Early yesterday morning, I’m wandering round the garden with a cup of coffee, inspecting the newly-planted, but ailing, beech hedge, and offering a bit of encouragement to my sauvignon blanc vine by attacking its neighbour with some blunt secateurs. The usual thrush twitters in the usual cherry tree. All is well in rural Berkshire.
A few hours later, I’m on another continent, crawling through the traffic outside Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox, peering up at the top of the bleachers where a congested line of jubilant silhouettes can be seen punching the air. Some feverish internet hunting this past week couldn’t produce an affordable ticket, so this particular Things I Must Do Before I Die box must remain unchecked for a while longer.
Ten minutes later, on Highway 93 out of Boston, one of the densest cloudbursts I can ever recall drops with no warning. An experience not to forget. For the next 5 or 6 miles, all I can see is the dim red glow of the foglights on the car in front. Shortly after this, I hear on the radio that the Red Sox game had been called off. I’m glad I didn’t get a ticket.
Running has been taking a holiday recently. A complete break now and then is supposed to be a good thing, but halfway through a marathon training program? Perhaps not. This evening, after finishing work, I got in my hire car and drove for a few miles deeper into New Hampshire till I came across an expanse of pine forest. I pulled off the main road and went for a meander down some country lanes deep into its heart.
Driving in the US is one of my favourite things. I think I’ve talked before about the summer we drove from Florida up through Alabama and Louisiana, then up the Mississippi to Memphis, before winding back through Georgia. What a fascinating experience that was. Blues music, jazz, cajun, R’n’B, Rock’n’Roll, Country. Almost the entire history of modern music in one patch of America. All wrapped up in the Civil War.
Another time I spent a long weekend driving alone from Washington to Boston via Philadelphia and New York. It was the week before Christmas. Freezing but festive. So many adventures and memorable sights.
We had another good one the week after the Chicago Marathon on 2002, when we visited Hal Higdon at his house on the shores of Lake Michigan up in Indiana, before continuing up around Michigan State, through Detroit (meeting Berry Gordy’s nephew who took us around the old Tamla Motown studios), back through Ohio where I met up with Tom Rizman, long-time QPR correspondent. We came back through Amish country to visit the old Mansfield Reformatory (pictured) – where Shawshank Redemption was filmed. There’s always something interesting to discover in a car in the States.
Tonight I parked up and found that path into the forest. Running wasn’t easy. It was a week since I’d been out, and the evening was warm and humid. But I persisted. The trail underfoot was soft and springy; the smell of the pine, fantastic.
A mile or so in, I came across a small road with quite a few cars parked along it. A bit further on was a clearing in the forest, and here were twenty or so 10 year olds in bright red football jerseys, padded shoulders and helmets, running through some awkward routines in front of their proud parents. I was glad to have an excuse to stop for a while.
Only three miles or so, but it’s a start. Trouble is, do I have a chance of staying on the healthy side of the line? This is pizza and burger country. Seems unlikely.
