the Battersea Beer Festival one year (about 1988/89) and got talking to a middle-aged Asian guy. We got on quite well, had a bit of a laugh. He was really quite pissed, and I probably wasn’t far behind him. I must have been spouting off about race relations because he suddenly started laughing and said “Come and meet my friends. You’ll be surprised!” We went and sat down at a table, and who would be there but John Tyndall and Martin Webster, plus various other old NF/BNP luminaries. Martin Webster is a famous name that will mean something … …

I didn’t run again in Germany. I didn’t really run today either, despite my GPS watch reporting a 12 miler. It’s getting slightly worrying. For the second weekend in a row I’ve set out on my long run in very strong heat. On both occasions I’ve managed 4 steady miles before having to stop for a breather. From then on, it’s been stop-start all the way. Yesterday’s ‘run’ turned into a walk after about 7 miles, dotted with brief bursts of lethargic jogging. I’m blaming the heat, but I’m sure my preparation could be better. I’ve always had a thing about not carrying fluid with me. On this particular route I can drink from the water tap on the canal … …

Running a marathon through its streets has given me a bond with Chicago, whether I like it or not. (And as it happens, I don’t mind…). On a freezing morning a couple of days after the marathon, I went for a wander up Madison Avenue to the magnificent Chicago Tribune building, in search of a newspaper. You can read about it here. I continue to call in at the Tribune from time to time, via the web. Here’s yesterday’s editorial: A Letter To London To The People Of London: The battle against global terrorism that conjoins our nations on so many fronts has long been, in our belief, a fight to the death. It is all the more so … …

Life goes on. It was around 10:30 this morning that I first heard about the bombs on the London Underground and the Russell Square bus. For a couple of hours, there was a sense of shock around the office – not helped by the lack of hard news. Rumours of further attacks and mounting body counts kept the internet humming for most of the morning, before my capacity for grotesque wonder was fully charged, and it became time to do something else. You can say “isn’t it terrible?” only so many times. So I carried on configuring my server – a job that took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. Running? I’ve had a good week … …

You almost have to feel sorry for Monsieur Chirac. Almost. Compared with Blair, he’s not been having a great time of it recently. Unpopular at home; losing the vote on the EU constitution; failing to wring a concession from Blair over “the cheque”; Blair delivering that barnstormer of a speech to the European parliament about the need to modernise and grasp the opportunities of new technology, while Jacques made himself look old and dinosaur-like by defending the indefensible, outmoded Common Agricultural Policy instead; the Battle of Trafalgar celebrations; the backfiring remarks about English cuisine; the UK leading the debate on Africa and global warming; the UK hosting the G8 conference; the UK starting their 6 month chairing of the EU … …

I don’t believe in astrology. Perhaps this is a Cancerian trait. God and the stars; tarot cards and alien abduction – emotional Big Macs for those who need their hunger satisfied, and quickly, without the inconvenience of having to think for themselves. Low hanging fruit for those who don’t want to have to reach too far. There – I’ve put my cards on the table. So the question is: can I still have a lucky number? This question consumed me for several moments a week ago, when I received my Dorney Dash 10K race pack. I decided that if I called it a favourite number instead, I’d be in the clear. “Lucky” suggests some external power; “favourite” could have some … …