People of Shepherds Bush, rejoice! Flavio Briatore waddles away from Loftus Road for the final time as chairman, and I can once again come out as a QPR fan without blushing. Signore Briatore fitted my club as comfortably as I fit my wife’s jeans. His awkward tenure summed up much of the ills of modern football ownership: a rich foreigner with no appreciation of the soul of British football, and particularly not at a level below the summit, lumbers in to conjure a revolution in the fortunes of the team, promising to heal a variety of ailments we didn’t know we were suffering from. Heavy on ambitious bluster (“Champions League within four years…”), but low on patience and humility. Flabbio … …
Author: andy
Welcome to the new WordPress home. The minimalism isn’t intentional. All efforts so far have been directed at importing the content from the old, hand-coded, HTML site, and only now can I think about addressing the decor and spartan furnishing. What’s really needed on this red letter day is a sustained, sonorous note of optimism. Ah. Instead, I offer up the absolute opposite: the thought that I’m staring at the possibility that my running days may be over. If indeed they ever began. This melancholic swamp looks familiar enough, but I don’t recall being in this deep. Two full weeks of rest after Almeria seemed like a good enough period of recuperation. Apart from a solitary spinning session a couple … …
Almeria 2010 begins with the customary pain of a 4 a.m. alarm. Barely 40 minutes later, it’s terminal chaos: part of the submissive throng oozing through Gatwick security. Flying used to be part of the pleasure of an overseas break, but no longer. It’s now a penance; a punishment for trying to escape from the prison of daily routine. We queue. We dismantle our careful packing. We remove our dignity and parade it. Want an eyeful of my life? Here you are. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. I pass muster, and half an hour later it’s the more pleasant experience of coffee with the Sussex quartet: Ash (Sweder), Julie (LadyRunner), Tracey, and Simon. I flew out … …
When I talked to Phil last week about my chances of making the Almeria Half, he mentioned one of his metrics. He reckoned that if you can run twice the distance of the race during the penultimate week, you should be fine. So I set my sights on 26 miles this week. Not a huge total in times of plenty, but these haven’t been times of plenty. I was startled to see that in only one week since I started back on the sticky road to race fitness, last September, have I managed more than 20 miles in a week. And that was in November, when from nowhere I produced two 10 milers. It was the week before Ragdale, my … …
Better news. Last Wednesday’s ailing calf opened the door (….did you know a calf could do that?) to a dissolute weekend. I fear I take rest and recovery all too seriously. An excess of low living followed: beer and saturated fat outside the house, and Chianti, spicy turkey casserole, sausages and blue cheese within. On Friday, something useful did happen: a visit to Phil the sports therapist for a half hour of painful, but helpful, calf manipulation. As I slid off the massage table, barely conscious, I was expecting to see on the floor beneath me, strips of bloody, wriggling flesh, freshly gouged from my lower limbs. There’s always a brief period when I wonder how such a treatment can … …
Grim days. Before Christmas, the snow arrived like some unexpected, enchanting dinner party guest. But as she has lingered, and got ruder and more domineering, the novelty and appeal has faded. Lovely to begin with, now a damn nuisance. Go away. Another six inches of fluffy ice has descended overnight. This would have spoilt my running plans, if I’d had any. Yesterday, after 4 sofa-bound days, I judged the pavements just about ice-free enough to get out the door again. After 1.5 miles of snow yomping along the sticky road to recovery, I came across a shovel-scraped section and decided, in the immortal words of David Coleman, to open my legs and show my class. Within a hundred metres, I … …
This morning was so cold, there was barely enough blood in my fingers to capture Kumudith Guruge. Ethereal voice: Who? Kumudith Guruge. Last entry: I’m in a much better position than this time last year. The weight is about the same, but it was on Boxing Day 2008 that I yanked my calf muscle for the first of three times in quick succession. It meant a long break, and a cautious, anxious winter and spring. Touch wood, there’s not been a repeat, even though the longer runs, like yesterday’s 9 miler do always jangle a few tendons in that area, just to keep me awake to the possibility. Let me tell you now, that touching wood stuff doesn’t work.… …
Things are trying to get back to normal. The old normal. The post-mid-September normal. The new enemy has been the skies. Most runners like a bit of rough in the weather department. Rain is to running what vinegar is to chips: greater than the sum of the parts. We can even embrace the stage or two beyond mere rain, but there’s a limit to this pain-pleasure principle. Snow is usually good, but ice is pushing things just a little. Too much of a good thing. Here in Berkshire, the festive cascade began the day after the last entry. I’d been out for a dogged, and very cold, 4 miles. Within minutes of reclaiming the warmth, and emerging from the shower, … …
Hangovers are rare beasts around these parts, but one has come a-prowling today. Not a desperately savage example, but enough to keep me subdued. It’s prompted the usual self-interrogation, and taken me through the drinker’s faulty arithmetic in which two parts of pleasure somehow have to be shown to equal the three parts of pain that follow. The proposition never quite works out. It seemed such a good idea at the time. A post-race reward. Liverpool v Arsenal on the TV on the pub, and a few pints of London Pride. Exchanging manly small-talk about the referee. Then home to cook and eat the pork, swilling it down with a glass or two of Aldi’s reliable Chianti. And all very … …
At last, after many weeks of trudging through a dense jungle of commitments, the weary traveller reached a small clearing. He marvelled at the sudden sense of light, and clarity. “I have been unable to see, and thus I have been invisible”, he mused. It’s been an eventful few weeks, with so much to write about that I’ve not had the time to log it. Now, finally, I seem to have arrived at a natural break between one list of overpowering assignments and the next. Best grab the chance to skim off and serve up the more newsworthy bits. We were off to a health spa last time I passed this way. At Ragdale Hall, I found that relaxation can … …