The tinsel anniversary

Ugh. Post-nebbiolo cranial throb.

I lay in bed and considered the day ahead. The trailer didn’t promise much, so I arrived at a decision to do nothing more strenuous than a spot of keyboard tapping, and later, to spend some quality time with the TV remote. A modest blueprint indeed, but with the lake barely visible through a curtain of blustery rain, no less than such a day deserved.

The very possibility that by mid-evening I’d be grinning like a shark on payday, sipping Buck’s Fizz from a half pint glass, and reflecting on having run in my first race in two years, was a thought too insolent to dare present itself. But remarkably, it’s how this humdinger of a day ended.

Just before 2pm, still in Scene One, Take One, I took my coffee to the back bedroom, and switched on the spare PC. I rescued this machine just recently, from a family member who is a chronic alcoholic. She bought it six years ago, and had never managed to take it out of the box. Instead it became a bedside table on which to accommodate her rattling good collection of empty vodka bottles. When I learned of its existence, I offered to swap it for a proper table. We were both happy with the result.

I wanted this old, unused Dell because it was exactly that — old and unused. I liked the idea of it having no internal history. It would be my fabled tabula rasa. More to the point, it had no modem or WiFi capability. Just what I was looking for in a dedicated NaNoWriMo machine.

Remember NaNoWriMo? Ah yes. Well, I failed. I hit just over 84% of my 50,000 word target. Publishing the previous entry might have been a mistake, as it provoked a response from an angry Australian man, saying I should be writing something else. I was scared enough to believe him. I don’t yet know how sensible this was, as it may have pushed me back into the pit from which NaNoWriMo was trying to rescue me.

Or has it? It’s true that the frantic NaNo productivity has gone, but the running book project thing and I have started talking again, and a reconciliation is on the cards. The new task remains an over-edited crawl, but at least I’ve found the impetus to reconsider it from the ground up. The result of this painful rumination is a word massacre. I’d been sheltering somewhere near 35,000 of the stubborn bastards in that old immovable bunker before the Aussie daisy cutter dropped. Boom! And then there were 15,000.

That may not sound like an advance, but it is. These 15,000 are newer, faster, cleaner, meaner, and… just better all round. More important, they now come attached to a plan of sorts. All it requires now is a steady beavering away.

It was with a spot of beavering away in mind that I turned on the new old PC. Waiting for it to wake up, I glanced through the window at the rain bouncing off the spangly new black tarmac. Very Sunday afternoon. This empty road was closed nine months ago to let a new roundabout take shape around the corner. There’s a lot to be said for noiselessness, but here on my own, I’ve actually started to miss the drone of the traffic. The view at the front of the apartment, down the hill, is uplifting, but the altitude detaches us. Factor in the silent neighbours and the closed road at the rear, and it’s been like living in a lighthouse. In the New Year, the road will reopen. A day or two after that, I will be longing for a return to this silence.

I peer at the screen and start to type.

Chapter 11: The Moons of Running
A fad mentality means I don’t stick at new pastimes for long. A swarm of shadfly ideas is permanently buzzing around my head. One will occasionally bite and turn into a raging enthusiasm, before dying a day or two later. I’ve never learnt to expect disappointment when the next life-changing scheme visits me. This is always going to be the one. But the beautiful new relationship turns out to be another fucking one night stand after all. The next morning, I wonder what the hell I was thinking.

Hm. Maybe I shouldn’t have said “fucking” there. Does it alienate nice people? Or does it invite approval from the street smart? Gratuitously offensive, or providing edgy appeal? I go through this same internal exchange of memos every time. Every fucking time. More coffee may provide the answer. As the kettle boils, I reach the usual conclusion that it doesn’t matter because it will never exist and will never be read.

An hour later I return to the machine. Again, I glance through the window. Yep, the rain is still bouncing off the spangly new black tarmac.

If impulsiveness causes me problems, it must be torture for those around me. I once went into a pub in Huddersfield for a quick sandwich, and emerged 20 minutes later as the owner of a car I’d never seen, bought from a man I’d never met before, using money I didn’t have. Another time, deciding I was fed up renting property, I resolved to buy a flat. Less than 18 hours later, an offer was accepted on the first place I viewed. I lived in that fucking flat for nine years, and not a single day passed without me wishing I’d been a bit more patient.

Pause.

What now? My coffee cup is still full, so no procrastination available there.

Ah, yes, I know. I should  look up the first ever entry of this blog. It might, y’know, inspire me.

So.

Page one. Tuesday 11 December 2001.

Oh.

And today is? 11 December 2011.

Gah! I’d occasionally pondered how I might mark the tenth anniversary of this website — not that I’m precious enough to think it matters much. But it was academic now. At the very least, I supposed I should write a blog post.

Something else pained me. I recalled the message I posted on Twitter earlier in the day: Zurich Silvesterlauf is today – 8 km run through the city. Should have been there. Instead, another day of strenuous idleness beckons #ohwell

====================================

So.

I blew it.

Running Commentary is ten years old today.

Today is also the day of Silvesterlauf in Zurich, an occasion when up to 20,000 people meet in the city centre to run 8 kilometres together, in a raucous celebration of running. I should have been there. It was all too perfect an opportunity to mark the occasion. But I blew it.

The date was in my diary all year, but by the time I noticed it, entries had closed. At the time, the disappointment barely registered. Just one of those things. Until today, when I idly reviewed my first ever post, and noticed the date of it: 11 December 2001, and its significance.

As a man who likes to luxuriate in… resonance… who is inspired by… significance, I am crushed by my stupidity, my laziness, my lack of planning. The Silvesterlauf should have been the celebration of what has passed, and the springboard for what is to come.

[Pause]

But wait. Perhaps it still could be….

Gulp. Just been to the race website, and noticed that the ‘fun runners’ (code for old, fat people like me) have races scheduled for 17:30 and 18:30. It is now…. 15:15.

[Pause]

Bollocks. I’m gonna do it. I’ve never run as a “bandit” in a race before, but this one deserves it. No idea how far I’ll get. One 4km circuit would do me just fine at the moment, in my feeble, unprepared state.

Hurrah! Update later. I have a race to run…

As always, it took me longer than it should have done to get ready for a race. As always? How cheeringly present tense.

On November 19, just three or four weekends ago, when the redoubtable @sweder, @MLCMan, @splodmeister were about to train their integral heavy duty beer barrels 13 miles up a Tasmanian mountain, and the scarcely less magnificent Tom Roper was heading off to the loveable Brighton 10K, I felt somewhat pissed off. More than pissed off. Pride and envy and bitterness all came knocking. And relief. All that mixed-up stuff. Reading the extraordinary accounts of the day in Tasmania (see the forum), as well as Tom’s posterior reflections on the Brighton 10k, brought out these chaotic feelings. I wondered if this was something I would ever sample again.

I’ve run 60 or so races, and there isn’t a single one whose first mile I ran feeling pleased to be where I actually was. But there isn’t a single one whose final mile I ran wanting to be anywhere else.

So I am running around the apartment in my version of Supermarket Sweep, collecting stuff. Being impromptu, and being a race, made it more complicated. With no official entry, there would no bag drop facility available at race HQ in central Zurich. And being Switzerland, of course there would be no parking available anywhere near, so the usual option  of using the car as changing room and gear storage could be crossed off. The challenge then was to  travel into the city in the clothes I’d be running in, but they also had to be warm enough to resist the post-race chill.

The first item I reach for is my canary-yellow Hal Higdon cap. This old friend has accompanied me on many a long lonesome journey. Boston, Hamburg, Tokyo, Almeria, Copenhagen… through Cuban sun and Yorkshire sleet, with a stop at every weather station in between. The cap is followed by the ever-natty Running Commentary teeshirt, lycra undershorts with long baggy leggings, and cheapie Aldi running jacket.  This outfit would keep my modesty intact while providing enough pockets for the usual gubbins —  two keys, cash and bank card, glasses case, iPod and headphones, coins for the meter, phone, pen and paper…

And then there was nutrition to consider. I’d consumed nothing but coffee and Ibuprofen since last night’s Pizza Inferno and Barolo. As I headed for the station, I pushed a mushy banana into my face. Arriving at Zurich Hauptbahnhof with a good half hour to spare, I completed this carefully planned pre-race nutritional regime with a sticky cereal bar and half a litre of lemon tea.

Within a minute I was on the number 13 tram heading for Fraumunster.

I jumped off halfway down Bahnhofstrasse, which the guidebooks will tell you is “Zurich’s world-renowned premier shopping street” — except that no one outside the city has ever heard of it. But it does scrub up well, particularly in the approach to Christmas, when tiny golden lights cascade from the sky in a gaudy snowstorm of opulence. Very Zurich. Very Swiss.

I’d half expected the street to be cordoned off, and closed to trams. How else could the race be run? All quickly became clear. The organisers had erected barriers and fencing to create a course along one of the pavements, before it snaked away through the cobbled side streets leading into Niederdorf, the old quarter of Zurich. It was an odd juxtaposition, and created that sort of parallel existence thing I like to marvel at. To see these runners pounding along these channels like caged prisoners, as if trying to escape into the consumerist world of Bahnhofstrasse, was a rich source of metaphor protein. I feasted greedily.

“The race” is not a single race at all, but a series that runs throughout the afternoon and early evening. The running day starts at noon with 8 year olds + mums scurrying for 1.4 kms, continues through the “invitation only” elite 8.8 km contests, to the mass-participation races later on. The programme is sliced and diced into a matrix of expected finish times and age. The one I was aiming to join was the 8.8 km in-under-55-minutes. Without a number or a chip, I didn’t care where I joined or how long I ran for. (Klicken Sie hier for a professional glimpse of the event, along with some nice views of the city. Recommended.)

Finding the start took much longer than expected. I had a rough idea where it was all kicking off, but the closing off of many of the usual smaller thoroughfares around the river and the cathedrals, prevented me taking the obvious route. In the end, I made it to the other side of the Limmat, located a gap in the fence, and stared down the empty riverside road, waiting for the charge to come my way. Watching with me, high above the opposite bank, the illuminated tower of Fraumunster.

Then suddenly… I think… yes, some darting lights along the road in the distance, and here they come, this great tsunami of shrieking, breathless humanity. Like a kid shivering nervously at the edge of the icy water, there is only one way in. I need to time it right. The speedy leaders pass before the bigger rump appears. “Bigger rump” sounds more appropriate somehow, so this has to be my moment. To the bemusement of the politely clapping elderly couple I’d been standing alongside, I’m through the fence and in, being swept forward by this most invigorating of  tidal waves, across the bridge and into the cobble-stoned heart of the old town. Here the festive lanes are thickly fringed with cheerful spectators, some ringing, some bellowing, some klaxoning their encouragement. Most are armed with nothing more than grins of seasonal benevolence.

Before long I’m overheating. The cap comes off. I can feel the sweat on my neck. I need cool air on my chest, so I start tugging at the zip. The damn thing is stuck. Bloody cheapie Aldi running jacket. I have to wrench it open, nearly sending an elbow into the face of one of the many Santas plodding along beside me. At this moment, we pass behind the famous singing Christmas tree as its innocent inhabitants warble their messages of peace and goodwill to all. It’s enough to assuage the growling Santa beside me, who seems to be shouting and pointing and grinning all at the same time. He shrugs, and moves off to sprinkle his unusual brand of festive cheer elsewhere.

Twice I hear the kids sweetly chirruping out of their tree, and decide that’ll do me. I’m done. Two circuits and 5.3 kilometres is enough to put the check in the box. Without a number or a chip, and without having paid my 38 Swissies, I’m gatecrashing someone else’s party. Now I have to gatecrash out of the party — which isn’t easy, given the fences. But I spot a gap in the Market, and hop out there. Before heading off back to the station, I linger for a few minutes on Zurich’s world-renowned premier shopping street, watching the field struggle on towards the finish, thinking  how heartening it is to see all this again, and to feel a part of it. It’s been too long.

I’ve avoided posting much about running recently, and for good reason. Every time I open my mouth about possible plans, some event has stepped out of shadows to trip me up. I tried a bit of reverse psychology, telling myself, then an indifferent blogosphere, that the running struggle had abandoned me for good. This seemed to work in the way I secretly hoped it would, because almost immediately I felt the need to get out there. Invisibly, I did. Then another long gap until a month or so ago, when I knew a big decision was approaching. And so far, not bad. For the record, and at the risk of summoning the voodoo, over the past 19 days I’ve managed  9 lumbering lakeside plods, mostly three to four miles. Each has been ugly, a sweaty tussle with the horned bon vivant who loves to embrace me. Best news is that there hasn’t been a peep from the troublesome calf. Jinx, do your worst.

The calf remains a threat, but there are other hazards. Here’s a bizarre confession: it’s only in the past year that I’ve realised I’m not actually young any more. Seriously, it came as a shock to find I’m suddenly older than most people. How did that happen? It never used to be like this, so I guess it’s been magnified by the move. Switzerland likes structure and classification. The dividing lines between generations seem to be bolder than I was used to in the UK. For instance, most people, even expats, seem to socialise within their own age groups, and so I’ve had to become much more aware of my position — or what others consider my position should be. I don’ t like it much. It’s hard to stop these toxins dripping into the old self-esteem reservoir.

Adding another dimension of struggle to the physical impediments doesn’t help my chances of  getting back into regular running. It’s already harder to lose weight; harder to feel fit and to stay feeling fit; harder to avoid injury. Now we have growing self-doubt. Another enemy to fight. Do I have the capability? I’ve not seen much evidence of it in the recent past, but perhaps it’s not gone forever. It could be hiding just behind the wine rack…. if only I could just squeeze past it to take a look, without getting waylaid by its temptations.

So I’m halfway back to Hauptbahnhof, when I realise something is missing. Gulp. My Hal Higdon cap. Nooo! I think about turning back, but there’s no point. It could be anywhere. My dependable old companion was gone.

Later on, I thought about this. I was last aware of the cap when I stuffed it into my jacket pocket, just before the zip got stuck. And I remembered “the growling Santa beside me, who seems to be shouting and pointing and grinning all at the same time.”  I think I did him a disservice. He wasn’t complaining about me, he was trying to tell me (in breathless mid-race German) that I’d dropped my cap.  Sorry, mein Freund.

About 40 minutes later, I was home, and doing something I almost never do: drinking Champagne on my own. I’ve no qualms about sharing a bottle of wine with no one other than myself, but Champagne belongs in a different category. I’d had a bottle of Canard-Duchêne in the fridge for as long as I can remember. It was even  in my fridge in Reading for at least a year, waiting for a good moment. Here, back from the race, out of the shower, needing reward, I opened my fridge to find a beer, and spotted the Champagne. The rest is fizztory. One of those unscheduled  “bugger it” moments appeared, and moments later, my self restraint had gone pop.

Like (it is said) the English at large, I enjoy Champagne that has aged. It becomes a deeper yellow, loses the aggressive edge from the fizz, and seems to find extra flavours from somewhere. But I think this one might have been better a year ago, so I did what I do even more rarely, and adulterated it with orange juice. Mmm, much better. And the juice even made it sort of healthy. By the second glass, I was beaming for England, and feeling insufferably smug. Man, I’ve missed all this.

As good as the event was, it was a shocking reminder of how unfit I am. My 5 kilometres were laboured and difficult. Every loud slap of rubber on cobblestone sent a distress call up through my wobbly torso to a discombobulated brain, still sheltering from the effects of too much wine and too little sleep. By some way, this was the least prepared I’ve ever been for a race, and the worst performance ever. But did I care?

On today of all days, being there was what counted. I’ve spent a decade trying to avoid clichés so it’s with extra relish that I serve this  one up. And anyway, perhaps nothing better sums up this plodding life, and the ten years of RunningCommentary: that it really is the taking part that matters.

On that note, let me wish all friends past, present and future, an excellent Christmas and New Year, and a strenuous and rewarding 2012. May our ambitions be great and achievable, and may those swarms of shadfly ideas never cease to bother us.