Today is Respect For The Aged Day in Japan, so cut me a bit of slack, please. This is going to be brief, as I’ve resolved not to spend too much time in front of a computer on this holiday. I’ve got 30 minutes before my rendezvous with M, so here goes. First a couple of lip-service running notes. The Windsor Half (Sept 30) has been cancelled due to the royal park being shut — a foot and mouth casualty. I’m secretly pleased. Damn, I’ve gone and admitted it in public… I may as well state the obvious. I can feel my cheeks reddening as I type this, but it has to be done. Dublin looks extremely unlikely now. I … …
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I’m tapping this out on the Shinkansen Express, otherwise known as the bullet train, from Tokyo to its anagrammatical cousin in the west, Kyoto. Hard not to marvel at technology at any time, but Japan rises above all previous gasp marks by reaching into areas previously considered not just untouched by modern technology, but untouchable. Like lavatories. Sitting on the loo in the Tokyo hotel room was something akin to being strapped into the cockpit of a Formula One racing car. As you place your weight on the seat it instantly starts its low, comforting throb, and warms up. A cold arse in Tokyo is now as unthinkable as a modern office without climate-control. The control panel (yes, the toilet … …
At 6:30 this morning, Tokyo was humid and bright, and about as exciting as a city can reasonably hope to be. The hotel receptionist, the concierge, and the line of expectant porters had been too polite to notice my ridiculous appearance as I strode past them. Instead, we all bowed to each other, and said nothing. It was the same outside. On the elevated glass walkways that link the Park Hotel with Shimbasi Station, not one of the suit-and-tied salarymen on the way to the office gave me a second glance. Exercise is de rigeur. I like that. My GPS watch wasn’t so keen, however, and didn’t kick in until a couple of concrete miles had slipped by. Annoyingly, it … …
Of all the excuses for not running, “I’m too busy” seems the least convincing. It’s when things are at their most chaotic that an hour of solitude is worth most. Solitude isn’t the same as loneliness, and isn’t the same as isolation. For me, it’s a time of peaceful, almost meditative disconnection from the chaos of everyday life. Maybe it’s not a time at all, but something more akin to a place. Running is another country, a self-defined territory with a population of one — or one thousand. It’s up to you. It’s a state all on its own: a state of mind, and you are the sovereign. King and slave handcuffed; panting escapees from the asylum. It’s your world.… …
select runner_name from race_entries re, races r where re.race_id = r.race_id and r.name = “Reading O2O 10K” and re.runner_desc = “fat bloke” Imagine the horror when my name popped up. When fessing up my race calendar yesterday, I didn’t fess quite hard enough. There was the little matter of the O2O 10K, scheduled for 9 o’clock this morning. A particularly painful moment in the 2004 Copenhagen Marathon (which is like saying “a particularly wet moment while swimming the English Channel”) came at around the 20 mile mark. Now the 20 mile mark of a marathon is painful enough, but it was around then that we ran past the Carlsberg brewery, followed by a series of lakeside drinkeries, outside which hundreds … …
Running. Remember that? It’s not been a great summer, in more ways than one. Inexplicable. It started off in handsome fashion, with a perfectly reasonable spell of pre-marathon-training-training. In the weeks leading up to the end of June, I was slapping those streets around three times a week, building up a decent head of steam for the 18 weeks of focused, planned, disciplined plodding that would edge me ever-closer to my marathon PB in Dublin at the end of October. The culmination of the preparation was perfect. The first week of the 18 ended on my birthday, with a very florid-faced 10K PB at Dorney in the company of Sweder, Moyleman and Nigel, all of this parish. Race over, we … …
I woke up on Tuesday morning with a 4 mile run pencilled in on my schedule. Began to clamber out of bed, and was immediately aware of a sharp pain in my left knee. So bad that I couldn’t bend it. Eventually I eased my way onto my feet and limped towards the stairs. Getting down them was quite a struggle. I couldn’t put any weight at all on my left knee, so had to sort of hop down, one step at a time. Fast forward 3 days, to today. The simple truth is that it’s still really bad. I can now get up and down the stairs much more easily, but I think this is more to do with … …
I slept fitfully, wanting to ensure that I got some carbs down me before the run today. And so it came to pass that at 5 a.m. I was lying there in the dark, chomping through a banana and half a Soreen malt loaf, before attempting another stretch of sleep — not too successfully. Up at 8, feeling unrested. But what a perfect summer morning. The sun was was already blinding and warm as I left the house. It was a rapid drive to Prospect Park, in keeping with my poor time management. Last night I started reading a self-help book called Get Everything Done And Still Have Time To Play. It told me that if I always have to … …
Friday evening. Around 8 o’clock, as usual, I wandered into the village. But not to fill up with beer this time. I need to prepare for the morning. Bananas, malt loaf, sports drink. If all goes to plan, tomorrow will be a first. A long weekend run with other people. A few of the club runners are assembling for 10 or 11 miles along the Thames, and the aim is to join ’em. On my stroll up the road, I realised how much better I’m feeling physically, compared with a week ago. And mentally. Much as I enjoy a few beers, and the social life that goes with it; and the portentous uncorking of a decent bottle of wine, I … …
At last. Something to write home about. 3.5 miles doesn’t sound much, but it was hilly and airless. Add to that my 9 days of abstinence (running abstinence, that is — unfortunately not the alcohol and chocolate variety), and this was always going to knacker me. Though I say it myself, I sensed I must have looked somewhat dapper in my yellow club singlet and matching cap. I set off with the usual medium-to-slow group. We’re a strange mixture. A few crusty old men like me, plus a bevy of well-rounded young women in lycra. These club runs certainly get the old heart-rate up. I’m often surprised by the delights concealed in the fringes of Reading. Hidden behind the modern, … …