This evening I sat in a hedge, ruefully recalling that in Ye Greate Wise Booke of Runninge Lore, Rule Number 427 states: "Tie your shoes, and tie ’em tight." I’d memorised the first half of the sentence, but that last bit had slipped away somewhere. After last week’s episode, in which our man had turned up at the sports centre in time to see his running group vanish in a hissing cloud of rain spray, tonight I resolved to leave home a bit earlier. This was achieved (I realised later) by skimping on some details of preparation. Like tying my shoes quickly – but not very tightly. We set off. The night was cool, but not really cold enough to … …
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The short month ends, and without wanting to tempt fate, or to sound smug, marathon training this time around seems to be going better than I expected, and certainly better than it went for Copenhagen last year or Chicago in 2002. I just feel more “up for it” than I did the lst couple of times. It makes a big difference. While I was writing that last paragraph, “Seafront Plodder” just posted on the forum to say that he had decided to defer his London Marathon entry until next year. I started to reply, urging him to reconsider, but then abandoned the message. You know if you’re feeling right for a marathon or not. He’s complaining that he hasn’t rediscovered … …
“All my trials Lord, soon be over…” Perhaps not quite all of them, but at least my I.T. woes may be on their way out, with the arrival tomorrow of a new PC. Computer troubles are as dull as traffic anecdotes, so I’ll not go into detail. But let’s just say that I should soon be able to catch up on all sorts of mini-web projects before long – like getting the Almeria pics up and even [GASP] uploading the new site design. It’s been a cold week – fab for running. Monday was particularly severe. I got home from work just as the snow began to fall. Monday is a rest day but I couldn’t resist this, so I … …
Runner’s World magazine should be renamed Déjà Vu Monthly. Or have you heard that one before? It’s just that every time I read it, or rather, flick disconsolately through it, I’m strangely certain that I’ve seen it all before. That said, I am a subscriber, though the reasons for being so have long since abandoned me. This month, no magazine turned up at all. Did I fire off an angry email to the circulation people? Nah. When packing my overnight bag for Rugby this week – the sort of occasion that does finally endow some raison d’etre to the mag – I just threw in the January 2004 issue instead. (Or was it January 2003? Is there any way … …
Despite the procession of troubled spirits passing along the corridor beyond my door, I woke at 6 a.m. feeling refreshed and rested. I lay there for a while, listening to the radio and TV reports about today being the final day of legal fox hunting. This rather blank part of England is keen on the practice, and the local TV station paraded a long line of indignant local worthies, shaking their fist at the cruel gods. I’d planned to do a longish run, but was held back by the thought of another extended shuffle through industria. But eventually I got up, put my running gear on and left the hotel. And had a pleasant surprise. First, I found out the … …
I don’t know exactly where I am. Somewhere near Rugby, in a haunted hotel – a gothic, Victorian manor house with shadowy corners and vaulted corridors. And restless ghouls. It was pitch black and freezing when I got out for a run at about 7:30 this evening. Padding down the drive, I kept a watch out for the ghostly coach and six horses that may be seen racing across the lawn on dark nights, being urged forward by the apparition of “One-Armed Boughton” who lived in the early 1700s. Nowt about tonight though. The twisty, tree-lined lane up to the main road was as hazardous a quarter mile as I’ve ever travelled on foot, but I made it. It was … …
Some of the worst weather conditions of the winter said a cheery “Hi” when I woke this morning. I lay there for a while, listening to the rain sploshing in the gutter under the roof, and trickling down the walls. The windows trembled in their frames. At seven I got up to scoff a banana or two and a pint of orange squash. I stood in the kitchen looking out, thinking about December 11th 2001. The weatherman on Radio Four said go back to bed – so I did. The truth is, the weather didn’t matter much. If anything, it made the prospect of a run more exciting. Better than dismal, neutral grey. More perplexing was the lethargy that I’d … …
Plodderata, God of Plod, I beseech you. I beat my chest, I offer up my last Lucozade Sport energy gel, I pull clumps of sweaty hair from my head. Why? Why, why, why? This morning I got up early, breakfasted, pulled my warm and dry kit from the washing machine, got dressed and set off on my 16 mile long run. It took 2 or 3 minutes for the first suspicions to arise. The day was grey and blustery. A carrier bag chased me up the street for a hundred yards before edging ahead. Last week Haile Gebrselassie, this week a Tesco carrier bag. I felt lifeless and demotivated. Once I’m into it, I’ll be fine, I said. But I … …
A couple of days off running, thanks to a painful and swollen toe, but I did get out for 3½ damp, twilit miles this evening. Not a great run. One of those bloated, uncoordinated efforts that feel strangely aimless. The current plan is a long run tomorrow morning, before leaving for Mecca. Just at the moment, the prospect of 16 miles doesn’t excite me. I spent today’s jaunt thinking that I need to get the Almeria pictures up here soon. The website needs a pictures section. Oh God.… …
I seem to be in a perennial state of catch-up these days. Since the last written-up run (the Almeria Half), I’ve run 6 times. Some excellent adventures to report too. Talking of catch-up, I’m reminded of the first of two strange things that happened during my 15 mile slog up and down the canal on Saturday. Just as I arrived at the bridge that takes me down to the towpath, I noticed another runner, a plump, balding middle-aged guy just 20 or 30 yards away, heading towards the same bridge from the opposite direction. Ten or fifteen seconds after I’d started along the path, the man got to the bridge and set off along the canal behind me. I turned … …