I can’t get away from it. I really don’t think the marathon is going to happen for me.
I’ve had two brief early morning runs this week, and they’ve been fine, but a marathon is a different animal, and I just don’t believe I could do more than run half of it and walk the rest. I know people will suggest I do just that – and perhaps I will. But it does seem kind of pointless. I doubt if I’d make it in less than 6 hours. Could I really say I’d run the Copenhagen Marathon? I could say I’d done it, but not run it.
Life is strange at the moment. A few weeks ago, our London contract finished, and since then I keep being reminded that our jobs are on the line. One of my workmates has been made redundant, and I’m next in line. Perhaps it’s supposed to gee us up, but instead it’s generated a lot of uncertainty, instability, demotivation and a loss of self-confidence. All of these things have bled into my running schedule, and made it all seem rather irrelevant. The troublesome calf is real enough but it’s almost come as a relief. I think the abortive marathon campaign is as much a victim of what’s happening at work at the moment as it is of anything else.
The one bright spot in recent times came last night, with Chelsea’s overdue expulsion from the Champions’ League. They tried to buy the cup, and almost got away with it. Another £150 million or so should see the purchase of the trophy completed next year, but rather like me trotting round the marathon course in Copenhagen next week, it will be a pretty worthless achievement.
Back in the real football world, it was a pleasure to watch a tremendous contest between Hereford and Aldershot in the Conference play-off semi-final last week, and very sad to see Hereford eventually lose after having such a good season. My own team, Queens Park Rangers, play their last scheduled game of the season on Saturday. If we beat Sheffield Wednesday we’ll be promoted. If we don’t, we go into the play-off lottery. I’ll be one of ten thousand QPR fans in Sheffield to witness our first promotion for 21 years. Or yet another miserable failure. Wouldn’t it be just so nice to win a big game for a change?
If we do it, perhaps I’ll plod round Copenhagen in my hooped shirt after all. Just for the hell of it.
