6:15, and it was going to be painful. I confess, I did hesitate. Hold on, isn’t Monday usually a rest day? Mmm. Funny how often I try this one out on myself. No matter that I’d not run in two weeks, had nothing but rest for a fortnight, been drunk most nights for a week. It’s always the first thought when I wake on the appointed back-to-work Monday. Hang on. Hang on, I implore. Monday’s always a rest day. And for a moment or two I’m almost taken in. The more it happens, the easier it becomes to dismiss the appeal. Annoying really. There have been times when I’ve taken a while to work through the arguments, knowing that this … …
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This is it – my last night of nutritional abandon for another while. I’ve not made the most of it. No alcohol, no cream cakes. I’ve OD-ed on naughtiness this week, and done no running. I just don’t have the energy to get drunk one last time. Pitiful really. Middle-class, middle-aged depravity isn’t a patch on the twenty-something version, it has to be said. I was mournfully tackling this very important issue over a few post-match pints and large gins with one of my QPR buddies in a Hades-black, raucous Shepherds Bush boozer just yesterday. Instead of scrapping and screwing and snorting, the worst we can do now is spend longer in the pub than we promised our wives, and … …
I complained last month that the light at the end of the Dartford tunnel kept flickering enticingly, without ever really appearing. Well, it’s now burning bright. Barring yet another last minute stay of liberation, it looks like my time here will finally be winding up this week. I’ve done me porridge, and I’m going home. So this week, I’m playing my joker. There was always a strong possibility that the week would be a bit of a write-off in any case, for all sorts of reasons, but if it’s my last week, who needs a further excuse? But if you do, here are a few. Thursday’s the birthday of a colleague who announced a while ago that it was time … …
Some good emails this week, including one from a disgruntled Chelsea fan called Rufus who wrote to me from an internet café in Santiago, Chile, to protest about something I wrote about his club on the Runners World website. All I said was that they were corrupting the entire sport, and that there was no honour in buying the Premiership and the Champions League with stolen roubles. Fairly uncontroversial, I’d have thought. I’ve also had a couple of mails which have got me thinking about my race schedule. I don’t recall saying much about it here, so I’ll mention that I’ve entered two races within six days of each other just after Christmas – Cliveden on December 27th and the … …
Running slow teaches you how to run slow. I read this in the Glover book recently. He may not be great with adverbs, but some of his sentences are like cattle-prods. The sentiment was in my head as I set off on my standard ’round the block’ run yesterday morning. So I tried to run quickly. And by my modest standards, I did. It wouldn’t sound speedy to most runners, but apart from races, this was the fastest pace I’ve run for more than 16 months. More good news on the weight front too, which is probably related to the quicker pace. Six weeks into the new regime, and I’m averaging a loss of just over 1½ pounds a week. … …
I’ve committed adultery. That’s how it feels, anyway. I’ve deserted Hal for Bob. I blame it on my illness. I’m almost never ill. So I find it sort of interesting when I am. It’s only a bad head cold, but enough to keep me away from work for a couple of days. No running of course. So I’ve been using some of my time to read Bob Glover’s Competitive Runner’s Handbook. I’ve been aware of this book for at least three years, but the very title was too off-putting to even pluck from the shelf for a book shop browse. But some correspondence on a running forum recently persuaded me that its bark might be worse than its bite, … …
An eventful couple of days. Yesterday began with a quick run along the canal. As usual, I turned off at the second road crossing and ran the half mile or so up to the main road back to the village. This tiny lane up to the A4 takes me past the hamlet of Ufton Nervet and over an unmanned level crossing. I’ve plodded along this sleepy cut-through a hundred times. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a car or even a person on the lane. How could I have guessed that this track, this level crossing and this ramshackle collection of farmhouses, would become international news just a few hours later? The afternoon was spent at West Ham, watching us … …
Guy Fawkes Night. A slightly surreal war-zone run this evening, surrounded by explosions and flashes and sudden illuminations. Not very fast but no shortage of entertainment. … …
I’ve been reading Runners World magazine, and reflecting on how mad people are. I’m ambivalent towards this magazine. I confess that I devour it, though part of its compelling appeal is that it reminds me that not everyone is like me. Running makes me happy, but others are surprisingly full of anxiety and resentment. One letter-writer bemoans that “the reality of healthy self-propulsion” (I think he means running) through the countryside is being spoiled by the “all-pervading smell of industrial perfume overpowering the sweet autumnal smells”. He’s referring to deodorants. And I’m always shocked by the amount of harrassment that runners say they get from pedestrians and car drivers. I can recall only a couple of minor incidents. A schoolkid … …
Tuesday Lunchtime: An ominous day. Two days. I’m going to merge them, because I don’t know where one will finish and the other start. I hope there’ll be a run or two in here too, not to mention a football match, so hang on in there. A message on the Runners World forum the other day asked plaintively whether people weren’t fed up with all the attention that the US presidential election was getting. “What’s it got to do with us?” they asked. Rather a lot, of course, is the answer. Arguably, we’ve seen more of the campaign than the average American. We get the straight (if it can be called straight) hustings stuff. But we also get a ton … …