March On, March On

[Sweder]

But we know it rarely goes to plan.
Prediction: 1-1, with an England player sent off. Rooney probably.

0 - 0 and a yellow for Rooney; close enough.

The clocks 'spring' forward tonight so we lose an hour.
I wish it were possible for us to select the hour that we lose.
I can think of 90 minutes, never mind 60, that I could happily have erased from my recent history

[El Gordo]

0 - 0 and a yellow for Rooney; close enough.

The clocks 'spring' forward tonight so we lose an hour.
I wish it were possible for us to select the hour that we lose.
I can think of 90 minutes, never mind 60, that I could happily have erased from my recent history

It's a terrible confession, but from about about 70 minutes onwards, I actually wanted England to lose -- or certainly not win. If we'd scored, the appalling performance would have been glossed over by McLaren. You know the sort of thing: "We played a patient game against a resilient side, and I was always confident we would break them down. You can't always afford the luxury of playing exciting football when you have a job to do... [blah blah blah]"

We don't deserve to succeed because the FA and team management just refuse to learn from their mistakes, and refuse to make effective changes. They are either exceptionally timid, stubborn or stupid, or a mixture of all three. We all know, and it's been said ad nauseam that Gerrard and Lampard just don't seem to work in the same team. But Lampard is apparently undroppable.

The only thing I can think of to bring about true change is spectacular failure e.g. not qualifying for the Euros. It's a painful conclusion but it's not as negative as it sounds. I want England to succeed, but we can only do that if we change, and I can't see that happening unless the gods are totally humiliated. A sort of cruel-to-be-kind strategy.

At least the cricketers are through. The match against Ireland on Friday should be fun.

[Sweder]

Andy, I totally agree.
I was routing the for brave - if lightweight - Benayoun. He showed more heart and desire than the entire England apology out there. Of course McClaren did gloss over the debacle - if we'd scored, apparently, we would all be hailing a 'great' away performance

Sorry Steve; with nonsense like that you deserve a place in the next Brown government. To Lampard you can also add Rooney. Without the stern hand of Lord Ferg on his shoulder the man-child is a liability; he must be dropped, as must Lampard and possibly Ferdinand (although the latter improved perceptively in the second half). The trouble is the malaise spreads; even the usually redoubtable Hargreaves was dishing out stray passes like gifts on Honiker.

Let's hope we fail to qualify for the tournament. That will mean McClaren banished, along with his Arthur Daley side-kick, El Tel. Then Barwick can haul in a decent, and more essentially, proven, coach - whatever his nationality.

[Seafront Plodder]

Watched the 2nd half of this fiasco in a pub (whilst waiting for a takeaway).

After a while I noticed that most people had their back to the telly and were chatting amongst themselves Certainly a first for an Engerlund game in my limited experience of pub/footy watching.

Something's gotta change, and towards the end I also secretly wished we'd lose a goal.

A shocking performance. McLaren may have whined on about the quality of the opposition/their home record etc, but the fact is we couldn't string 3 passes together without that being followed by someone hopefully hoofing it upfield.

[Sweder]

And so it came to pass that Sweder, Moyleman and Rog did meet atop the cliffs and set off into the east. They ran as one under wintry skies, speaking of the challenges to come, exchanging fond greetings with the runners round about. They took to the Jog Shop Jog trail, missing the Big W to complete a circuit of nineteen miles in around three easy hours. And Sweder did test his lungs, bellowing into the hills in the manner of Leonidas; ‘THIS . . . IS . . . . SUSSEX!!!’ And the sheep and cows were sore afraid, and the crows did cackle and flap away across the rape fields.

Though Sweder did complain of discomfort in his calf, and Rog did mutter about a stiffening in his hip, they finished as they started; together, united, ready for their quest to the tip of the southern hemisphere. And they did take upon themselves to Mac’s café, and they did consume large plates of seared pork, fried chicken embryos and beans baked in the juices of tomatoes.

Solid stuff this morning. I eschewed the ibuprofen, keen to learn the full extent of any niggles. Towards the end my back stiffened and the pain my calf made itself known. I’ll be taking a trip to the torture chamber next week to have that looked at, but basically ice, elevation, pharmaceuticals and a lot of rest will be the order of next week. 13 days and counting to the biggest run of my life. I’m feeling good, buoyed by comments from such quality runners as Remmy and Steve who remarked on our apparent speed as we pulled away from the pack in the early stages. The nice thing is we didn’t feel we were pushing it, so maybe this training is starting to pay dividends.

The main group (Paris and London bound) dug in for their 22 today, including the Big W (or for some the Big V). We waited for them to come in, applauding them as they chugged over the final brow, faces flushed, streaked with salt, grins as wide as the channel. Good luck to every one of you.

A midweek five and one more gentle lope next Saturday – an 8 or 12 mile loop around the Snake – and a team breakfast (in a pub, natch) and then its all aboard the Branson Express on the Tuesday. Can’t wait. I’m off to see 300 before I burst. The Bad Doctor says this is tailor-made for Fifteen-year-olds; perfect!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Sorry mate, that new avatar requires explanation.

[Sweder]

A dear friend from yesteryear sent this to me today - its me in my usual regalia circa 1979 . . . Stranglers T-shirt and unruly mop. I still have the T-shirt . . .

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

A dear friend from yesteryear sent this to me today - its me in my usual regalia circa 1979 . . . Stranglers T-shirt and unruly mop. I still have the T-shirt . . .

F*ck!

[Ana]

A dear friend from yesteryear sent this to me today - its me in my usual regalia circa 1979 . . . Stranglers T-shirt and unruly mop. I still have the T-shirt . . .

All the day I was thinking, who is this boy, perhaps your kid?

The boy of the photo didn't run at all! Isn't it? At least, you looks like amusing...

[Sweder]

I've just come back from 45 minutes of ever-lovin' pain at the pincer-like hands of Kader the Merciless, the Algerian former Olympic boxer, Marathon des Sables veteran and Paris 2006 Team Leader offering personal trainer services and extreme deep muscle massage in his chambers in darkest Shoreham.

Apart from weeping like a small child as the Great Man squeezed every ounce of flesh from my lower limbs into my knees and then back down into my ankles, not to mention pressing his knuckle bone-deep all the way up and down each leg, this was an incredible experience; wish I'd gone sooner.
No, really.

Did I hear 'tight calves'? That was my problem before tonight's session on the rack. My right calf was so tight the muscle was slapping like the strings on a double bass against the bone, apparently the prelude to serious shin splints. Kader broke down the tense tissue, peeling it away from the tibia to loosen and sparate the muscle fibres. Yes, it's as barbaric as it sounds but already, a few hours later, I can start to feel the benefits.

More rest follows, along with liberal doses of Arnica and Ibuprofen.

A word for a friend of mine who, in running terms, has suffered a terrible blow.
Since hammering her HM PB down from 2:20 to 1:56 in preparation for her inaugural assault on the FLM SG suffered a recurrence of what she surmised to be an old achillies problem. A series of visits during the day, to a sports phisyo, local casualty department and her GP, has yielded a broad spectrum of diagnosies ranging from shin splints to tendonitis to a possible hairline fracture of the foot or ankle. One thing seems certain; for this brave soul, for 2007 at least, the FLM is over.

She is of course devastated. I spent 30 minutes on the 'phone with her tonight, telling her how brilliantly she'd done this year, how proud we all are of her sacrifice and unflinching effort and that there'll be another chance next year. All this was about as much use to her as a one-legged man at an arse-kicking party; I could hear the utter desolation in her whispered replies.

To all those who struggle against the impossible disappointment of last-minute injury, don't give up. Just remember what it took to get you this close. That alone makes you pretty darned special.

There but for the grace of God go the rest of us.

[Seafront Plodder]

Indeed. She wasn't feeling too confident last week but was hoping for a positive prognosis.

Anyone who has run a marathon knows only too well how the bloody thing takes over your whole life - more so your first.

I am gutted for her as I too know what it meant for her to get to the start line.

[El Gordo]

That's very bad luck. Not an experience I've had, but I can imagine the frustration of going through all the hassle and self-sacrifice only to have the door slammed in your face. Especially for a marathon, when the training has to be 'special' i.e. not like a 10K or half marathon, where (if you're moderately fit and accustomed to these distances) you can pretty much decide the day before the race that you fancy taking part. The marathon is a 4 month hole in your life, and in exchange, you expect -- and deserve -- the compensation of the feeling of triumph and satisfaction. The feeling that yes, the training was tough and the race was murder but it was all worth it. To invest so much, and not get the reward, is cruel indeed.

It's hard in the short term, but your friend has to try to be philosophical about it. The big question she has to ask: what went wrong? Given her impressive time improvement and the variety of diagnoses, sounds like a classic case of overtraining. My idleness saves me from overuse injuries. Your pal has no option but to learn from the situation. Sounds like she needs to mix up her training a bit, combining running with cross-training: swimming, cycling etc. Joining a gym would help, and encourage her to use different muscles to spread the stress around her body a bit. And she might even consider a sports massage from one of the evil people you associate with.

It's no short-term compensation whatsoever. Missing the FLM when it's only 3 weeks away is desperately disapointing for her but in time she will realise that she has learnt a valuable lesson. Running puts you in touch with your body like nothing else, and it sounds like she has suddenly entered into deep negotiation with hers. Life can be cruel.

[Ana]

I agree.
If I thing for a moment at injuries just before a marathon, specially after so many training...
But anyway, actually there is nothing impossible. Even SP is going to run his Almería HM next year
I am jocking... and we are not talking a question for laughing. Sorry
Me, I am not an expert on marathon at all, but I believe that Marathon consist also on the whole training. Therefore she has already made something important. And she will running another Marathon in the future... if she wants.

[Sweder]

Time to bite the bullet and test the calf out on Lewesian streets.
My new runners have been shining like some luminous artifact from outer space; I need to get some miles on those puppies before the Journey to the End of the World.

A beautiful moonlit canopy over the old town tonight as I lumbered carefully down the steep hill from my house. Sure enough the calf was pretty sore, and I wondered if it would ever settle down. After a couple of gentle miles it did; the blood warmed the fibres, washing away the stiffness, allowing me to relax a little more. Somewhat less comforting was the constant stream of life-&-limb-threatening obstacles apparently hell-bent on my destruction. Darting cats, lurching buses, wobbling cyclists, half-cut drinkers weaving up the cobbled streets, dark, dangerous figures lurching out of hidden doorways, arms laden with take-away bags. I yearned for the safety, the sanctitiy, of my hills, but of course its all about road miles, and miles on the new boots, to boot.

I thought I'd covered five miles by the time I pulled into my driveway, steam billowing from my drenched FLM 2005 finishers shirt, but the kitchen clock suggested a different story; only 35 minutes had elapsed.

Whatever - distance tonight is irrelevant.
What is relevant is the initial lack of pain in my leg. The true test will come in the morning when any residual stiffness will no doubt announce itself. The early indications are Kader has worked his magic. This makes me feel a whole lot better about recommending his evil ways to a fellow RW forumite, Southdownsman. I stretched carefully, commited to preserving the post-pummeling looseness in my legs.

More rest now, then a gentle twelve mile loop around Old Snakey with the Cape Town Boys on Saturday morning, topped off with a pub breakfast overlooking our playground hills.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

The early indications are Kader has worked his magic. This makes me feel a whole lot better about recommending his evil ways to a fellow RW forumite, Southdownsman. I stretched carefully, commited to preserving the post-pummeling looseness in my legs.

Good to hear. At the end of my session with the lovely, but evil Rebecca, she grabbed me by the shoulders, fixed her red, vengeful eyes on mine and made me swear on a stack of goat entrails to get a sports massage "every six weeks".

I squeaked, "OK".

[Sweder]

Yes, Kader the Merciless offered similar advice. In fact he suggested getting a sports massage as soon as I get to Cape Town, although nothing like the X-rated flesh-peeling that he inflicted.

Incidentally, the temperature in that fair city is set to prod 32 degrees celcius today - that's a ton in old money

[El Gordo]

Incidentally, the temperature in that fair city is set to prod 32 degrees celcius today - that's a ton in old money

This is where all those months of warm weather training will pay dividends.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Incidentally, the temperature in that fair city is set to prod 32 degrees celcius today - that's a ton in old money

[Smirks derisively] Mate, it's nowhere near the old century mark. Try about 90. You'll be fine - a walk in the park.

Clearly you guys don't hit 30 degrees that often?

[El Gordo]

Clearly you guys don't hit 30 degrees that often?

We do. It dipped below freezing just last week.

[Sweder]

[Smirks derisively] Mate, it's nowhere near the old century mark. Try about 90.

You're right, of course.
Only I looked again and it's actually 37C, which is about 98F. That's OK for your actual sun-dried southern hemisphere leather-skinned rock-dwellers . . . we NH softies start to sizzle at anything over 70. Frying tonight . . .