She's back, ladies and gentlemen, She's back.
Like a lover from the past she's taken a hold of my heart with the grip of a Scotsman on a Five Pound note. (That's the only Val Doonican song referenced here today, I assure you).
What a weekend. Saturday's stonking run set up a wondrous day, culminating in as eclectic a gig as you could wish for. First we saw Scott Free, a band of local youths who paid skilful homage to Led Zep and Joe Bonamassa to name but two. Sadly that is all I can name as their turn was cut short to make way for a spine-tingling set from operatic duo Letitia Keys and a frankly bonkers performance from Instill, an outfit best described as Death Metal meets New Romantics. From The Ashes, a charity event to raise funds for the Phoenix Centre, recently damaged by fire, was always going to be plagued by over-runs and stage-management capers. In Lewes no-one complains about this sort of thing. Speaking of Fire, a concert set around local development and environmental issues would not be complete without Arthur Brown, he of the Amazing World, a man who fashions words to express his feelings about shameless Greedheads live on stage, a farrier of the people. His rendition of Lewes Development Blues was played on a fabulous slide guitar fashioned from a petrol can and a broom handle.
These tasty morsels were but an amuse buche to the main event. Chris Difford, the man who wrote
The Sweeney's doin' ninety 'cos they've got the word to go, They get a gang of villains in a shed up at 'Eaffrow, gave us Cool For Cats, Up The Junction and Take Me I'm Yours, latterly accompanied by the the band I had most wanted to see. The Strypes are the real deal, the new Fab Four, the hottest thing to leave Ireland since Leonardo Dicaprio chased his Rose aboard that doomed ocean liner. They blew us away in a whirlwind of pub blues-rock, like Dr Feelgood back in the day. Replete with mic'd up harmonica and frantic moves they cooked up a sweaty storm in the old Harveys depot. I couldn't help but dance. Rubbing elbows we happy, shiny people beamed as one, bathed in the glow of exuberant youth. I've seen the future of popular music, and it is Strypey.
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I replayed it all in my head as I ran through the low-lying mist this morning. Invisible droplets kissed my skin like pennies from heaven as my feet flew over flint and mud. And then it dawned on me. She's back! My head filled with thoughts and plans as the hills rose to meet me. By George, she's back and she means to consume me once more. Just one glance across a crowded room and my heart is melting. How long will she stay? Who can say? The point is, she's found me, and I her, and whilst we're together I must feed on and store this fabulous feeling. When you get older in years you wonder if your time is past, if all you'll have are memories. And then, back she comes, as if she's never been away, and your heart soars and your feet fly.
I'll need to shift some timber. Running is a mistress who offers wobbly lopers short shrift.
Take me, I'm yours
Because dreams are made of this
Forever there'll be
A heaven in your kiss
Sounds like a tremendous weekend all round. Quite a remarkable bill there. Sounds like the Strypes won't be playing many more such intimate venues. I highly recommend Chris Difford's album "I didn't get where I am", btw.
I can feel the spittle flying from way down here.
Aberdonians share a quaint refrain on greeting a person.
Fit like? (Hello, how are you?)
Nae baad, yesell? (Not too bad, thanks for asking. How about yourself?)
'Fit' has all sorts of modern connetations, including use as an adjective amongst society's youth to show appreciation for an attractive person. In my world the word is used to describe one's condition in regards to ability to run. This morning, scurrying out under heavily pregnant skies, I resolved to test my fitness.
Regular visitors will know I'm more Ray Winstone than Robert Winston. Less Big Bang theory than 'Ave a bang on Nat'. So it will come as no surprise to learn there was little by way of science in my study. What we set out to do was to take a slightly lardy, middle aged man, make him sprint down steep slopes and run steadily up harsh inclines in order to measure his state of knackerd-ness. I ran hell-for-leather down the new Moyleman start, plummeting towards the A275 like a thief on the lam. I turned and set off up what appeared to be an endless hill leading into the belly of a big dark cloud. I almost made it, giving way just before the summit, puffing like the Fat Controller tidying his office before a visit from Network Rail.
There are reams available on fitness and how it all works. To me it's a simple case of supply and demand. Your muscles demand fuel, lungs suck in and pump oxygen through the blood to feed the furnace. Repeat until done (or done-in). Supply and demand, or, as I like to think of it, Swedernomics. When the system breaks down, as it did at the top of that long hill, one has to assess the failure. No question, I'm not getting the 02 to the muscles in time. This service failure could be respiratory, circulatory or simply lack of capacity in the muscles themselves. The remedy is simple: training. So, back to it.
I hit the woodland trail. The HSE would have a fit with their legs in the air if they saw the lurking slip and trip hazards, not to mention the lack of lighting. Roots lunged through brambles, soil slid away underfoot. I leapt up and over a fallen bough, stepping on the slick green bark to launch forward, only to slide like a skateboarding youth along its surface. I believe they call this grinding, m'lud. On, on, down, down into the real darkness, brambles and nettles reaching out to sting my legs, spindly branches brushing my head and shoulders. Then up, up into the light and the mizzle, more hands-on-knees wheezing, then off up Mount Harry. Helter-skelter wall-of-death down the rutted trail to the stables, walk break, two hundred metre sprint along the all-weather, jog across the gallops, eye-popping plummet down Sweder's Hill and a steady grind back up to Houndean Rise. Knackered, recovery, knackered, recovery.
By the end of all this I was slick with sweat, windcheater tied around heaving middle, grinning like a fool as the warm blood rushed to repair torn capillaries, releasing the endorphins onto their parade lap.
Fit like?
Nae baad, Chummy
01:00 into bed after a night on the tiles in Hericourt.
Champagne/ Leffe/ Guinness interface. No dinner
04:30 (Zulu - 03:30 BST) alarm. Up, wash, pack, coffee (no breakfast), taxi to Basel
06:00 check in for flight to LGW. Chug Little Miracle ginseng tea infusion. Hit 'shuffle' on iPhone.
Simon & Garfunkle/ Buzzcocks/ Motörhead/ Pink Floyd/ Joe Bonamassa
08:30 land at LGW. Coffee. Train to Lewes
09:15 home, kiss Mrs H, shower, change togs, walk dogs, drive to office. Coffee.
14:00 Tomato and salad cream sandwich, fancy Italian orange beverage.
Hangover in check.
5:30 pm home. Change into running gear. Head to Charliecat5's gaff
6pm arrive at Charliecat5's gaff, realise I am sans running shoes. Wave to nonplussed Mr Le Chat as I drive away
6:25pm back at Charliecat5's house, with shoes.
6:30pm chase Duncan up the W, down the Yellow Brick Road, through fields of wheat and beer barley, across to Southease, along the rutted banks of the Ouse to Lewes. Circa 7:15 pm get violent stomach cramps. Clench, hang on for grim death.
8pm arrive at the Swan after ten tough miles. Take relief. Chug welcome pint of Harveys.
9pm home. Shower, change, feed (cold) grilled salmon to dogs, rock up late at neighbours.
Drink Prosecco and blather on until midnight, discuss local poets with Cat Smith.
01:00 post RC blog. Crash.
T'was a lovely evening run, to be sure. A reminder of how fortunate we are to live in this part of the world. Below, a shot of CharlieCat5, tearing across the top of The W along Kingston Ridge, heading towards the YBR.
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Nice work you two ... keep at it, fellas.
Seeking to regain fitness is a bit like playing a video game.
The early levels prove challenging, mostly due to unfamiliar surroundings and battle fatigue. As you work through the first level, slowly coming to terms with what's required, you see light at the end of the tunnel, a possible portal to progression.
Today I reached that in-between round, the time-trial, where you pause from the day-to-day slog to amass bonus points and test your sharpness.
Three loops of the far end of a sheep-less Landport Bottom. 500 metre downhill sprints, one minute recovery lopes then back up the other side (steady, not flat out). The second loop was the toughest. I really felt the loss of form as I slogged up the steepest section, desperate for respite and oxygen, certain that a third lap would be beyond me. Yet, even as I chugged up after a morning's best third plummet along the rabbit-lined fence, I realised I'd ascended to that next level. My breathing settled as I relaxed into the jog home. I smiled inwardly at this small victory.
Light at the end of the tunnel.
I do hope it's not an on-rushing train.
45 minutes, warm and sweaty.
I didn't fancy it this morning. Lack of sleep, the tail-end of an upper molar abssess, creaky knee. The excuses lined up like a defensive wall fidgeting behind a spray-painted ten-yard line. I've been here before. Feeling crap about/ before a run doesn't always equate to a crap run. So I set off, rather like Croatia, more in hope than expectation.
The run was a good deal kinder to me than the officials were to the boys from the Little Chef. Neymar, a man who could have been sobbing into an early shower after an elbow with malice aforethought, scuffed an equaliser in off the post to cancel out Marcelo's stumbled own goal. Then came the 2014 moment that, in Croatia at least, will sit next to Maradona's Hand Of God in the pantheon of World Cup injustices. Right, said Fred, drop it on me 'ead, can't get that so I'll fall instead. The man from Japan almost dislocated his wrist in his haste to award a penalty.
Insult was duly added when Croatia conjured a perfectly good leveller only for those pesky officials to chalk it off for an apparent foul on the stranded Brazilian 'keeper. Oscar, for once not worthy of an eponimous statuette, papered over the cracks with a world-class toe-poke in added time.
I should imagine the coffee in Zagreb had a rather bitter taste this morning. As the world's media attempts to report 'disturbances' (riots) on the streets of Rio and Sao Paulo in a manner that won't jeopardise their three-week junket, we're left to ponder if this might be the most politicised football tournament in history. Brazilians are taking to the streets in their droves to protest appalling poverty, government ineptitude and what is perceived as the pissing away of national resources on a party for millionaires. Imagine if they'd lost last night.
Still, the next one should be OK. It's in Russia.
Yes, an interesting game. Croatia deserve to go through on that performance, so let's hope they can channel their sense of injustice. For me the ideal match ref would have been the venerable Nicholas Parsons who, if he gives the benefit of the doubt to one player early on, tries to repay the favour later in the game. The ref's leniency towards Neymar's neck-chop could have been balanced with a less generous view of Fred's collapse under a gentle tap on the shoulder.
As for the disallowed equaliser, in fairness to Brazil they were playing to the whistle, so it's not a given that the ball would have ended up in the net had Cesar not been afforded the cotton wool treatment.
And it must be said that for both of Brazil's legitimate goals, Croatia gave the ball away in dangerous areas, so the man in black (with natty piping) wasn't completely to blame for their downfall.
The defending by both sides would have sent Hansen into a hissy fit. Brazil were equally profligate, lucky not to be two or three down before Neymar scored.
Add the leniency towards Neymar to Fred's amateur dramatics and throw in the chalked-off goal (keeper stranded, Sideshow Bob still on the deck having made the first block; it's a goal for me) I think the ref has a lot to answer for. Croatia conceded the third having thrown everything forward. It's tough enough playing Brazil in Brazil. Once you realise you're not getting a fair shout from the officials it must feel like pushing a boulder up Sugarloaf Mountain.
It's behind a pay wall unfortunately, and in any case may be well known to those of you with a deeper understanding of the game than mine, but John Lanchester in the new
London Review of Books tells of the Ecaudorean referee whose decisions in the 2002 game between Italy and South Korea were so odd. This same man later added 13 minutes of extra time to a league game in Ecuador, in order that the home team might equalise and then win. After retiring from refereeing, he took up employment as a drug mule and was arrested at JFK with six kilos of heroin.
An example to us all.
What a belting run. CharlieCat lured me out for a hilly half, taking in the W, Castle Hill, The Snake and Heartbreak Ridge. Last night's England vigil and a still-borked knee couldn't detract from a fabulous session. For Duncan this was a milestone, being his longest outing yet. For me it was a chance to revisit old friends, one that filled my heart and lungs with fire and joy.
Twelve miles and change in warm, overcast conditions. The hills and trails wore their summer finery, poppies bobbing on wheat-fields' edge, knee-high grass hiding the dried mud path, freshly-shorn sheep skipping away as we stode by. Despite steadily increasing knee pain I felt stronger as we went along, feasting on the glorious views across to Newhaven, Seaford Head and across the Ouse valley.
Duncan's just sent over the elevation profile.
It looks like a sillhouette of The Simpsons.
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You've wrecked your knee, haven't you, you oaf? So now it'll be off to Dr. Harvey and Dr. Guinness, no doubt for treatment.
Actually, you'll be astonished to learn that I've sought medical advice. Not only that, I'm taking it on board, too. Seems I most likely have a
torn meniscus, the medial (inside) edition. It's painful and gives way when stood upon and driving is purgatory.
Suggested treatment is RICE with supplementary anti-inflammatories and Paracetamol. Light running is encouraged, provided the a) the patient doesn't keel over or scream like a banshee so as to wake up the neighbours and b) there is no twisting involved. Straight up-and-down is fine, Chubby Checker impressions are out.
I'll take that, if indeed that's where it ends. If there's no improvement I can expect an episode of In Through The Keyhole and a period on the side-lines. I'm hoping it won't come to that. RICE is clearly on the cards, with the smorgasbord of televised football already upon us. Sitting for long periods without movement is frowned upon, so regular trips to the fridge must be built in to the schedule.
(16-06-2014, 01:30 PM)Sweder Wrote: [ -> ]Light running is encouraged, provided the a) the patient doesn't keel over or scream like a banshee so as to wake up the neighbours and b) there is no twisting involved. Straight up-and-down is fine, Chubby Checker impressions are out.
So what is your definition of "light running"?
(16-06-2014, 02:11 PM)Charliecat5 Wrote: [ -> ]So what is your definition of "light running"?
Seriously lightweight, 2 or 3 miles max, easy pace, grass/ flat-ish trails. Blackcap at the very most, no steep drops or rocky paths. Else I'll have to become a cyclist
(16-06-2014, 04:26 PM)Sweder Wrote: [ -> ] (16-06-2014, 02:11 PM)Charliecat5 Wrote: [ -> ]So what is your definition of "light running"?
Seriously lightweight, 2 or 3 miles max, easy pace, grass/ flat-ish trails. Blackcap at the very most, no steep drops or rocky paths. Else I'll have to become a cyclist
So there's no weekend jaunts for a while then... Who's going to carry my broken body over the finish line now?
Any volunteers? Anyone?
(16-06-2014, 01:30 PM)Sweder Wrote: [ -> ]Actually, you'll be astonished to learn that I've sought medical advice.
Bloody hell, is that really
you, Sweder?
(16-06-2014, 01:30 PM)Sweder Wrote: [ -> ]Not only that, I'm taking it on board, too.
Swoons. EG, we have an imposter among us pretending to be Sweder!
(16-06-2014, 01:30 PM)Sweder Wrote: [ -> ]Sitting for long periods without movement is frowned upon, so regular trips to the fridge must be built in to the schedule.
Oh, hang on, it
IS Sweder, after all...
Take it easy, OM. You still have a long life ahead of you. Make sure you can run most of it.