Bah! On second thoughts, I’ll spare the world.
Is anyone here really that interested in my new, signed Dylan prints? My tear-splashed review of the Cohen gig in Manchester? Our knee-knocking visits to the gorgeously preserved childhood homes of Lennon and McCartney? Nah.
Just a word on the ‘Pool though. It would seem to be overstating the case to say it’s a place I love: I’ve been there only half a dozen times — not including the Anfield experiences (another five). No visit has lasted longer than two days, and I’ve stopped overnight only twice. It’s great sprawling monument of a place, old and grubby and so proud of itself that it never fails to leave a positive impression. It gets me every time. We visit Albert Dock with the Tate and the Beatles Museum, and all those upmarket restaurants. We admire the skyline with the ‘three graces’: the Liver, Cunard, and Port of Liverpool Buildings; the two cathedrals. We drive down Penny Lane, and squeal again as we spot the immortalised barber shop, and the bank whose banker still never wears a mac, in the pouring rain; past Sefton Park and on through the surprisingly wide, tree-lined streets of Toxteth. There are places I remember… Like Ireland, it’s one of those atavistic things: reaches deep and squeezes my innards.
Manchester, where we breezed in for Leonard Cohen’s concert, then straight out again, is slicker and cooler and shrewder, and it knows it. The Rainy City I really do know well — or did do in the early 80s — when I spent 4 student years there. A very fine town indeed; but perhaps arrogant more than proud. It has places to go, people to see, while its even shabbier neighbour is happier in its own skin — despite all the construction. I can’t fully explain or justify it. And don’t need to. I like Liverpool the place, and love Liverpool the people. That’s all.
Here’s some more news — I think my athletic dabbling is probably finished. No good trying to keep the pretence aloft any more. Or not for the moment. Let’s put an end to all our suffering; I need to move on.
Since my last inglorious race, I’ve taken the doc’s advice and rejoined the local gym, though it looks like I won’t get the chance to establish a routine for another week or two. Taken the bike out a couple of times, which is pleasant enough, but compared with running there’s an indefinable hole in the experience I haven’t yet managed to understand. Meanwhile, the knee comes and goes, and is currently being kept company by a lovely, gouty left big toe. Together they have forced me to limp, which is producing worrying pains in my right calf. So something of an all-round wreck at the moment.
Talking of “all round”, one consolatory shred is that I haven’t thrown myself at the taverns. I’ve relaxed my alcohol boycott without going overboard. Grazing has been a little indiscriminate though.
A lot has changed in a year. Maybe it’s something to do with being dragged into my fifties; perhaps it’s the new job I started in October that’s consumed me more than expected. It may even be simple boredom, and the need for a new challenge. It’s time to acknowledge that the injuries are trying to tell me something. Meanwhile, trying to keep this optimism and excitement inflated without looking ever more foolish is an impossible task. I remember saying in Almeria that I would spend the year just slowly getting fitter and stronger if I could, and then towards the end of the year, see which way the wind was blowing. Good advice: I should have taken it. I still have an option on a Boston place next year if I want it.
In the meantime, I have a couple of writing projects I want to spend some time on. Yes, I’ve said this before, but this time I’m serious. I’ve talked to a couple of wise people, moved some ideas around, created some plans, and want to implement them.
I’m not abandoning the RC website — there’s no need. I’ll leave it where it is, but will probably take a break from this part of it, and float around the forum a little more. Increasingly, I find the stuff I read on there thrilling and energising: it shames me to see how threadbare my own locker has become. I say that with no self-pity or artificial self-deprecation. It’s an observation I know to be true: that this project has grown stale for me, and unsurprisingly the quality and commitment has declined. It’s not an inspiration anymore, and hasn’t been for some time. I fought against this feeling over the last couple of months, but the disappointment of that last race, and the ricketty knee, have seen it off. No melodrama; just a straightforward fact. Time to revive myself with some other brew, before I think about hauling myself to my feet for another punishing round against my own overzealous ambition. Or to put it another way, my own bullshit.
Ah yes, here’s an interesting snippet. While talking to the guide at Mendips, John Lennon’s boyhood home, the subject of running came up. I can’t recall how: perhaps it was some mention of Dublin. But anyway, he asked me if I knew the little-known connection between the Beatles and marathon running. It had me stumped. So he led me to the famous picture of John Lennon at the school fete in 1957 (a couple of days after I was born, incidentally). It was the first ever occasion that Lennon and McCartney met, although Paul doesn’t appear in the photo. The guide pointed at a small boy whose face is just visible between two other boys at the right of the snap. “Guess who that is”, he asked. I’d no idea, and readily confessed. His answer, which I’ve since verified, was a real surprise. “Paula Radcliffe’s father”, he beamed.
