February 2010

[Sweder]

A hectic if useful (and, ultimately, very pleasant) 48 hours in the shiny desert city of gold. More meetings than you could shake a crooked sheep-herder’s stick at, meals on boats, meals on the fly, wild and crazy taxi rides though sand storms and a trip up the Dubai Creek (no paddle required).

At some point close to three pm my energy levels reached their inevitable nadir. The last meeting had finally concluded as I packed up my work stuff and made for the first of several long-anticipated rendezvous with old friends. First up La Bella Donwa, former client and stunning London lady who’s been out here just over a year. She’s in love; he’s leaving his boudoir in Paris to join her in the desert. I’m made up for her. Then on to Airport Expo to meet another 'old' friend, the equally enchanting C McC. I was delighted to see her face light up as I sauntered into her organiser’s office. I was, it transpired, her knight in shining armour, come to whisk her away from all this for a somewhat tasteless skinny latte and some high quality gossip.

Goodbyes and pledges to keep in touch exchanged I moved on once more, this time to the Intercontinental in Dubai Festival City. This was my indulgence, my chance to finally shake off the stresses and limb-draining jet-lag that threatened to finish me off; my evening run. Nik, another colleague and legendary scorer of both goals in a dramatic 2-1 win for the GB Exhibitors XI versus the Singapore Contractors Allstars (circa 1990), waited on the threshold, decked out in running gear and all-too chirpily jogging on the spot. I nodded an apology for my late arrival and dashed into the hotel, meaning to shed my lightweight business suit and change, Superman-like, into my own shorts and vest. In my careless haste I charged head-first into the ladies, skidding to a horrified halt in the middle of the hallowed marble hall. A lone local lass was frightened half out of her Birka as I spun on my heel and shot back through the still-closing door. More haste, less speed.

Finally transformed in the gents I rushed past the concierge, hurling my tote bag at the confused bell-hop as I yelled a name and room number. ‘Back in 40 minutes or so’ I called as I joined Nik and his whippet-like colleague in the cooling night air. We set off at an easy pace, circumnavigating the moonlit Al Badia Hillside Village on the well-appointed pavement. The tall, fort-like conurbations glowed flesh-pink in the half-light, turreted carapaces leering out of the dark night sky. We chugged and talked of running, of PBs and Nik’s recent inaugural half (a creditable 1:45 debut in Amsterdam). He repeated that oft-heard cry of the recent half-finisher - ‘I’ll never manage to do the same again’ - in reference to his plans to complete the full 26.2 mile distance. I referred him to the Wisdom of the Race Head; each distance you do you affix your appropriate Race Head, thus subconsciously preparing the body and limbs for the required pace and endurance. 5K, 10K, Half, Full, Ultra ... they all need mental adjustment and slightly different preparation. He seemed happy enough with that.

We talked of life and family and work ... and of reading material.
Nik’s recently discovered the joys of Barefoot Running via the book Born To Run (discussed in other forum areas here). He found it profound, uplifting and ‘one of the best books I’ve read on running.’ I really must get hold of this book. I countered with my well-rehearsed fanfare for ‘Feet In The Clouds’, Richard Askwith’s triumphant homage to fell running.

9.3 lightly-sweaty kilometres later we completed our third circuit. I bade farewell to my companions as I had a fourth old friend to meet for dinner. Concerned I’d kept Paul waiting (see self-flagellatory statement on British-ness below) I dashed into the hotel lobby and presented a slightly soggy bag receipt to the less-than-impressed bell-hop. He held it at arms length, like something dead and lice-infested removed from a trap, before peering at the slightly smudged numbers. After a good deal of brow-furrowing, keyboard clicking and a considered chin-rub the man informed me that my bag ‘has been sent up to your room, Sir.’

Cue mild panic. I was not now nor have I ever stayed in this fine establishment, and therefore did not have a room to which to send a bag. A bag containing my wallet, cell phone and a suit which, whilst purchased for very little in the dusty back-streets of New Delhi some years ago, was made to measure and carried significant sentimental value. In that case, you might ask, why in blue blazes had I treated said bag and its' priceless contents in such a careless fashion not an hour past? It can only be down to my interminable, quintessential British-ness, that petrifying ingrained-from-birth fear of keeping others waiting. It dwells on the same dusty shelf as those antiquated heirlooms queuing with dignity and wearing a business suit in ridiculously warm conditions when everyone else is in short sleeved, open-necked shirts.

Breathless, extremely sweaty and now in mortal fear of keeping another good friend waiting I explained my dilemma to the poor concierge. He looked mortified, checking some hieroglyphics scrawled on a scrap of paper affixed to his liveried blue clipboard.
‘Umm ... just one moment sir; I’ll be ... right back.’
I’d have put a fair sum on never seeing his furrowed brow again, yet not five minutes later he emerged from the elevators, waving my tote bag triumphantly as if to the cheering hoards in the Coliseum. Somewhat ungratefully I snatched said hold-all from his grasp and tore – right choice first time – into the gents.

My reward was a sumptuous supper of seared Seabass and thick-cut French fries served with ice-cold Amstel on a candle-lit pier jutting out into the gulf. Before you ask I avoided ruining this scene by sweating profusely through my impossibly-light suit by towling down vigorously before dressing. I’d at least had the foresight to smuggle a bathrobe out of my less salubrious digs some hours before. Paul and I talked over old times as the crescent moon shimmered it’s ghostly beam across the sand. To our left the mighty Burj Al Arab rose from the ocean, a mighty rocket standing proud against the stars. Life is hectic, at times almost giddily so; yet at moments like these, endorphins coursing merrily through my sated veins, the company of a good friend and the prospect of a return home within the next few hours, life is also very good.

Right: sorry for any typos, errors or ommissions; I've a plane to catch.
Cheerio; don't want to keep the blighters waiting.