The Grazeley 10K this afternoon was like being trapped in one of those Escher trompe l’oeil pictures where those funny little men keep walking up and up stairs in an eternal climb to nowhere. It had started so well. The course was even flatter than a pancake for the first four kilometres, and I was more than a minute ahead of schedule. Tomorrow’s Sunday Times headlines were already forming in my imagination. But then an undulation happened. A one-way, upward undulation. Then a brief plateau before another gentle climb. Then another one. “Hullo”, I said to myself, “there’s something not quite kosher about this fellow.” And so it went on. We seemed to keep ascending right till the finish. If … …
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I’ve been rumbled: Cooper concludes that we all share pathological narcissistic and masochistic tendencies but that most of us find ways of diverting these tendencies toward useful activities. The marathon runner is likely to be quite far along the narcissistic-masochistic spectrum and, “almost uniquely, carries on a useless activity that symbolises society’s need for a special hero who will enact the infantile triumphs requisite for healthy functioning and who also enables the audience to share vicariously in some of his or her forbidden pleasures”. (From “Lore Of Running”, Noakes is talking about Arnold Cooper, professor of psychiatry at Cornell University in New York.) So now we know. Yesterday I decided it was time to try a lunchtime run. But what … …
According to my horoscope in Metro (the freebie London newspaper) a couple of weeks ago, If you’re single, this is a good time to take advantage of Uranus. This provided plenty of food for thought as I trundled along the Hammersmith & City Line. It’s with a sense of deja vu that I begin to ask questions like “What will I do differently this time round?” The experience and, if it’s not too portentous a word, the wisdom you slowly accumulate as you age, tells you that pretty much everything in this life is fully user-configurable. The realisation takes a while to develop, but it arrives with most of us eventually, like some cave painting becoming clearer as the … …
I was on the usual Sardine Express from Paddington last Thursday evening, sitting in a six-seat section, in one of the central seats, like so: g a n g w a y X w i n d o w As the train pulled into Reading, everyone around me got up to disembark, leaving me to muse over the order in which the empty seats around me would fill up. This is what I thought would happen. The first person to arrive would sit here: g a n g w a y 1 X w i n d o w because they wouldn’t have to make eye contact with me, … …
The Lore Of Running by Tim Noakes – what a good book this is. I bought it a couple of weeks ago but have only just started to dip into it. It’s allure is its astonishing detail and breadth. Noakes is a research scientist and physician, and he sees most things from the detachment of a scientific perspective. For instance, novice runners profit from not thinking about running while they’re doing it, while experienced runners are better off concentrating on the act of running while doing it. A simple principle, but talking of "disassociative versus associative strategies" sounds much more interesting. There are also quaint touches, like the quote from the 1920s training manual advocating gradual improvement: "Nature is unable … …
Another Sunday, another medal. Today was the Woodley 10K. A well-organised event, replete with brass band, beer tent, plant stall and burger bar. The plants and brass band I was happy to enjoy before the race; the beer and burgers came afterwards. Memo for next year: this is a very flat course, and a good PB prospect. Memo for this year: shame you weren’t up for it. I felt bloated and out of sorts today. I’d reached my weight target, just about, managing to lose around 12 pounds over the last three weeks. Great! But the last few days have been a bit disorientating, and the excesses of Friday and last night’s impromptu curry counted against me today. No matter. … …
I guess it’s time for normal life to resume. Wednesday night at Loftus Road was one of the most exciting experiences I can remember in a football stadium. And believe me, there have been a few. Constant, huge noise. Unbearable tension. All three home sides of the ground were in foment for ninety minutes. The goal, on 84 minutes, was the signal for bizarre scenes of uncontrollable joy. When the final whistle went we felt as though we’d won the European Champions League rather than just won through to the play-off final at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff on Sunday week. Much of yesterday was written off trying to get tickets for the Cardiff game, but eventually I succeeded. I … …
Finally, I seem to be getting back to where I was in early March. Four great miles early this morning through the scrubbed, edgey post-rain air. The sort of run that throws you from night to day. Asleep one minute, wide-awake the next. Like the flicking of a switch. I didn’t intend running fast this morning, it just happened that way: a whole two minutes a mile faster than I was just two weeks ago. It was tough, but I felt a kind of confidence and energy, and centredness that I’ve not felt for a while. Back home, chomping hypnotically on my dry toast, staring through the kitchen window, I see a young deer trotting round the back garden sniffing … …
The plan said six miles today, but I settled for 4.2. My excuses were pretty watertight: a hard day in the garden, and a few beers the day before. It would have been unwise to place further stress on a man in such a delicate condition. Yes, after two weeks of alcohol deprivation, it seemed only reasonable to visit the pub yesterday, to ensure that standards were being maintained in my absence. I’m pleased to report that things were pretty shipshape. Today I was up early, half-intending to run before breakfast, but I was just too hungry to survive another hour without food. Grapefruit, banana, honey, homemade bread and freshly squeezed apple juice. As breakfasts go, what could be better? … …