Yesterday I managed another three miles before breakfast, and found them more comfortable than Friday’s. Then this afternoon I did another five, though it became very tough towards the end, and I had to take a couple of breaks. Lack of fitness was certainly a problem, but it was the early afternoon heat that really did me in. The highlight of my canal-side jaunt was spotting a morose angler wearing a T-shirt shamelessly proclaiming: Born To Fish. A non-running day tomorrow, but with plenty of spadework on offer in the garden, it won’t be an inactive one. The rest of the week will see a serious training effort. Over the next three weeks I need to run 10 miles … …
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Let’s face it, this year is fast becoming a wash-out as far as running goes. It was all going fairly swimmimgly up till mid-March, with two half marathons and a couple of 10Ks under my ever-loosening belt. Then came the right calf injury which scuppered the Bath Half and the next 4 or 5 weeks of training. But eventually I got going again, confident enough to announce that I’d started serious preparation for the Dublin marathon. But two weeks into the eighteen, ping! The left calf muscle this time, and another five weeks on the bench. Early in the year I entered three big autumn races: the Bristol Half, the Great North Run and the the Great South Run. The … …
It’s been a tough few days. Monday was the emotional tragedy of the Brighton defeat. Tuesday I was forced to visit The Ivy to hobnob with… with everyone else hoping to be hob-nobbing with the rich and famous but who had to make do with me and M and Kevin and Louise. For the record, the meal was great, and even the bill wasn’t quite the sledgehammer-to-the-kidneys moment that I was expecting it to be. Then dashed off to the National Theatre for Henry V. It seems unlikely that Shakespeare would have specified that the king should ride around Agincourt in a jeep with a machine-gun slung over his shoulder, but it seemed to work nevertheless. In retrospect however, … …
I looked out of my bedroom window this morning and saw someone stealing my garden gate. I was going to remonstrate with the little bugger but I was worried that he might take offence. I should really have run today but… but I didn’t. It must be nerves. The big match — Brighton v QPR — starts in half an hour and I need to get over to the pub to watch it on Sky TV. Something that amused me today: describing someone slightly eccentric as “E6” — one stop short of Barking. (That will mystify foreigners, but I can’t hang around to explain. The match beckons…) —– Post-mortem: terrible game, terrible performance. Lost 2-1. Fortunately I’d put £30 on … …
Five and a half pounds lost this week, and five and half miles run this morning, my longest since the 9 miler that crippled me 5 weeks ago. The last couple of miles weren’t easy, and I even had a walk break at one point, but I made it through. It was good to have a change of scene too. A sunny Saturday morning run along the canal is a real pleasure. Not much in the way of wildlife to report, though this includes flies and grizzly bears, so not a bad thing really. Perhaps word has got round about what I did to that rabbit last night. I was coming off the M4 at about 70 mph, and there … …
The train is a great opportunity for innocent eavesdropping. Yesterday morning I overheard two chaps in their mid-sixties discussing job opportunities. One was flourishing an application form for a position with VSO (Voluntary Service Overseas). He looked exasperated. In true Victor Meldrew mode he said: “Six pages. Six bloody pages! And they want a list of seventeen core competencies. Core competencies! What does that mean? Seventeen!” His companion peered over his bifocals and replied: “Y’know, that form should consist of just two questions. Number One: are you a good egg, a decent sort of fellow? Number two: do you get on pretty well with Johnnie Foreigner?” They then collapsed into schoolboy giggles, and began exchanging anecdotes about their time … …
Life is sweet. Sometimes. After my epoch-marking run last Tuesday morning, the heat forced me to lapse into extended sloth. Just in case you are reading this on the International Space Station, I should mention that we’ve been undergoing a collective ooze here on Earth, in the severest heatwave since Stonehenge was winning its appeal for planning permission. Don’t we just love to martyr ourselves like this? We complain most of the year because it isn’t summer, and for the rest of the time we complain that it is. But it is hot – no more so than yesterday when the temperature topped 100F for the first time ever in the UK. Despite this milestone, I spent a half hour … …
The circus is back in town. This morning, 5:45am, waking to welcome home an old friend – the morning run. It wasn’t a great run – slow, clumsy, flapping and panting, but it was a run nevertheless. And in the current heatwave (up to 34C, 93F in London later today), it gave me something withheld from most people – the experience of a cool, slightly misty atmosphere. What a treat. As I trudged through the deer park in the cool of the early morning, I found myself grinning. It’s too early to say whether Dublin may yet come back into focus. Things have been further complicated by the news yesterday that I might be sent to Israel for a training … …
Let’s get down to fundamentals. What actually IS “a run”…? Interpreting the word generously then Crikey!. Not one but TWO runs to report. Neither was the kind of heroic 12 mile sprint along the towpath of which I sometimes dream idly. The first, yesterday afternoon, came during a walk along the Thames Path with M and her extended family. We reached a point where most of the party were flagging seriously, and decided to turn back. M’s brother nobly decided to walk back much more quickly so that he could pick up his car and drive back, thus minimising the stress on the others. As there were two cars, I offered to do the same. Now M’s brother is … …
Still no run to report. I stayed hopeful all last week, but still had the faintest of twinges in this calf, and decided against taking a risk. Instead, all the excitement in my life has come from domestic minutiae, like watching my runner beans appear, and yesterday’s trip to the supermarket. Last time I was at Sainsbury’s, I saw Ulrika Jonsson. This visit was less memorable, though a couple of incidents gave me cause to reflect on the standards of their customer service. First, this encounter near the frozen desserts: "Excuse me", I asked a lady filling a cabinet with blackcurrant cheesecake, "Could you tell me where I might find raspberry coulis?" "Erm, I’m afraid I couldn’t, no." She then … …