I got up early this morning and ate a banana and some Marmite toast, washing them down with a small black coffee. In my life, this signals only one thing: the long run.
OK, or a race. Even a shortish one. But today, it was the long run.
The clue is not so much what’s on this menu, but what’s omitted.
Apart from special occasions, breakfast is the greatest meal of my day. Over the past half century, the content has evolved. I no longer care so much for Ready Brek, or cigarettes, or even newspapers. These days, my perfect early morning is:
(
(muesli OR porridge)
AND
banana
AND
((raisins OR blueberries) AND (chopped prunes OR clementine))
AND
(smoothie OR tomato juice)
AND
(
black coffee OR ((green tea OR white tea) AND lemon)
)
AND
Radio 4
)
Should I have kept quiet about the prunes? Och. Quite apart from their digestive attributes, they taste good.
On long run and race mornings, I try to avoid dairy. Not sure why. I created this running axiom somewhere along the line. As far as I can recall, it isn’t founded on painful experience, or on any other sort of experience, but it does satisfy the need to have a personal philosophy about such things.
Food aside, a good pre-run breakfast should be solitary and reflective.
I did a couple of hours work before turning on the TV to half-watch the performing seals of Manchester United appear in an event called the Club World Cup final. It was unchallenging, inoffensive entertainment, as befits the festive season. Three things stood out:
— the Japanese audience oooh-ing and aaah-ing in a strangely warbling, high-pitched tone every time the Brylcreemed show pony did a little heel swivel.
— the post-show interview with Layne Looney in which he tried so hard to sound “quite pleased really” to have had to travel halfway across the planet to nibble at this nonsensical sporting confection. Wayne knows it’s nowt but a FIFA exhibition match, but he couldn’t possibly say it. And what would the Japanese interpreter have made of “nowt” anyway?
— the great Stan Collymore’s radio punditry. I genuinely like this guy, but was startled when he said: “The South Americans’ attack this half has been conservative with a small C…”. The tiny but overworked Department of Surrealism residing somewhere in the back of my head went into overdrive at the possibility of a South American football attack that could have been conservative with a capital C.
Despite my reservations about this fixture, it seemed only honourable to uncork something decent this evening to mark the British triumph, so I’m tackling a 2005 cru bourgeois claret as we speak. Fortunately, my work is done for the day — both paid stuff and running.
My life is one long shoefest these days. For several centuries, I was a New Balance 854s man, but some marketing nincompoop at NB, fresh from what s/he thought was a free lunch, decided some time ago that the loyal army of 854-ites had misguided preferences that needed correcting. They withdrew the much-loved model and applied a sort of marketing orthotic without first examining the way we walked. These idiots need to understand that running shoes are chosen for reasons beyond the cosmetic. It’s not the fashion magnet that pulls us in, but biomechanical compatibility. They now know they way I walk: away from New Balance.
I was reminded of this on this week’s Tuesday interval session (Asics Foundation 8s) and Thursdays tempo run along a muddy canal towpath (Asics Gel Guts). The first of those was not memorable, the second was. The choice of shoes played no part in the Tuesday run’s distinct turkey quality, but did in the success of the Thursday one, when the extra grip of the off-roaders seemed to haul me through the canalside mud more slickly than the smooth-soled New Balance roadies I have always used.
Today it was back to the NBs for just under 9 miles of tarmac hills. Not the best of runs, largely because of the traffic on the narrow lanes. As good as these 6 challenging undulations are, I may have to seek an alternative where I can concentrate on getting up and down without having to stop to let vehicles pass, or switch sides to avoid blind bends. This sort of staccato experience never feels quite as satisfying as the distance merits. So slightly disappointing but hell, 9 miles is 9 miles.
