Last week’s scheduled relaunch nearly went to plan. I’d put all the posters up, invited the spectators, got the creaking fuselage in place, drew my map of the stars, lit the blue touchpaper… and phut!. Nothing happened. I didn’t get off the ground.
Too many beer invitations, a BBQ, a dinner out, and the new village takeaway pizza place to put through its paces. The health moonshot was doomed from the start.
This week has a couple of sizeable lumps of space debris to dodge, or at least to buffet without diverting my course too much. The first is Thursday’s invitation to the pub, to watch the final bit of the first day of the Lords’ Ashes test. From this mild temptation I can easily wriggle free. An hour of squirming in front of England’s faltering batsmen may seem like good exercise on the face of it, but the mandatory anaesthetic — Fuller’s London Pride — will undo any questionable health benefits. An arrangement I won’t struggle to avoid is a trip to Bristol on Saturday to check out the Banksy exhibition. (Pics.) Along with M, I’m going with my old pal Russ and wife Carrie, who are both esteemed CAMRA luminaries, so there are likely to be few opportunities missed to visit noteworthy Bristolian watering holes. Ah well. We all need an occasional day off.
I’m feeling upbeat and confident about this second attempt. It started only on Monday, but even two or three day of healthy eating, and a spot of exercise, has reminded me how much better this path feels — despite the sweet music of the other way.
To ease myself back into raised heartbeat territory, I managed a couple of strenuous hours in the garden on monday evening. Then yesterday, miracle of miracles, I leapt from my Herman Miller seating solution, and went for a run of sorts.
I call it that because it ended up as a run-walk: 2 minutes on-off. Shocking to see how quickly the fitness I felt 3 months ago in Boston can drain away. Or is it? No, not really. As I lumbered round the countryside like Frankenstein’s monster, frightening children and domestic animals, I wryly reflected on the number of times I’d been this way before, which is why I’m feeling quite upbeat at the moment. It’s the way I do things. Work up to something, get through it somehow, then decline, before setting off again. As mentioned a few times before in these pages, it’s the Sisyphus syndrome. He was the chap from Greek mythology, condemned to roll a huge rock up the mountain, only to see it tumble down again as he reached the top. And so he would start again…
Some people may find such a regime disheartening or infuriating, but I’ve grown to… well, accept it rather than to love it. It’s my modus operandi, and at least it means I don’t have to consign myself to the hell of never eating a pork pie again. Pork pie with Branston pickle is ambrosia, without which life would be meaningless. So I can have my cake and eat it, during the summer months at least. And OK, on regular winter, spring and autumn evenings too, but less frequently. The downside of this pendulum lifestyle is the sheer grind of having to get going again. Last night was a case in point. Less than three months ago I was running the Boston Marathon (albeit slowly), and last night I was plodding round the block, unable to manage more than two minutes without walking.
The handicap is partly due to a natural drop in cardiovascular fitness but is made considerably worse by the weight I’ve piled on since the marathon. This festival of comfort eating and beer has added at least a stone. The consolation is that I seem able to shift weight almost as easily as I collect it. It made the plod uncomfortable, but you learn from experience that this sort of preliminary jolting jaunt is a necessary precursor to the smoother rides ahead. Just 3½ miles, and slow, but the psychological benefits outweighed all else.
Talking of Boston, I finally had some photos through yesterday, and was struck by how happy and healthy I looked. Needless to say, plenty have me looking abject and exhausted, but I prefer to be reminded of the more positive moments. The first is just before the start, the second about 12 miles in, looking daisy-fresh (the hills had not yet arrived), and the third has me on Boylston Street gazing up at that magical word: FINISH. It’s the Sisyphus-at-the-top-of-the-mountain moment, just moments before the boulder starts its downward plummet once again. I look as though I am gazing on some god, at the very point of revelation. Which of course I was.
It’s a feeling I would like to have again.
Here goes.
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