Worked from home today, and able to feast on a rare treat — a midweek run in the daylight. Got out at lunchtime for the standard 3.5 miles round the block. It’s getting easier. Then I tempted fate by doing some more race planning. Definites (insofar as I’ve entered them) are the Brighton 10K this Sunday and the Cliveden post-Christmas 6 miler. Then the robust possibility of the Woodcote/Goring 10k in early January. It’s local, and we should support our local races. Almeria at the end of January is looking more likely now. A few of us flew to Southern Spain in January this year to meet up with RC forumite Antonio, and run his home town half marathon. The … …
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I have 6 days to reinvent myself. Six days to switch identities yet again. The beer-guzzling, midnight chow mein and cheddar eater must die once more. It’s like that movie – Cape Fear. The one where you keep thinking the baddie has been finally exterminated. But he just keeps coming back to set the cinema screaming yet again. (Robert Mitchum’s 1961 version is probably better than De Niro’s remake in the 90s, but the latter’s baddie picture is badder.) So here I am again, lurching to the surface to wreak destruction on a harmless Berkshire village. But that was Saturday, and we had a famous victory over the Argies to tease into reality, and then to pick over and celebrate. … …
Too busy or too drunk to write anything this week. I’m not often moved to go into work on a Sunday, and it’s not often that I’m sitting at my office desk at a quarter to midnight, but I’ve had both experiences this week. “Too drunk” is an exaggeration, but there’s something pleasing about the phrase. As it happens, I did absorb my full weekly allowance of ale last Saturday, but it was for medicinal purposes only. I had a psychological ailment that needed emergency beer therapy. I’d just seen my team outplay Reading, but still go down to a 2-1 defeat. To make matters incalculably worse, our tormentors are the local side. The village pubs are infested with their … …
The Paris Marathon, or to give it its full, foreign name, the Marathon de Paris…. is full. Oh. So I have to think of another race, preferably round the same date, 9 April. It looks like a choice between the David Davis of marathons, Rotterdam, and the David Cameron-like Zurich. They are both pretty flat, but the mountain-fringed lakeside route of Zurich offers something fresher and cleaner than the workmanlike Rotterdam. Zurich is risky though; it has a very strict 5 hour cut-off which could be calamitous, or could be just the sort of challenge I should be accepting. I think my choice of race will tell me something about my attitude. Am I happy to keep on plodding, or … …
Ventured out this evening for 44 minutes encouraging minutes. After my patchy late summer/autumn, a fourth run in 4 days was always going to be testing, and yes, it was a struggle towards the end. I even walked briefly once or twice. But overall, I was happy: for the first half of the run, I could feel some strength returning. Have I ever talked about “bounce”? It’s something I’m often aware of when I’m out. When things are going badly, it’s like driving with a flat tyre, or running in very old, worn shoes. It’s a drag; it’s a grind. When the going is good, you have an extra element to help you along. You seem to be bouncing, the … …
It’s been a day of firsts. The first day of November, and with it, this morning, the first hint of frost — a gentle reminder of what’s to come. Despite the mild autumn, they say it will be a long, harsh winter. The coldest for 40 years, according to some reports. The thought of winter might be daunting, but there’s excitement there too. Non-runners will wonder how we can feel a thrill at what’s ahead, but runners know that our affair with this season is more intense, more private, and more tempestuous than with any other. Winter is the runner’s best friend and worst enemy. Early on a frosty, sunny Sunday morning in January, the season is an utter joy; … …
Another panting effort early this morning. The highlight was being sandwiched between two 4x4s in a narrow lane. We were all terribly English about the situation, and are lucky not to be there still, gesturing to each other to plea-ease go first. These early morning outings are almost surreal. You are of this world alright, but it’s a kind of meta-world in which you constantly question what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. It’s all strangely remote, like I’m watching myself through a porthole in hell, never quite certain which side of the wall I’m on. The day’s moment of insight came as I plodded past the deer by the lake. It was the realisation that the Abramovitch curse … …
Right, that’s it. In four years of running, this has been my worst period for inactivity, pessimism and lack of motivation. There are one or two flimsy excuses to snatch at, but even if I can persuade others to buy into them, it’s almost impossible to convince myself that they offer much justification for my lazy summer and stuttering autumn. Today offered yet another new beginning, and I’m trying to grab it before it drifts past again. It’s as good a time as any to get back into the habit. The clocks went back last night; winter is around the corner. I need those beta endorphins to get me through the long dark days ahead. I was woken early this … …
If an evening with a Norwegian jazz trio was good endurance training, a couple of hours with a magician and illusionist would surely be good preparation for helping me set my targets for next spring’s races. So we went to see Geoffrey Durham perform in Maidenhead last night, and were well entertained. More mature readers may remember him as The Great Soprendo of our youth. His Newspaper Tear was amazing — the best I’ve seen. I must find out how it’s done. The man who can teach me that one may also have the secrets of the sub-60 minute 10K, sub-2 hour half marathon and sub-5 marathon. The miracles continued into this morning, when I managed 4 miles or so … …
Emotional training for next spring’s long races has begun in earnest, with last night’s concert by an avant garde Norwegian jazz trio in Basingstoke. Long before the end I was losing the will to go on, but knew I had somehow to dig deep, drawing on resources I didn’t know existed within, to see me through to the end. Bursting through the doors at the end, gulping lungfuls of fresh, rainwashed Hampshire air, was as big a relief, surely, as tottering over any marathon finish line. Has to be reported that my wife reacted differently, gushing to Tord Gustavsen after the show, as he was signing her newly-purchased CDs, that she was “floating in heaven”. I’ve never known her to … …