I’m approaching that ethereal period, that no-man’s-land that is the marathon taper. The final obstacle, a 20 miler on Saturday morning, has to be cleared first, and then all I must do is toast my self-confidence on three weeks of psychosomatic illness, virtual calf twinges and moments of arbitrary derangement. The Americans call it taper madness.
Here’s a useful article on the subject: www.runnersworld.com/article/0,5033,s6-51-56-0-5958-1-1X2X3X4X5-6,00.html
This evening I took myself off for a 4 mile splosh through the grey, misty drizzle. I saw three other runners who looked like they were off on some Arctic expedition. Covered from head to foot in plastic and wool. Looked wretched. Bunch of idiots really. In trying so hard to protect themselves, they end up destroying the point of it all.
It wasn’t a cold evening. Mild and bright and pleasant, with a bit of rain. Why people can’t just enjoy the fresh air and the cool, gentle rain and the twilight birdsong is beyond my comprehension. No, their prejudices and preconceptions are screwed up too tightly. They have to resist, and in doing so, lose the fight. They overheat, get drenched anyway, and end up miserable. For me, it’s teeshirt and shorts as usual. Just accept it and enjoy it, I want to tell them. And best of all, enjoy your acceptance of it. Isn’t that true defiance?
As I ran this evening, I was thinking about Saturday. It promises a lot, but could just as easily be a total disaster. 20 mile run starting early in the morning. Then drive to London to watch the lads play top-of-the-table Sunderland. Then going to dinner with some old wine trade friends, Monsieur B and his wife A. I’ve not seen them in years.
Unknown is how my run will go, how my team will fare, and whether we will spend the evening fighting like we used to.
The one certainty is that we will become hopelessly drunk on a selection of very fine wine. One of my most memorable Christmases was 1986, spent with Monsieur B and his then girlfriend. We spent months collecting 24 bottles of interesting, unusual or just downright excellent wine. Then the three of us drank them all over two days. After the very final glass of Taylor 77, late on Boxing Night, I crawled to the bathroom and puked my guts out. If only I could have bottled that vomit.
No doubt the memories will be revived on Saturday night. Let’s hope I can be revived on Sunday morning.
