On New Year’s Day I was generous enough to treat my nephew to a trip to Vicarage Road for the Watford – Wigan match. It was of course a treat for me rather than him. Just before the game, he confided in me, admitting something that must be every parent/guardian’s nightmare:
It seems he’s tired of supporting Liverpool and Arsenal now, and has become…[you know what I’m going to say]… a Chelsea fan. Sacre Bleu! I nearly choked on my Mighty Giant Cheeseyburger. I was disgusted. And the news about his newfound loyalty to Chelsea was terrible as well.
Once I’d recovered, I placed an avuncular hand on his shoulder. "Actually", I said, "I have to say that Abramovitch has performed wonders since he’s been at Chelsea."
The young lad looked pleased, until I explained: "Yep, to turn ninety percent of the country into Man United fans is an absolute miracle. Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be cheering on the reds every weekend."
I’d chosen Watford because it was the only localish Premiership game I could get tickets for at short notice. It also gave me the chance to check the progress of Danny "Man Mountain" Shittu whose move from QPR in the summer largely explains the plight of the Hoops. Feet are normally sweaty, but the foot of the Championship table is danker and smellier than most. In that division, you do at least feel as though you’re clinging to the skirts of the big time. Below that level, you are nothing. A subterranean slug, creeping invisibly, barely sentient.
It was good to see the big man in action again. Indeed, it was good to see anything at all through the dense curtain of rain that hung over the ground for the entire first half, half time, and for 11 minutes of the second half. This was the moment chosen by the referee to abandon the game. Needless to say, the heavenly tap was swiftly turned off as the last ballboy left the park. Disappointing, but at least I wouldn’t be astounded and terrorised again by the sight of Emile Heskey looming towards me through the misty torrent. I thought he’d retired, or even died, about ten years ago.
So almost half a season after my last live game, my appetite, nay hunger, hadn’t been satisfied by this demi-contest. I won’t be resuming my fortnightly trips to QPR for a while, I suspect. I’m a prisoner of conscience, making my own silent protest at the egregious chairman, Signor Paladini. But I know you won’t want to intrude further into familial grief. Just take my word for it.
The absence of in-the-flesh footie means I’ve become more of an armchair fan than ever before. Since reluctantly paying the Murdoch shilling a few weeks ago, I haven’t wanted for live matches on the TV. Indeed, I can report with some embarrassment that I seem to measure my life by the next piece of live action.
There are exceptions to this tendency. Yesterday lunchtime for instance, I reasoned that a 4 mile run in cold, torrential rain was marginally preferable to Tamworth v Norwich in the FA Cup. So off I went.
People gazed at me — partly in admiration, partly in fear. The distance wasn’t set in advance. I decided to run my routine round-the-block plod in reverse, taking me first through the ancient deer park that always cheers me as I plunge through the final anguished stretch, and then onto the maze-like narrow lanes that normally witness my desultory first couple of miles. The reason for this, and the reason that I didn’t know in advance how long the run would be, was that I’d decided to run to the first Caspian puddle (described a couple of entries ago) but then to double back rather than risk another ankle problem. The first lagoon would appear too soon if I went the usual way.
In the event, the turning point came at just a shade under 2 miles, giving me 4 in all. Just enough to get deeply damp and feel that I’d had a good loosener before today’s longer effort.
The plan today was to get back in time for the Man United – Aston Villa game at two o’clock. Even played a spot of bad online chess against people from Australia (our very own Mid Life Crisis Man), Brunei, Spain and the USA. People over the age of 30, and sadly I’m now trapped forever in that decaying gulag, sometimes have to remind themselves that there was a pre-Internet world in which you couldn’t easily have a game of chess and a chat with some Argentinian soldier as he sat in a bar in Buenos Aires one afternoon, while I chopped a few vegetables for supper here in Berkshire — an experience I had a while ago.
Er, where did I just escape from? Ah yes, my office chair. There I sit, dressed in my running kit complete with cap and bastard-Garmin-bastard-Foreunner 305, playing chess. Suddenly I spring to my feet, realising I could be late for kick off if I didn’t get going. "Spring to my feet"? Where do we get these expressions from? No, I sort of oozed out of the chair, slid slowly down the stairs and ended up outside the back door in a viscous puddle.
I did miss the kick-off. The half time whistle had just blown when I finally got back. I didn’t mind. I’d planned on 5 or 6 miles to ease my way back into longer weekend running but managed around 8.5 instead. Good news.
I’d even implemented the plan (and it’s not often you hear me use those words in that order), mentioned a while ago, to explore some new routes on longer weekend runs. I’d headed towards the canal as usual, but carried on past, ending up in a warren of narrow lanes which took me through a previously undiscovered hinterland of rolling farmland and mucky tracks. Everywhere were flashes of silvery water: the canal, but not as we know it. The locals, out walking their dogs, seemed friendly — they all grinned broadly as I panted past.
It’s good to run through your own territory like this, though I wonder how much longer I have to wait before being hit by a speeding car round here. The serpentine lanes are full of blind spots and high hedges that prevent the runner, and the driver, seeing each other till the last moment. Night is safer: I see their lights long before they see me. Daytime is always problematical, particularly when listening to loud, throbbing heavy metal through headphones.
I thought again about my running schedule for this year. I’m glad I’ve postponed the Two Oceans attempt. It’s inconceivable that I could get there and get round before the cut-off time this year. Perhaps 2008 will be my year.
2007? I’ve three half marathons lined up so far: Almeria at the end of this month, Wokingham two weeks later, and Reading in March. I’ve toyed with the idea of liberating myself from marathons this year, but it’s too early to make a decision. If I feel up to a spring marathon, Padua in April looks like the one, or I could wait, and build up slowly to a big autumn race. The three half marathons will decide things for me. I’ll have a better idea of how the story will end once these three chapters are written.
