I'm a rather battered and bruised blogger this evening. Since the last post the pogo stick of fortune has jumped up and down (sometimes down rather more abruptly than planned). But before I describe my various ailments, let's enjoy the good stuff....
... Julie and I enjoyed the good stuff on the Monday before last as my flat sale completed, toasting it with a bottle of Dom Perignon. Very decadent for a Monday evening. Yes, the property crash didn't hit St Margaret's too badly, as Andrew and I sold our flat for a profit. The old estate agent's mantra proved correct: Location, location, location. The flat might not have been the most beautiful example of 1950s architecture, but it was very conveniently located near St Margaret's station. So, despite the biggest housing slump for years we were always ticking over with viewings and sold the day our early redemption penalty expired. With Ben staying in the flat till the last minute it all worked out perfectly for me.
Meanwhile, Julie and I had an offer accepted on a house in Liphook. With that progressing, we hope to be moved before the wedding. It's fair to say we'll both be pleased to get out of our poky, creaking flat in Haslemere. After all, we need somewhere to put all our wedding presents!
The wedding itself is coming together. There's nothing complicated about the organisation, but the checklist is long and I expect the next few months will see a continuation of the long evening To Do lists I've been using recently. I invented a new word to sum it all up: "Choreful". When someone asks how my evening was, I reply "Choreful". They get the gist, and I hope you do too.
Anyway, want to hear a tale of high speed drama, where the brave hero comes back from the dead to win a glorious victory? Well, you should maybe read Lance Armstrong's "It's Not About the Bike". My tale is somewhat less glamorous.
Some months back I entered Race #3 of an Evening Triathlon series at Dorney Lake near Windsor. My enthusiasm for it was low: It was expensive (£45), inconvenient (leave early, drive away from Haslemere, get home very late) and completely unsuitable for my triathlon strengths (long swim, flat bike, short run). But with the money spent there was no point in wasting it.
The expected heavy rain just about held off, but under angry skies I started the 750m Open Water swim near the back. I hadn't swum in weeks, and not in a lake for nearly 2 years. I had all the expected sighting and technique problems, so reverted to breast stroke fairly early and was reasonably happy to stumble out of the water in about 18 minutes.
I had considered not wearing a wetsuit, to speed up transition. It would also have made breast stroking easier, and in hindsight I would have found the water just about warm enough. After about 2 minutes struggling to get the wetsuit over my left heel I was ruing my decision not to man-out the cold. Eventually, after watching most of the 10% of the field who somehow swam slower than me pedal off into the Berkshire countryside, I got the damned thing off.
Onto the bike and I started overtaking people. It was a strange 6 lap course alongside the lake. A vague triangular shape it had 3 turns which we tight enough to slow you down considerably, but wide enough to reward the braver cornerers. After a curiously slow 2nd lap I put the hammer down for the final 4. My cornering was excellent and I gradually made up the time I had lost on a colleague from work who had got his wetsuit off much faster.
With him in sight I approached the final tight left-hand bend before the sweeping curve back to transition. Suddenly my attention was drawn to a rider exiting the corner who somehow managed to hit the inside verge and was wobbling dangerously. My instinct was to bleed off a bit more speed to avoid careering straight into a fallen rider, but disaster struck. I made the basic mistake of touching the brakes just after I had started turning and my back wheel skidded out from beneath me.
In the micro-second before I hit the ground, I swore to myself and thought "this is unusually dramatic for me". After my head hit the tarmac I sat up, dazed. I had fallen right in front a Marshall who quickly came over and asked if I wanted a medic. All I knew was I had hit the ground hard while going at about 18mph, so I figured I must have done something worthy of medical treatment. I nodded. Then I did a systems check:
My head was OK as the helmet took the impact, and the punch-drunk feeling subsided pretty quickly. I tested my arm fully expecting to discover a broken collar bone or wrist, but both were fine. A bit grazed, but fine. As far as I could see my left hand had borne the brunt of the crash. My middle finger had swollen up to twice it's normal size. Again, I was surprised that I could bend it.
I had crashed by the apex of the corner, so was proving a bit of a hazard to navigation. A few other riders asked how I was as they whizzed past, ignoring the Marshall's plea to slow down. I was more concerned with getting out of the way, more out of a fear of someone crashing into me, than any consideration for the hold up I was causing. With the Marshall's help I got off the road, and sat on the grass watching the race go by.
A medic appeared. He came the the same conclusion I had about my bones and so set about patching me up. It was only when he radioed in to say that I had a bad case of road rash did I realise that the worst injuries were out of my sight. He found some cuts on my legs and elbow, but most of his focus was on my left armpit and shoulder, which seemed to have been dragged along the tarmac.
10 minutes later he was done. "It'll be painful for the next few days, but you'll recover" he told me. I picked up my bike and checked it over. After fitting the chain back on, it seemed ok, and I started walking back to transition. Walking in cycling shoes is not easy, as the cleats protrude about 2cm under the ball of the foot, so I pretty quickly decided to hop on and cruise back the 500m to T2.
I wasn't sure whether to run or not. My legs seemed to be fine, but my heart wasn't really in the race anymore. I remembered the words of some great triathlete: "There are only 2 reasons you should DNF: Death or two broken legs". I'm not convinced that's entirely true, but it inspired me to HTFU and run 5km.
The run was comparatively strong. I was probably last to start running from my wave, but I did overtake quite a few of the slower athletes. My mind was not entirely switched on, however, and by rights I should have been disqualified. The run was two out-and-back laps on the other side of the lake to the bike course. As I approached the finish I thought I should put the burners on and make up one more place by out sprinting the guy in front of me. Suddenly, however, he turned left to go back for a second lap, probably about 10m further on than I had turned 10 minutes before. I must have accidentally taken a 20m short-cut. A Marshall should have taken my number and kicked me out of the event. Maybe they saw my scars and took pity.
Not wanting to hang around I left quickly. Packing my bike away a number of people came over to ask what happened, all sympathising and congratulating me for finishing. Judging by the way they spoke, my shoulder didn't look good. Sure enough as I drove home the endorphins wore off and the pain took over. By the time I got home I just wanted to cry.
Julie was a great help. Each night she applied cream to my road rash and after 5 days the skin was pretty much healed, save a couple of scars on my elbow and armpit. It's transpired, however, that my left shoulder had taken quite a blow. By the location of the worst scars I think my left arm was forced straight up as I landed, bringing the elbow up towards the ear. This has left the shoulder joint bruised and although I'm not in a great amount of pain, I can't do some odd things, such as point or change into second gear while driving. Thankfully, Julie has an automatic, so we've swapped cars for the time being.
To compound my misery, today I had a minor surgical procedure to remove some moles from my back. The stitched wounds are surprisingly painful, and I'm typing this confident of a very painful night's sleep. Physically, I appear to be falling apart, but these wounds will heal soon and the good aspects to life at the moment will prove to be far more permanent.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Fins Fans Rejoice!
They're back! Recovered from a World Tour of the UK, with the summer vibe of two slots at Guilfest pulsing through each musical muscle, The Fins return with a new single that will raise Michael Jackson from his grave (if he's actually in one).
Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, Rushmoor's favourite indie rock act have surpassed the brilliance of Adaptor. Realising that there aren't any higher musical mountains to scale, they invented a Rock-propelled Space Shuttle and Blast Off! Here comes Concrete Shoes.
http://www.thefins.co.uk/main.htm
Now... what do I have to do to become Fin Fan of the month?
Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, Rushmoor's favourite indie rock act have surpassed the brilliance of Adaptor. Realising that there aren't any higher musical mountains to scale, they invented a Rock-propelled Space Shuttle and Blast Off! Here comes Concrete Shoes.
http://www.thefins.co.uk/main.htm
Now... what do I have to do to become Fin Fan of the month?
Friday, 26 June 2009
Celebrity-bashing
It was an odd morning. I was wide awake at least 15 minutes before the alarm went off, and so I jumped out of bed quicker than usual and, one set of daily ablutions later returned to the bedroom to find a dozy Julie holding her phone; clear evidence that she'd switched her alarm off. For the first time in my memory I turned on the radio early enough to hear the full cheesy song that kicks off the Radio One breakfast show. A unusually somber Chris Moyles bought me (and presumably millions of other early risers) the news that news that Michael Jackson had died. Moyles and his team dispensed with their usual daily 20 minute fun and games to essay how each had heard the news, as if somehow this news compared to JFK's assassination, or our generation's real equivalent: 9/11.
Michael Jackson led a peculiar, quite sad life that will undoubtedly make an interesting film at some point in the near future (pencil in Robert Downey Jnr to reprise his pan-racial tour de force in Tropic Thunder). But was he really that important to either music or the world? Personally, I feel that Elvis, Kurt Cobain and John Lennon had a bigger influence musically, but in the Motown and Pop sense Jacko was legendary. But, his life was always a triviality and he made clumsy attempts to use his influence to raise serious issues such as race and the importance of childhood. Let's face it, he was a laughing stock when he tried to claim his attempts to whiten himself were aimed at racial harmony, and the less said about children the better.
We live in the Age of the Celebrity. At least Jacko had some talent that justified his fame and in 10 years time I hope he's remembered for Thriller and the Jackson Five, rather than his surgery and those abuse allegations. But, every time you turn on the TV, read a newspaper or trawl the internet, you find your brain-space invaded by someone who has inexplicably gained the media's attention. The Football WAGs are prime examples, as are 99% of the contestants on most "celebrity" shows. Clearly, Phil Tufnell represents the 1% who deserve the term celebrity (pure genius, that man). And, even though they were definitely B-list, those who took part on the BBC One show on homelessness this week are genuine heroes. But, ignoring those exceptions, what have these people done to deserve my attention?
I wonder if Jade Goody will represent the non-celebrity Zenith. Another tragic life lived in the media. She appeared as the village idiot in the third Big Brother house (2002), entering the public consciousness with a BJ for PJ, and followed that eruption with moments of outrageous stupidity. Here are just a few of my favourites (thanks to www.allgreatquotes.com for these):
"Do they speak Portuganese in Portugal? I thought Portugal was in Spain."
"Rio de Janeiro, ain't that a person?"
"Where is East Angular [Anglia], is it abroad?"
"I knew Lynne was from Aberdeen, but I didn't realise Aberdeen was in Scotland."
Over the next 6 years, Jade somehow maintained a presence in the media. Perhaps she was a lot brighter than we all gave her credit for. For somehow, despite allegations of racism during Celebrity Big Brother (backed-up by some pretty solid evidence, it must be said), she became a celebrity magazine favourite and managed to create a career out of her profile. But why? What did she give the entertainment industry or the wider public? She had no talents that enabled her to act, sing, dance or educate. The only talent she had was a very basic ability to make people feel better about themselves by witnessing second-hand the misdeeds of a true idiot. Her losing battle with cancer turned it around. You can't laugh at that. The media sobered up, took her under their wing and decided to pay her back for years of ridicule.
Anyway, I'm sat here tapping away with the BBC Two coverage of Glastonbury on in the background. It's time I started paying attention and deciding whether sitting at home watching it on TV is a sure sign of getting old. Under normal circumstances I'd probably concede that time had passed a little too far to merit attendance at the festival for anyone my age (except for the real Hippies, of course), but it turns out that Blur are the youngest act on the Pyramid Stage on Sunday.
In the car home this afternoon, I heard a Radio 4 article on the reaction of Glastobury to the news of Jacko's demise. Irreverent sums it up quite well. I chuckled as I thought that this year's camp-site shout (a phrase that echoes from tent to tent, across the hills of Somerset at any night-time hour), won't be "Bollocks", "Nicole? Papa" or "Wear Sunscreen". No, last night it was "Michael Jackson is dead". And, according to Jeremy Hardy, after a few minutes reflection each the on-site comedians already had jokes sharpened. If I hadn't heard that I'd probably think the world had gone as mad as it did when Diana died.
Yet, no: BBC Two now leave Glasto and cut-over to a Newsnight Special on.... Michael Jackson. Ridiculous! Please, just play some of his songs, and let him lie.
Monday, 15 June 2009
Another little run report...
Within a few days of the London Marathon, the pain in my legs subsided and it wasn't long before I was running again. I felt faster than at any point since the shin splints 12 months before and decided to put my back-up plan into action. Since moving to Haslemere all my long runs have been out in the hills either over the Devil's Punchbowl to the North, or south towards Midhurst. Indeed, less than a mile south of our pokey little flat is the northern boundary of the proposed South Downs National Park. I used to love running around Richmond Park and along the Thames towpath, but it just doesn't compare to the countryside out of the city. The scale of the hills, too, present a challenge unlike anything the city can provide.
My back-up plan was the South Downs Marathon. It sounded perfect: a scenic run along the South Downs Way from Slindon College outside Chichester to Queen Elizabeth Country Park outside Petersfield. I wanted to avenge the running demons who had ruined the London Marathon. In particular, I wasn't going to get dehydrated. But equally, my goal for the day was just to enjoy it, finish and take in the scenery. I had no idea how much the hills would slow me down. In the back of my mind I thought I might set a new marathon PB, but I really wasn't sure.
So, after a particularly good run 2 weeks after the London Marathon I submitted my entry. I figured running 26.2 miles was excellent training for running 26.2 miles, so with the marathon in the bank I decided to focus on a 20 mile run each weekend, and 2 shorter faster ones midweek. That plan went out of the window the day after the entry was posted, as I came down with a critical case of man-flu, which forced me to not train for over a week. With a fairly small window between recovering from one marathon to tapering for the next, being ill was a disaster. I suppose I started training hard to soon after the marathon. My runs had been fast and I had also started cycling quite a bit, but I felt so strong at first that I thought it wasn't a problem.
All colds end up in my chest, and it was nearly two weeks before the cough subsided enough to risk running again. With the clock ticking I managed a few mid-week runs with Phil and on the second Bank Holiday in May, I at last managed to get out for a long run of nearly 3.5 hours. That run was particularly pleasing as I was in a dark mood before setting out, and I forced myself to run away from home so I couldn't quit early. But after about 2 hours I was in the groove and feeling strong again. I had also reasserted superiority in the midweek runs with Phil, so things were looking up!
A short taper followed. With two days to go I was bouncing off the walls with excess energy. Not nervous energy, just excess. It never really occurred to me that the marathon might be difficult or painful. I just wanted to get out there.
Mercifully the marathon was on Saturday morning, which meant my body clock was already adjusted to the 6am start. A large bowl of porridge later and Julie and I headed down to the start. Julie was a star again. The point-to-point nature of the run meant that most competitors had to leave their cars at the finish and get a coach back to the start. Being dropped off gave me an extra hour in bed.
It was a lovely morning. Not too hot, a little overcast, but no threat of rain. Julie headed off to Chichester before the start, so I chatted to a fellow who'd done the run twice before. He had a long wait, as there were 3 waves of racers. The first was supposedly the slow wave, starting at 9am for runners expecting times over 4 hours 30 mins. Then the relay teams headed off at 9:30am before the quick individuals started at 10am. I was expecting a little under 4:30, but with a BBQ in Woking in the afternoon I decided to run in the first wave, thus disqualifying myself from the prizes. I wasn't worried about this: I was never going to win a prize anyway!
Of course, that meant that I was fairly near the front of the slower wave, and as the run set off for a lap of the Slindon College 400m track before heading for the hills I slotted into about 20th place.
The first 5 miles were a mixture of farm tracks and countryside paths uphill towards a ridge where we'd join the South Downs Way. I ran with a water bottle held in a little pouch strapped around my waist. At each mile marker I religiously took a swig, careful to avoid any dehydration issues, and refilled the bottle at each aid station.
It wasn't long before we settled into a pace and I ran alongside the same 4 or 5 people for miles. I chatted away to a few of them. Really nice guys, all doing it for the first time and each one with one (London) marathon under his belt. Eerie. There were a couple of others who ignored us, unable to chat due to the little white headphones they wore. I felt a great camaraderie with those I spoke to, but the iPod runners felt like the enemy.
Talking away the first half marathon flew by. My legs were a little tired, but I was getting enough energy and liquid and felt strong and confident. The half-way point was marked by a steep mile descent into Cocking (hee hee) before a drinks station, a road crossing and then a steep mile climb back up to the ridge. The group of 5 was led by an iPod runner. They tend to change direction unpredictably and without reference to the position of anyone around them. I wanted a clear run, unimpeded, so I opened up a little bit and dropped like a stone to Cocking. It didn't feel fast or reckless, but I had a good 30 second gap on the rest of the group as I refuelled and chatted to Julie and my sister Susan at the aid stop.
Then the run got a little more difficult. All the advice had been to prepare to walk up the steepest climbs and we all knew that the third quarter had a lot of those as we ran to Harting Down. I walked up much of the first climb back to the ridge, taking on more liquid and bantering with a few braver souls who decided to run up. As the gradient shallowed out I got running again and felt strong for another 3 or 4 miles as we ran though a forest trail.
Fatigue and the first relay runners caught up at about the same point, around the 17 mile mark. Suddenly the hills reared up in front of me and the lack of consistent miles in training seemed to add to the gradient. It wasn't long before I was getting over-taken a lot.
Harting Down has a spectacular view - probably the best of the route - but, my-oh-my, you really had to earn it. Some of the hills were over 20% for long periods, and for the first time the route was exposed to the sun. Saturday was a lovely day, but a little too warm to run a marathon, and my mouth felt parched as I clambered up the climbs, at times wondering if scrambling was more efficient than walking.
As I walked up the last long steep hill to the aid station at Harting Down, I looked up and saw Susan and Julie shouting at me. I turned to the guys walking next to me (no one was running this one): "Why did they have to stand at the top of the hill?" So, I started running up the climb to great applause from the other spectators and sadistic laughs from the other runners. Of course, at the top I then had to start walking to talk to Julie and Sue, and so watched all the runners I'd just overtaken (the first for some time), pass me again. I complained, so the two of them started running alongside for a few hundred metres to the general amusement of all around.
After the Harting road crossing the wheels really started coming off. The problem was triggered by a big stone in my right shoe. I had to stop to get it out, but with 20 miles in my legs, the strange movement upset my calves and as soon as I stood up my right calf cramped. Very painfully, I jogged on, but had to stop to stretch a few times. I focused on drinking the electrolyte I collected at the aid station, and looking back I think this helped, as the cramping subsided by about mile 22.
But progress was slow. I went through half-way in 3 minutes under 2 hours, but any hope of getting close to 4 hours was long gone. I was plodding along at about 11 minute miles; slower than my bog-standard pace at London, but don't forget I was still walking up hills. Even my Ironman 4 hours 18 minute split was safe.
At 24 miles we hit another long climb and entered the Country Park. This was it; once at the top of the hill it was flat to the finish. I got running as soon as the gradient flattened out and plodded on knowing that in 15 minutes or so it'd all be over.
Amazingly I started overtaking some runners again. I didn't feel fast, but there were some desperate runners. As I passed the 26 mile mark I looked at my watch. I had about a minute to get in under 4 hours 30. Amazingly, I went past a couple of relay runners but as I looked at the finish 100 metres away my watch ticked over 4:30, and that milestone was gone. I jogged in with sore legs and a grimace, completing ruining my finish line picture.
4 hours 30 minutes 27 seconds put me in exactly 200th place (out of about 500), and by 27 seconds I'd started in the right wave, which pleased me in a strange way. I'd achieved my objective, suffering no dehyration. At halfway I felt strong and I just got more and more tired, which is exactly how it should be. The cramp was unfortunate, so I should be a little more careful about taking on electrolyte. But crucially I just didn't have the training miles in the bank meaning the basic endurance to run more than 20 miles was missing.
But I loved it. The scenery was wonderful, the friendliness of the (non-iPod wearing) runners was unusual and the event is really well organised. I'd highly recommend it and am already itching to do it again. Regrettably, it's a little close to Ironman France so I won't be able to enter next year, but roll on 2011!
Big thanks to Sue and Julie, who have excelled themselves as marathon fans again. For their troubles they got a plastic clapper each, which apparently saves the hands from a hard time.
So what next? How about the Beachy Head Marathon in October?
My back-up plan was the South Downs Marathon. It sounded perfect: a scenic run along the South Downs Way from Slindon College outside Chichester to Queen Elizabeth Country Park outside Petersfield. I wanted to avenge the running demons who had ruined the London Marathon. In particular, I wasn't going to get dehydrated. But equally, my goal for the day was just to enjoy it, finish and take in the scenery. I had no idea how much the hills would slow me down. In the back of my mind I thought I might set a new marathon PB, but I really wasn't sure.
So, after a particularly good run 2 weeks after the London Marathon I submitted my entry. I figured running 26.2 miles was excellent training for running 26.2 miles, so with the marathon in the bank I decided to focus on a 20 mile run each weekend, and 2 shorter faster ones midweek. That plan went out of the window the day after the entry was posted, as I came down with a critical case of man-flu, which forced me to not train for over a week. With a fairly small window between recovering from one marathon to tapering for the next, being ill was a disaster. I suppose I started training hard to soon after the marathon. My runs had been fast and I had also started cycling quite a bit, but I felt so strong at first that I thought it wasn't a problem.
All colds end up in my chest, and it was nearly two weeks before the cough subsided enough to risk running again. With the clock ticking I managed a few mid-week runs with Phil and on the second Bank Holiday in May, I at last managed to get out for a long run of nearly 3.5 hours. That run was particularly pleasing as I was in a dark mood before setting out, and I forced myself to run away from home so I couldn't quit early. But after about 2 hours I was in the groove and feeling strong again. I had also reasserted superiority in the midweek runs with Phil, so things were looking up!
A short taper followed. With two days to go I was bouncing off the walls with excess energy. Not nervous energy, just excess. It never really occurred to me that the marathon might be difficult or painful. I just wanted to get out there.
Mercifully the marathon was on Saturday morning, which meant my body clock was already adjusted to the 6am start. A large bowl of porridge later and Julie and I headed down to the start. Julie was a star again. The point-to-point nature of the run meant that most competitors had to leave their cars at the finish and get a coach back to the start. Being dropped off gave me an extra hour in bed.
It was a lovely morning. Not too hot, a little overcast, but no threat of rain. Julie headed off to Chichester before the start, so I chatted to a fellow who'd done the run twice before. He had a long wait, as there were 3 waves of racers. The first was supposedly the slow wave, starting at 9am for runners expecting times over 4 hours 30 mins. Then the relay teams headed off at 9:30am before the quick individuals started at 10am. I was expecting a little under 4:30, but with a BBQ in Woking in the afternoon I decided to run in the first wave, thus disqualifying myself from the prizes. I wasn't worried about this: I was never going to win a prize anyway!
Of course, that meant that I was fairly near the front of the slower wave, and as the run set off for a lap of the Slindon College 400m track before heading for the hills I slotted into about 20th place.
The first 5 miles were a mixture of farm tracks and countryside paths uphill towards a ridge where we'd join the South Downs Way. I ran with a water bottle held in a little pouch strapped around my waist. At each mile marker I religiously took a swig, careful to avoid any dehydration issues, and refilled the bottle at each aid station.
It wasn't long before we settled into a pace and I ran alongside the same 4 or 5 people for miles. I chatted away to a few of them. Really nice guys, all doing it for the first time and each one with one (London) marathon under his belt. Eerie. There were a couple of others who ignored us, unable to chat due to the little white headphones they wore. I felt a great camaraderie with those I spoke to, but the iPod runners felt like the enemy.
Talking away the first half marathon flew by. My legs were a little tired, but I was getting enough energy and liquid and felt strong and confident. The half-way point was marked by a steep mile descent into Cocking (hee hee) before a drinks station, a road crossing and then a steep mile climb back up to the ridge. The group of 5 was led by an iPod runner. They tend to change direction unpredictably and without reference to the position of anyone around them. I wanted a clear run, unimpeded, so I opened up a little bit and dropped like a stone to Cocking. It didn't feel fast or reckless, but I had a good 30 second gap on the rest of the group as I refuelled and chatted to Julie and my sister Susan at the aid stop.
Then the run got a little more difficult. All the advice had been to prepare to walk up the steepest climbs and we all knew that the third quarter had a lot of those as we ran to Harting Down. I walked up much of the first climb back to the ridge, taking on more liquid and bantering with a few braver souls who decided to run up. As the gradient shallowed out I got running again and felt strong for another 3 or 4 miles as we ran though a forest trail.
Fatigue and the first relay runners caught up at about the same point, around the 17 mile mark. Suddenly the hills reared up in front of me and the lack of consistent miles in training seemed to add to the gradient. It wasn't long before I was getting over-taken a lot.
Harting Down has a spectacular view - probably the best of the route - but, my-oh-my, you really had to earn it. Some of the hills were over 20% for long periods, and for the first time the route was exposed to the sun. Saturday was a lovely day, but a little too warm to run a marathon, and my mouth felt parched as I clambered up the climbs, at times wondering if scrambling was more efficient than walking.
As I walked up the last long steep hill to the aid station at Harting Down, I looked up and saw Susan and Julie shouting at me. I turned to the guys walking next to me (no one was running this one): "Why did they have to stand at the top of the hill?" So, I started running up the climb to great applause from the other spectators and sadistic laughs from the other runners. Of course, at the top I then had to start walking to talk to Julie and Sue, and so watched all the runners I'd just overtaken (the first for some time), pass me again. I complained, so the two of them started running alongside for a few hundred metres to the general amusement of all around.
After the Harting road crossing the wheels really started coming off. The problem was triggered by a big stone in my right shoe. I had to stop to get it out, but with 20 miles in my legs, the strange movement upset my calves and as soon as I stood up my right calf cramped. Very painfully, I jogged on, but had to stop to stretch a few times. I focused on drinking the electrolyte I collected at the aid station, and looking back I think this helped, as the cramping subsided by about mile 22.
But progress was slow. I went through half-way in 3 minutes under 2 hours, but any hope of getting close to 4 hours was long gone. I was plodding along at about 11 minute miles; slower than my bog-standard pace at London, but don't forget I was still walking up hills. Even my Ironman 4 hours 18 minute split was safe.
At 24 miles we hit another long climb and entered the Country Park. This was it; once at the top of the hill it was flat to the finish. I got running as soon as the gradient flattened out and plodded on knowing that in 15 minutes or so it'd all be over.
Amazingly I started overtaking some runners again. I didn't feel fast, but there were some desperate runners. As I passed the 26 mile mark I looked at my watch. I had about a minute to get in under 4 hours 30. Amazingly, I went past a couple of relay runners but as I looked at the finish 100 metres away my watch ticked over 4:30, and that milestone was gone. I jogged in with sore legs and a grimace, completing ruining my finish line picture.
4 hours 30 minutes 27 seconds put me in exactly 200th place (out of about 500), and by 27 seconds I'd started in the right wave, which pleased me in a strange way. I'd achieved my objective, suffering no dehyration. At halfway I felt strong and I just got more and more tired, which is exactly how it should be. The cramp was unfortunate, so I should be a little more careful about taking on electrolyte. But crucially I just didn't have the training miles in the bank meaning the basic endurance to run more than 20 miles was missing.
But I loved it. The scenery was wonderful, the friendliness of the (non-iPod wearing) runners was unusual and the event is really well organised. I'd highly recommend it and am already itching to do it again. Regrettably, it's a little close to Ironman France so I won't be able to enter next year, but roll on 2011!
Big thanks to Sue and Julie, who have excelled themselves as marathon fans again. For their troubles they got a plastic clapper each, which apparently saves the hands from a hard time.
So what next? How about the Beachy Head Marathon in October?
Thursday, 28 May 2009
There's only one rule of the Split Yankee
I can talk about it now. Not wanting to jinx my golden run, I had avoided recording my feats in any sort of formal medium.
It all started on Grand National Day. Like so many other ever-so casual punters, I bet on horses on an approximately annual basis. I spent a little while reading the form guides, and decided that on another lovely April day (have you noticed that April has recently taken over from September as having the best weather of the year? At least September has the courtesy to be a little embarrassed by itself, appearing, as it does, as an apology for the "summer" that preceded it; April leads you on, thinking that the summer to follow is set to be gorgeous) a horse that fared well in 2008 (ie. won) was going to do well again in 2009. Julie closed her eyes and picked a couple of horses for her £1 each way stakes, and I logged on and placed our bets.
Returning from my final very long run before the marathon I lay in great pain on the living room floor watching the drama unfold. It was a great race. With the last fence cleared any one of about 7 horses could have won. Round the elbow it was down to my hope and one other, but then it inexplicably got outsprinted by the 100-1 shot. I was satisfied, however, as my each way bet at 18-1 returned a tidy profit.
Incidentally, in a pub a week later, I spoke to a guy adamant that the National had been a fix. The betting patterns were unusual: A couple of horses came in very short at the end and then did absolutely nothing in the race. There were a number of 100-1 shots and it was surprising just how easily that winner sprinted away. Apparently a number of smaller book-makers would have gone bust without a profitable National, and they certainly got that.
Anyway, back to my winnings. I returned my original stake and pocketed the cash that Julie gave me for her bets, giving me a profit of £12. This left another £12 in my account. I lost half of this almost immediately on the first Chelsea-Liverpool Champions League Quarter Final, but over the next month continually reinvested the other £6 on draws in Quarter and Semi-Finals. It was, if I'm honest, not a great money spinner. For the first few weeks I returned a profit of about a pound a week, but slowly my stake got bigger and so did that wad of cash in my betfred account. I kept on getting lucky with late goals. Porto's equaliser at Old Trafford was one, but best of all was Barcelona's equaliser in the semi-final against Chelsea. I was watching on Ceefax, waiting for an L to turn into FT to signal the end to the run. Then it came in: Iniesta 90 + 3. Joy of joys!
By mid-May I was sitting on £15.
I repeat: £15. That was, I'm sure you'll agree, a huge return in a month. I calculated that with that 250% return I'd be a millionaire by late summer next year. On discussion with Julie, however, we agreed that it'd probably be best that I didn't invest half a million pounds on draws in the Australian football.
Then I struck gold. My normal bet was a Yankee, which is 11 bets on 4 games. You select a result in each and then stand to win if any two or more results come in. It's 11 bets to cover each combination of doubles, treble and quadruple. On Friday evening of the Play-Off semi-final weekend the first two games were drawn. This meant I'd already won something with 2 games to go. I pondered this. I could leave to chance and the least I'd win would be about £16. Or I could hedge my bets on the other possible results. Two hours, and much Excel-ing later I had created my Hedge Fund spreadsheet, which calculated, to the penny, how much to bet on the 4 possible results that didn't involve a draw. This guaranteed a return of £92, less my hedge stake of about £45, which is the minimum return one more draw would give. I'm calling this strategy a Split Yankee.
Sure enough, neither game was drawn and I had turned a £1 profit into something approaching £50. I took back my hedge stake, plus a £15 dividend, and plotted my future. I pictured a career as a Professional Gambler. A vigilante against corporate bookmakers. With Excel as my weapon, I'd fight for the little guy; turning £10 into £120 so little Billy could have a bike for Christmas.
The bubble burst. And thank God for that. I got caught up in the moment. Thinking I knew something about football, I left the safety of betting on draws in Cup games. Certain United would win the title in style against an Arsenal side who wanted to go on holiday, I placed £10 on a home win at Old Trafford, only to see the game fizzle out to a draw. A draw? Oh, the irony.
The final £12 was bet on the 3 Play-Off Finals. The irony compounded: Two were settled by late winners in normal time. I'd lost interest by the time Burnley reached the Premiership.
And so, the run was over. But it was not unproductive. I had taken a tidy profit of £27, devised a great little spreadsheet to calculate betting returns, and bored people endless with tales of my gambling glory. Perhaps that was the downfall of the run; the jinx wasn't writing it down, it was talking about it.
So, is this first rule of the Split Yankee? No one talks about the Split Yankee.
It all started on Grand National Day. Like so many other ever-so casual punters, I bet on horses on an approximately annual basis. I spent a little while reading the form guides, and decided that on another lovely April day (have you noticed that April has recently taken over from September as having the best weather of the year? At least September has the courtesy to be a little embarrassed by itself, appearing, as it does, as an apology for the "summer" that preceded it; April leads you on, thinking that the summer to follow is set to be gorgeous) a horse that fared well in 2008 (ie. won) was going to do well again in 2009. Julie closed her eyes and picked a couple of horses for her £1 each way stakes, and I logged on and placed our bets.
Returning from my final very long run before the marathon I lay in great pain on the living room floor watching the drama unfold. It was a great race. With the last fence cleared any one of about 7 horses could have won. Round the elbow it was down to my hope and one other, but then it inexplicably got outsprinted by the 100-1 shot. I was satisfied, however, as my each way bet at 18-1 returned a tidy profit.
Incidentally, in a pub a week later, I spoke to a guy adamant that the National had been a fix. The betting patterns were unusual: A couple of horses came in very short at the end and then did absolutely nothing in the race. There were a number of 100-1 shots and it was surprising just how easily that winner sprinted away. Apparently a number of smaller book-makers would have gone bust without a profitable National, and they certainly got that.
Anyway, back to my winnings. I returned my original stake and pocketed the cash that Julie gave me for her bets, giving me a profit of £12. This left another £12 in my account. I lost half of this almost immediately on the first Chelsea-Liverpool Champions League Quarter Final, but over the next month continually reinvested the other £6 on draws in Quarter and Semi-Finals. It was, if I'm honest, not a great money spinner. For the first few weeks I returned a profit of about a pound a week, but slowly my stake got bigger and so did that wad of cash in my betfred account. I kept on getting lucky with late goals. Porto's equaliser at Old Trafford was one, but best of all was Barcelona's equaliser in the semi-final against Chelsea. I was watching on Ceefax, waiting for an L to turn into FT to signal the end to the run. Then it came in: Iniesta 90 + 3. Joy of joys!
By mid-May I was sitting on £15.
I repeat: £15. That was, I'm sure you'll agree, a huge return in a month. I calculated that with that 250% return I'd be a millionaire by late summer next year. On discussion with Julie, however, we agreed that it'd probably be best that I didn't invest half a million pounds on draws in the Australian football.
Then I struck gold. My normal bet was a Yankee, which is 11 bets on 4 games. You select a result in each and then stand to win if any two or more results come in. It's 11 bets to cover each combination of doubles, treble and quadruple. On Friday evening of the Play-Off semi-final weekend the first two games were drawn. This meant I'd already won something with 2 games to go. I pondered this. I could leave to chance and the least I'd win would be about £16. Or I could hedge my bets on the other possible results. Two hours, and much Excel-ing later I had created my Hedge Fund spreadsheet, which calculated, to the penny, how much to bet on the 4 possible results that didn't involve a draw. This guaranteed a return of £92, less my hedge stake of about £45, which is the minimum return one more draw would give. I'm calling this strategy a Split Yankee.
Sure enough, neither game was drawn and I had turned a £1 profit into something approaching £50. I took back my hedge stake, plus a £15 dividend, and plotted my future. I pictured a career as a Professional Gambler. A vigilante against corporate bookmakers. With Excel as my weapon, I'd fight for the little guy; turning £10 into £120 so little Billy could have a bike for Christmas.
The bubble burst. And thank God for that. I got caught up in the moment. Thinking I knew something about football, I left the safety of betting on draws in Cup games. Certain United would win the title in style against an Arsenal side who wanted to go on holiday, I placed £10 on a home win at Old Trafford, only to see the game fizzle out to a draw. A draw? Oh, the irony.
The final £12 was bet on the 3 Play-Off Finals. The irony compounded: Two were settled by late winners in normal time. I'd lost interest by the time Burnley reached the Premiership.
And so, the run was over. But it was not unproductive. I had taken a tidy profit of £27, devised a great little spreadsheet to calculate betting returns, and bored people endless with tales of my gambling glory. Perhaps that was the downfall of the run; the jinx wasn't writing it down, it was talking about it.
So, is this first rule of the Split Yankee? No one talks about the Split Yankee.
Monday, 27 April 2009
The most unpleasant 4 hours of my life
Apologies for the blogging silence over the last 6 weeks. I've been meaning to get on and post, but never quite had the time. However, today I'm enjoying a rare day of leisure without anything really planned. The reason? I'm recovering from yesterday's London Marathon.
To most people's surprise this was actually my first ever stand-alone marathon. You do one Ironman and suddenly people think you're a veteran of endurance events, knocking out marathons for fun. I got to within 1 week of running last year's London Marathon, but withdrew fearing my shin splints would develop into a proper fracture if I ran 26.2 miles on the streets of the capital.
Annoyingly, shin splints aside, I was in much better shape in April 2008. I had maintained Ironman fitness and added a lot of speed, so after a 1:25 Half Marathon I was expecting to get close to 3 hours. This year, with the shin splints always on the verge of returning my training was designed to get me to the start line. So I was limited to 2 runs a week, one long and one steady. Running fully 14 minutes slower on the same Fleet Half Marathon course was a fairly good indication that I was someway off my best. Then I got beaten comfortably beaten by my training buddy Phil at Reading.
But with the aid of some customised Orthotics, a foam roller, 3 ice packs and some ludicrously expensive tape (which to my amazement seems to have made more of a difference than anything else), I got to the start without any real niggles, other than the nagging doubt about being able to run 26.2 miles.
The weather was much nicer than had been forecast, warm enough to strip down to my vest and deposit my bag a full hour before the start. I then completed a comprehensive stretching routine in the sun and found my starting pen.
Due to my predicted time from last year I was in pen 2, about 3 pens further forward than I should have been with an 8 min/mile pace target. I was a bit concerned that I'd get caught up in the rush and set out a bit too fast, but that didn't transpire as the crowds dictated an 8:15 first mile split.
Pace-wise this was fine, but already I was getting a little concerned. My stomach did not feel good. Normally before a run or triathlon I have a Powerbar Harvest bar 45 minutes or so before the start, but hadn't been able to restock at the Marathon Expo as Powerbar hadn't brought any stock along. Reluctantly I decided to try a Go bar instead, which is a similar cereal/energy bar, thus breaking the nothing-new-on-race-day golden rule. From within the first few miles my stomach was close to cramping up. As soon as we hit the first water station I took some on to see if that would solve the problem. Instead it went the other way and I felt a lot worse. Water just seemed to bounce around.
I decided to take nothing on for a few miles and see if the problem would go away. This included avoiding the first Lucozade stop. Despite all this I seemed to be able to carry on going at 8 min/mile pace. In fact, by 5 miles I had regained the time I had lost in the first 2, so was exactly on target for my 3:30 finish.
Around about 12 miles the wheels started to come off. Fairly quickly I realised I was close to hitting the wall, ridiculous before half-way. Crossing Tower Bridge is the highlight for many people, but for me it was an horrific experience. The noise and sun were so intense there that I started feeling quite dizzy. I desperately swallowed the first of my emergency Powergels and gulped a whole water bottle. Thankfully, in the shade of the Highway, the gel kicked in and I started feeling a bit more normal. But the damage was done and as hoardes surged past me I diverted my attention to watch the lead men flying back towards the finish on the other side of the road.
All hopes of a good time were gone as I braced myself for the hardest half-marathon of my life. Although my stomach had settled down and was able to keep both water and lucozade down (just, I nearly threw up the energy drink at 15 miles), my legs and mind were shot. I knuckled down and spent a dark hour jogging round Docklands, forcing myself to keep moving. If there is a good thing about struggling so much it's that the crowd adopt you and I got a lot of encouragement. I remember one Irish guy peering over the top of Westferry underpass particularly; his accent stood out even though he wasn't shouting.
At mile 17, there seemed to be a massive gap to the water station and I started gasping. I needed more energy too, and with 2 miles to the next energy station I readied the final gel. When the aid station eventually arrived, I briefly walked to get the gel and whole bottle of water in quickly.
By the time I got to Canary Wharf my staggering pace (that's staggering around, not staggeringly fast) wasn't quite so unique. Others were struggling and I began to overtake walkers. Those passing me weren't making me feel I was going backwards now either, and my spirits began to lift. Around about mile 20 you turn left and it's basically a straight run to Westminster. I looked at my watch. The last few miles had been plodding 10 minute affairs, and with about 65 minutes to get home within 4 hours I knew I'd make my back-up target if I carried on running. Well, plodding.
Around mile 21 a cacophony of noise erupted around me and I looked up to discover Gordon Ramsay about 10 metres ahead. I thought he'd overtaken me and figured I couldn't let that prat beat me so decided to let him pace me to the finish, then I'd sprint past him, with the chef trailing in my wake in my finishing picture. So, for 20 metres I picked up the pace whereupon Ramsay abruptly stopped. As I went past I whacked him on the back and shouted some encouragement. I regret this: I should have shouted something rude. But still, having him behind me was good for the morale. Looking at him he wasn't going to be able to run faster than me, so as long as I ran all the way I knew I'd beat him.
The next 3/4 miles seemed to pass in a blur. There was so much noise that I just switched off and tried to focus on taking all the drinks on offer and staying out of trouble. A lot people were walking now, though I was still being overtaken by stronger runners. I saw one poor guy stagger like a new-born lamb before falling into two runners. Thankfully they were able to catch him before he hit the deck and some nearby Police Officers quickly took their burden.
I counted off the bridges. Blackfriars, then the long run to Waterloo. Then under the new Hungerford Bridges, then right at Westminster. My right Achilles was twinging badly in the last mile. It felt close the snapping and somewhat occupied my mind for the last mile.
As I passed Buckingham Palace at mile 26 I looked at my watch and had a minute to get in under 3:55, so I upped the pace as much as I could and my torment was over.
It only took 10 minutes to be processed through the system: Chip off; medal on; collect goody bag; find kit bag. Impressive organisation, as was the whole event. Then I wandered over to the Meeting Point and lay in the sun waiting for Julie and Sue to arrive. I must thank them both for their support on the day. They did a really good job of getting round in time to catch me 4 times, and the encouragement of having personal support is very uplifting. This was especially true as I headed into Docklands. In one of the most staggering coincidences, I heard my name being called and looked up to see Julie and Sue waving. Then another pair of voices joined in next to them and it was Tory (a good friend from UCL) and Ed. I assumed they had accidentally met up and decided to stand together, but it turns out they didn't know they were standing next to each other until they were supporting the same runner. Mad.
So, what have I learnt?
1. 2 runs a week is barely enough to run a marathon
2. Get stocked up on your chosen energy products well in advance
3. Get hyrdated and stay hydrated. I've always been a bit lax in this area, but I'm rethinking that from now on. I don't want to repeat that experience
4. 10 minute miles aren't quick, but they get you there in the end
5. The London Marathon is amazingly well run and supported. I'd recommend it to anyone
Finally, how am I feeling today? Well, my muscles don't actually feel too back. Both knees are very sore and ruined a well-earned good night's sleep. My left foot is painful in the same place as ever, which is related to my shin splints, though the shins themselves are fine, which I'm very pleased by. Most confusingly, the most painful thing is my left shoulder that I don't seem to be able to move properly.
So, no real damage done, except to my pride. I do now have a finishers medal and a spanking new PB (23 minutes faster than my IM run split, if you're interested). But 3:54 is no time for a man who could have run 50 minutes faster 12 months ago. So I'm going to have to run it again, just better.
To most people's surprise this was actually my first ever stand-alone marathon. You do one Ironman and suddenly people think you're a veteran of endurance events, knocking out marathons for fun. I got to within 1 week of running last year's London Marathon, but withdrew fearing my shin splints would develop into a proper fracture if I ran 26.2 miles on the streets of the capital.
Annoyingly, shin splints aside, I was in much better shape in April 2008. I had maintained Ironman fitness and added a lot of speed, so after a 1:25 Half Marathon I was expecting to get close to 3 hours. This year, with the shin splints always on the verge of returning my training was designed to get me to the start line. So I was limited to 2 runs a week, one long and one steady. Running fully 14 minutes slower on the same Fleet Half Marathon course was a fairly good indication that I was someway off my best. Then I got beaten comfortably beaten by my training buddy Phil at Reading.
But with the aid of some customised Orthotics, a foam roller, 3 ice packs and some ludicrously expensive tape (which to my amazement seems to have made more of a difference than anything else), I got to the start without any real niggles, other than the nagging doubt about being able to run 26.2 miles.
The weather was much nicer than had been forecast, warm enough to strip down to my vest and deposit my bag a full hour before the start. I then completed a comprehensive stretching routine in the sun and found my starting pen.
Due to my predicted time from last year I was in pen 2, about 3 pens further forward than I should have been with an 8 min/mile pace target. I was a bit concerned that I'd get caught up in the rush and set out a bit too fast, but that didn't transpire as the crowds dictated an 8:15 first mile split.
Pace-wise this was fine, but already I was getting a little concerned. My stomach did not feel good. Normally before a run or triathlon I have a Powerbar Harvest bar 45 minutes or so before the start, but hadn't been able to restock at the Marathon Expo as Powerbar hadn't brought any stock along. Reluctantly I decided to try a Go bar instead, which is a similar cereal/energy bar, thus breaking the nothing-new-on-race-day golden rule. From within the first few miles my stomach was close to cramping up. As soon as we hit the first water station I took some on to see if that would solve the problem. Instead it went the other way and I felt a lot worse. Water just seemed to bounce around.
I decided to take nothing on for a few miles and see if the problem would go away. This included avoiding the first Lucozade stop. Despite all this I seemed to be able to carry on going at 8 min/mile pace. In fact, by 5 miles I had regained the time I had lost in the first 2, so was exactly on target for my 3:30 finish.
Around about 12 miles the wheels started to come off. Fairly quickly I realised I was close to hitting the wall, ridiculous before half-way. Crossing Tower Bridge is the highlight for many people, but for me it was an horrific experience. The noise and sun were so intense there that I started feeling quite dizzy. I desperately swallowed the first of my emergency Powergels and gulped a whole water bottle. Thankfully, in the shade of the Highway, the gel kicked in and I started feeling a bit more normal. But the damage was done and as hoardes surged past me I diverted my attention to watch the lead men flying back towards the finish on the other side of the road.
All hopes of a good time were gone as I braced myself for the hardest half-marathon of my life. Although my stomach had settled down and was able to keep both water and lucozade down (just, I nearly threw up the energy drink at 15 miles), my legs and mind were shot. I knuckled down and spent a dark hour jogging round Docklands, forcing myself to keep moving. If there is a good thing about struggling so much it's that the crowd adopt you and I got a lot of encouragement. I remember one Irish guy peering over the top of Westferry underpass particularly; his accent stood out even though he wasn't shouting.
At mile 17, there seemed to be a massive gap to the water station and I started gasping. I needed more energy too, and with 2 miles to the next energy station I readied the final gel. When the aid station eventually arrived, I briefly walked to get the gel and whole bottle of water in quickly.
By the time I got to Canary Wharf my staggering pace (that's staggering around, not staggeringly fast) wasn't quite so unique. Others were struggling and I began to overtake walkers. Those passing me weren't making me feel I was going backwards now either, and my spirits began to lift. Around about mile 20 you turn left and it's basically a straight run to Westminster. I looked at my watch. The last few miles had been plodding 10 minute affairs, and with about 65 minutes to get home within 4 hours I knew I'd make my back-up target if I carried on running. Well, plodding.
Around mile 21 a cacophony of noise erupted around me and I looked up to discover Gordon Ramsay about 10 metres ahead. I thought he'd overtaken me and figured I couldn't let that prat beat me so decided to let him pace me to the finish, then I'd sprint past him, with the chef trailing in my wake in my finishing picture. So, for 20 metres I picked up the pace whereupon Ramsay abruptly stopped. As I went past I whacked him on the back and shouted some encouragement. I regret this: I should have shouted something rude. But still, having him behind me was good for the morale. Looking at him he wasn't going to be able to run faster than me, so as long as I ran all the way I knew I'd beat him.
The next 3/4 miles seemed to pass in a blur. There was so much noise that I just switched off and tried to focus on taking all the drinks on offer and staying out of trouble. A lot people were walking now, though I was still being overtaken by stronger runners. I saw one poor guy stagger like a new-born lamb before falling into two runners. Thankfully they were able to catch him before he hit the deck and some nearby Police Officers quickly took their burden.
I counted off the bridges. Blackfriars, then the long run to Waterloo. Then under the new Hungerford Bridges, then right at Westminster. My right Achilles was twinging badly in the last mile. It felt close the snapping and somewhat occupied my mind for the last mile.
As I passed Buckingham Palace at mile 26 I looked at my watch and had a minute to get in under 3:55, so I upped the pace as much as I could and my torment was over.
It only took 10 minutes to be processed through the system: Chip off; medal on; collect goody bag; find kit bag. Impressive organisation, as was the whole event. Then I wandered over to the Meeting Point and lay in the sun waiting for Julie and Sue to arrive. I must thank them both for their support on the day. They did a really good job of getting round in time to catch me 4 times, and the encouragement of having personal support is very uplifting. This was especially true as I headed into Docklands. In one of the most staggering coincidences, I heard my name being called and looked up to see Julie and Sue waving. Then another pair of voices joined in next to them and it was Tory (a good friend from UCL) and Ed. I assumed they had accidentally met up and decided to stand together, but it turns out they didn't know they were standing next to each other until they were supporting the same runner. Mad.
So, what have I learnt?
1. 2 runs a week is barely enough to run a marathon
2. Get stocked up on your chosen energy products well in advance
3. Get hyrdated and stay hydrated. I've always been a bit lax in this area, but I'm rethinking that from now on. I don't want to repeat that experience
4. 10 minute miles aren't quick, but they get you there in the end
5. The London Marathon is amazingly well run and supported. I'd recommend it to anyone
Finally, how am I feeling today? Well, my muscles don't actually feel too back. Both knees are very sore and ruined a well-earned good night's sleep. My left foot is painful in the same place as ever, which is related to my shin splints, though the shins themselves are fine, which I'm very pleased by. Most confusingly, the most painful thing is my left shoulder that I don't seem to be able to move properly.
So, no real damage done, except to my pride. I do now have a finishers medal and a spanking new PB (23 minutes faster than my IM run split, if you're interested). But 3:54 is no time for a man who could have run 50 minutes faster 12 months ago. So I'm going to have to run it again, just better.
Friday, 13 March 2009
Man's stuff
I'm not the most practical of men. There's a school of thought that men should be burly, rugby-playing DIYing-part-time-mechanics. I'm svelte rather than solid. I would play rugby, but I don't like the tackling aspect and the idea of putting up a shelf terrifies me. But I recently had a mechanical break-through. Since I bought a car about 18 months ago, my skills have flourished. I quickly worked out how to fill the washer fluid. Then I moved onto checking and topping-up the oil. But last weekend, over the course of an hour, I blossomed into a fully-fledged domestic mechanic: I changed a headlamp. I'm pretty-damn pleased with myself; I've never seen it done and the instructions were rubbish.
I needed a manliness boost. Only the week before Marg (my little sister for those who don't know) sent me a text complaining about a bad day, which ended with the sentence: "Do you know how much a new clutch is?", or the textual equivalent. I vaguely remembered buying her some kind of ladies' accessory for Christmas, and being the ever-protective big brother I replied thus: "Oh no, what's happened? Has someone stolen your wallet?" Of course, she wasn't talking about a small strapless handbag. No, the clutch on her Clio had gone.
But allow me to attempt to assert my masculinity and return to the headlight: It tested me both mentally and physically. Taking the unit out was a tense moment. It was the point of no return. If I couldn't fit the unit back in, my poor Fiesta was going to be like a bride short of a veil, an Easter without an Egg, or a girl band missing the fit one who can't sing very well. With the unit out I spent a while with it on my lap, perplexing me with it's solidity. The solution was obvious really; outflank it and attack from the rear! With the bulb replaced and the unit in tact, the final challenge was slipping it back into the car. I say, slipping, when I actually mean cajoling, forcing or indeed ramming. But after a certain amount of persuasion it was done, and unlike most of my programming efforts it worked first time.
To change the subject: Why is Binyam Mohamed referred to as "a former resident of Guantanamo Bay"? Surely, he was an inmate? Resident sounds like he was on holiday. I'm not making any comment whether or not he should have been there, or whether "there" should have been there at all, but really; I can't believe it was Butlin's.
That paragraph was a bit heavy-duty. To break the awkward silence, here's one about football. I've been having daily handover meetings with Paul who's taking over my job (among others) while I move onto a new "opportunity". We're a few weeks into that now, so this week's meetings have been a little more laid-back. Today, we got talking about the Champions League. Why, I pondered, is the draw next week, rather than as soon as possible after the Quarter Finalists are known? Does it not make sense to allow the clubs, fans and local authorities the maximum time available to arrange the ties? It was proposed that the draw was actually rigged (with warm balls apparently) and this extra week was just to allow the TV companies enough time to complete their horse-trading. So, we spent a short time predicting the draw and came up with the following:
Man Utd vs Villarreal (keep United's powder dry for the Semis)
Barcelona vs Porto (big in Iberia; pretty much guarantees Barca in the Semis)
Bayern vs Arsenal (big game for the Quarters, and should hopefully - in European eyes - put Bayern through against the weakest English team)
Liverpool vs Chelsea (This one crops up every few years. Big audience and should get rid of Chelsea as no one likes them and Liverpool are awesome in this competition, for some reason).
Actually, in hindsight, allow me to be more cynical. The 4 English teams will play each other and Barca and Bayern will avoid each other. This means 2 English teams and probably the two other clubs who guarantee the TV companies the biggest advertising revenues in the Semis.
I've neatly covered most possibilities there. To take it a step further: Man Utd vs Barca is the dream final. They will be in the other half of the draw to each other, probably with a Barca-Bayern semi to avoid another all-English Final.
I'll close there, safe in the knowledge that football is, yet again, the solution to all of man's communication needs. Who needs practical skills, when all you need to be a man is a basic level of football chat?
I needed a manliness boost. Only the week before Marg (my little sister for those who don't know) sent me a text complaining about a bad day, which ended with the sentence: "Do you know how much a new clutch is?", or the textual equivalent. I vaguely remembered buying her some kind of ladies' accessory for Christmas, and being the ever-protective big brother I replied thus: "Oh no, what's happened? Has someone stolen your wallet?" Of course, she wasn't talking about a small strapless handbag. No, the clutch on her Clio had gone.
But allow me to attempt to assert my masculinity and return to the headlight: It tested me both mentally and physically. Taking the unit out was a tense moment. It was the point of no return. If I couldn't fit the unit back in, my poor Fiesta was going to be like a bride short of a veil, an Easter without an Egg, or a girl band missing the fit one who can't sing very well. With the unit out I spent a while with it on my lap, perplexing me with it's solidity. The solution was obvious really; outflank it and attack from the rear! With the bulb replaced and the unit in tact, the final challenge was slipping it back into the car. I say, slipping, when I actually mean cajoling, forcing or indeed ramming. But after a certain amount of persuasion it was done, and unlike most of my programming efforts it worked first time.
To change the subject: Why is Binyam Mohamed referred to as "a former resident of Guantanamo Bay"? Surely, he was an inmate? Resident sounds like he was on holiday. I'm not making any comment whether or not he should have been there, or whether "there" should have been there at all, but really; I can't believe it was Butlin's.
That paragraph was a bit heavy-duty. To break the awkward silence, here's one about football. I've been having daily handover meetings with Paul who's taking over my job (among others) while I move onto a new "opportunity". We're a few weeks into that now, so this week's meetings have been a little more laid-back. Today, we got talking about the Champions League. Why, I pondered, is the draw next week, rather than as soon as possible after the Quarter Finalists are known? Does it not make sense to allow the clubs, fans and local authorities the maximum time available to arrange the ties? It was proposed that the draw was actually rigged (with warm balls apparently) and this extra week was just to allow the TV companies enough time to complete their horse-trading. So, we spent a short time predicting the draw and came up with the following:
Man Utd vs Villarreal (keep United's powder dry for the Semis)
Barcelona vs Porto (big in Iberia; pretty much guarantees Barca in the Semis)
Bayern vs Arsenal (big game for the Quarters, and should hopefully - in European eyes - put Bayern through against the weakest English team)
Liverpool vs Chelsea (This one crops up every few years. Big audience and should get rid of Chelsea as no one likes them and Liverpool are awesome in this competition, for some reason).
Actually, in hindsight, allow me to be more cynical. The 4 English teams will play each other and Barca and Bayern will avoid each other. This means 2 English teams and probably the two other clubs who guarantee the TV companies the biggest advertising revenues in the Semis.
I've neatly covered most possibilities there. To take it a step further: Man Utd vs Barca is the dream final. They will be in the other half of the draw to each other, probably with a Barca-Bayern semi to avoid another all-English Final.
I'll close there, safe in the knowledge that football is, yet again, the solution to all of man's communication needs. Who needs practical skills, when all you need to be a man is a basic level of football chat?
Friday, 27 February 2009
Wallymath Strikes Back
I've been credit crunched, and I'm not afraid to admit it. I'm not flat broke, unemployed, eating rats or living in a tent, but my life has definitely been adversely affected. I shan't bore you with the tiresome details, but Julie and I can't move out of our small rented flat until my flat in Twickenham sells. But, as Andrew & I aren't going to undersell that and buyers are thin on the ground, Julie and I are stuck.
It's a strange turnaround in life, from the heady days of loose-credit and multi-pub. Through the weekend haze and midweek blues I wasn't especially happy in life. That's all different now. I can't spend recklessly now, in fact I can't really spend at all. But life is definitely better. Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into a soppy love-story, as I suspect no one wants to read that. It'd be a bit uncomfortable for all concerned.
Nope. Instead, it's about time this blog got a list. So here is the alec.fitzsimmons.com endorsed list of Credit Crunch Good Stuff:
And that's where I shall close tonight, dear reader. If you're enjoying this then make a comment. If you're not enjoying it then lie. After all, it won't cost anything!
It's a strange turnaround in life, from the heady days of loose-credit and multi-pub. Through the weekend haze and midweek blues I wasn't especially happy in life. That's all different now. I can't spend recklessly now, in fact I can't really spend at all. But life is definitely better. Don't worry, this isn't going to turn into a soppy love-story, as I suspect no one wants to read that. It'd be a bit uncomfortable for all concerned.
Nope. Instead, it's about time this blog got a list. So here is the alec.fitzsimmons.com endorsed list of Credit Crunch Good Stuff:
- Cooking: As I don't really go out anymore, 90% of my socialising is chez la maison. With people coming round Julie and I make a bit more effort and we've each added a couple of tasty dishes to our repertoire's. The new techniques and flavours picked up on the effort-meals have carried over into day-to-day cooking and so life definitely tastes better. Everything comes with a credit crunch topping.
- Leftovers: Following on from that, we've also become ultra-efficient. Very little food gets binned, instead getting turned over into some wierd concoction worth experiementing with.
- MPG: Efficiency also stretches to the road. Now I'm driving 62 miles a day, I can make big savings driving at 60mph. The display I work to on my dashboard is Miles Per Gallon. I've found (and this isn't much of a surprise) that 70mph isn't too bad, but go to 80mph and watch that MPG plummet. So I cruise along at or below the speed limit. It takes about 2 mins more on a 50 minute journey, but I'm never going to get a speeding ticket.
- Running: Speaking of speed, running is the perfect Credit Crunch activity. Once you've got a pair of trainers there's no cost. Just go out and enjoy the countryside.
- Health = Out running in the fresh air + eating fresh home-cooked food - boozing all weekend. Simple equation, really. Of course, I was pretty healthy 18 months ago when I did Ironman, but since then the Crunch has helped hold the health if not the fitness.
- The best spreadsheet in the world: Well, maybe not, but I suddenly found I needed to know how much money I had in my bank account every day of the month, how much I was spending and where I was spending it. So over the course of a couple of weeks last summer I devised the most fiendishly clever spreadsheet. 3 straight-forward sheets form a simple interface, but mask the complicated conditional array formulaes that magically give me an amazingly accurate picture of cash flow on any particular future date I choose. Without this tool I would have had to move back to Twickenham. That's not an exaggeration; it's been that important.
- Blogging: Staying in gives me the time to blog. alec.fitzsimmons.com was never updated after I met Julie, but now I've got time in life I can write. You can be the judge of whether or not I should have bothered.
And that's where I shall close tonight, dear reader. If you're enjoying this then make a comment. If you're not enjoying it then lie. After all, it won't cost anything!
Saturday, 7 February 2009
England Crash
Bonjour mes amis. Comment ca va? Je ne suis pas anglais, ce soir. Mind you I shouldn't really be French either, as they lost to my other Mother Country, Ireland this evening. But at least that was a good game. Yes, we're back to the good ol'days. The England cricket team crash in the West Indies, and the rugby team play awfully to beat an Italian side so under-strength that they played a clumsy forward in the integral creative Scrum-Half position (note. I know very little about rugby, so I apologise for any factual inaccuracies).
And, of course, the country ground to a halt under a week of snow. I did my bit by carefully heeding the advice not to drive and worked from home 3 days during the week. Haslemere actually missed the worst of it; places only a couple of miles away got about a foot of snow on Monday, whereas we only got 5 or 6 inches. I attempted to venture in on Thursday, but as I skated out of control down my drive-way I decided that being unable to make it 10 metres safely wasn't a good omen for the rest of the journey. Thankfully the drive-way leads down to a flat run-off where there is another car park. So, I parked up and went back inside, having travelled about 25 metres, my shortest ever drive.
I made it all the way to Bracknell on Wednesday. As always, I was listening to the Today Show on Radio 4 for the first half of the journey. I can't get XFM until I'm over the Hogs Back, so I get 30 minutes of intense news first thing in the morning. Of course, it's not always about the Middle East and the economy, and they do have some light-hearted moments. On this particular occasion, they were discussing Twitter and Facebook. They had a lot of fun joking about Poking each other, proving that Radio 4 comedy isn't quite as fresh at 6:30am as it is at 6:30pm. Now, I've yet to sign-up to Twitter, but I am very familiar with Facebook. One of the serious points that the correspondent made was that Facebook struggles to generate a revenue stream, as people don't want advertisers penetrating their social network. And he mentioned that he (probably a man in his early 50s) was always being targetted by companies offering to release some of his pension early, not something that happens to me. No, the right hand bar of my Facebook home page is occupied by dating agency adverts featuring inprobably good looking girls, wearing outfits that suggest the first date would be memorable but probably not followed by an invite to meet your Mum. I pondered whether this was because I had never set a relationship status, so as far as Facebook was concerned I'm a 32 year-old single man likely to follow such links. Intrigued, I logged on and annouced to the world I'm engaged. Sure enough, I lost the dating sites and now have Virgin Media, Sky and some kind of Google-racket targetting me. I feel like I've grown up.
Those of you who've been following this blog for a little while will have noticed the complete lack of any comments about running. I am due to run the London Marathon this April after having deferred my place at the last minute last year due to shin splints. I was hoping to crack 3-hours after 6 months dedicated training, but the last 4 months has been massively frustrating as my right shin threatens to develop into proper shin spints. Last year it was the left shin, so I suppose I should take some comfort in that at least the other shin has healed. I've managed down my target now, which is now simply to get to the start line, so the interval sessions and tempo runs have gone. I'm doing one long run a week, plus a brisker 6 miler with Phil at lunchtime. And today was my first really good quality long run without shin problems for over a year. I'm in love with running again. The run was extraordinarily varied. Last night I had left my car in Midhurst, so I had to run there to collect it. Along the main road it's probably only 7 or 8 miles. But I zig-zagged cross-country, climbing 3 big hills (Marley, Blackdown and Bexleyhill) via trails that veered violently between boggy, muddy, snowy and stoney. There was a definite snowline on Blackdown, and the climb through crisp snow to the top was my most inspiring running moment since the tears after Ironman. 20 minutes later as I crossed a boggy field my shoe got stuck in a particularly gooey divot. I hopped back to get it, covered in mud. The whole thing took me 2 hours 20 minutes but I must have lost 20 minutes looking at the map.
Anyway, that's about it for this installment. I've got Match of the Day to watch. Thankfully, it's a Premiership day: England Team would definitely have crashed if it'd been an international weekend.
And, of course, the country ground to a halt under a week of snow. I did my bit by carefully heeding the advice not to drive and worked from home 3 days during the week. Haslemere actually missed the worst of it; places only a couple of miles away got about a foot of snow on Monday, whereas we only got 5 or 6 inches. I attempted to venture in on Thursday, but as I skated out of control down my drive-way I decided that being unable to make it 10 metres safely wasn't a good omen for the rest of the journey. Thankfully the drive-way leads down to a flat run-off where there is another car park. So, I parked up and went back inside, having travelled about 25 metres, my shortest ever drive.
I made it all the way to Bracknell on Wednesday. As always, I was listening to the Today Show on Radio 4 for the first half of the journey. I can't get XFM until I'm over the Hogs Back, so I get 30 minutes of intense news first thing in the morning. Of course, it's not always about the Middle East and the economy, and they do have some light-hearted moments. On this particular occasion, they were discussing Twitter and Facebook. They had a lot of fun joking about Poking each other, proving that Radio 4 comedy isn't quite as fresh at 6:30am as it is at 6:30pm. Now, I've yet to sign-up to Twitter, but I am very familiar with Facebook. One of the serious points that the correspondent made was that Facebook struggles to generate a revenue stream, as people don't want advertisers penetrating their social network. And he mentioned that he (probably a man in his early 50s) was always being targetted by companies offering to release some of his pension early, not something that happens to me. No, the right hand bar of my Facebook home page is occupied by dating agency adverts featuring inprobably good looking girls, wearing outfits that suggest the first date would be memorable but probably not followed by an invite to meet your Mum. I pondered whether this was because I had never set a relationship status, so as far as Facebook was concerned I'm a 32 year-old single man likely to follow such links. Intrigued, I logged on and annouced to the world I'm engaged. Sure enough, I lost the dating sites and now have Virgin Media, Sky and some kind of Google-racket targetting me. I feel like I've grown up.
Those of you who've been following this blog for a little while will have noticed the complete lack of any comments about running. I am due to run the London Marathon this April after having deferred my place at the last minute last year due to shin splints. I was hoping to crack 3-hours after 6 months dedicated training, but the last 4 months has been massively frustrating as my right shin threatens to develop into proper shin spints. Last year it was the left shin, so I suppose I should take some comfort in that at least the other shin has healed. I've managed down my target now, which is now simply to get to the start line, so the interval sessions and tempo runs have gone. I'm doing one long run a week, plus a brisker 6 miler with Phil at lunchtime. And today was my first really good quality long run without shin problems for over a year. I'm in love with running again. The run was extraordinarily varied. Last night I had left my car in Midhurst, so I had to run there to collect it. Along the main road it's probably only 7 or 8 miles. But I zig-zagged cross-country, climbing 3 big hills (Marley, Blackdown and Bexleyhill) via trails that veered violently between boggy, muddy, snowy and stoney. There was a definite snowline on Blackdown, and the climb through crisp snow to the top was my most inspiring running moment since the tears after Ironman. 20 minutes later as I crossed a boggy field my shoe got stuck in a particularly gooey divot. I hopped back to get it, covered in mud. The whole thing took me 2 hours 20 minutes but I must have lost 20 minutes looking at the map.
Anyway, that's about it for this installment. I've got Match of the Day to watch. Thankfully, it's a Premiership day: England Team would definitely have crashed if it'd been an international weekend.
Friday, 16 January 2009
A Saints Fan in New York
Whassssup! Yes, I'm back, fresh from the year 2000. I come bearing retro gifts such as Big Brother, the dawn of Digital TV ("Monkey; we need more Tele") and Economic Growth (whisper that bit, if you're reading out loud).
Seriously, I was fresh at about 2000, but now it's 2200 and I'm 3 beers in, so what happens next is anyone's guess. All I've got left is the super-strong cider that Marg gave me for Christmas, so if this post goes on long enough then the typing might get rather less professional than the current flowing pitter-patter.
So the world continues to turn, a fact that I think people seem to overlook from time to time. There are some bad things: Gaza, Celebrity Big Brother and the Credit Crunch is now extra Crunchy. There are some middling things: Kaka to Man City (he's a great player and I'm pleased he might be coming to England, but it's all about money), George Bush (STILL President, but only for a couple more days) and this Post (started decidedly middling, if you ask me). But there are also some good things: Last.fm (I've been sitting in silence for the past 2 hours before I remembered that with the internet I can listen to any sort of music I want to: Indie Disco = Nice), the Sales (I got a really nice new jacket for £-3. Now that's amazing), and I'm engaged.
I should probably say we're engaged, but as Julie is clearly out (otherwise why I am half-cut on the computer?) the first person is appropriate here. Anyway, I popped the question whilst in New York in early December. We had the greatest, coldest weekend sprinting around NYC before I stooped to bended knee on the final evening. She said yes, and so we returned to the UK with an awful lot of people to see and a wedding to arrange.
Wedding arrangements are coming together surprisingly easy. We timed it well. Sorry, I should say I timed it well... as we had the Christmas break to start looking at venues. We looked at the great and the small and have settled for a little place someway between the two extremes. More of that to follow in another post. Suffice to say the name is especially appropriate...
We've also seen the Vicar. He didn't seem phased by my Catholicism. In fact, he suggested we consider mixing in a bit of Mass into the service. I promised to discuss the matter (or should I say Mass-er?) with my Mum, who gave the true Catholic response that a Mass would just delay the drinking and she'd say a prayer for us that morning instead.
The photo which has slapped itself into the top left-hand corner of this post is from New York. Something bizarre happened while we were at the Rockerfeller Centre. Every picture taken there is brilliant; we both suddenly became photogenic. No idea why. Maybe our features react well to the light from ice.
Anyway, time is up. My beer has run out, last.fm is now playing something called 3D Sex Show by Shitdisco and Julie is back (a good thing, but talking is disrupting my flow). So, I'm off.
T'raa
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