How many people under 40 know what this is?
Until this morning, I hadn’t realised how low in our esteem the humble bicycle bell had fallen. It seems to have been all but eliminated.
Running down the canal for 12 miles, I was overtaken by a total of 34 bikes. I’ve no objection to them on the towpath. The average cyclist looks like a quivering sack of jelly abandoned on a garden wall, so it’s probably the only exercise these poor people get. Moreover, the path is part of the SUSTRANS network, so I expect to see the weekend cyclist, and believe in our harmonious coexistence.
But some of them are complete tossers.
Perhaps the excess weight that most of their machines are already carrying means that accessories have to be kept to a minimum. Bells are now a thing of the past. Several times today I was plodding along through the sweaty, virtual world of the runner, that misty place beyond the reach of mere map co-ordinates, when I was shaken into the inferior, real world by one of these reckless blubber bags whimpering past me, an inch from my ear. It was like being snatched from my sleep by the sound of a dustbin crashing through the window.
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Today’s running bulletin was better, but something still ain’t quite right. I can’t deny that last night’s beer and Chinese takeaway wasn’t ideal long-run preparation, but there’s something more. I’m just not as energised as I was earlier in the campaign.
Awoke at 7, floated to the hushed kitchen for toast and banana and freshly-squeezed orange juice and black coffee.
Sometimes I feel sad about not having kids. At other times, like when I visit Sainsbury’s on a Saturday morning, I feel sort of lucky. My weekly descent to the kitchen early on a Sunday, hunting for pre-run calories, is another time I’m glad.
It’s hard to find true stillness and solitude in the modern world, unless you’re a cleaner in the QPR trophy room. On a Sunday morning, I know that if I had kids they’d now be yanking my dressing gown, demanding cartoons and breakfast and love. And beating the hell out of each other. Being ‘child-free’, whatever the emotional drawbacks, is surely one of the last outposts of true peace.
These fifteen early minutes I spend in the kitchen are among the most tranquil of the week. The taking of bread, and of fruit, in the stillness of a Sunday morning, before a run, is like some ceremonial sacrament.
The hour or two waiting for breakfast to sink, are spent in front of the computer, scanning the world. I don’t even know for sure if I’ll run. Perhaps I had too much beer last night. I feel, not hungover, but a bit dehydrated and not wholly in control of the situation. But I know that if I don’t run, I’ll hate myself. It will gnaw away at my emotional state in this vital pre-marathon period. So I decide to run.
Around 10:00, I dress and go.
It’s positively warm these days. As I mentioned recently, the transitional period between mid-winter and mid-spring seems not to have happened. It went from being bloody cold to mild/warm-hot almost overnight. I put on a skimpy teeshirt and shorts, plus brand new socks and brand new shoes, and departed.
Brand new shoes? Brand new socks? I know. I read that stuff about the taper. I believed it. It said that one of your duties during the 3-week taper should be to buy some new shoes and break them in a bit. I’m a marketing man’s dream. I currently reside at that shameful intersection of race paranoia and reasonable disposable income. They suggest new shoes? Quick. New shoes. We must have new shoes.
The run was a curate’s egg. Fine until 8 miles, then began to drag. Suddenly I was carrying a sack of spuds on my back. A couple of walk-breaks dragged down the last 2 or 3 miles, but I made it home. 12 miles.
I was listening to Adrian Chiles on the radio this evening. I’ve always liked this affable Brummie, moreso since I discovered in an article in the Independent that he runs. Anyway, on his football phone-in show he loves hearing from depressed fans sloping away from another defeat for their team. He really understands what football is all about. When one near-suicidal Aston Villa fan called in to bewail West Bromwich Albion’s last minute equaliser, you could hear him rubbing his hands with glee. "Ah", he drawled, "Now then. This is good, dismal stuff."
Good dismal stuff. I thought about that for a while, and realised that this website has been churning out, well, I don’t know about good, but certainly dismal stuff for a while now. I’m hoping it’s just a pre-marathon thing. I need a bit of a fillip.
Come on. I need to hear a bicycle bell soon.
BRINGGGG-GGG! BRINGGGG-GGG!.
