One of those good weekends unspoiled by obligations of any kind, apart from a faint plan to amble along to the pub to watch yesterday’s big match. Nothing to do but fiddle about with my new laptop and grin to myself. The nearest I got to work was a bit of leisurely cooking and some bread-making. But let’s get the running bit out of the way before the serious business starts. I’d sort of pencilled in a longish one for Sunday, but just in time, I realised it might appear disrespectful to anyone preparing to run a marathon. Instead, I went out for a couple of short ‘uns (3.5 miles). The first one, just after 5pm on Saturday, was needed … …
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A day off after a race is mandatory. Two days is a bit naughty, but I’ll let it pass for anything over a 10K. But three days? What d’you take me for, Boy? EH? EH? This is what I said to myself yesterday evening, after getting back to my Dartford hotel. Suitably chastised, I dutifully detogged, changed mode, retogged and decamped. It was a new route. Inspired by my discovery that last week’s hotel had a secret escape hatch into the local community, I tried the same thing with the Hilton. I made it through the wire before the alarm was raised, and was away. Dark, raining lightly, the first mile was almost countrified. Then it was back to reality … …
The smug weekend continues. No PB was going spare today, but the run went better than expected, considering that my main preparation had been to reread Chapter 19 of Russell Taylor’s Looniness of the Long Distance Runner – the one that deals with his experience of this race. Perhaps that’s being uncharitable to my feet, who’ve been manfully slapping the pavements of Dartford all week. All told, it’s been a pretty good running week, followed by a corker of a weekend. Three good midweek outings of around 5 miles apiece. I’ve been staying in a different hotel from usual. The location of this new one, perched as it is on the brink of Europe’s biggest and busiest roundabout, hadn’t offered … …
Written before the critical 3pm watershed: In much the same way that soldiers scratch their last will and testament on the back of an envelope before going into battle, I thought I’d better write this before the QPR match. My good fortune must begin crumbling soon, with the West Ham clash an ideal starting point. So I find myself in an internet café on Shepherds Bush Green, gleaming with smug pleasure at my morning’s work. Up early to drive to Edgware to collect a new laptop. You won’t have heard of Tiptop Laptops, but I’ve decided to give them a chance after grave customer service disappointments with Dell and Toshiba in recent times. It’s probably a boy thing, but … …
A flying visit, as I won’t be around for a few days. Another good 3.5 miles this evening in the cold and dark. Not fast, but it felt good to be out, shedding the baggage of work. I’ve entered a 10 mile race next Sunday – the Cabbage Patch 10, and have to decide this week whether I’m up to it. … …
It’s arrived. Chronicles, the first volume of Bob Dylan’s autobiography – a book that no one seemed to know was even in the pipeline until the book appeared in the shops on Tuesday. I blame and thank Dylan for most directions my life took. Blame for the bad decisions, thanks for the good ones. I took this book out of the Amazon packaging and gazed at the cover for a while. Eventually I got to the first page, and started reading the first line. Leeds. The 6th word in Dylan’s autobiography is Leeds. I had to close the book at that point and think about this. It’s as far as I’ve got so far. 6 words. I’ve enjoyed … …
Chavs. The word is everywhere. In southern England anyway. Here’s a picture of some, in case you’re not sure what it means. These must be extreme chavs, as this picture won the “chav of the month” competition for September. The Scots apparently prefer to call them “neds”, which is said to stand for “non-educated delinquents”. According to the World Wide Words website, a chav is a member of “the burgeoning peasant underclass”. It goes on: “The subjects of these derogatory descriptions are said to be set apart by ignorance, fecklessness, mindless violence and bad taste.” The etymology is noble, incidentally. From chavi, Old Romany for boy. Anyway, why am I talking about them? Well, I read somewhere that their … …
Five runs in five days. All gentle ones (do I know any other way?) but until this morning, all good ones too. But today the white flag came out. My body was talking to me, and I’d better listen, it said. Not only did I listen, but we had quite a robust discussion on a wide range of topics. Yesterday morning I was up at 5:10 a.m., and out before half past. The earliest ever. This morning, my eyes opened ten minutes earlier. I lay there for a minute or two, gazing at those luminous numbers. Just long enough to ask the difficult questions (Why, when you’ve not had a full night’s sleep for days, are you considering getting … …
I’ve been rediscovering what it is to run in the dark. To be out in the pitch black, a chill in the air, is to meet yourself coming the other way. You can take the opportunity of a little reconciliation, some patching up, the chance to celebrate yourself; or you can fall into the trap of pining for those long summer evenings. It’s a personal thing. I really can’t lecture others on what their preferences should be. But for me, somehow those long, warm jaunts are just too easy. Too unchallenging. The pleasure is shallow and it doesn’t endure. Run in the dark, I say. Early morning or evening. Early delivers more of a shock to the system. It’s a … …
Another written-off month. No, hang on, let’s make a slight alteration there: Another written-off month? That question mark makes all the difference. Today I’m hope-gathering, and today I need that question mark. Let’s have a bit of straight talking here. I’ve fizzled out again, and I want this to be the last time it happens. This cycle must now be broken permanently. I know from the emails I get that there are plenty of people out there who can relate to these difficulties. I’m grateful for the encouragement these give me, and I’m pleased that my own patchy performances make others feel better about their own troughs. We’re all glad to hear that we’re not alone. But it worries me … …