The heel is healing, but still annoyingly sore — sore enough not to risk running over the weekend, but not quite bad enough, mercifully, to prevent me wandering up the road to the Chinese takeaway and the off-licence last night. Plans for the coming months continue to simmer. The Reading and Silverstone Halfs on March 5 and 19 seem compulsory. Or did do, until 5 minutes ago. Is it laziness and inertia, and a failure of imagination that make me think of them as non-negotiable fixtures? Or have I created a good ‘tradition’ to adhere to? Hard to say. The Silverstone race falls on the same day as the Bath Half – a race I hadn’t considered until just now, … …
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A day of hobbling round the office, cursing those famous slings and arrows. Frustrating. After a lethargic summer, I finally manage to heave myself off my backside and into my trainers, only to pick up some sort of injury, or at best, a painful, temporary shackle. No point in thinking about a run today, and it might even be next week or beyond when I get out again. In the meantime, I’m developing a slightly worrying interest in a local race planned for the end of March. The Compton Downland Challenge winds around the hills above and beyond Pangbourne and Streatley, not far from the greatest pub in England, the Bell at Aldworth. It’s a hilly trail race, and said … …
When is a pain an injury? I went for another mild run through the Berkshire twilight this evening, intent on blasting a path through a headful of Visual Basic cul de sacs. That part of the outing went pretty well. I won’t know till tomorrow if I’ve solved anything, but I’ve come up with some new angles from which to attack the fiends in my code. Less pleasing was returning home with a pulsating pain above my right heel. Achilles territory. Running injuries are a mystery to me. Even the names seem like a foreign language. Or newly-discovered stars at the tradesman’s end of the solar system. Iliotibial Band Syndrome, Plantar Fasciitis, Achilles Tendonitis. Whatever happened to the … …
It’s that time of year… There’s something about autumn that makes runners turn their thoughts to the racing year ahead. As I said recently, I want to stop treating races as running’s raison d’être, but it’s undeniable that for most of us, they add meaning and structure to what otherwise might sometimes seem to be a curiously pointless activity. And a useful foil for the puzzled derision of non-runners. How much easier to say that we’re training for something or other. I’ve been trying to convince myself that running targets in general don’t really matter… that I’m past the need to motivate myself this way. It’s probably rubbish. I’ve been pondering 2006 races over the weekend, and can already … …
Three runs in three successive days. Crikey. Here I am, gulping lungfuls of air. This could be it, boys. Perhaps I’ve finally broken through the ice. On Thursday morning I got up early and checked my mail. Ah, a message from Graham in Australia, or Mid Life Crisis Man, as forum-users will know him. I shouldn’t betray confidences, but equally, I shouldn’t fail to acknowledge what a decent geezer this man is. His post-Ashes desolation was as authentic as our glee, and I felt almost guilty when he mailed me his despairing surrender towards the end of Kevin Pietersen’s Ashes-winning innings on the final day of the final Test. The recent mail offered plenty of encouraging hints that things … …
A couple of stately homes to report. Cliveden on Sunday. I’ve talked about this place before. I did a race here last Christmas. Loved the race, and hope to do it again this year; but Sunday’s trip wasn’t great. We waited ages to be allowed in to see the interior, and once inside, found that they couldn’t wait to shunt us out again, through the back door. Out on the terrace I grasped my class revenge by loitering threateningly at the large windows of the hotel, staring in at the rich people trying to enjoy their Sunday roasts. I managed to amuse myself for a minute or two this way until I noticed that one of the tables had a … …
Headaches are a pain – and if you think that’s self-evident, wait till you hear this. I’ve had one all day. I’ve also not drunk coffee in the last 48 hours, and seemed to remember hearing that a sudden lack of caffeine could induce headaches for a while. Thought I’d research it, so scanned t’Internet for “caffeine withdrawal headache”. Eventually I came across a link to a page which promised to tell me what I wanted to know. Caffeine Withdrawal Headache – Definition, it said. And the definition of Caffeine Withdrawal Headache? “Headaches resulting from caffeine withdrawal”, apparently. And that was it. My enthusiasm for football seems to be draining away these days. Yesterday I traipsed down to … …
No one could ever accuse me of polyglottism, but I did manage to collect a bit of Yorkshire during the time I lived there. ‘E wooks while dinner, for instance. This was the response when I recently enquired what hours the estate agent valuer works on a Saturday. Translation: “He’s available until midday”. It was a short stay in Huddersfield, driving up on Friday evening and returning Saturday afternoon. I’m beginning to sense that the town’s grip on me is loosening at last. Let’s face it, perhaps it was never that strong. Incomers aren’t truly accepted until the roots of at least two generations are deep in Yorkshire soil. Friday night I was able to enjoy the luxury of … …
Final night in the US, in a hotel twelve floors up, looking across the Charles River to the illuminated skyscrapers of Boston. If I could open this window I could probably hear the Rolling Stones playing at Fenway Park. I just heard an interview with the mayor on the radio, explaining that the area around the venue would be heavily policed. It reminded me yet again how the world has changed. When I was a kid, the apoplectic local mayor would be trying to get the Stones banned for corrupting the youth. Now? “Let me just say”, he drawls in his thick Boston accent, “that I can’t get no satisfaction from handing out all these extra parking tickets to fellow … …
My baseball knowledge needs polishing. I left the game on Thursday under the impression that the local team had lost 6-2. Apparently they actually won, 3-1. An alcohol-free week is never as much fun as a free alcohol week. I managed to scale the working week without the distraction of a hangover, but made up for it this morning. It was the morning after last night’s session at the hotel’s gloomy island bar, where I chewed the cross-cultural fat with Frank the barman and a few locals. Baseball, Bob Dylan, George W and Iraq, and the joy of atheism. The usual agenda items got ticked off before we did. Wheat beer is a fine lubricant, oozing across the world, from … …