Any lingering doubts that Paula Radcliffe is stalking me can now, surely, be dismissed. FLM 2002, Chicago 2002, and now the Great North Run 2003. Heard today that she had risen to the Running Commentary Challenge, and will be there on the 21st after all. The record books show that I usually bring out the best in her, so I would get along to the bookies soon if I were you.
On Tuesday I continued the run-walk experiment, this time with a ratio of 9:1 running:walking. I like it. It’s my best hope of getting from Newcastle to South Shields in one piece. In fact I’m feeling worryingly optimistic. I haven’t run the distance since Reading, six months ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it ten days from now. It’s a psychological help more than a physical prerequisite.
The real test is whether my Hal Higdon cap turns up in time. I saw this highly desirable item advertised on Hal’s website this morning, just as our final day’s class was beginning. What are the fundamental secrets for a successful Documentum installation? Buggered if I know. I used this time to tap out a couple of emails to Rose Higdon, trying to ensure that my brilliant yellow V-Team cap arrives before the 20th September. If it gets here, I’ll be OK. In a spirit of magnanimity, I’ve decided to award it to the final GNR finisher in my sub-race, currently comprising Painter, Platt, Radcliffe and me.
I’ve not run for two days, but late this afternoon I set off for an eight mile walk along the sea-front to Jaffa and back. Maybe I missed the centre of Jaffa, but there didn’t seem to be a lot to see there. I saw several signs for Jaffa Gate, which my brain kept interpreting as Jaffa Cake. The place is much older than the rest of Tel Aviv, and has a stronger Islamic atmosphere. Dustier and more tatty, and distinctly down-at-heel. It felt a bit like Luton.
On the way back I stopped off at one of the cafés on the promenade for a couple of large (660cl) glasses of the local beer, and a massive hamburger and dish of fries, followed by a slab of lemon and mint cheesecake. The waiter tried to talk me into a plate of salad to start, but I didn’t want to go overboard on the calories.
Eventually got back to the hotel and booked a bus to Jerusalem for tomorrow morning.
There were two bomb attacks the other night. One here in Tel Aviv, and another in a coffee bar in Jerusalem. Seven people killed in each. The newspaper reports are graphic and chilling. "My hair was full of blood but it wasn’t mine", was a line that stayed with me.
I don’t want to exaggerate the problem. Most people just go about their business as normal. (Short of emigration, what’s the alternative?) But there is a tension about the place. Every time a crowded bus goes past you wonder. And sitting in bars and cafés, it’s hard not to be constantly looking at the door to see who the guard is talking to. Nearly every restaurant, bar, office building and supermarket has a guard to challenge everyone trying to enter. The trouble is, most suicide bomb attacks are at places that have guards. They just try to walk past them, and detonate the explosives when stopped. Invariably the bomber, the guard and anyone sitting close to the door are killed.
But it will never happen to me…
