RunningCommentary

I may have got away with this. A return to the rabbit diet, plus three hang-dog days of penance in the gym, silently chanting Hail Marys, seem to have dragged me back on message. This morning I felt normal again; normal enough to know that a run in the big outdoors was on the cards. It rained all morning, just like it rained all weekend, yet today’s seemed less hostile. I was reminded this week that running is about mental fitness as well as the physical sort. When the old head is right, even the rain has a smiley face. I finally got out at about 2:30, after a frustrating morning’s work — expending a lot of effort to achieve … …

At last. Thank god, at last. It’s all gone wrong. I was beginning to worry… I don’t know where these uninvited, anarchic impulses come from, but one arrived on Friday, mid-evening. I didn’t have time to reason with myself. I just suddenly thought: "Let’s go to the pub" and up I got. Five minutes later, I’m gulping a pint of the outstanding Good Old Boy from West Berkshire Brewery, and chewing a bag of salted peanuts. An hour and couple more beers later, I went home to a large plate of high-calorie moussaka, and a bottle of Chilean Cabernet. On Saturday, full of guilt, I crept to the gym for an hour of cranky self-flagellation but evidently, it wasn’t enough … …

Who would have thought that Grant Park in central Chicago would give this Englishman two of his most inspirational moments? I was there in person for one of them – the start of the great Chicago Marathon; and in spirit for the other – Barack Obama’s word-perfect acceptance speech, delivered just an hour or so after California turned in the seats that pushed the Democrats past the crucial 270 mark. I watched the speech live on TV, at around four-thirty this morning, overwhelmed by the sense of the moment. Just like the speech itself, it will all end in tears. As Enoch Powell pithily remarked: “All political careers end in failure”. It’s hard to separate a fellow from the attractions … …

A weekend in Crawley, chez M’s folks, and with it, a welcome change of running scene. Two decent outings to report, both along the leaf-strewn Worth Way. On Saturday, a gritty 6½ miler in torrential rain; the sort of stuff against which you cannot protect yourself, except by staying indoors in front of a roaring radiator. Then today, a shorter version of the same. Yesterday’s was a difficult run, but eventually gave me cause for optimism. After breakfast, I’d nipped out to get my athletic apparel from the car, noting the dark grey Sussex sky and the chill in the air. Not a great combination for the runner. It gave me little enthusiasm for the task, but ducking out wasn’t … …

Since we last met, I’ve chalked up 3 more runs and another gym session. I’ve avoided detailing the trips to the gym. On a superficial level at least, they’re not interesting, and nor should they be. The aims of this concentrated 60 minutes of cardio-vascular cross-training are to take some strain off my knee, to help build up under-used leg muscles, and to accelerate the delarding process. Does anyone really want to know more about my 10 x 6 minute tour of duty? No, I thought not. So that dimension is dull, dull, dull. More interesting are the psycho-sociological aspects of the gym. Why are people there? How do users interact? Or rather, why don’t they interact? A banal answer … …

A couple of weeks ago, I received a small parcel, postmarked Ireland. I didn’t recognise the handwriting, but assumed it was from my sister, who lives in Tipperary. I don’t know anyone else over there who’s likely to send me anything. I made a cup of tea and retreated to my small office to open the package. Inside was a book of Leonard Cohen poetry, and a card. On opening the card, I was perplexed. Who was this from? The message was quite long, covering both inner sides of the card, and ending with a woman’s name that didn’t ring an immediate bell. But then, as I started to read what was written, I remembered. I read the message – … …

It was clear some weeks ago that autumn was here, but today still came as a surprise. It was a blustery, empty afternoon. The sky was deep grey. I don’t mind running in the rain; indeed I enjoy it, as a sort of expression of defiance. But I still used the threat of its arrival as a spur to get out there. I’ve taken to driving to the canal to run, avoiding the mile each way of concrete pavement. I left the car in a secluded parking area that was 6 inches deep in fallen leaves. It looked like no one had stopped there for a year. A faded sign said: “Cars parked without a valid ticket will be … …

Another small step for man late yesterday afternoon, as I chased the remains of the sunshine up the canal towpath for 4 unbroken miles. A trivial distance for most runners, and indeed for me in the past, but this is now. It’s a new world. A tabula rasa. The run went pretty smoothly, though at the precise moment I realised I wasn’t struggling, with a half mile to go, it went and got all uncomfortable on me, and I had to fight a little to keep going. I nearly used the word “painful”, but that needs saving for a more deserving moment. Discomfort is good, as long as you’re sitting in an armchair just thinking about it, and not … …

So, 17 days into the new regime, and it’s 9 gym sessions and 3 runs under the slightly loosening belt. Good progress: I’m pleased and excited again. The third 3 mile run was yesterday lunchtime, a relaxed but unbroken trot along the towpath. Maybe I’ve been too hard on the canal in recent times. The only dull aspect is that runs here are normally out-and-back. Having to retrace your steps, or do more than one lap of the same circuit, is strangely dispiriting for a runner. Why? I guess it reinforces the idea that you’re not really going anywhere, whereas with one big loop or point-to-point, you can kid yourself that you have a destination. You have a greater sense … …

Are we there yet? No one knows for certain, but it’s sure beginning to smell like Armageddon. Forgive the typos; it’s dark in this bunker. So the much-predicted, much-derided day of financial meltdown may, we think, have finally appeared. It’s like the ghastly fiend whose threat invisibly haunts the first two thirds of a horror film. We don’t want the ghoul to appear, but we know it’s there, and when it does finally step from the shadows, darting a deathly hand towards the jugular, it’s almost a relief. At least we know what we’re fighting at last. It will all work out just dandy in the end, but there’s a fair bit of torture and fear to withstand first. And … …