RunningCommentary

I woke up this morning, realised in a panic that I hadn’t been shopping for hours, and had to spend the afternoon worshipping at the supermarket when I should have been running. One task bled into another, and eventually it was 20:45 when I got out. Dark of course, but not cold. The 3½ run was more of a struggle than I expected. It’s true that I’ve not run much in the past couple of weeks but I thought the Cliveden plod might have blasted a bit more energy through me. … …

I got up this morning and jogged up and down the stairs a couple of times to test my toe. The signs were bad. It was a major disappointment. I’d hoped to start the week with some positive news, but it wasn’t to be. Yes, the toe felt absolutely fine, and I had no excuses to stay away from the race. As usual, I left late, and found myself bombing down the M4 at high speed. My excuse this time was the de-gunkification of the soles of my Asics Gel Guts. I bought these items, my first pair of off-road shoes, just a few weeks ago specially for this race. I wore them once on a very muddy run to … …

— What sort of pizzas does Good King Wenceslas like? — Deep pan, crisp and even. Some words have magic attached to them. Take “gout”. In French (admittedly with a circumflex hovering over the u), it means “taste”, and is a rather mysterious word. Le goût du terroir, the taste of the earth, is a mystical quality not just attached to, but actually giving rise to, the individual character of a wine or an olive oil or a cheese, and very probably to an Eric Cantona or a Thierry Henri too. The land explains the quality, is the message. But I digress. Our gout is nothing much to do with the French goût. Our gout is an affliction … …

There is, as my work-colleague, Paul, commented, “something indefinably… foreign about Holland”. He’s right about most things, and he’s right about this. It’s undeniable, and it’s part of the charming enigma of the Dutch. It’s only because they are so similar to us in almost every other way that the difference between us is so distinct. But what is that difference? I thought I might have a reasonable chance of coming up with some answers this evening as I sped half-naked through a darkened suburb of Amsterdam. It probably isn’t really a suburb, but as Bussum is only about half an hour on the train from Schiphol Airport and the city centre, on the road to Utrecht, I think of … …

An undeservedly good run this morning. It’s supposed to be a dry month of course, but on Friday I had some good news, and had to absorb a couple of pints to cool down. Then yesterday, I met up with my old varsity mate, James. Our ostensible aim was a trip to the Reading – QPR match, but it was always going to become a convivial pre-Christmas session. I collected him from the station and we drove to a pleasant boozer on the other side of the M4 where we met up with my Reading-supporting next-door neighbour, Steve, and his dad. Tragically, it was an early kick-off so it wasn’t long before the long march to the Madejski Stadium had … …

4.2 miles along the canal this afternoon. One has to practise that 0.2 mile appendage. Apparently it’s Christmas soon. I asked the greeter in Halford’s why they were playing a dub reggae version of Auld Lang Syne, and he told me. You heard it here first. That’s almost it for today. It’s late, and I am sleepy. Instead of my stuff, treat yourself to some real running writing. I reminded myself of this earlier this evening, and had to go and read it again. It’s by Julie Welch, my favourite running writer.… …

A Guardian journo is planning to run his first marathon in London next year, and has asked for advice. I was scanning the cerebral replies, and this one stood out: “Ideally, don’t bother. A Marathon run is a cultural construction and is not worth messing up your knees and/or ankles for, in my opinion. If, as a journalist, your income depends on doing these things, and you’re going to anyway, don’t compete, with yourself or deadlines (or other runners, many of whom may be “colleagues”). Stop and walk whenever you feel like it. Go to the pub even, but only briefly if you want to finish the course. Long runs for sedentary populations are extremely hazardous, but you can mitigate … …

Ahead of schedule already. Instead of my required 3 miler today, I managed a rather grey and drizzly 3.7 miles. This marathon training lark is easier than some folks claim. I was, however, slightly perturbed by a description I read today of the Cliveden cross-country on December 27th. I decided a while ago that it was time I entered a cross country race, and this one seemed, as they say, a good idea at the time. But according to a message on the RW forum, "There’s a long flight of steps built into the hillside, and you have to go up once near the beginning of the race and again near the end. In between times there is another, steeper, … …

Did the recent silence signify the visitation of some new gluttonous catastrophe about which I had to keep quiet? No. Just the opposite. Since last Tuesday’s gloomy plod through the twilit backstreets of the running universe, I’ve had three great runs including a peaceful 6 miles yesterday – my first trip back along the canal since last month’s train disaster. Nothing remains to remind us that it happened. I’ve also had two long, unconventional cross-training sessions, with the result that we have a new beech hedge planted. Hard work but a thrillingly raw and manly activity for early winter afternoons as the light fades… Another tough task achieved this past weekend was the arrival at a decision about my spring … …

This wasn’t a run in the countryside, it was a flickering, grainy film – a monochrome glimpse of some other runner’s nightmare. Hmmm. November is the cruellest month. Where did autumn go, boys? Lasted a couple of weeks, then we got distracted, led astray. Before we knew it, stepped off the cliff into winter. Something must be done, I say. Working from home today, I had the luxury of not having to surface till 8, and not having to run till it got properly light. Yet it never got properly light. It got to 2pm, and I gave up waiting. Night would start to close in again if I didn’t get out. Not cold, but one of those dismal days … …