Another small step for man late yesterday afternoon, as I chased the remains of the sunshine up the canal towpath for 4 unbroken miles. A trivial distance for most runners, and indeed for me in the past, but this is now. It’s a new world. A tabula rasa.
The run went pretty smoothly, though at the precise moment I realised I wasn’t struggling, with a half mile to go, it went and got all uncomfortable on me, and I had to fight a little to keep going. I nearly used the word “painful”, but that needs saving for a more deserving moment. Discomfort is good, as long as you’re sitting in an armchair just thinking about it, and not actually experiencing it. On the other side of the pleasure scales was the simple joy of crossing off another number. It’s a small one, but bigger than the last one. Three miles, four miles: these are the briefest of stretches, but after a few months of sitting on an expanding arse, munching a range of ‘high energy’ (i.e. bad for you) snacks, washed down with too much showy vino, they represent something bigger to me.
But calm down, calm down. I have to remind myself that this isn’t marathon training. This is nothing more than preparation for the Brighton 10K in four weeks time. Perhaps it isn’t even that. I should think of this outbreak of exercise as elementary anti-lard measures, and the preliminaries to Brighton training. Whatever it is, or isn’t, it’s making me feel a lot better.
Here’s a weird thing. Lewis Hamilton. Every time I hear that name mentioned on the radio, I don’t hear Lewis Hamilton, I hear “Lewes hamburger”. I then think of that recent afternoon with those stout-hearted, indeed just plain stout, gents, Sweder and Seafront Plodder. I alluded to it a few entries ago. The Lewes hamburger moment was pivotal, and every time I hear “Lewis Hamilton” it’s a reminder to me of why this change must be pursued. When the name appears, you think of a grinning kid in a scarlet superhero catsuit, while I think of my nadir on the terraces of the legendary Dripping Pan.
I very much hope that no one else reading this will start thinking “Lewes Hamburger” every time they hear “Lewis Hamilton”. That would be most inconvenient, and very annoying for you.
Today, I forced myself to take a rest. After 5 gym visits and 2 runs in the last 7 days, it was time to relax a little. That was the plan, and despite it, I did walk an accidental 4 miles, from Notting Hill to Loftus Road and back. A cad, or a ‘number slut’ as Hal Higdon’s acolytes used to say, might class this as cross-training, and sneak it onto the spreadsheet. But not me.
Where was I? London. I visit my home town every other Saturday to attend a religious ritual at the temple of Queens Park Rangers. We usually park way out of town and get the tube in, but today we fancied a change, and plunged into the heart of this great city. I dropped M off in Kensington High Street and headed up Campden Hill Road to the Notting Hill Gate end where, miraculously, I found a parking spot on the street — very close to where Harold Pinter lives with Lady Antonia Fraser. Or used to, when I worked round the corner in Oddbins.
[PAUSE]
I like Notting Hill; I feel comfortable here. One of several ‘old manors’ I seem to have: bits of London I’ve lived or worked in. W11 has become impossibly posh, but retains a comforting Bohemian streak. You see it in the second-hand book and CD shops, and in the ethnic cafés; in the two old independent cinemas, and in unspoilt backstreet pubs like the Uxbridge Arms, where you can sup a decent pint of ale with the garrulous locals without distractions from TV or jukebox or fruit machines.
My instinct was to turn towards the tube to travel the three stops to White City. Normally I wouldn’t have questioned this, but I suppose my recent reactivation has jolted something. Instead, I turned round again and strode off down Holland Park Avenue towards the Bush. According to GoogleMaps, I travelled precisely 2 miles, with only a short detour to buy some fruit. I’m always hungry at half time, but nothing on the traditional matchgoer’s menu (burger, hot dog, chips, pies, chocolate and crisps) was going to appeal to me at the moment.
Just as I got to the turnstiles, a short brawny man in an unflatteringly-tailored fluorescent jacket, put his hand on my arm. “Quick look in your bag, please Sir?” He peered into my carrier bag, and asked: “What’s this then?”
I took another look too, assuming that someone had slipped a knuckleduster or nail-studded baseball bat in there while I wasn’t looking. But no. “Fruit”, I replied.
“Fruit?” He didn’t look at all pleased. He called over to his mate. “Pete! Fruit! Dangerous?”
I had a sudden fear that in this cathedral of idiots, where greasy, fast food was the prescribed sacrament, frugivores might be regarded as the enemy they’d been warned to watch out for. The food terrorist, caught bang to rights. I hereby charge you with the possession of a dangerous satsuma. I felt that the accusatory spotlight should have been pointing the other way, with me reading the man his rights: “You have the right to remain stupid, but anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”
Fortunately, no fruit sirens were activated, and I was allowed to proceed with my suspect goods.
The fortnightly worship is less feverish this season. This will surprise some, as QPR have entered a supposedly exciting new phase. The club was bought up by a handful of very wealthy people last year, and expectation levels are high. Trouble is, co-owner Flavio Briatore seems to be only now coming clean about his true vision, and it doesn’t quite square with the previous version. He now talks about his dream of making QPR a “boutique club” with an exclusive image that will attract rich bastards like himself, willing to pay far more than the matchday experience is worth. He didn’t express that last bit quite like that, but it’s what he meant alright. It’s annoyed a lot of us. This season, I’m in a remonstrative cul-de-sac, with my season ticket already bought. But next year I’ll think hard about renewing. We all expect the prices to rise again, but it’s more than that. I’m sure I could still afford to go, simply by economising elsewhere, but it’s the feeling that the loyal fans are being trodden on that will make me think again. They have plenty of remedial PR work to do before next season.
In the meantime, I’m keeping my hand in my pocket as much as I can. I’ve been to only two away games this season so far, and am unlikely to go to many more. We’ve been drawn away to Manchester United in the Carling Cup, but shockingly, I don’t plan to go. I’ve seen QPR at Old Trafford 3 or 4 times before, but not for well over a decade. It would be fun. If this match had happened last season, there’d have been no hesitation: I’d have my ticket bought already. Not this time. Anyway, this is private grief. I’ll shut up.
We won today’s match, beating an unimpressive Nottingham Forest 2-1. I’ve seen countless matches against Forest in the past, including battles against the great sides of the seventies and eighties; but not even Andy “Call me Andrew” Cole could conceal the lack of quality in this particular iteration. Only the trademark scarlet shirts remain as a ghost of the great Forest tradition.
I walked the two miles back to the Gate, where I realised I didn’t have quite enough time to pop into the Coronet to watch Brideshead Revisited. Instead, I lounged in Waterstone’s for an hour or two, reading PG Wodehouse, some Ted Hughes poetry, and the opening chapters of a book about the low GI diet. And then it was time to collect M, and drive back to my seat of power in the shires, where further unspecified challenges await.
