An undeservedly good run this morning.
It’s supposed to be a dry month of course, but on Friday I had some good news, and had to absorb a couple of pints to cool down. Then yesterday, I met up with my old varsity mate, James. Our ostensible aim was a trip to the Reading – QPR match, but it was always going to become a convivial pre-Christmas session. I collected him from the station and we drove to a pleasant boozer on the other side of the M4 where we met up with my Reading-supporting next-door neighbour, Steve, and his dad. Tragically, it was an early kick-off so it wasn’t long before the long march to the Madejski Stadium had to begin.
Architecturally, the ‘MadStad’ is a very fine object. You can sit in the gods and marvel at the leg-room and its cathedral-like splendour. But as a place to attend a football match it’s a rather forlorn and dismal experience. Let’s go further than that. As a communal objet d’art it’s nice enough, but as a football venue it’s a total disaster. The match in front of you (or far below you, if you’re up high) becomes an interesting spectacle but you feel utterly detached from it. There is no buy-in to it. You aren’t a participant in the occasion. You’re not even a football spectator. You’re just a sort of casual observer. But lots of lovely leg-room, which is what modern stadium design regards as the top priority. To make things worse, the nearest pub is almost 30 minutes walk away, and away fans are treated like lumps of excrement. Those who come by public transport have to wait more than an hour to be allowed on a bus back into the town. The crush in the away end at half time was more frightening and more dangerous than I’ve seen at any of the older stadiums in the land. A truly dreadful place for football, and one I won’t hurry back to. It didn’t help that we outplayed them but lost.
My own team play in a cramped stadium with hardly any space to squash your legs into. It’s uncomfortable and there are strips of the pitch that you can’t see without getting up and craning your neck. It takes ages to get in and the catering is atrocious. But what a great atmosphere. You’re up close to the action, right on top of the pitch, and the spectators are very much part of the event. Even better, the place is surrounded by pubs, chip shops and tube stations.
Hmmm. I just re-read the line that the Madejski Stadium isn’t a place I’ll hurry back to. Funnily enough, I do plan to hurry back to it as it hosts the finish line of the Reading Half Marathon on March 6th. This will be a quite different occasion, and should be a much better experience.
So anyway, nine pints of decent ale and a box of Quality Street later I staggered to bed last night, having already written off the chances of running today.
Oh, the glorious unpredictability of life. Perhaps it was the foresight of going to bed at ten o’clock and drinking a couple of pints of orange squash before the coma kicked in, but I woke this morning feeling fresh as a daisy — though it took me some time to realise it. I lay there for a while, just assuming that I must be feeling terrible. But it eventually dawned on me that I was OK. Not only that, but the morning was sunny, and the church bells were ringing out across the village. Within a half hour or so I was pounding the towpath, feeling shockingly good.
To ratchet up the surprise yet further, I ran all of 8.3 miles, including three sizeable hills. It was close to the summit of the third that I finally had to stop to walk. Inexplicable. I arrived back home feeling tired but horribly smug.
In a way, very annoying. Next time I go out boozing I’ll have to mix my drinks a bit more.
