RunningCommentary

Five runs in five days. All gentle ones (do I know any other way?) but until this morning, all good ones too. But today the white flag came out. My body was talking to me, and I’d better listen, it said. Not only did I listen, but we had quite a robust discussion on a wide range of topics. Yesterday morning I was up at 5:10 a.m., and out before half past. The earliest ever. This morning, my eyes opened ten minutes earlier. I lay there for a minute or two, gazing at those luminous numbers. Just long enough to ask the difficult questions (Why, when you’ve not had a full night’s sleep for days, are you considering getting … …

I’ve been rediscovering what it is to run in the dark. To be out in the pitch black, a chill in the air, is to meet yourself coming the other way. You can take the opportunity of a little reconciliation, some patching up, the chance to celebrate yourself; or you can fall into the trap of pining for those long summer evenings. It’s a personal thing. I really can’t lecture others on what their preferences should be. But for me, somehow those long, warm jaunts are just too easy. Too unchallenging. The pleasure is shallow and it doesn’t endure. Run in the dark, I say. Early morning or evening. Early delivers more of a shock to the system. It’s a … …

Another written-off month. No, hang on, let’s make a slight alteration there: Another written-off month? That question mark makes all the difference. Today I’m hope-gathering, and today I need that question mark. Let’s have a bit of straight talking here. I’ve fizzled out again, and I want this to be the last time it happens. This cycle must now be broken permanently. I know from the emails I get that there are plenty of people out there who can relate to these difficulties. I’m grateful for the encouragement these give me, and I’m pleased that my own patchy performances make others feel better about their own troughs. We’re all glad to hear that we’re not alone. But it worries me … …

It’s been another lax week. I suppose the final realisation that Dublin isn’t going to happen for me, has delivered a dangerous message that I’ve been too happy to snatch at. Silly really. Running is a recipe for joy and soaring self-esteem, so god knows why I should creep into these lethargic corners as though I was gaining something. But this isn’t going to be yet another burst of bloody soul-searching. I’ve done enough of that. I was reminded this week of just how much of it I’ve done. I recently dumped all these logs into a Word document, printed them, and am now more than halfway through reading the stuff from start to finish. I have a writing project … …

I’m a keen semiologist. Have I mentioned this before? A sign man. I just love ’em. Please do not put cigarette ends, chewing gum, paper towels or similar items into the urinal as it causes blockages. If you have any queries, please call Fiona in Facilities on ext. 5133. "Hello, is that Fiona?" "Yes! How can I help?" "I was calling about the notice in the Gents toilet." [pause] "Yes?" "The one about the chewing gum, cigarette ends, paper towels etc." "Yes?" "I have a query about it." [pause] "Yes?" "What’s similar to cigarette ends and chewing gum?" "What’s similar?" "Exactly. What’s similar? Paper towels, OK. I suppose that tissues are pretty similar." "And cotton wool." "Well yes, I suppose … …

Something untoward to report. Work. After fairly stately progress with my task in recent weeks, I’ve had to accelerate a bit this week, squeezing my running time. A pathetic excuse, of course. Shame on me for pulling that one out of The Lazy Bugger’s Book Of Flimsy Excuses. The week has been busy, but there’s always time to run, just as there is always time to read – despite what people say. Maybe it isn’t so bad. For whatever reason, I didn’t get out yesterday, but I did manage 20 minutes early this morning, and another 25 this evening, on the treadmill in the small hotel gym. Sorry, the “Leisure Centre”. First one I’ve come across since those delightful days … …

I’d presumed there’d be no more Leeds entries after my break. But it seems the plan to migrate south again last week, never got off the ground. I was also expecting to be on holiday this week too, until being told, two days before my fortnight was due to start, that my second week had been cancelled. Pitiful Bastards. Let’s hope my bosses are not tempted to arrange a social occasion at the local brewery. A mysterious event is happening in Leeds this week. No one knows for sure what it is, but it’s claimed the life of almost every hotel room in the city. Rather good news for me as I have an excuse to seek out a change … …

Struggling up Croagh Patrick this afternoon, I was sure this was to be one of those landmark feats that I’d want to write a lot about. But maybe that won’t happen. Is it a hill or a mountain? It’s not very high, only 2500 feet or so, but its ruggedness and steepness make it seem more like the latter. It was a tough walk, much harder than I expected. Beyond the statue at the foot of the… mountain, the path quickly becomes a hard, rocky climb for an hour or so. Then a brief respite with a few hundred yards of grassy track, and a chance to gape over your shoulder at the view across Clew Bay and the tiny … …

Say “Nim”. And “foamer”. Then “nigher” Nim-foamer Nim-foamer nigher. Nim-foamer nigher. Then add a “kull” at the end. Nim-foamer nigher-kull. Good, now we have the right pronunciation for “nymphomaniacal”. As in “Nymphomaniacal Alice”. It’s the first line of the only limerick that I know. But if you pronounce the first word wrongly, it doesn’t work. Nymphomaniacal Alice I was thinking about this as I drove out of Galway City this morning. The importance of rhythm in writing. The train of thought began this morning because I was thinking about the rhythm of limericks, which in turn had come from my driving through the eponymous Irish city. Nymphomaniacal Alice Used dynamite sticks for a phallus Oops, I should have mentioned that … …

Ireland can’t quite make up its mind whether it’s 2004 or 1952. I thought about this as I drove through Tipperary town this afternoon. The high street looks like a film set. The innocent gaudiness of the pub facias with their ancient adverts for Guinness and Smithwick’s and Harp, and the traditional butchers and bakers with their high counters and staff in white overalls, compete with internet cafés and estate agents struggling to cope with the property boom. Outside McGillicuddy’s Bar, an old man in a battered trilby and farmer’s jacket sat smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He must have escaped from the pages of The Mayor Of Casterbridge. I found myself driving behind a hearse, and watched as the entire … …