The daily train journey always has some diversion. Hot on the heels of my man-with-peach-bathrobe, another weird sight on the train to London this morning: at Slough someone got on with two lifesized cardboard cutouts of Michael Owen and Paul Scholes. By this time the train was getting full, so he stood there, leaning against the carriage wall with an arm around each. Every time I looked up from my book (currently Enduring Love by Ian McEwan), I did a double-take. It was unnerving and surreal.
Never again. This evening, for my 4 mile canal run, I decided it was time to explore what lay in the opposite direction from usual. Why have I never taken this way before? Probably because it takes me nearer to the sprawl of Reading, and the ominous shadow it casts across the horizon. My usual direction takes me deeper into rural West Berkshire, with the promise of cleaner air and some idealised notion of bucolic gaiety.
Along the canal towards Reading, the first notable landmark is the M4. It roars at you for half a mile before you get there, like some gargantuan monster lying in wait around the corner, and for half a mile beyond. After that the towpath just vanishes and you plunge into a series of overgrown, nettley fields. Tiny, bumpy paths wind through them, sometimes 20 or 30 yards from the water. Running is treacherous, and for much of the jaunt I was reduced to a feeble, tentative jog, almost as though I was treading water as I struggled to keep my feet. Needless to say the 4.5 mile run was extremely slow at around 57 minutes, or 12:45 a mile. Hopeless, but useful to know that I need never trouble the Reading path again.
Tonight’s conditions notwithstanding, I’m not running well at the moment. I feel tired and overweight and listless. I think I need more sleep. Goodnight.
