Despite the shocking contents of the Daily Telegraph letters page, kids don’t seem much worse today than when I was a feral adolescent. I can’t help thinking that had the 13 year old me seen the 46 year old me plodding down the street, puffing and panting, I’d have needed no encouragement to laugh, shout abuse and throw things at me. The kids round here are generally pretty inoffensive, so it was a pleasant surprise today to find myself being coarsely insulted by a bunch of pubescents as I overtook them on my way to the canal. “I could walk faster than that!”, I heard one girl sneer as I passed. “No you couldn’t, you’re too fat”, I called back.… …
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A rather sticky moment at work yesterday. My boss breezed in, stroking the gerbil that He keeps in the inside pocket of His plastic mac. As usual, He sat for an hour or two in silence, just gazing blankly out of the window. Eventually, He turned to me and said, in that absurdly high-pitched voice of His, some words that froze the blood in my veins. “I haven’t read your website recently, Old Fruit.” Who grassed me up? My entire life passed before my eyes (which I should mention, is more enjoyable than one is led to believe. I’d totally forgotten about that Rodney Marsh hat-trick against Blackpool in August 1969, for a start). My computer screen became a kind … …
That’s better. The same run as yesterday, but this time a full 70 seconds per mile faster, and much more comfortable. Last night’s Pilates session had lubricated a few joints, and as always, I felt strangely taller and more stretched today. The trouble with Pilates is that I do it for an hour a week, and forget about it for the rest of the time. I think it’s supposed to be a life-changing leap. It invites you to breathe differently and to rethink your posture, but I remember this only for that one hour slot. But still worth doing. I got talking to a lady who runs a walking group in one of the local villages. Perhaps I’ll join in. … …
It had to happen. The law of averages is strict on this point. After a week of good running, I finally managed a bad one this morning. It was probably the weekend of excess that encouraged it. Plenty of beer and biscuits over the last few days have added a couple of pounds, and helped me to feel lethargic and listless when I got up for the early morning run. It was only the usual 3.5 miler, but I couldn’t’t even get through that without stopping for a breather. Just one of those things. More positively, I’ve booked a few Pilates sessions which will help. At least it will make my stomach muscles ache, which I tend to presume is … …
I woke with so much enthusiasm that I sort of leapt upwards, bashing my head on the ceiling and falling back with such force that the bed crashed through the floor into the kitchen below, where I lay dazed and motionless for some moments. Purposeful footsteps, and the door burst open. In strode a young Joanna Lumley wearing high heels, fishnet stockings, suspenders and not a lot else. “Naughty boys”, she purred, “need to be punished”. Tragically, I really did wake up at that point. I once sold Joanna Lumley a case of vintage Champagne In fact, I’ve sold it to her a thousand times. Once in reality, the rest in my daydreams. But you don’t want to hear about … …
Dead. My new Garmin Forerunner gadget. It recharged successfully but won’t switch on. Cause of death? I suspect suicide. All these little chaps must dream of a career on the wrist of Paula Radcliffe or Paul Tergat. And instead this one got me. It chose extinction. This news may seem sad and bad, but running makes us cheerful and optimistic, and keener to search for the bright side, remember? So I’m absolutely thrilled by this development. Assuming the shop replaces the thing, and they say they will, it means I have the pleasure of ripping open more packaging and starting again. It means an excuse to pop up to Tottenham Court Road at lunchtime tomorrow, with all those associated delights … …
A pessimist, someone explained to me the other day, is just an optimist in possession of the full facts. There’s something pleasingly self-referential about such a gloomy viewpoint. Anyway, those words came back to me this morning, when I got back from my run to find I’d done my 3½ miles in record time. This in turn produced another record: the smiliest breakfast since Arthur Miller poured his post-nuptial cornflakes in the summer of 1956. (Talking of records, a press release from the British Library Association recently mentioned that the book most often stolen from library shelves is, naturally, the Guinness Book of Records. Another self-referential gem.) My optimistic slice of home-made ciabatta and honey didn’t last long. Neither … …
Just a mile or two into my first training day, and I’d already decided what my thought for the week should be: running is a secret garden. Oh yeah? What does that mean then? Before I get there, I should apologise to people who may have been following this running blog for a while, because I have a feeling I’ve talked about this one before. Possibly more than once. But I’d forgotten it, and this morning, somewhere round 6am on an unlit, puddled lane in Berkshire, I remembered it again. I remembered it because a sharp wind was blowing hard through my teeshirt, the rain had begun to tip down, and I’d just crashed through a deep, unseen puddle … …
My eyes crashed open this morning to the realisation that today is the start of something big: my 18-week marathon training plan. I was trembling with something that I hope was excitement. If it was delirium tremens, I’m stuffed. But then I remembered. I admire Hal Higdon for many things, but his decision to make the first day of his marathon training schedule a rest day, must put him up there with Nelson Mandela and Mother Teresa. We salute you, Hal. I was so keen to do something however, that I got home this evening and spent a vigorous half hour on the exercise bike. It didn’t get me very far. But it’s a start. Tomorrow morning early, … …
Dear Andrew, There will be no problem for you to join the festive days in Copenhagen, because the royal wedding will actually take place on May 14, and not May 13. Best regards Annegrethe Høffner H.K.H. Kronprinsens Hof Chr. VIII’s Palæ Tlf. 33 40 24 43 I’m sure the wedding was scheduled for the Thursday, so I suspect Annegrethe is being a little disingenuous here. Let’s just say I think they’ve been very decent about this. Today’s a great day. It’s the day I finally felt well enough to get out there and have a run. Did I say I felt well? This tenacious cold seems finally to have given up the ghost, leaving me with just the hangover and … …