Monday 30 June 2008

Bah! On second thoughts, I'll spare the world.

Is anyone here really that interested in my new, signed Dylan prints? My tear-splashed review of the Cohen gig in Manchester? Our knee-knocking visits to the gorgeously preserved childhood homes of Lennon and McCartney? Nah.

Just a word on the 'Pool though. It would seem to be overstating the case to say it's a place I love: I've been there only half a dozen times -- not including the Anfield experiences (another five). No visit has lasted longer than two days, and I've stopped overnight only twice. It's great sprawling monument of a place, old and grubby and so proud of itself that it never fails to leave a positive impression. It gets me every time. We visit Albert Dock with the Tate and the Beatles Museum, and all those upmarket restaurants. We admire the skyline with the 'three graces': the Liver, Cunard, and Port of Liverpool Buildings; the two cathedrals. We drive down Penny Lane, and squeal again as we spot the immortalised barber shop, and the bank whose banker still never wears a mac, in the pouring rain; past Sefton Park and on through the surprisingly wide, tree-lined streets of Toxteth. There are places I remember... Like Ireland, it's one of those atavistic things: reaches deep and squeezes my innards.

Manchester, where we breezed in for Leonard Cohen's concert, then straight out again, is slicker and cooler and shrewder, and it knows it. The Rainy City I really do know well -- or did do in the early 80s -- when I spent 4 student years there. A very fine town indeed; but perhaps arrogant more than proud. It has places to go, people to see, while its even shabbier neighbour is happier in its own skin -- despite all the construction. I can't fully explain or justify it. And don't need to. I like Liverpool the place, and love Liverpool the people. That's all.

Here's some more news -- I think my athletic dabbling is probably finished. No good trying to keep the pretence aloft any more. Or not for the moment. Let's put an end to all our suffering; I need to move on.

Since my last inglorious race, I've taken the doc's advice and rejoined the local gym, though it looks like I won't get the chance to establish a routine for another week or two. Taken the bike out a couple of times, which is pleasant enough, but compared with running there's an indefinable hole in the experience I haven't yet managed to understand. Meanwhile, the knee comes and goes, and is currently being kept company by a lovely, gouty left big toe. Together they have forced me to limp, which is producing worrying pains in my right calf. So something of an all-round wreck at the moment.

Talking of "all round", one consolatory shred is that I haven't thrown myself at the taverns. I've relaxed my alcohol boycott without going overboard. Grazing has been a little indiscriminate though.

A lot has changed in a year. Maybe it's something to do with being dragged into my fifties; perhaps it's the new job I started in October that's consumed me more than expected. It may even be simple boredom, and the need for a new challenge. It's time to acknowledge that the injuries are trying to tell me something. Meanwhile, trying to keep this optimism and excitement inflated without looking ever more foolish is an impossible task. I remember saying in Almeria that I would spend the year just slowly getting fitter and stronger if I could, and then towards the end of theyear, see which way the wind was blowing. Good advice: I should have taken it. I still have an option on a Boston place next year if I want it.

In the meantime, I have a couple of writing projects I want to spend some time on. Yes, I've said this before, but this time I'm serious. I've talked to a couple of wise people, moved some ideas around, created some plans, and want to implement them.

I'm not abandoning the RC website -- there's no need. I'll leave it where it is, but will probably take a break from this part of it, and float around the forum a little more. Increasingly, I find the stuff I read on there thrilling and energising: it shames me to see how threadbare my own locker has become. I say that with no self-pity or artificial self-deprecation. It's an observation I know to be true: that this project has grown stale for me, and unsurprisingly the quality and commitment has declined. It's not an inspiration anymore, and hasn't been for some time. I fought against this feeling over the last couple of months, but the disappointment of that last race, and the ricketty knee, have seen it off. No melodrama; just a straightforward fact. Time to revive myself with some other brew, before I think about hauling myself to my feet for another punishing round against my own overzealous ambition. Or to put it another way, my own bullshit.

Ah yes, here's an interesting snippet. While talking to the guide at Mendips, John Lennon's boyhood home, the subject of running came up. I can't recall how: perhaps it was some mention of Dublin. But anyway, he asked me if I knew the little-known connection between the Beatles and marathon running. It had me stumped. So he led me to the famous picture of John Lennon at the school fete in 1957 (a couple of days after I was born, incidentally). It was the first ever occasion that Lennon and McCartney met, although Paul doesn't appear in the photo. The guide pointed at a small boy whose face is just visible between two other boys at the right of the snap. "Guess who that is", he asked. I'd no idea, and readily confessed. His answer, which I've since verified, was a real surprise. "Paula Radcliffe's father", he beamed.

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Sunday 22 June 2008

Another bloody crossroads.

It's been an interesting week. But first, I'd better plug a gap or two.

It was all going so well. The first three weeks of the marathon plan had gone as planned, with no missed runs that weren't compensated for. Then 8th June arrived. The schedule called for a step-back week, with a long run of only 6 or 7 miles. It's what I nearly did, and should have done, on the Saturday morning. Instead, I spent the day working in the garden, which may well have been the sort of effort required by the schedule, though it didn't occur to me on the day.

Sunday was sunny and hot -- the warmest day of the year so far. I woke early and entertained myself with MLCM's excellent description of his long beach run. It inspired me, but perhaps inspired me in the wrong way.

A web search reminded me of the Kennet Kanter, a 10 miler in Devizes, along the canal, over the border in Wiltshire. Did I really want to do a race? 10 miles was further than I fancied on a hot day, but it was a chance to tick another race box, and the event would surely carry me along in a way that a solitary plod might not in this heat?

I was still silently rowing with myself, listing the pros and cons, as I drove down the M4. But there was no turning back now, so I tried to end the soul-searching and concentrate on the challenge ahead. It was easy enough to find distractions as I dipped down through Marlborough and drove through the stream of picturesque Wiltshire villages towards Devizes.

Not a place I'd been before, but it was pleasant enough. Picturesque, with a large green in the centre of town. Startlingly English. No Nelson Mandela School here, I suspect.

I found the sports centre and parked up. Reaching into my bag, I found that the water bottle received at the previous week's Newbury 10K had leaked its entire contents into my wallet, so I spent several minutes distributing banknotes, stamps, receipts for Marks and Spencers' tuna layered salads bought from the Brackley services on the A43 in Northamptonshire, the St Mary Magdeline prayer card, train tickets, HMRC cheques that I really ought to pay in... and so on, around the dashboard of the car, leaving the strong sunshine and cold air blower to do its stuff. Must have been quite a sight. Part Lexus, part tribute to morris dancing. Which in turn made it very Devizes, perhaps.

Enough cash and stamps were eventually sufficiently dehydrated to pay for my entry in the sports hall, after which I made my way to the green for the start of the race. Here, chatting to one of the organisers, I heard that the heat had led to a number of 10 mile entrants drop down to the 5km. It was another clue that perhaps this wasn't a wise move, though in retrospect, the strongest indication of all was the fact that my legs and back still ached from the previous day's exertions in the garden. But there is, they say, no fool like the old fool, and I grinned back, and waited for the hooter.

Within a minute I was last, but wasn't worried about it. The usual back markers have gone out too fast, I thought, and plodded on.

More disconcerting was turning a corner after a mile, and finding that I couldn't see any runners at all. Had I gone the wrong way? Apparently not, as I could see a water stop in the distance. Eventually reaching it, I stopped to glug a couple of cups, and throw a few more over my head and down my neck. This was going to be hard.

I just didn't feel like it. Despite drinking plenty of water the previous day, and that morning, I felt strangely dehydrated and over-heated. Any strength in my legs had been replaced with jelly. What was going on?

Hindsight is a miraculous thing. I really should have picked up the strong signals, and just stopped at that point. I'm sure it happens once in a while for most runners. It's happened to me on training runs. I've set off, and realised after half a mile that it just isn't going to happen. But it seemed wrong to give up in a race, so I soldiered on, already knowing that I was in dead trouble.

Much worse was to come. I can't recall exactly how it happened, but I managed to aggravate the knee trouble that's miraculously stayed away for the last few months. I didn't twist my ankle on a kerb, or fall down a pot hole, or whack it against a lamp post. Just two or three miles in, we passed over a stretch of hard, rutted grass alongside the canal. On the other side of it, as I returned to the tow path, I was suddenly aware of a big pain in my left knee. No swelling, no boney lumps, just a sharp pain with a slow, rhythmic throb. I'd passed up opportunities to stop my participation in the race before now, but I shouldn't have spurned this one. For inexplicable reasons, I decided to continue -- even though I could barely jog, and knew I would be walking most of the rest of the distance.

So. I was going to finish last in a race. I'd waited for this moment for more than 6 years and now, in my 50th race, it was going to happen.

I have to describe one bizarre episode. About 6 miles in, the sweeper bike appeared. "You are the devil, arriving to take the hindmost", I proclaimed. "Eh? Er no, but I'm glad I caught you just in time", he said. "We've had a report that someone has moved one of the signs up ahead. I'm just going to investigate".

Around the next corner, I found him standing at a field gate, beyond which a large arrow on a post appeared. "Ignore this sign", he said. You need to take that path on the other side of the hedge..."

So I chugged up the overgrown track, feeling somewhat doubtful about the instruction, even though the sign had appeared slightly out of place. It dredged up the two semiotic titbits I have stored under a pile of rotting carpet in a tin-lined chest under the floorboards of an ante-room behind a distant shelf at the end of one of the thousands of long stacks at the back of my head, ready to be produced when the subject of meaningless signs is teased to the surface. One is a sign saying simply: PLEASE IGNORE THIS SIGN. The other, that I saw in Private Eye about 30 years ago says nothing but: DO NOT THROW STONES AT THIS SIGN.

Perhaps 200 yards up this path, I started to hear some frantic shouting behind me. I carried on for a while then stopped when I realised the shouting was getting louder. It was the chap who wasn't the devil, offering a breathless apology. The sign in the field had been right after all. We retraced our steps, and he pointed me across the large field. "On the far side you'll find a stile", he stated confidently. Or was there, I wondered later, just a tinge of doubt in his voice?

So I set off across the bumpy, furrowed field, heading for a distant white post that signified, I presumed, the stile. Eventually arriving there, I found that there was no stile. The white post belonged to a locked gate over which barbed wire had been wound. Hmmm. I trotted back to the middle of the field, thigh deep in rough grass and wild flowers, where I renewed my acquaintance with the non-diabolical but suitably red-faced official.

"Sorry about that. They said there's a stile here somewhere". We stood there, surveying the distant boundaries. We also took stock of the high grass. "Doesn't look like two hundred people just ran this way", I suggested.

He took out his mobile phone and moved off. "Let me try again". And so, as the fellow's anxious tones floated through the flora, I actually sat down in the middle of this meadow, shut my eyes, and turned my face towards the hot sun.

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

It's a while since we had an Adlestrop moment on this website, but here was one, if only to help me guess what some of the flowers may have been.

It must have been the most absurd moment in any race I had ever taken part in. A race! A running race, and here I was, lying in the long grass, smile on my face, enjoying a few rays. Madness, but the sort of madness that possibly sums up my athletic prowess. My work HR profile describes me as "field-based". So this is what they mean.

What seemed like a very long time later, I limped across the finishing line of the Kennet Kanter, to a soundtrack of unnecessarily polite applause. The hardy marshals said nice things to me, gave me a wholly undeserved medal and bottle of by-now hot water, and immediately started to dismantle the stalls.

I can't think of a gloomier race experience than this one. Usually, at the end of a disappointing race, I think "Well at least it's another x miles to add to the spreadsheet". But I didn't have even that compensation here. I had no intention of glossing over this failure by pretending it was a 10 mile run.

Two days later, the knee was still throbbing, if less violently. A trip to the doctor's was called for, even though I was not expecting much in the way of good news. It wasn't quite a telling off, but the doc essentially told me that I'd put too much stress on the knee too quickly.

I was not told to give up aiming for a marathon, but was advised to take a break of a couple of weeks, and then start back slowly, with the understanding that a mid-September marathon may be asking too much. It was a good chat, during which I heard some things I should have worked out for myself. Most people will be familiar with that old clich� that "you shouldn't play squash to get fit, but should get fit to play squash". The doctor said something similar about running and weight loss. Running to lose weight was fine, was the message, but should really be done in combination with other activities like cycling, walking, gym work, swimming, and even gardening. Over-emphasising one activity wasn't spreading the effort around enough. I should be aiming to lose weight and gain fitness before embarking on a structured marathon campaign, not starting a marathon plan in order to lose weight and get fit.

As for the knee, I got a repeat of the message received last time I was sat in that chair. There's nothing in particular wrong with it. It's a temporary injury, and essentially a protest by my body against all this sudden extra stress being placed on it. It will be happy enough with a marathon, but only after a more gradual approach.

The two weeks of enforced rest have just come to an end, and I now need to make some decisions. More of that another time

Moving away from running, I've had adventures over the past 4 days: skirmishes with the spirits of Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Paul McCartney and John Lennon. My relationship with all these guys changed this week.

But first, I think it's time for a beer.

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Wednesday 4 June 2008

Here's an unmissable deal, available at Boots in Nottingham. "Listerine mouthwash: �2.45 per bottle, or 2 for �5.00" It caught my eye while I was glumly traversing the fluorescent aisles this evening, buying a complete set of toiletries to replace the ones in the bag that I'd managed to leave at home. After the pharmacy, it was on to the underpants emporium (though I think it had a snappier name than that) next door, to fill my boots with smalls.

The unscheduled diversion delayed my run, but [most of] it got done. I'm back near the city centre this time, so no country parks on hand. Instead, the mean streets of Nottingham had to take the brunt of my lingering corpulence. Again, I seem to have hit a sticky patch in the weight loss. Indeed, I've managed to go back about three pounds since Sunday's race. The glorious bottle of white Bordeaux on Monday evening, and (of course) attendant range of high-fat snacks, won't have helped, but blimey, what a stunning wine.

I recently paid a visit to my MW friend, Richard Bampfield, to collect a shoal of mini shubunkins. Not only did he furnish me with a bucket of said wrigglers, but as I was about to leave, he casually remarked: "Oh hang on, you need something to keep that tub steady in your boot. Hmm..."

He returned with a mixed case of wine, containing all sorts of delights -- Dom Perignon '99, Meursault, Grand Cru Chablis, Cloudy Bay Sauvignon, some very decent cru bourgeois claret, and this bottle of white Bordeaux (will add name later -- I don't have a note of it here but I'm pretty sure it was Graves from 2005). Anyway, I opened the Bordeaux on Monday, on the highly questionable basis that I'd not heard of it, and therefore was probably the least special; but wow, what a super mouthful it turned out to be. Dry Bordeaux blanc tends to be pretty neutral stuff, but this one had real class -- unusual weight, and a sort of butteriness that I've not come across before from wines of this region. Perhaps the winery's handwritten label on the back "Not for sale" was a clue. Anyway, it meant the intention of a single glass was a promise to which I was not entirely able to adhere.

Since then, I've felt sort of unusually weighty and buttery myself, so this evening I struggled. It was a warm and slightly humid evening, which didn't help. A further impediment was that the first two miles were pretty much all uphill -- the first on the pavement, the second through a pit-bull paradise of a park. I'd intended 5 or 6 miles, but after the first two, I decided to cut my losses, and headed back the way I'd come. Much easier and quicker on the way down of course, but not quite easy enough to erase the discomfort of the first half.

But the congealed sweat of 4.3 hilly midweek miles is a very acceptable icing on the underpants and Listerine cake. And still an hour and a half of The Apprentice to come.

Sometimes, life is OK.

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Sunday 1 June 2008 - Newbury 10K

If life is a to-do list, I managed a big tick on Friday evening, in Nottingham, when I finally got to see the glorious Liza Minnelli.

Cabaret -- the movie -- was a portal to my adulthood.

It won Best Film Oscar in 1973, and I clearly recall bunking off school to see it. What drew me to it? Don't know. I guess it seemed avant-garde and intellectual, which sums up the adolescent, antisocial phase I was passing through at the time.

What I do know is that a child entered the Odeon Leicester Square that day -- and was never seen again.

It's hard to identify exactly what it is about the movie that bludgeoned away so much of my childhood. A penny dropped somewhere. The movie is a puzzle: layer upon layer of transparent contrasts and contradictions. But once merged, they form a window into something previously concealed. The film has potency but you have to chase it. It's something linked to that bitter-sweet cocktail of raucous fun and personal tragedy; private lives and private pain, all silhouetted against the illuminated, threatening, red and black of the Third Reich. Is it a comedy or tragedy? A drama or a musical? I couldn't work it out, and I still can't. The songs and the singers were of a kind I'd not permitted myself to consider before. Until that moment, cabaret and cabaret singers were a parent thing. An old bloke's entertainment. No more.

Here. Do it. Treat yourself to the final six minutes of Cabaret. Those final frames are as powerful now as they were then.

I suspect I fell in love with Liza Minnelli that afternoon, and despite her exploded life, she retains enough Minnelli essence to remain something exceedingly rare: a genuine star.

M and I discussed this in the theatre foyer before the show. The difference between true stars and mere celebrities. We have a deluge of the latter, but a tiny trickle of the former. Who else is there, we wondered. Clint Eastwood. Paul Newman. Barbara Streisand. Paul McCartney. Nelson Mandela. Stan Bowles. (She didn't agree with all my choices.)

She's 62 now, has had both hips replaced, but Minnelli still has what it takes. My camera phone doesn't do her any justice but here's a clip I found on YouTube from the London show two days earlier that does a better job.

We nearly managed a superb double bill when we discovered that the Dalai Lama was appearing at the adjacent theatre earlier the same evening, but it turned out to be an even hotter ticket than Liza's. What a brilliant contrast that would have provided.

The Workhouse

More contrasts were on the bill yesterday, when we headed out of Nottingham to explore some bits of England we'd managed to miss up till now. We're members of the National Trust, and always try to get round a few places each year. I suspect we just about get our money back on annual membership, but even if we don't, it's a worthy cause.

We bagged a couple of good ones this weekend. The Workhouse was an eye-opener. I associated workhouses with Dickensian times, and hadn't realised that workhouses were still in use up until 1948, when the introduction of the National Health Service finally swept them away.

The Southwell Workhouse, donated to the NT around 6 years ago, is a fine piece of Victorian architecture. Most of the furniture is long gone, but the walls and the yards separating the men from the women from the children, and the able-bodied from the infirm, are perfectly preserved, as are the dormitories and the officers of the clerk and master. It's one of those places that naughty children should be dragged to, to help them realise that their lives are not quite as terrible as they assume.

Next up was Belton House, just a few miles down the A1, but it could have belonged to another planet, such was the contrast. Belton is a much more typical NT property: the information that the house has been used as a "film location for the BBC's Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice and Tom Jones" probably tells you all you need to know about the style of this 17th century mansion and its beautiful state of preservation. Belton House

Good old NT.

Time for home. I set the sat-nav to avoid motorways, so we spent the next three hours or so snaking across country, through a stream of delightful villages with outlandish names. How very pleasant it all was, though I felt an ache each time we passed another charm-washed country pub. They'd have sparked a kind of longing at any time, but seemed particularly enticing yesterday -- early on a Saturday evening in late spring, heading towards the longest day. But beer was out of the question. There was a race to get done in the morning.

The Newbury 10K is a new event, sponsored by Bayer -- you know, the gynaecological fungicide people.

I was pleased to see this one appear on the calendar. The town is local to me, and, well, it's just the sort of place that really should have a decent 10K. In fact, a half marathon wouldn't go amiss but let's take it one step at a time.

Weather was perfect for a race. Cool and damp, but not cold, and no sunshine. I drove into Newbury with 20 minutes to hoot-off, feeling slightly anxious. Nothing to do with the prospect of the race, which I'd frankly given no thought to, but to the prospect of finding somewhere to park. Ever since the Fleet Half in 2002, I've assumed the worst. (Interesting that while Fleet was apparently a life-haunting experience, it hasn't prevented me from turning up at a town-centre race with just 20 minutes to go.)

Jeeze, have you finished boring us with your tedious neuroses? You have? Good. Let's get down to that start line and let these people go. They have more useful things to do. Like gaze at that damp spot above the picture rail.

Newbury is a fine town, overflowing with please-enter-me canal-side pubs. The High Street is lined with opportunities for pushing hamburgers and creamy desserts into one's face. I adjust my blinkers, and wait for the race to start.

I notice that there aren't too many iPod zombies around. I count about 30 to 35 in the crowd of 450 starters. Two headphoned girls in front of me at the start were hollering at each other:

Whatchoo listening to?

Eh?

Whatchoo listening to?

Eh?

I'm liss'nin' to Bob Marley

Eh?

BOB MARLEY!

Oh!

Whatchoo listening to?

Eh?

I moved back even further. A few minutes later, we were off, and being funnelled through the narrow high street, parading past the thick lines of grinning, politely applauding locals.

Within a few seconds, I felt an elbow dig into my right arm, and a young guy lumbered past me. Wearing headphones, of course. He had no idea he'd made contact with me. A few seconds later, something similar happened on my left side. Again, an elbow across me, this time into my chest. I shouted "Oy!", but nothing was going to penetrate the higher plane onto which this glassy-eyed, earphoney had rapidly ascended. And then, another fifty or so yards further on, an older guy in front of me, again, wearing white iPod earphones, just suddenly stopped, and started waving at a small child standing on the pavement. Oh for christ's sake. This time I actually struck the bloke. I whacked him across his shoulder as I passed, and shouted "Watch where you're going!"

His response? He spun round and looked round after me and, assuming that I was someone who'd recognised him, and giving him a friendly pat on the back, actually grinned and waved at me too. Idiots, the lot of them.

I wasn't going to let it bother me. This was just a mild training run. I'd had no thoughts about pace or targets, and had no need for a race strategy. All I wanted was a steady jog in a different environment, and that's what I got.

Newbury 10K - medal

We quickly turned left off the high street and threaded our way down a narrow side street. Then whoosh! We were going up. This was something I hadn't bargained for. In fact, the first three kilometres were a pretty relentless climb, up through a residential part of town that I didn't know existed. The RC Sussex boys would not have been fazed by this challenge, but for me it was something more than an inconvenience. Despite the discomfort, and my impressive lack of fitness and excessive lardiness, this was way too early in the race to even think about walking, so I just had to put my head down and chug away for the best part of 20 minutes. Not much fun.

At last we turned off the roads and onto a flatter off-road section. The mud remained manageable, never threatening my ankles. Then through some woods, where I tried keeping in step with the cadence of a cuckoo. This didn't work as well as the podrunner track I'd used on last weekend's long run, but I have to say it was a rather prettier sound. It reminded me of what I miss when I run with music.

Single-file across a bumpy field, beneath an underpass and onto the canal tow path for a couple of peaceful kilometres. Here I fell into conversation with a girl who seemed willing to plod along at my pace, and we ended up chatting all the way back to the finish line -- probably half the race. I never did discover her name, but as often happens in these situations, we were able to exchange a great stock of information about jobs, family, running history, eating habits and aspirations.

And that was the story of the Newbury 10K. After the initial long incline, I don't think I looked at my watch once until after we'd crossed the finish line. Had I done so, I would have seen that this was my second slowest 10K. But this didn't matter. PBs are not a thing of the past, but they won't be a focus until I've dropped at least another 15 pounds. Until then, races are about participation, and variety. I turned up to help remember what races are all about, and to add a little chopped red chilli to my plain meat-and-potatoes training schedule. The Newbury 10K reminded me that there is running life outside my home patch, and there is fun to be had and people to meet, if only we make the smallest effort.

What good is sitting alone in your room?
Come hear the music play...
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Come to the Cabaret.

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Monday 26 May 2008

One track mind

Having discovered the secret of eternal youth, I'm feeling pleased with myself.

Last entry, I mentioned my success in running with the Kaiser Chiefs. This led me to try putting together a playlist of music of a similar pace, in the hope of extending the effect. But I couldn't get it to work seamlessly enough. Then I remembered podrunner, a free service provided by DJ Steve Boyett. He mixes 60 minutes worth of beat-laden electronica into one continuous track but (and here's the clever bit) each chunk of music is the same pace from start to finish. Today I plugged myself into 'a churning urn of burning funk' -- a throbbing hour at 150 beats-per-minute (bpm) called Square One, followed by another at 152 bpm.

And it really worked. The first test was passed last Tuesday, with an unbroken 5 miles along the canal. Today I managed a barely-believable 9 miles around the rain-thrashed streets of suburban Reading, with just one brief walk-break after an hour or so to fiddle with my iPod and glug something wet and blackcurranty.

It's been a patchy week on the running front. Monday to Thursday was good, with no enforced run-walks at last. A 3.5 miler on Monday was followed next day by the aforementioned 5.15 canal miles. Then another 4 on Thursday to set me up for something indecently long at the weekend. But tragedy struck in the shape of a pint glass. Yes, my promised 4-week abstinence was truncated to 3. There's something about a holiday weekend that lures one into the pub, then drags you by the nose to the Chinese restaurant for a takeaway. Saturday was similarly written off.

The ship steadied itself again yesterday, but felt a shade too overladen to move from its cosy berth. Bad news. It meant three successive runless days, and the cardinal sin of no long run. The gurus preach that this is the one not to miss -- but I missed it. Feeling ashamed and dirty, I sloped off to bed last night, resolved to run longish today.

This morning I woke to the sound of heavy rain drumming on the roof and splashing against the window. Sheesh. Had I run long yesterday, this would have been a rest day, and I could have I lain there, smug as an over-endowed mongrel. Instead, I listened to the wind whistling beneath the eaves and thought: "Oh dear". Eventually I slipped out of bed and peered through the curtains. Before me, a typically grim spring bank holiday scene. I could see oceanic puddles forming on the pavement outside, and watched the fir trees along the main road bending in the wind. At least there would be no wintry chill to struggle against. I peered at the scene for a minute or so, until I suddenly realised there was no longer any dread. Instead, here was some kind of excitement at last.

I've been positive about running again recently, but it's a long time since I reminded myself that running affords a pleasure that must be earned. Twenty minutes later, I was starting my shift.

The run was never fast, but it was tough enough. I eschewed the canal towpath this time and went for a road run that I'd found on MapMyRun. I wanted to try a new route, and this seemed as good as any at around the 8 mile mark -- my target. I'd run on many of these roads before with the local running club, but had never stitched them together quite like this.

The route was interestingly unremarkable. The first two or three miles had me tracing the A4 into Reading -- a cheerless stretch of road, only tolerable when you're strapped into your MP3 player, with a high decibel disco mix pumping fitness propaganda into your brain. Not everyone will find the thought appealing, but try it and see. The mesmerising throb becomes strangely compelling after a short while, and it really does help to keep your feet moving. Indeed, I was in danger of entering some sort of profound trance-like state, but fortunately a souped-up Ford Fiesta filled with jeering chavs made a detour through a major puddle to ensure that I received a tsunami of gritty rainwater. Oh how we laughed.

The truth is that it was raining so heavily, I barely noticed the drenching.

The deluge continued as I turned into the road fringing Prospect Park. Shortly afterwards, I came up behind a couple standing at the rim of a pavement puddle, as though uncertain how, or if, to proceed. I called out a greeting and ploughed through the water, reminding myself of just how liberating and life-simplifying this whole running business can be. For an hour you are king of your own universe; and its legislature, allowed to shed rules and social norms that would only obstruct and inhibit you.

Around this point I came across the first modest hill, and briefly considered walking. I resolutely crushed and ejected the thought, resolving not to stop until the first hour of bone-quaking noise had expired. Then a second hill appeared, a little steeper than the first, but I kept the rhythm going and pressed on.

At last, there was no more pulsating electronica, and I was able to rediscover walking. My drink was in a foolishly non-resealable pack, so I had to drink it all, inflating my stomach to a state bordering on the non-viable. What to do? Would I ever run again? Only one thing for it -- prod the iPod. Bring on the next hour of medicine and get going. Which I did, chugging on for another 4 miles without a pause.

Just over the 9 mile mark I turned off my watch and drifted to a halt, delicately doing a few calf stretches against a pillar box while an elderly lady stared open-mouth at me, clearly thinking I was trying to push it over. I completed my homeward journey with a warm-down walk, listening to a couple of Clannad tracks to add to the floaty sensation.

I'm genuinely astonished at the power of the podrunner tracks, though they pose two disconcerting questions: 1) How long can I continue to listen to this stuff without suffering a cataclysmic mental breakdown? and 2) Is it not some form of performance-enhancing drug? For training purposes, I don't suppose it matters, but I wonder if this partly explains why some people get so panicky when the subject of banning MP3 players in races comes up? Is this what some people are listening to when they race, and have they become dependent on it as a performance aid?

Whatever the answers may be, I'm happy to have discovered another weapon to help with the struggle. It's not a remedy for everyone, but a desperate man like me won't ask too many questions. The bottom line is that I ran 9.1 continuous miles through a filthy torrent, and it feels good.

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Sunday 18 May 2008

As a pasty-faced youth, I was handed down a chemistry set by a swotty cousin. It was never clear to me what I should do with this boxful of powders and vials, but that didn't stop me occasionally mixing up a few chemicals in arbitrary fashion, along with some water and usually, for some unknown reason, a splash of malt vinegar and a fistful of sugar. I suppose that vinegar was the most volatile liquid available to me at that age, and so became a key ingredient in my quest for a ceiling-busting explosion. These concoctions also gave me an insight into the art of the German wine maker, but this incidental benefit was lost on me until some years later, when I found myself lounging in the wine business for a while.

I'd forgotten all about these juvenile explorations until this week, when I rolled up at the Cockliffe Country House Hotel, in Arnold, Nottingham, and found the room had a... bouquet sharply evocative of those sunday afternoons in the garage. And surprisingly, it wasn't especially unpleasant. Maybe it was sweetened by the nostalgia.

I visit this city regularly but haven't had much luck with hotels in my price range. Those in the city centre can be noisy, and inconvenient for drivers. I'm never happy handing over my car keys to some grinning kid on a work experience programme. So I've started exploring the outer fringes, where the hotels are usually attached to green patches. This week's green patch was the 65 acre Burntstump Country Park. A good place to be at the start of a putative marathon campaign.

The dog-eared Hal Higdon Novice schedule was finally located last week beneath an alien spacecraft -- or was it an unused fondue set? -- at the back of the attic. Ah yes, here we are. Week 1 of 18. Three 3 milers, and a long weekend run of 6 miles. A long run of 6 miles...? Hmm. That's what it says.

But wait. There's been a major development in the world of Hal Higdon marathon plans. It seems he now has a Novice Schedule II, which has Week 1 as 3-5-3-8. This sounds more exciting, though this reaction is soon tempered by the reminder that I'm still chronically unfit. Best stick with the tried and tested for the moment.

So Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday saw me turn in my introductory 3 milers. None was elegant or easy but at least they can be added to my spreadsheet, and forgotten about. The first one saw me finally turn in three miles of continuous jogging, without a walk break. Runs 2 and 3 were in the Nottingham country park, and contained topographical features that I would call "hills". Others may describe them differently. But they were challenging enough for me to have to pause briefly.

I discovered something on these runs that everyone reading this already knows. Something I should know too. It was this -- that some music makes you run faster. Music while running is often discussed, or at least mentioned, in the forum, so of course I knew that listening to an MP3 player or radio is distracting and enjoyable. But what I listen to is just music for entertainment. After all, who could fail to be moved by Pete Seeger crooning "Casey Jones" to the accompaniment of a plaintive banjo? But at one point on the Wednesday run, just as I was about to take a rest after the third of the 'hills', the Kaiser Chiefs popped up with Everyday I love You Less And Less, and my physical shell sort of zoomed off a few yards ahead of where my cognitive being remained, taking a breather. I caught up with myself soon enough, and found that the song's rhythmical aggression continued to drive me forward, at a faster and more regular rate.

Next evening, I turned the shuffle off on my iPod, and instead chose a couple more Kaiser Chief songs, followed by some other rockers -- the Kinks, the Doors, Springsteen, that sort of thing. And had a broadly similar result. I say "broadly" because they seem to have to fit into a particular pattern that Everyday I love You Less And Less has. It doesn't muck about. Just drives you along.

With this in mind I put together a running playlist for this morning's 'long run' down the canal towpath. It started off well. Perhaps too well. The first three miles seemed easy and steady. Then? Well, rather embarrassing to admit, but it was something akin to 'hitting the wall' in a marathon. A sudden draining of energy, and I had to stop. Yes it was a warm and sunny day, and perhaps I really should have had something to eat earlier on to give me some energy reserves, but still -- three miles?

So perhaps the music had done its job too well this time. Maybe I over-reached myself, at a time when I'm still building some basic fitness. I did continue with a fitful jog-walk, and my watch tells me that I covered 7.58 miles, the longest jaunt since the Almeria 13K in January. But I know that this was actually a very poor attempt at a long run: just three good miles and four stop-start. Still. It's put a few miles of some sort into my legs, even if the quality wasn't perfect. After doing no running at all for months, then just 6 miles in each of last week and the one before, doing 17 this week has to be regarded as a step in the right direction. Looks like I'll have to think again about my approach to running music though.

Some better news. Weight. I've knocked off that first stone. 234 pounds when I restarted, just under a month ago, and now hovering around 220. And that period includes the extended lost weekend I wrote about recently, when I demolished most of my gains up to that point. I'd hit something that was starting to feel like a plateau until this past week, when the extra activity seems to have pushed me on again.

How have I managed it? Not by starvation: I seem to have been eating constantly for the past month. The main change has to be a lack of alcohol. Apart from that 4 day period over the bank holiday, I've kept away from the pub, and my wine rack has lain undisturbed. As frequently explained in these pages, this has a major effect on my weight, less for the intrinsic calories in booze (though these are real enough), but for all the junk food I find myself shovelling in at the same time. As a result, I've had no cheese and biscuits, no crisps/peanuts, and nothing sweet apart from tons of fruit. My current drink of choice is nothing more lethal than sugar-free orange squash.

I should try the little-and-often option with these entries. A stack of exciting news is awaiting expression, but I've run out of time. Here are some pictorial clues to what I intended discussing:

Perhaps next time.

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Sunday 11 May 2008

Always brightest before the dawn

The landscape may look kinda familiar. We've been here before.

I'm in that odd position of trying to rally the inner troops, while knowing that the last few battles have been lost. Boston, Dublin, Two Oceans... all had high-decibel fanfares, but all dwindled into ponderous bass horn finales. I sent out all the invitations but didn't turn up at the party.

But things are different this time. Oh yes.

I may have managed to crank up the determination and enthusiasm again but I'm still reluctant to seem too gung-ho. I'll offer just a few flakes of information:

I'm keen to run a marathon this year. I've entered Nottingham (September 14), largely because I go there a lot with my job, and am developing an affinity with the place. The usual 18-week training begins in two days time. Will I make it? Hard to say: I'm still working on basic fitness and weight loss, and it's unclear just how much progress I can make over what period, but if necessary I'll drop down to the Half in Nottingham, and aim instead for a later marathon. There are a couple of British Isles candidates, both of which I consider every year, and occasionally even enter, without (of course) actually getting there: Loch Ness on October 5, and Dublin three weeks later. There are also a variety of European races through October that I've previously looked at longingly from a distance: Berlin, Amsterdam, Venice...

So there's no shortage of possibilities. But at the moment, I'm heading for Nottingham.

It makes sense to sound a gentle note of caution. My head, as they say, is right, but the simple facts are these -- that I still can't run for more than four or five minutes without a walk break, and I'm 24 pounds heavier than I'd like to be when starting a marathon plan. Looking on the positive side, a couple of weeks ago I couldn't run for more than one minute without stopping, and I was 34 pounds heavier than the initial target. So progress is being made, and would have been made quicker if I hadn't dropped off the edge last week, and taken four days to climb back.

I squeezed myself back into the running groove two days ago, and have had a couple of outings since. Last night's run, at nine o'clock, was encouraging. I stuck to a strict pattern of 4 minutes jog, 1 minute walk, but for the first time since my resurrection, I was able to maintain this till the end of my four miles or so. And I even felt quite strong and confident at the end, which hasn't happened for a while.

More later. Now? Now, I mow the lawn to build up the stash of brownie points required to buy a peaceful few hours in front of the TV this afternoon, and a glut of football. The show begins at noon with one of the Championship play-off games, followed by a mildly interesting Celtic game, and then the main event. Last day of the Premier League season today, with Man Utd and the despicable Chelsea equal on points. At the other end of the table, three clubs struggle to be the one to avoid relegation. My hope is that Manchester United will win the league, and that Reading will be relegated. My fear is that.... but no, let's not invite disaster. Some may say I've done enough of that already in this entry.

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Tuesday 6 May 2008

The Cliff edge

The trouble with a lost weekend is that the ripples of loss extend way beyond its apparent temporal bounds. At the time of reckoning, you find it's a lost week. Mine finished two days ago, but I can still sense it.

And along with mere time, plenty more gets swept out to sea: momentum, fascination, appetite, engagement. Plans and good intentions. There wasn't a whole lot of rediscovered fitness, but what there was, went. The only thing gained was around 5 pounds of pure lard. The sort that drips from takeaway curries, late-night cheese and biscuits, pizza, ice cream, bacon sandwiches, chocolate, crisps and peanuts, beer and wine.

But you know me, I like to look on the positive side of things. So I'm regarding those four days as part of the experiment. Perhaps the part that proves just how dangerous booze can be. If it's a lesson learned, I can be happy with it.

Two weeks of healthy living: abstinence from alcohol; good nutritional grub; exercise; pre-midnight bedtimes; and I felt more alive than I have done in months. I rediscovered my appetite for running and writing and reading and living. Crikey, I even cut the grass and dug a few holes in the garden without it having to be 'suggested' to me. Then Thursday came.

M had been away at her folks. I hadn't had a conversation with anyone in two days, and was beginning to get stir crazy. There was a European football semi-final on the telly, and a pub over the road that would be showing it. Hey come on fellas, surely a couple of beers, and an hour or two of inane soccer chat would do more good than harm?

Only three beers -- hardly excessive. I had to work the next day, after all. But I just had to chomp on some crisps and peanuts, and after a fortnight of holiness, I emerged into the night sensing a new devilishness in the air. The breach, albeit small, had been made. Next evening was Friday, and a holiday weekend. Aw, why not? Bang! Indian takeaway with all the fat-laden accessories, bottle of wine. Ice cream.

Saturday, I had a call from a mate about meeting up for 'a couple of pints'. Hmm. Hard to have just a couple of pints of that legendary West Berkshire brew, Good Old Boy, so often recommended in these pages. And Sunday was football day, and a trip to Loftus Road. At a time of low resistance, there was little chance of avoiding the habit carved so deep by so many years. Beer and football, and Chubby's Famous Giant Cheeseburger. And once I'd got home? Well, with a bank holiday the next day... was it such a sin to crack open a bottle of decent claret to lubricate that wedge of unctuous Dolcelatte, and that half brick of richly flavoured, mature farmhouse Cheddar?

And here, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we have the crime laid out before us, like a patient etherised upon a table. Four days of delicious, filthy pleasure.

Then yesterday, the bill arrived.

I lay in bed for a while, nursing my reinflated midriff and shrunken ego. And I realised that I'm losing my love affair with beer. It's not that I drink excessively by the standards of a lot of people I know, and have known. But it's all the baggage that comes with it: the junk food, the apathy, the collapse in morale; the drawing down of the blinds on the world outside. Life becomes an altogether more internalised experience. The last couple of weeks, before the weekend, were a reminder of how fresh and vital the world can be. Inexplicably, I'd kinda forgotten.

A few sentences ago, I wrote: "Four days of delicious, filthy pleasure." I hesitated as I typed those words, because it struck me then, that perhaps there is no longer that much pleasure in it. Or not usually.

Trouble is, I have an idealised vision of perfect drinking joy. In my imagination, I am visiting an old country pub on a winter's day, at the end of a walk. The evocative sounds: creaking hand-pumps; the burble of friends in happy conversation; the deep clurruck of pint glass on mahogany bar; the crackle of the wood fire, and the glow it transmits to the nutty-red liquid. Or change the scene: here I am, swooning over the rich, multi-layered scents in a fine red Bordeaux -- leather and blackcurrant and farmyard and tobacco -- and sharing the joy in the company of good friends and fine food.

But how often do I manage to hit these high notes? Once or twice a year? Admit it. It's all an apparition. Those ads for Stella Artois that evoke ancient European tradition and brewing perfection? It's a damn lie. I had a pint of Stella last weekend, while waiting for my takeaway, and was struck by the essential soullessness of the product. It was little more than a big fizzy glass of cold water, with only the metallic bite of alcohol to give its existence the faintest raison d'etre. Why do we tolerate this? Why do we willingly pay �3.40 or so for a pint glass full of this joyless junk drink? What is the point of it?

It's not the first time I've thought this: that most of the time, when I have a drink, I engage not with genuine pleasure but with assumed pleasure. Until now, I've driven the idea away, because abstinence seemed an even duller option. But the last couple of weeks have made me reassess that. I found my inner Cliff Richard, and was shocked and embarrassed at how good it felt.

I don't like the idea of not drinking again, but I want to strip away some of the easy assumptions. As a habit, it's become tedious. Maybe it's an age thing. Even though only drinking a couple of evenings a week on average, I'm not sure that my Friday nights in the pub are as much fun as I think them to be; and more important, recovery takes longer than it used to. It would be good to restrict drinking to genuinely worthwhile occasions, instead of spectating as I ooze along the groove of routine.

It's probably clear, but I'll spell it out anyway to ensure I feel the full painful weight of the fact: I've done no running in the past week. It's a set-back, but not a defeat. The week hasn't been wasted; it was invested in some valuable experience, and I'll use it. I've consulted the doctor in me, and he's written the prescription: no alcohol for at least four weeks. Let's see where that gets me. Will I be screaming for relief, or with relief?

Stay tuned and find out.

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