A forgettable weekend, which is just as well, as I don’t remember a lot about it in the first place.
Late Friday afternoon I stepped out for a short run but barely got beyond the garden gate. The gouty toe was back in its box but the two stubbed toes on the left foot, now a rather gorgeous yellow and purple, were having none of it. In frustration, I mailed a mate and demanded an evening of beer and bullshit. I didn’t explicitly specify the latter, but knew it would inevitably follow, particularly after such an arid spell.
This wasn’t my first taste of alcohol in the 44 days of the current campaign: I had a couple of pints last Sunday evening to mark the Crawley race, and two glasses of wine a few days before that. But this was the first major alcoholic event. A few beers in the pub, then home to tackle most of a bottle of decent South African Pinotage to wash down the cauliflower cheese and baked sweet potato and parsnip I’d prepared before going out. With a bottle of wine open, the cheeseboard inevitably followed and these became my beautiful companions as I settle down to watch the recorded final of Masterchef, followed by the irresistible appearance, at 3 a.m., of The Shawshank Redemption on some obscure TV channel. A couple of weepy hours later, at around 5 a.m., I get to bed.
Saturday lunchtime, I woke in a fog of shame, regret, and cranial discomfort. Staggeringly (a good choice of word), I was able to execute a run of sorts in late afternoon. Four and a bit miles.
Today, feeling much better, I managed the same distance again, this time sandwiched between a total of 12½ cycled miles. That may sound like a good workout but it was pretty poor fare when examined in a bit more detail. I’d hoped to chalk up 6 or 7 miles along the canal, but I ran out of puff after only a couple, and turned back, struggling to get back to my bike without walking. The post-run cycling took me along a previously unknown bridleway through woods in full mid-autumn splendour. Beautiful. And fun, for me at least, dodging the hundreds of squawking, traumatised pheasants on the path. Spiritually and aesthetically refreshed perhaps, but I’m still not convinced about the cardiovascular merit of cycling at this level. I can see the benefit of sweat-gushing, lusty road cycling, but I’m not at all sure about pottering through the woods, grinning benignly, feeling like a sensitive adolescent on the brink of verse.
So anyway, flaming autumnal trees apart, the weekend has been a moderate write-off. I’m not overly concerned. Surely a man can be forgiven a lapse every 44 days? The worst thing, I know from experience, is that a solitary night of excess will retard my deblubbering campaign by a few days; and at a time when I’m already feeling impatient about the slow progress. As I often do on a Sunday, I had a look at my stats today. With anorak tightly fastened, I set about comparing this year’s figures with the same period last year. The lard is melting at about the same reluctant rate, but the change in plodding pace is lagging. I’m getting faster slowly, but not as quickly as last time.
Should I be anxious? Probably not, but I am — a bit. The question I’m trying not to ask is: am I getting too old for this? You’re never too old to get healthier, but I suppose a point must be reached when the rate of expected progress declines sharply. Are we nearly there yet, Granddad? Maybe.
The annoying thing is this: I’m still in that waiting room I complained about a few weeks ago. This time last year, I was out of the traps, and away. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself. After a good start, most of the last two weeks were lost to toe problems, so perhaps a plateau in progress shouldn’t be a surprise.
Bah! I’ll keep chipping away, and stay out of the pub. I reckon just a couple more pounds off, and I’ll start to feel liberated and back in the groove. So far, it’s been hard work without the reward, but I’m as determined as ever to stay the distance, and hit my targets. We know it’s all about persistence.
So let me forget the weekend, but remember that simple thing.
