RunningCommentary

I did something pretty wicked while waiting for our Chinese takeaway yesterday evening. I read the the Daily Telegraph. A paradoxical organ. Like many things, I want to hate it; to dismiss it as part of the Other Side. But the older you get, the more blurred the lines become. A permanent miasma of indignation hovers over the barricades, and you sometimes forget which side you said you were currently on, and which direction that gun is supposed to be pointing. Er, anyway, I learnt from the Torygraph that 1 in 20 people go on to marry the first person they ever kiss. I read this, and the air was immediately filled with the sound of harp arpeggios, and … …

For 298,444,215 Americans and one fat old English bloke, today is Independence Day. Hang on while I dust down the old speech I like to deliver on such an occasion. [HEAVY BREATHING] But even speaking is too strenuous an activity right now so I’ll rely on that old stuck record instead. Ah, here it is. You may hear it crackling in the background now. Or is that just the sound of matted slow-twitch muscle fibres groaning beneath the burden of unrequested liberation? It’s 3 months since the chilly, sodden Zurich Marathon. The plan, as always, was to take a break before running again. Perhaps 15 or 20 days. In keeping with that scheme, I’d pencilled in a few races to … …

It says something about the longevity of this site that we are now into our second World Cup. (2002 tournament started around here.) As tradition demands, England’s first match has been greeted with disdain, despite the victory (1-0 v Paraguay). It happens every time. And why shouldn’t it? It’s a marathon remember? Start slowly. And we always do. In 2002, we drew with Sweden in our first game. In 98, we scraped past Tunisia before losing to Romania. in 90, we drew our first two games. 86? Lost to Portugal in the opener, then drew with Morocco. And the European Championships… first match last time, lost to France. Euro 2000, lost to Portugal. Even at home in Euro 96, we … …

A marathon may be a metaphor for life, as we like to suggest, but let’s give it another dimension. Instead of any old mara, let’s make it the notoriously undulant Beachy Head. It becomes ever clearer to me that the analogy is about more than the distance and the fatigue. Factor in the topography — the ascents and descents; the stumbling climb to the peak, the uncontrollable slide into the crevasse — and the image takes on a more realistic, 3D aspect. In my last entry here I was sitting opposite the HR supremo, having my redundancy confirmed. Next, I spent a couple of days working through those feelings of self-pity, resentment and anger that those cast adrift tend to … …

It could be a long, anxious summer. No, I’m not referring to the World Cup, though no doubt the tournament will throw the usual heart-stopping moments at us. We’ll be led up the garden path of hope once more, but will end up collapsing in the fetid compost heap of failure, just short of those roses. It’s the English way. No, it was something that happened the other day. Tuesday of this week. We had a couple of our silvery-tongued American bosses over to address the troops. Give us a bit of encouragement. Or so I thought. The Sales Supremo began by asking: “Who knows what ‘pontificate’ means…..?” No one else seemed keen to volunteer an answer, so I half-raised … …

I called my elderly mother this evening. “How are you?” was my innocent question. Pause. “I looked in the mirror today”, she said, ” And I saw Death staring back at me….” Maybe she’s been a closet Tottenham fan all these years. It’s been a wretched week. I’m ill. Or something. My back has been aching all week, I have a rash across my chest, and my stomach sort of hurts. Headaches, dizzy spells, feverish. Extreme inertia, even by my trail-blazing standards. And an itchy wrist…. Itchy wrist? Yes, itchy wrist. Only one of them however, so it could be worse. An optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist sees the hole, as I heard someone say today. God knows what … …

Ah yes, running. Isn’t that the one where you take most of your clothes off and put one foot in front of the other for a while? At a slightly faster rate than if you were wandering down to the pub? Mmmm, it’s all coming back to me now…. It’s been a while. Long enough. I have this experience once or twice every year. It always happens after a marathon, and usually at some other point. Post-race inertia. More than that: eating and drinking too much, which just further concentrates and makes more delicious this lazy brew. I’m not beating myself up about it. It’s part of the ritual. We’re allowed to take things easy for a while after a … …

And almost immediately, my vow of silence is broken. But then I didn’t expect to run a race today. Sometimes, you just run a 20 mile cross-country race by accident. Tim of this parish, our 175-Mile Race Running Correspondent, will be reading this with tears in his eyes. I’d forgotten about this one. Then last night, I remembered it. The Compton Downland Challenge has been rebranded this year, in line with the trend to put a beaming smile on the face of heartbursting athletic martyrdom. The 40 miler is now the Full Fat 40, and the wimp’s version is the Bare Bones 20. Today, I was that wimp. In truth, as a physical challenge it wasn’t too bad at all. … …

We’re still a story without an end, though the denouement is close… I’ve been following Sweder’s forum diary with self-flagellatory envy. We have marathons booked for the same day, April 9; his in Paris, mine in Zurich. I suspect that the two tales, when they eventually appear, will exhibit markedly different endings. The string of hard-fought, non-stop, hilly 20 milers he can proudly pack for the journey will be more than enough to see him through. I’m sure he’ll get the return his painful investments merit. My story isn’t so impressive or as reassuring, but I’ve strewn enough gloom on this path already, and will resist the temptation to rake through it again. We’ll soon know just how short I … …