Mon 23 June 2003

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:

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:

because they wouldn’t have to make eye contact with me, and would be next to the gangway in case they had to flee from me if I initiated a brutal assault.

The second person to arrive would have a problem. They would have to weigh up the advantages of sitting in the vacant aisle seat, with the disadvantages of sitting next to me, and opposite No 1. On balance, they would probably go and sit by the window, though not, of course, next to me:

This minimises the horrors of personal contact, though in the event of a co-ordinated attack by No 1 and myself, they would be in trouble.

No 3 would obviously sit next to me, here:

because they have to sit next to, and opposite, someone and of the three available places, the aisle seat gives them the best combination of minimal personal contact and opportunities for escape from… yes, from a co-ordinated murderous attack by myself and Nos 1 and 2.

The next one is tough. Do you sit in the middle, hemmed in by all those horrible, foreign bodies? Or do you squeeze into the corner, where you would have no chance of escape from the increasingly likely assault, but would at least have the grimy window through which to admire the suburbs of Reading while being beaten to within an inch of your life? I suspect the latter:

Which leaves the unfortunate No 5 to squeeze into the final vacant seat. They can at least get comfortable before the start of the by-now-inevitable carnage.

I could hardly contain my excitement as the doors opened onto the crowded platform. Would my theory prove right?

But as the anxious crowd swarmed through the carriage, who should come steaming towards me but Sweaty Dave from the village pub, who shouted a hearty greeting, and sat here:

and proceeded to relate a series of rather coarse jokes, one of which, concerning an Irish priest with a nose that looked like a turnip, was so engrossing that I completely forgot to observe how the seats around me filled up.

Which only serves to demonstrate that your friends have a tendency to come along and bugger things up just when you have everything neatly planned. If I think back to the middle of last month, it was all going so well. My races were planned, the excess weight was seeping from me as I slept, I was feeling reborn and enthusiastic. The smell of coffee was everywhere. But then… but then dear old QPR got to the play-offs, then got to the final. My life hung by a thread for two weeks before crashing into a slimy heap – where it lay, gurgling and festering for about three weeks.

Until last week, when I set off yet again on the great running adventure. In the last ten days I’ve managed to squeeze about 36 miles of sweat through these redundant pores, to the point where I feel almost normal again.

On Saturday I even managed a 10K race – the Datchet Dash. Not only that, I even summoned up enough to squeeze a PB, though I’m still hovering a tantalising 33 seconds the wrong side of the 60 minute mark.

I’d not been to Datchet before, and it made a good first impression. An olde worlde epicentre, with a striking war memorial, some formal flower beds and a sort of village green with a few attractive old shops. But the charm begins to ebb just beyond that, where it’s spawned the usual suburban sprawl: neat housing estates and traffic-clogged roads. Pleasant enough, but perhaps a bit too vibrant for its own good.

A race usually reveals something of the local people, and of the area itself, that’s normally concealed to the casual visitor. But pleasant though Datchet was, I didn’t feel I learnt much of the place. The race was like some great transparent snake superimposed on the town. We made no discernible impression. We came, we raced, we left. And no one noticed. The people carried on mowing their lawns and feeding seaweed elixir to their roses and their runner beans. Through the privet they murmured their misgivings about the Euro and the new vicar, while a thousand invisible people plunged past.

But while Datchet remained a mystery, I think I learnt a little of myself. As always, the race was hard going. Every kilometre cranked up the discomfort. My breathing got wilder. But I’d been reading some of the Noakes book about the psychology of racing. It was a description of something a thousand miles from my experience: Roger Bannister’s historic four-minute mile. But the description of the race, and in particular of Bannister’s mental toughness, stayed with me. I was taking about 2.5 times longer than he had to get through each mile, but I was still running for my life in this race. I’d decided that this one should be a watershed. If I got a PB I’d carry on to Dublin. If I failed, I’d flush my running gear down the toilet and take up intravenous drug use.

Right up till the 8th kilometre I was convinced I’d get in below the hour, but at the eighth there was a small incline. Only 100 or 200 metres long, but enough to force me to walk for a minute to catch my breath. I knew then I’d blown it, but still hoped to get the PB. And I did, with 24 seconds to spare.

After collecting the memento (a decentish long-sleeved, light cotton shirt), I wandered back towards the car, stopping off at the war memorial to spend a few minutes with some of the other invisible fellows commemorated there. The traffic was heavy and bad-tempered, but in the afterglow of the race, I was able to find some peace there in the strong sunshine. Farewell Datchet. I’ll see you again next year, even though you won’t see me.

No run yesterday, and none today. The training programme for the 2003 Dublin marathon has now officially begun, and like all Hal Higdon schedules, the first day is a rest day. I’ll need it.

Why not come along?

Thanks for reading.