The moment I’ve been dreading finally arrived this evening. An email from James, my old college mate. He lives in Hong Kong, and visits every two or three years. He’s here. Oh Lord. Trouble is, whenever he’s around, I feel obliged to drink gallons of strong ale, and consume furnace-like curries, just to humour him. To twist the distastefully Bohemian dagger further, he will insist on taking in a match or two as well. Last time it was England v Germany, Kevin Keegan’s and Wembley’s final international. The time before it was Liverpool v Chelsea at Anfield. I also remember an FA Cup tie at Hillsborough, and a fierce local derby between Bradford and Huddersfield. And there was that Arsenal – Tottenham match in the Gazza era. Looks like I’ll have to dig that fixture list out of the dustbin again.
After this weekend, I have four races spread over five Sundays. The free one, immediately preceding three half marathons, was to be spent in hushed, ascetic contemplation. It now seems I’ll be dragged through the opium dens of rural West Berkshire instead.
As it were.
Four difficult, leaden, dutiful miles this evening around pitch black lanes. So dark that I couldn’t see where I was putting my feet most of the time. Result? A slow, disjointed run that didn’t satisfy me much, though the knowledge that I was burning a few calories was some consolation. I’ve managed to shake off only about eight pounds in the last two months, four since the New Year. Better than nothing, but less than I’d hoped. If I’m to get to where I’d planned to be by the time of the Silverstone half marathon, I need to lose ten pounds in the next 24 days. Not impossible. Except that we’re out for a curry tomorrow evening, and have a family meal out on Sunday. Then there’s an all-day business lunch on Wednesday.
And… and then there’s James.
