Breaking News: some running to Report!
Not only that but a 'down your way' with fellow RCer Cloggie. We'd planned to run through the Amsterdam Bos, a wild parkland outside the city, but the arrival of thick snow and freezing temperatures (and Cloggie's charity half marathon not two weeks away) and the subsequent unsure footing meant a last minute change of location. In hindsight I'm not sure a twilight run along the banks of Amstel with a windchill of minus fourteen was an altogether wise choice. I climbed out of the car only to be cleaved into two through my padded, well-wrapped torso by a murderous, hacking wind. As Cloggie pulled on a variety of warm-looking accessories and locked the car I hopped and jumped about clapping my hands, sending spouts of smokey breath into the freezing air as I stated the bleedin' obvious: 'holy crap - this is cold!'
It was a tad on the chily side. The wind whipped up off the dark, rippling water, smacking us across our exposed faces as we lumbered off into gloom, leaving the well-lit, warm and teasingly inviting
Klein Kalfje behind us. We chatted about training and runs past and future, especially Cloggie's apirations for a sub two half. She'd completed the course a year before, clocking a respectable debut in 2:06. Judging by the ease with which she ran-talked now I could see she'd improved. We stuck to the road flanked by large, beautifully appointed Dutch dwellings adorned with generous gardens and brightly-lit windows, linked by great open tracts of land where the wicked wind lurked, ready to leap out and batter the unwary passer-by.
Despite an honest yet comfortable pace and several layers of clinging lycra the cold continued to nag and niggle until some 25 minutes in we reached a brightly-lit main street and a bridge crossing the river. Cloggie paused to see if we fancied extending the run or sticking to the planned 10k. I opted for the latter, aware that I'd barely so much as jogged since Rio two weeks before when I'd danced along the sands of Ipanema in somewhat warmer climes. We crossed the Amstel, dropping down to the far bank to head back towards the city. The wind screamed off the open fields, blasting my exposed right ear until I felt sure it would snap clean off. We must've subconsciously upped the pace because talking become a little more difficult. Or maybe it was the frozen skin of my face pulling my mouth tighter than an wilting actress's botox'd forehead.
The light bled from the sky as one by one stars winked into view above us, tiny frosted jewels sparkling in the darkness. Reaching the point where the river ducks under the motorway we wheeled right up the access ramp and took the pedestrain lane across the bridge. Below and far off to our left the Klein Kalfje shone, looking for all the world like an incandescent paddle-steamer stranded on the murky Mississippi shore.
At last we rumbled up to the car, steam pluming from our backs in the bitter night. 10.33 kilometres in 63 minutes. Had we gone round again at the same rate we'd have equalled Cloggie's half marathon time from last December. In truth we'd been jogging easily most of the way so I've no doubt she'll crack two hours with something to spare.
Twenty minutes later, crumpled lycra skin shed in the corner of the bathroom, piping hot water stinging my pallid, corpse-like skin, I marvelled as my flesh changed from morgue-slab white to lobster pink. Had I not an appointment with Cloggie and Ali B at
Lieve, a much vaunted baroque Belgian eatery in the
Heerengracht, I might be there even now.
