It’s been quite a 24 hours.
It started on such a gentle note, too, in the Asics shop in Argyll Street, just opposite the London Palladium. I went to have my feet analysed. The smiling Japanese girl was a delight, and just giggled at my very English embarrassment at not having cut my toenails in a while. She carried on attaching tiny black stickers to a selection of my pedal protruberances without any outward sign of disgust. I then had to put each foot into a sort of box, before a lid was attached and locked down so securely that I had to wonder if I’d ever be reunited with the far end of my body. This is what appeared on the printer:
I’m an over-pronator — my feet turn inwards as they land. Actually, we are all pronators, but some of us go a bit overboard. Interestingly (well it’s interesting to me, anyway), it’s significantly more marked on my left foot than right. Other fascinating foot facts include: left foot 3 millimetres longer, but 3 millimetres narrower than the right. Er, that’s enough fascinating foot facts for the moment.
We descended via the open-plan spiral staircase into the spaceship-like basement floor, where my attendant suggested a couple of possibilities to help the pronation problem and cater for my laughably expansive plates. I tried on each pair in turn, and stepped onto one of the treadmills for a spot of video gait analysis. Using a split screen, she then matched up the two views so that my left foot in Pair A was shown alongside Pair B, landing and striding in sync with each other. This is a way of comparing how each shoe was correcting the excessive pronation.
While we were at it, she made a couple of observations:
- My right leg is slightly longer than the left
- I don’t kick very high
- I run with my legs close together
There’s not a whole lot I can do about the first, unless I borrow a meat slicer to shave a few slivers off the right. Not a great idea — I don’t know anyone with a meat slicer. Regarding the other two, I asked her: “Are you saying that I should kick higher and move my legs apart more when I run?” She grinned back, and refused to be prescriptive. “Just an observation”, she replied sweetly. But an interesting one. Race photos nearly always show my weird legs-too-close-together style. Higher kicking really works — I’ve tried. You can feel yourself accelerating. Trouble is, it costs effort, so I’m not sure what the net result is. But something to think about.
I took her recommendation and invested in a pair of Asics Gel Foundation 8s. They felt good in the shop, though I’m slightly concerned that she thought 10½ would be fine, when all my New Balance shoes are 11. We’ll see.
We chatted about Japan for a few minutes before exchanging final arigatos.
The next excitement in my day was the trip to Loftus Road for the 5:30 kick-off against table-topping Wolves. At least I thought it was 5:30. It turned out to be 5:20, so I had to jog the final half mile between White City station and the ground. No Mick Jones today. Whenever I’m running late for the game, there’s a good chance that the celebrated ex-Clash guitarist will be on the same train as me. More than once I’ve found myself racing him to the ground. Funnily enough, his lack of punctuality is said to be one of the reasons that Joe Strummer asked him to leave the band.
What a match. Joy has been on ration for some weeks at HQ, but it was being liberally doled out last night. The new coach, ex-Inter Milan star and Scolari sidekick, Paolo Sousa, seems to be doing something positive. We suddenly have three attackers, and are regaining the swagger that seemed to have drained away over the last few months. The match was decided in the 60th minute by a superb Martin Rowlands screamer from 20 yards that rocketed over the goalie’s head but suddenly dipped, Ronaldo-like, into the top of the net. Oh… oh how we showed our appreciation for that one.
Tragically, I had to leave the ground 10 minutes from time to ensure that I wasn’t going to be late for La Clique at the Hippodrome, Leicester Square. I’d not been to this Edwardian venue before; it’s what used to be the Talk of the Town back in the 70s, in the days when cabaret was still socially acceptable. Now it’s become a red and black velvetty sort of place: burlesque, and ever so slightly seedy. But managing to stay just on the right side of tasteful.
La Clique is an extraordinary experience, and one I urge anyone who can, to get there and share the pleasure with me. Most of the action takes place on a tiny circular stage. We were in the second ringside row. The show is a spectacular mixture of song and circus. Irreverent, and occasionally downright rude. Not an event suitable for kids sadly, as some of the more conventional acrobatics are breathtaking. Let me share a couple of highlights I’ve found on YouTube. Do please take a look. Here’s the beautiful, and mysterious, hoola-hoop girl: Oooohh!!
The Freddie Mercury-loving Mario: Aaaaah!!
And perhaps most amazing of all, the Rubberman, or Captain Frodo as he is sometimes called. If you’ve never seen a guy squeeze his entire body through two tennis rackets, you need to put down what you’re doing, and watch this: Amazing!!
They sent us home happpy, but the weekend fun wasn’t completely over…
Today I had one of those great runs. 12.25 miles: my longest for… I don’t know. My records are unreliable, but I suspect the last time I exceeded 12 miles was the Almeria Half in January 2007 – nearly 2 years ago. I decided against a third hilly run in 3 weekends, and opted instead for distance. The Furman FIRST plan is all about variety, and even though I haven’t truly started it yet, I’ve already adopted the spirit and format.
The first half was a lovely trot along the canal in the opposite direction from usual. It’s a grittier terrain than the other way, skirting the M4 motorway for a short stretch, and taking me away from the water along the enamelled SUSTRANS cycleway here and there. But it’s pleasant enough, and was made greatly more enjoyable by my iPod selection. At the last minute, I’d added a playlist called “Running” that I’d not used for a while. I wasn’t sure what was on it, which was half the pleasure. Here it is:
The Trap (London Marathon) — Ron Goodwin
Rock the Casbah — The Clash
Substitute — The Who
My Generation — The Who
And a Bang on the Ear — The Waterboys
The Whole of the Moon — The Waterboys
Vertigo — U2
Wonderful Land — The Shadows
Patriot Games — Clannad
Fairytale of New York — The Pogues
Black Dog — Led Zeppelin
You Really Got Me — The Kinks
All Day And All Of The Night — The Kinks
Na Na Na Na Naa — Kaiser Chiefs
Everyday I Love You Less And Less — Kaiser Chiefs
Love Her Madly — The Doors
Hello, I Love You — The Doors
Light My Fire — The Doors
155 BPM – World Cruise — DJ Steve Boyett
I Fought The Law — The Clash
White Riot — The Clash
Dancing In The Dark — Bruce Springsteen
Born in the USA — Bruce Springsteen
In A Big Country — Big Country
The Trap (London Marathon) — Ron Goodwin
The London Marathon theme tune was a fun way to start. It never fails to fill my sails and get me feeling buoyant and excited about the challenge ahead. Then a few rockers to help me set a steady pace. By the time I was on the canal, the Waterboys were stirring my emotions. These are songs tht mean a lot to me, for reasons that don’t belong here.
It was a glorious day, and by now, the strong wintry run was making the canal sparkle. How appropriate to find Wonderful Land swooping through my brain. The run was going beautifully. Three or four miles in, and I was feeling strong and in control. It was a brief spell of perfect satisfaction. The world is good, and I am of this world. Just now, with emotions running high, that greatest of modern Christmas songs: Fairytale of New York came along. There’s something about this song that reaches inside me and jangles any passions worked loose by the aerobic struggle. It’s a complex and fascinating piece of music, and one that truly tugs and threatens cultural boundaries. Here we have degradation and despair and disfunction, but all wrapped up in a festive promise of renewal and reinvention. It’s a song that makes me cry, and I can’t give it higher praise than that.
Then bang! Led Zeppelin and the Kinks and the Doors, and I’m back on the rails. Now it’s time to leave the canal and start the long loop back home. I have a long, nasty stretch of busy road ahead of me. I’m also starting to feel some tiredness now, so it’s time to dig in and flick the auto-pilot switch. How damn perfect that the next 50 or so minutes can be written off to the steady 155 beats per minute of the podrunner track. Exactly what was needed. The music is repetitive and throbbing, but it helps me push one foot in front of the other, almost all the way back to the village. Just as its charms are starting to wear thin, it suddenly stops, and the jangle of Mick Jones’s guitar cuts in: the very same Mick Jones I sometimes chase through the White City Estate to Loftus Road, and all is well again. I really must thank him next time I see his tiny, wiry frame up ahead of me.
I can’t get over just how immaculate is the timing of this playlist. After the wakey-wakey thrash from the Clash, and a spot of anthemic Springsteen, it’s two big hops: one to long-time poppy fave Big Country, and finally, to bring me back through my garden gate, a repeat of the opener: the chest-swelling Ron Goodwin theme for the London Marathon. How different it sounds now. The first time around it’s a call to arms; this time, a pat on the back.
A few minutes of stretching, then it’s through the back door and straight to the cooker for some scrambled egg on toast. Happy with the protein and carb hit, it’s up the stairs to the embrace of the shower, and an afternoon of football on TV. Sometimes running is a trudge and a duty. At other times, when it all comes together, it’s a sublime privilege, and something very great indeed.
