RunningCommentary

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 … …

And no running today either. Instead, another slice of America life to enjoy at the local ballpark. I arrived just in time to hear the announcer intone: “Lay-deeeez and Gennelmen…. Welcome to the never-ending, non-stop, summer of fun here at the historic Holman Stadium.” And it was pretty good fun too, even if the home side, Nashua Pride, went down to a spirited display from the Long Island Ducks. Odd looking players. Seemed to fall into one of two moulds: hobbit or Jimmy Saville. I sat in the ‘club seats’ which offered the privilege of waitress service. The chilli dog and soda, following last night’s Mexican and the previous night’s dustbin-lid size pizza, signed and sealed the end of … …

Join me in Peabody, Massachusetts, where the country music is playing softly in the hotel ballroom. I sit directly beneath the gargantuan chandelier and stare down at the swirly carpet, trying to avoid eye contact with the other 60 or 70 suckers. Suddenly I hear footsteps approaching, and a voice cries: “Ah, and you must be Reg Varney!” Must I? Oh god, yes, I must. Why do I find it so hard to resist putting stupid names on unimportant forms? “Reckernised the English accent when you came in”, he explains, with a grin the size of Uncle Sam’s Y-fronts. “Figured that must be you, Reg. I’m Spencer from U-taw, and I’ll be speakin’ this evenin’ “. I shake hands with … …

Early yesterday morning, I’m wandering round the garden with a cup of coffee, inspecting the newly-planted, but ailing, beech hedge, and offering a bit of encouragement to my sauvignon blanc vine by attacking its neighbour with some blunt secateurs. The usual thrush twitters in the usual cherry tree. All is well in rural Berkshire. A few hours later, I’m on another continent, crawling through the traffic outside Fenway Park, home of the Boston Red Sox, peering up at the top of the bleachers where a congested line of jubilant silhouettes can be seen punching the air. Some feverish internet hunting this past week couldn’t produce an affordable ticket, so this particular Things I Must Do Before I Die box … …

I woke at around 6 this morning and listened to the rain swishing the new gravel drive. As I sank into bed last night I promised myself to get up early and run. It didn’t happen, but I managed the next best thing. Working locally these days, I was able to wangle myself an extended lunch break – enough time to pop home, get changed, run 4 miles, shower, change back and return to work without anyone noticing I’d been gone a bit longer than usual. The run was better than I feared it would be. A break of 13 days and a bout of gluttony is usually enough to ensure a whimpering, bloated, intermittent run-walk of a plod. It … …

So. John Tyndall is dead. Founder of the British National Party. I met this horrible man once. No, twice. I was at the Battersea Beer Festival one year (about 1988/89) and got talking to a middle-aged Asian guy. We got on quite well, had a bit of a laugh. He was really quite pissed, and I probably wasn’t far behind him. I must have been spouting off about race relations because he suddenly started laughing and said “Come and meet my friends. You’ll be surprised!” We went and sat down at a table, and who would be there but John Tyndall and Martin Webster, plus various other old NF/BNP luminaries. Martin Webster is a famous name that will mean something … …

I didn’t run again in Germany. I didn’t really run today either, despite my GPS watch reporting a 12 miler. It’s getting slightly worrying. For the second weekend in a row I’ve set out on my long run in very strong heat. On both occasions I’ve managed 4 steady miles before having to stop for a breather. From then on, it’s been stop-start all the way. Yesterday’s ‘run’ turned into a walk after about 7 miles, dotted with brief bursts of lethargic jogging. I’m blaming the heat, but I’m sure my preparation could be better. I’ve always had a thing about not carrying fluid with me. On this particular route I can drink from the water tap on the canal … …

Running a marathon through its streets has given me a bond with Chicago, whether I like it or not. (And as it happens, I don’t mind…). On a freezing morning a couple of days after the marathon, I went for a wander up Madison Avenue to the magnificent Chicago Tribune building, in search of a newspaper. You can read about it here. I continue to call in at the Tribune from time to time, via the web. Here’s yesterday’s editorial: A Letter To London To The People Of London: The battle against global terrorism that conjoins our nations on so many fronts has long been, in our belief, a fight to the death. It is all the more so … …

Life goes on. It was around 10:30 this morning that I first heard about the bombs on the London Underground and the Russell Square bus. For a couple of hours, there was a sense of shock around the office – not helped by the lack of hard news. Rumours of further attacks and mounting body counts kept the internet humming for most of the morning, before my capacity for grotesque wonder was fully charged, and it became time to do something else. You can say “isn’t it terrible?” only so many times. So I carried on configuring my server – a job that took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. Running? I’ve had a good week … …