Excuse me while I adjust these twenty-twenty hindsight goggles. They are causing me some discomfort. An old boss of mine used to say, in response to a mention of the H word: “Hope is not a strategy”. I should have listened to him. The 2012 Hyde Park 10K was strongly reminiscent of the 2010 iteration, and it needn’t have been. The two years separating the races could have been better spent ensuring that I had more than hope to rely on for an improved experience. I started today’s race with a dull ache in my right calf, and it steadily got worse, becoming bad enough to force me to limp and run-walk the final 70% of the race. These are … …
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Here we are again. It’s usually with a sigh that I consider New Year resolutions, but this time around I feel strangely relieved. I need to break the downward Dolcelatte and Barolo spiral, and the appalling chaos and depravity it produces in a small community like, well, my apartment. The approach of 2012 is as good an impetus as I’ll get for a while. So resolution number one is to avert my eyes as I pass the bulging Käse counters in Migros and the Coop. Cheese, as I’m sure someone must have opined, is a good servant but a bad master. To my shame, I’ve shown I can’t be trusted to handle the substance responsibly. Alongside cheese on the naughty … …
Ugh. Post-nebbiolo cranial throb. I lay in bed and considered the day ahead. The trailer didn’t promise much, so I arrived at a decision to do nothing more strenuous than a spot of keyboard tapping, and later, to spend some quality time with the TV remote. A modest blueprint indeed, but with the lake barely visible through a curtain of blustery rain, no less than such a day deserved. The very possibility that by mid-evening I’d be grinning like a shark on payday, sipping Buck’s Fizz from a half pint glass, and reflecting on having run in my first race in two years, was a thought too insolent to dare present itself. But remarkably, it’s how this humdinger of a … …
That title might sound like a reflection on my previous post, but no — it’s a pun-charged reference to NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. The idea is to produce at least 50,000 words of fiction during the 30 days of November. I’ll save you the trouble of opening a spreadsheet to do the calculation: that’s an average of 1667 words a day. (Warning: more statistics on the way. Try to contain your excitement.) I first came across Nano, as its lonely practitioners, known as Wrimos, like to call it, in October last year. I briefly considered giving it a go then, but on November 1st I found myself sitting not in front of a keyboard with a … …
One year ago today, we arrived in Zurich with a carload of Branston Pickle. One year ago tomorrow, I started work. In an unintentional recreation of this momentous journey, I recently drove back to England for a few days. On the return ferry crossing, I did something unusual, and coughed up the extra £15 to travel first class from Dover to Dunkirk. I don’t know what impulse made me check that box on the form, but I’m glad I did. Paying a bit more gives you the use of a private lounge with free coffee, juice and biscuits. Naturally, you aim to consume at least fifteen quids worth of Custard Creams to ensure the investment isn’t wasted, before sinking into … …
The raiding party has been and gone, carrying off my wife like a trophy. So once again, the apartment is empty and silent — and seems even more so in this bright sunshine. Chatting to my mother-in-law last week, shortly before the great departure, she opined that the flat is beautiful and the view over the lake lovely. “But”, she added helpfully, “I would be lonely living here on my own”. Am I lonely here? I suppose I could be. But if it doesn’t feel bad, how would I know? M was here with me for six months, before the last granules of her six-month sabbatical dribbled away. She returned to Blighty four months ago, and despite her occasional trips … …
My arse collapsed, finally, as I creaked past Feldbach station. “No more”, it implored. “No more, you bastard.” And so the plan to cycle the 69 circumferential kilometres of Lake Zurich fizzled out, like a fag end tossed into a puddle, precisely two thirds of the way through. Forty-six of these clicking, biting blighters had drilled their way into my lower legs and wriggled upwards, filling my underpants. But I couldn’t squeeze kilometre 47 in anywhere. Until 15 minutes before setting off, I had no idea I’d be spending last Sunday afternoon chasing this doomed errand. It was while wading through the furthest recesses of a neglected wardrobe that I came across a carrier bag containing my bicycle pump and … …
There are, naturally, thousands of ‘wanderweg’ trails in this country, all carefully waymarked and classified. These include seven national trails, criss-crossing the nation, four dozen regional routes and 140+ local ones. But that’s only part of it. All of these are broken down into smaller paths or creatively joined up with lesser local trails to form an intricate network of new routes. The entire nation — countryside, and city — is dotted with the distinctive yellow wanderweg signs, pointing you to a selection of destinations, each with an estimated walking time, rather than a distance. Where to start? Crossing off a few local routes first, before venturing into the more serious stuff, seems like a good idea. And so, on … …
Is hiking the new running? Walking is a major pastime here, whatever the flavour. From casual family meandering, through Nordic walking, to backpacking weekends in the mountains, it’s what folk do — particularly on Sundays, when the shops are shut, and noisy DIY is verboten. In this religious nation, Sunday is a day for wholesome activity. In winter this means messing about in the snow — downhill or cross-country skiing; strapping tennis racquets to feet and tramping across fields; skating on frozen lakes. When the snow melts, it’s time to cycle and hike, with swimming coming a bit later in the season. And running? Running is everywhere, flooding the cracks between the seasons. Everywhere but here. Best to accept … …
Good Friday: Another hour in the Ferrari magnet yesterday evening, panting like a demon, followed by a mountainous salad, bath, and early night between fresh sheets. Sleep arrives within seconds. I must have been glowing like a radioactive cadaver. Today, up at 7, already at my desk, seated before my transcendental panorama, bowl of Birchermüesli in hand, squinting through the early morning sun shooting off the lake. Still buzzing from last night, and feeling appropriately holy. It should be called Bloody Good Friday. I have a number of writing projects to think about, and work on. They’ve been at my feet for a long time, like a cuddly dog with a single, suspicious eye, always open, following me wherever I … …