The morning after the day before and I’m feeling strangely human. Surprisingly normal. Slightly woolly headed, but nothing severe. It seems to be mixing drinks that causes those next-day difficulties. Yesterday it was just beer-beer-beer, and this simple strategy has paid off. We arrived at Sweder’s around 10:30. Our first time in Lewes, but the trip down the A23 from the known world was pretty painless. It puzzles me that so many people get anxious and disorientated about having to find a place they’ve not been to before. I’d put the address into Google maps, saw immediately the best route, made a one-line note on the back of an envelope, and didn’t give it a further thought. ‘Other people’ would … …
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I’m not going to dwell too long on my team-building experience, except to say that most of the bonding took place in the restaurant last night rather than over two days in the classroom. I call it a "classroom" but it was actually a function room at a golf club. I’m not a big golf fan, as people will know, but there was a point this morning when, staring through the window, I noticed a chap preparing to tee off. Just at that moment, one of my colleagues was gushing to the drink-ravaged assembly: "I see my job as…. as spreading the love around…" Man, I realised at that precise moment just how fascinating a golf swing can be. It’s … …
Dateline: Yesterday, A Sun-Flooded England. A sinewy, early-morning lope to report. Highly agreeable stuff. Four miles of sub-10:30 miles: decent for me at that time in the morning, when my calfs are cold and brittle, like a pack of bread sticks fresh from the freezer. I was in training for more than my marathon. A couple of hours later I would be somewhat gingerly climbing aboard the first day of one of these team-building thingummies at work. I’ll suspend comment till after the second and final day, as long as I have sufficient dignity intact. I’ve managed to cling onto most of it, but it’s been a struggle at times. Wish me luck. Geronimo! … …
11.35 miles tucked away. Yes, you heard that right. The day started early. My body clock woke me at 5 a.m., anxious that I shouldn’t miss my folks, who were passing through at about 7, on their way to Fishguard and Ireland. I’d hoped to fly out for a couple of days myself, but it’s looking unlikely now. The old family house by the sea, mentioned a couple of times in these pages, is to be put up for sale. My old Uncle Paddy died last year, and the sister he lived with isn’t sure she can keep the house up to scratch and look after the livestock at her age, so will probably head for a flat in the … …
Hasn’t happened yet. The pub intervened. I was suckered into a very rare visit to that grotty boozer next door where they were hosting an outfit describing themselves as a “Jam tribute band”. Had to be worth investigating, and it was. I’ve got a soft spot for the Jam, even if I can’t get on with the solo Weller. I remember seeing them performing on a stage by the side of the road on some Anti-Nazi League march I went on in 1980. I didn’t get on with most of the rawer punk performers (though I came back to the Clash years later, and began to understand what they were all about), but some of the bands that came in … …
So what’s gone wrong? As usual, my stupidity has turned an enforced break into something much worse. Last weekend I was in Manchester, enjoying too much Champagne and Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, and barbecued animal. I returned without a weekend long run to log in my spreadsheet, and with extra corporeal ballast to lug around the mean streets of West Berkshire. That was bad enough, but worse was a painful toe that gave me the excuse I needed to take a few days off. This was then compounded by a dose of man-flu that no one has been very sympathetic about. Huh! Man, it’s so comfortable in this swamp. It’s warm and moist and green and comfy, and you meet interesting … …
Nine miles today. Sounds impressive, but it was a bad run. If it was a run at all. The brisk 6½ miles I did on Friday won’t have helped, but I suspect it was yesterday’s annual spousal duty (stop sniggering at the back) — a day trudging round the Hampton Court Flower Show — that played a bigger part in my lack of energy and poor performance today. But there were other things. I was out by 10 o’clock. It was already hot by then, so for the first time this year (races aside), wore a singlet and slapped on plenty of sun-block. It’s part of the frustration, yet fascination, of running that I’m still having to experiment with pre-run … …
And so, as the first week of fiftyhood hobbles to a close, it’s time to review how life has changed so far… I’ve not yet taken out my subscription to Saga Magazine, thank god. But two things happened this week that made me stop and think. The trouble is, they seem to be highlighting moves in opposite directions. The first came when I was running through Prospect Park on Wednesday. Struggling along one steep path, I ran alongside a bowling green where a gang of older chaps were standing over a constellation of bowls, deep in analysis. Perhaps you have to be 50 to pick up on it — something about the tree-fringed setting, the twilit incandescence of the green, … …
Has normal service been resumed? Hard to tell. It’s been an undulating week. Recovery from Saturday was scheduled for Sunday, but the fatigue bled into Monday and beyond. Yesterday I was up early to run a cautious and pensive four miles before breakfast. This evening was cool and drizzley. Ideal for a brisk five miles with the club. But I got to the appointed place, and…? And runners were there none. I’ve taken to practising my scales outside the sports centre while the rest of the club orchestra and its craggy conductors muster inside. So I sploshed through the puddles, feeling pretty loose and keen. Waiting… The time came and went. Waited some more… Eventually, the final drops of patience … …
(Written Sunday 1 July 2007) There’s nothing quite like a rainy race to wash down the first fifty years. The Oxford 10K last month broke a long sequence of races run in filthy conditions, but the Dorney Dash 10K got us back on track. The steady drizzle leading up to the start suddenly became a hefty deluge just as the hooter went. For the next hour we were splattered with varying strains of rain, but still managed to squeeze some pleasure from the occasion. I arrived with Kev, a mate of mine from distant schooldays, and we soon located Nigel, Ash and Chris. It was good to meet up with Moyleman, the legendary loper from the hills of East … …