You almost have to feel sorry for Monsieur Chirac. Almost. Compared with Blair, he’s not been having a great time of it recently. Unpopular at home; losing the vote on the EU constitution; failing to wring a concession from Blair over “the cheque”; Blair delivering that barnstormer of a speech to the European parliament about the need to modernise and grasp the opportunities of new technology, while Jacques made himself look old and dinosaur-like by defending the indefensible, outmoded Common Agricultural Policy instead; the Battle of Trafalgar celebrations; the backfiring remarks about English cuisine; the UK leading the debate on Africa and global warming; the UK hosting the G8 conference; the UK starting their 6 month chairing of the EU … …
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I don’t believe in astrology. Perhaps this is a Cancerian trait. God and the stars; tarot cards and alien abduction – emotional Big Macs for those who need their hunger satisfied, and quickly, without the inconvenience of having to think for themselves. Low hanging fruit for those who don’t want to have to reach too far. There – I’ve put my cards on the table. So the question is: can I still have a lucky number? This question consumed me for several moments a week ago, when I received my Dorney Dash 10K race pack. I decided that if I called it a favourite number instead, I’d be in the clear. “Lucky” suggests some external power; “favourite” could have some … …
“If we don’t change direction soon, we’ll end up where we’re going.” I’ve no idea who Irwin Corey is, but his warning was in my mind as I embarked on another toughie this evening with the running club. Only 42 minutes, but the 4 and a bit miles we covered were one long, dramatic splosh through thunder and lightning, and a torrent of warm rain. As I drove through it to meet up with the group this evening, I was sure that hardly anyone would turn up, but I was wrong. The turnout of about 30 was pretty healthy, and said something positive about this bunch. The quote hung around my thoughts because I’m still not comfortable with the way … …
It hurts your backside the first few times you try it, but the pleasure eventually comes if you persist with it. Cycling. Today was supposed to be a rest day but I thought a spot of two-wheeled cross training might be a good way of squeezing those faggots through my intestines. For the benefit of American readers, I should explain that a faggot in Britain is different from an American one. Here’s a recipe from the BBC. Yes, faggots and mash. Far too stodgy for a run, but nothing that a 10 mile bike ride can’t cope with. It was a great evening for a leisurely meander round the local lanes and bridleways, checking out a few possible running … …
I’ve bent over backwards to try and improve my stretching techniques, but I still don’t feel as supple as I’d like at this stage of a marathon training schedule. I keep looking at the figures in my spreadsheet, trying to make sense of the apparent fact that I’ve managed a perfectly respectable 29 miles this week, yet still feel unfit, undertrained and, like Marx’s proletarian hero, in a state of perpetual struggle. I suffered a nutritional calamity on Saturday, having been lured to a posh Sussex eatery by my wife’s aged aunt. There I was ambushed by an Everest of roast beef and roast potatoes, followed closely by a dangerously shifting pyramid of apple pie and custard. It took a … …
Not much to report beyond a distended, clammy 4 miler this evening that I struggled to finish without a walk break. What’s preventing me from feeling on top of my running at the moment? Is it the weather? Or my current corpulence? Dehydration? Lack of motivation? No, it’s not really any of these things, though none of those first three help the situation. There’s no lack of motivation. I’m as excited about the road to Inverness as I was about those to Chicago, Copenhagen and Hamburg. Though probably not London because it was my first marathon, and I was overawed by what I was doing. I don’t suppose that can ever be repeated. Something that indubitably contributes to this feeling … …
Midsummer Night. After that pretty dismal showing at the weekend, I’ve now managed 3 runs in 24 hours. It’s not an attempt to catch up – that’s not a strategy that seems to work. I just need to find some fitness again after a slothful few weeks. I’m finding it hard to shift the excess weight, and to feel really good about my running again. The only way I can think of to deal with this is to attack the problem head-on. It’s still very warm, but at least it’s now possible to walk, and even run, the streets without that smothered feeling. The humidity has dispersed. It didn’t stop me having a terrible run last night, but it wasn’t … …
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I didn’t go for my long run today. Actually, my dad didn’t mind, and didn’t even seem that interested in my confessional when I called to wish him a happy Father’s Day. Phew, what a scorcher. I rarely believe anything that Texans say, but I should have taken the advice of those guys from Austin we sat next to at the pasta dinner in Chicago, the evening before the marathon in 2002. When it’s hot, y’git out at fo’ in the mo’nin’. Yes, their running club meets at 4 a.m. for their hour-long runs. A couple of times, I looked at the hazy garden through an open window. Later, later… But the … …
Self-control in the face of temptation, particularly in the realm of confectionery, isn’t a claim I ever thought I could make. Now I’m not so sure. After this evening, I’ve gone up in my estimation. Just as some races are planned, even entered and paid for, a long time in advance, but never actually done, others just ambush you. Lying in wait for me this evening, hiding among the trees in the Outlook Centre in Bracknell Forest, was the Forest Five. I hadn’t even heard of it yesterday. Today, I know all about it. The race emerged after a thought that I should extend some of my midweek runs. Wednesday seemed like a good candidate, and today’s Wednesday. As a … …
Out at 6:30 this morning for the same run as yesterday evening. This time, the 4 miles were executed without any stops, and I felt twice as strong. It’s heartening to know that lack of fitness can be attacked so effectively, so quickly. Hurrah for the jury who acquitted Michael Jackson. In the eyes of the mediocre mob, Jackson’s real crime seems to be eccentricity. For some mystifying reason, many find this to be a deeply threatening human characteristic. I rather like it. Predictably enough, the internet messageboards have been throbbing with misspelt indignation today. Anything that annoys these people this much just has to be a good thing.… …