Well done to my old uni mate Gav, with whom I ran the Scotland Run 10K whilst in New York back in April, for completing the New York marathon last Sunday in a superb time of 4hrs 5 mins.
The wonders of modern technology meant I was able to follow his progress around the route and get updates on his lap times - whilst slumped on the sofa in a hungover fug after the Lambeth fireworks display in Brockwell Park the previous night.
It almost - almost - got me back out running again. Work somewhat got in the way this week, which is becoming par for the course; the dark side of technological advances being that I can now connect to my work desktop from the comfort of my own home. Things are hectic and stressful in the office at the moment, and on numerous occasions I've found myself sitting in my spare room at 11pm staring wearily at the screen after putting another 3 hours stint in when I should have been relaxing or spending quality time with my girlfriend (not that the two are mutually exclusive, obviously). Where there used to be a distinct line between work and play, now there is none. I no longer view my home computer as a portal to fun and knowledge; rather it reminds me that I could - and probably should - do some work over the weekend.
Hence I'm determined to spend the afternoon and evening browsing and messing about for leisure today - J is off to look at her friend's holiday snaps and I, alas, am not invited. I haven't blogged properly for months due to the aforementioned work and the Steppe by Steppe blog has died a death before we even got to the start line! It's next on my list to update, before senility takes hold and the internet morphs into some sort of giant thought-based cloud where this type of content no longer exists.
Blogging does feel a bit passé these days, with Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, Flickr etc all competing for our social updates. None of these, however, provide the level of detail I sometimes want to go into and none of them will allow me to look back in years to come and think "oh yeah! I'd forgotten about that!". This particular slice of web-logging has been on the go since '06, since I was in my twenties, since I was single. Whilst all of that seems not that long ago, the 942 posts that precede this one have captured a huge amount of life, significant events & adventure for posterity. At least it seems that way to me.
Anyway - back to the running. I'm going to creak back out on to the pavements of SW2 tomorrow (assuming no inadvertent drunkenness this evening) in the same pair of trainers I've had since the blog began. I think that 5 years and a few hundred miles of running has finally destroyed them; whilst they still look reasonably good, I get blistered feet every time I attempt to jog more than a couple of kilometres in them. That shouldn't be a problem tomorrow - it's four full months since my Personal Best was smashed in the British 10K, during which time I've pulled on the ex-spangly Nikes a grand total of once. A cheeky wee lap of the park tomorrow may be all I can hope for.
Pay day is next Friday, and I'm determined to finally bite the bullet and get gait analysis and a proper pair of running shoes. Of course, true to form, I've procrastinated so long that I have now moved office to Hammersmith, and after having a branch of Runners Need round the corner from work for 2 years, I now have no idea where the nearest one is. Wait and see - guarantee I end up just fishing a pair of Reeboks out of the bargain bin in JJB Sports instead and then wondering why my knee keeps popping out every time I try to go up hill.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Autumn's here...
...and the wind is buffeting my spare room curtains, thanks to the thoughtful air vent that a former resident / landlord thought might be a useful feature in a bedroom window. No way of closing it, so if you're thinking of coming and spending a weekend as my house guest, probably best to hold off until spring.
Another month-long gap between posts suggests that life has once again been too busy and interesting to bother writing about.
I'm happy to say that both I and the rest of the family made it to the top of Ben Nevis back in September; I'll stick a couple of pics on the blog once I've got them onto Flickr (because you can never pollute the internet too much with duplicate uploads). The mountain's pretty high - higher than I was expecting in all honesty. Yes, it's the tallest point in the UK, but I'd been led to believe it wouldn't be too much of a mission getting up there. There was something other-worldly about walking inside a cloud across the crushed rock that forms the summit - but the trek was definitely worth it.
Whilst halfway up, I learned that Ireland had defeated Australia in the Rugby World Cup, which is currently nearing its denouement as the hosts prepare for what should surely be a walkover against an under par and extremely fortunate French team, who were aided by some shocking refereeing in the semi final which saw Wales - the best team to watch in the whole tournament - play for 3/4 of the game with only 14 men after their captain and best player, Sam Warburton, was sent off for an over-exuberant tackle. Letter of the law 1, Spirit of the game 0. As it transpired, had Wales nailed any one of the 4 kicks they missed during the match, they'd be preparing for the biggest game of their lives now, but it wasn't to be. Ireland, alas, didn't reach the heady heights of their upset in Auckland again, and were comprehensively dispatched by the Welsh in the Quarter Finals. Still, the boys can hold their heads high.
Besides that, our flat was completely redecorated whilst we continued living in it, which was a logistical nightmare of epic proportions but has been well worth it, in that we can now have showers without soaking the plaster on the wall (amazing invention, tiles), although the effect of all the fresh paint is somewhat detracted by the carpets, which were shoddy to begin with but now bear the scars of flamboyant painting by Martin the decorator, who didn't bother covering them as he was told they were being replaced. That, I fear, has been put on ice by our landlord who seemed to baulk at the cost the rest of the decorating amounted to.
At least the place was looking good for the arrival of J's parents on their first trip to see where their daughter hangs out. They seemed to enjoy London town, and seemed happy enough with where we're living - although given I still don't speak Polish, they could have been slagging me off for the whole week for making her live in a squat for all I know. Grasping some basic sentences is back on my list of 'things to do this winter', although yet again is just below 'sit in the pub all weekend'. We'll see how that goes.
Another month-long gap between posts suggests that life has once again been too busy and interesting to bother writing about.
I'm happy to say that both I and the rest of the family made it to the top of Ben Nevis back in September; I'll stick a couple of pics on the blog once I've got them onto Flickr (because you can never pollute the internet too much with duplicate uploads). The mountain's pretty high - higher than I was expecting in all honesty. Yes, it's the tallest point in the UK, but I'd been led to believe it wouldn't be too much of a mission getting up there. There was something other-worldly about walking inside a cloud across the crushed rock that forms the summit - but the trek was definitely worth it.
Whilst halfway up, I learned that Ireland had defeated Australia in the Rugby World Cup, which is currently nearing its denouement as the hosts prepare for what should surely be a walkover against an under par and extremely fortunate French team, who were aided by some shocking refereeing in the semi final which saw Wales - the best team to watch in the whole tournament - play for 3/4 of the game with only 14 men after their captain and best player, Sam Warburton, was sent off for an over-exuberant tackle. Letter of the law 1, Spirit of the game 0. As it transpired, had Wales nailed any one of the 4 kicks they missed during the match, they'd be preparing for the biggest game of their lives now, but it wasn't to be. Ireland, alas, didn't reach the heady heights of their upset in Auckland again, and were comprehensively dispatched by the Welsh in the Quarter Finals. Still, the boys can hold their heads high.
Besides that, our flat was completely redecorated whilst we continued living in it, which was a logistical nightmare of epic proportions but has been well worth it, in that we can now have showers without soaking the plaster on the wall (amazing invention, tiles), although the effect of all the fresh paint is somewhat detracted by the carpets, which were shoddy to begin with but now bear the scars of flamboyant painting by Martin the decorator, who didn't bother covering them as he was told they were being replaced. That, I fear, has been put on ice by our landlord who seemed to baulk at the cost the rest of the decorating amounted to.
At least the place was looking good for the arrival of J's parents on their first trip to see where their daughter hangs out. They seemed to enjoy London town, and seemed happy enough with where we're living - although given I still don't speak Polish, they could have been slagging me off for the whole week for making her live in a squat for all I know. Grasping some basic sentences is back on my list of 'things to do this winter', although yet again is just below 'sit in the pub all weekend'. We'll see how that goes.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Bestival
Ideally, I'd like to say I'm now fully recovered from the glorious weekend that was Bestival 2011, but given I'm nursing a hangover after meeting my friend Helen for 'a pint' to return her tent, and was wearing my Bestival hoodie during the 3 hours in the pub, I'm blaming the festival for my current state of distress.
Just as well, then, that I don't have to get up at 3am tomorrow to catch a flight up north, or attempt to climb Ben Nevis on Saturday. Oh. Wait.
Yep, despite my lungs feeling like they're clogged with half of the Isle of Wight's topography & shrivelled by a lack of non-smoking, and although my legs haven't seen any exercise since the British 10K on 10 July, the charity climb for Marie Curie that we signed up for in January is almost upon us. Flights and accommodation are booked, and all that remains is to get up there and hope the weather and our stamina hold.
Bestival was amazing - something about the atmosphere and site this time made me wander round in a state of cheeriness all weekend. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was positive for an entire 4 days in a row - which hasn't happened to me since I was about 6. The lack of 'must see' bands (from my perspective) meant I was pretty relaxed about where we went and who we saw; my early recommendation for opening band of the weekend (Fenech Soler) were a huge disappointment in the flesh - their stomping tunes let down by a cheesy as hell front man (all sun tan, muscle tee and pretend drum-playing during the instrumentals) and a stage show which suggested they believed themselves somewhat more famous than they are - and after that I was content to shut up and let someone else drive.
Over the course of the weekend I managed to catch Brian Wilson, Public Enemy, Kitty Daisy & Lewis, Frank Turner, Willy Mason (my personal highlight, playing on the bandstand at 11pm on Saturday night to a crowd in the hundreds), Goldie Lookin Chain, PJ Harvey, Toots & the Maytalls, Grandmaster Flash, Bjork, Mogwai and many others who's names and performances are lost in the clouds of my addled brain.
As with most festivals though, it was more about hanging out with your mates rather than ticking acts off a list - with adulthood and increasingly stressful jobs and responsibilities, I don't see my friends as much as I once did, and it was great to just have a long weekend in the company of some of my nearest and dearest, who were all on top form. There was quite an organic flow to who was hanging out with who over the course of the weekend, meaning I got to spend quality time with just about everyone - whilst Helen & Lucy were off raving on Saturday, Jennie & I watched the Cure with Craig before heading off to see Willy Mason; whereas Helen & I were the last two standing on both the opening and final nights. Likewise, Brian Wilson's journey through the Beach Boys' back catalogue took place next to Craig, as we sang our heads off in the sunshine on Friday afternoon. The only person I didn't spend any time alone with was Lucy, but then I live upstairs from her, so she's probably sick of the sight (or at least sound) of me.
The transport organisation on the Isle of Wight was, as usual, abysmal - they're just not prepared for such an influx of people (despite this being, I believe, the 8th Bestival), and their sleepy islander brains seem incapable of making decisions or ensuring any amount of order. I'm basing this sweeping, rude generalisation on the performance of one employee of Hovertravel, who managed to actually make the attempts to get on a shuttle bus worse by trying to organise it than if she'd stuck to her original plan of whistling nonchalantly to herself whilst deliberately looking the other way.
After 4 hours standing in a car park in Ryde, Lucy eventually came to the rescue by catching the eye of a local taxi driver, who gave us his word he'd come back and collect us next. Given the alternatives, we left the scrum waiting for non-existent buses to arrive and took up residence at the edge of the car park. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, Bernie - the nicest taxi driver in Christendom - reappeared and we were finally en route to the festival. As with the trip home in 2009, the travel chaos had its advantages when we reached the site itself, with virtually no queue to get in. Bernie's good deed and cheery banter got us back into the right frame of mind, and set the tone for the rest of the weekend - but it could have been oh so different.
The fancy dress wasn't as well supported this year as previously, which was a disappointment. It seemed the Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas theme seemed to fire people's imaginations. Our shop bought outfits looked great though - I'll post some photos once I get the edited highlights onto Flickr. The presence of the Village People on the main stage on Saturday afternoon, combined with the theme, did result in probably the most amusing sight of the weekend - an extremely confused looking bloke (assume drug dealer) being roughly manhandled through the crowd and into a holding area, his arms crushed behind his back by two burly undercover officers dressed as a gay construction worker and a red indian! I'm not entirely sure I agree with the approach of catching someone in the act rather than having a visible presence to prevent the act in the first place, but it was pretty hilarious for the crowd of onlookers - especially as the cops chose to wrestle him to the ground and sit on his back behind a mesh fence which offered no privacy to them or their captive.
Final mention has to go to the weather - it held up surprisingly well for the majority of the weekend (I have sunburn as I write), but on Saturday night the heavens opened and a downpour ensued. As a result, the grass had disappeared from the arena by the time we made it in on Sunday - but was bearable, even if it meant we were unable to sit down. On the final night, however, after waiting for Bjork and the end of festivals fireworks to finish, the rain returned - and this time it had brought its friend gale. One am saw me hanging onto our gazebo for dear life, as a pop up tent popped up from its mooring nearby, sailed through the air, bounced off the top of the gazebo above my head and fly over the back of our 4 man tent. Having got the gazebo down, I returned to my own tent, which was backing onto the path and therefore had nothing to act as a windbreak, and endured one of the most uncomfortable and concerning night's 'sleep' of my life, as the wind flattened the tent down over my face, and imagined objects ripped loose and flew across the camp site towards me.
Thankfully, nothing did actually hit me, we all survived intact, and our trip home was nothing short of miraculous - after leaving our camp site at 9am, we were back in Brixton shortly after 2pm and drinking in the pub by 3. The sun came out, the wind had disappeared and a few pints in the Hootananny was a perfect end to a brilliant, if exhausting, weekend.
Could do with a few more weeks rest though.
Just as well, then, that I don't have to get up at 3am tomorrow to catch a flight up north, or attempt to climb Ben Nevis on Saturday. Oh. Wait.
Yep, despite my lungs feeling like they're clogged with half of the Isle of Wight's topography & shrivelled by a lack of non-smoking, and although my legs haven't seen any exercise since the British 10K on 10 July, the charity climb for Marie Curie that we signed up for in January is almost upon us. Flights and accommodation are booked, and all that remains is to get up there and hope the weather and our stamina hold.
Bestival was amazing - something about the atmosphere and site this time made me wander round in a state of cheeriness all weekend. In fact, I'm pretty sure I was positive for an entire 4 days in a row - which hasn't happened to me since I was about 6. The lack of 'must see' bands (from my perspective) meant I was pretty relaxed about where we went and who we saw; my early recommendation for opening band of the weekend (Fenech Soler) were a huge disappointment in the flesh - their stomping tunes let down by a cheesy as hell front man (all sun tan, muscle tee and pretend drum-playing during the instrumentals) and a stage show which suggested they believed themselves somewhat more famous than they are - and after that I was content to shut up and let someone else drive.
Over the course of the weekend I managed to catch Brian Wilson, Public Enemy, Kitty Daisy & Lewis, Frank Turner, Willy Mason (my personal highlight, playing on the bandstand at 11pm on Saturday night to a crowd in the hundreds), Goldie Lookin Chain, PJ Harvey, Toots & the Maytalls, Grandmaster Flash, Bjork, Mogwai and many others who's names and performances are lost in the clouds of my addled brain.
As with most festivals though, it was more about hanging out with your mates rather than ticking acts off a list - with adulthood and increasingly stressful jobs and responsibilities, I don't see my friends as much as I once did, and it was great to just have a long weekend in the company of some of my nearest and dearest, who were all on top form. There was quite an organic flow to who was hanging out with who over the course of the weekend, meaning I got to spend quality time with just about everyone - whilst Helen & Lucy were off raving on Saturday, Jennie & I watched the Cure with Craig before heading off to see Willy Mason; whereas Helen & I were the last two standing on both the opening and final nights. Likewise, Brian Wilson's journey through the Beach Boys' back catalogue took place next to Craig, as we sang our heads off in the sunshine on Friday afternoon. The only person I didn't spend any time alone with was Lucy, but then I live upstairs from her, so she's probably sick of the sight (or at least sound) of me.
The transport organisation on the Isle of Wight was, as usual, abysmal - they're just not prepared for such an influx of people (despite this being, I believe, the 8th Bestival), and their sleepy islander brains seem incapable of making decisions or ensuring any amount of order. I'm basing this sweeping, rude generalisation on the performance of one employee of Hovertravel, who managed to actually make the attempts to get on a shuttle bus worse by trying to organise it than if she'd stuck to her original plan of whistling nonchalantly to herself whilst deliberately looking the other way.
After 4 hours standing in a car park in Ryde, Lucy eventually came to the rescue by catching the eye of a local taxi driver, who gave us his word he'd come back and collect us next. Given the alternatives, we left the scrum waiting for non-existent buses to arrive and took up residence at the edge of the car park. Sure enough, 45 minutes later, Bernie - the nicest taxi driver in Christendom - reappeared and we were finally en route to the festival. As with the trip home in 2009, the travel chaos had its advantages when we reached the site itself, with virtually no queue to get in. Bernie's good deed and cheery banter got us back into the right frame of mind, and set the tone for the rest of the weekend - but it could have been oh so different.
The fancy dress wasn't as well supported this year as previously, which was a disappointment. It seemed the Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas theme seemed to fire people's imaginations. Our shop bought outfits looked great though - I'll post some photos once I get the edited highlights onto Flickr. The presence of the Village People on the main stage on Saturday afternoon, combined with the theme, did result in probably the most amusing sight of the weekend - an extremely confused looking bloke (assume drug dealer) being roughly manhandled through the crowd and into a holding area, his arms crushed behind his back by two burly undercover officers dressed as a gay construction worker and a red indian! I'm not entirely sure I agree with the approach of catching someone in the act rather than having a visible presence to prevent the act in the first place, but it was pretty hilarious for the crowd of onlookers - especially as the cops chose to wrestle him to the ground and sit on his back behind a mesh fence which offered no privacy to them or their captive.
Final mention has to go to the weather - it held up surprisingly well for the majority of the weekend (I have sunburn as I write), but on Saturday night the heavens opened and a downpour ensued. As a result, the grass had disappeared from the arena by the time we made it in on Sunday - but was bearable, even if it meant we were unable to sit down. On the final night, however, after waiting for Bjork and the end of festivals fireworks to finish, the rain returned - and this time it had brought its friend gale. One am saw me hanging onto our gazebo for dear life, as a pop up tent popped up from its mooring nearby, sailed through the air, bounced off the top of the gazebo above my head and fly over the back of our 4 man tent. Having got the gazebo down, I returned to my own tent, which was backing onto the path and therefore had nothing to act as a windbreak, and endured one of the most uncomfortable and concerning night's 'sleep' of my life, as the wind flattened the tent down over my face, and imagined objects ripped loose and flew across the camp site towards me.
Thankfully, nothing did actually hit me, we all survived intact, and our trip home was nothing short of miraculous - after leaving our camp site at 9am, we were back in Brixton shortly after 2pm and drinking in the pub by 3. The sun came out, the wind had disappeared and a few pints in the Hootananny was a perfect end to a brilliant, if exhausting, weekend.
Could do with a few more weeks rest though.
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...
We'd the pleasure of welcoming our second guests to the flat (not bad for over a year of living here) last weekend - J's cousin Kasia and her husband.
She's posted her pictures of the trip on her blog - including some taken in Brixton Village and in our neighbourhood. In particular, she has captured our rocking chair (I say 'our'; it's on loan from a friend) in a way I could only dream of seeing, never mind capturing.
Katarzyna Pilarska Photography: Głowa w chmurach, serce na dłoni i Londyn analogow...: Jakże niewiarygodne jest to, że w dzisiejszych czasach człowiek jednego dnia spędza popołudnie w Londyńskim Chinatown, a drugiego dziarsko m...
Trains
Am standing in City Thameslink as I write (the wonders of moderner technology), perusing my preference for overland trains rather than the underground. Had I taken the tube from St Pauls, I'd be relatively hurtling towards Oxford Circus right now, rather than attempting to ignore the couple of pints of IPA that are slowly working their way to their exit point.
But then I'd be squashed in a hot tube with a smorgasbord of travellers across London - whereas here I'm in the relatively subdued and refined surroundings of fellow office monkeys just trying to get homewards after a hard day at work. That's what I'm looking for at this point on a weekday - none of the vocal exuberance of recently-arrived tourists, no shady characters lurking by the doorway. And, leaving Blackfriars station and crossing the Thames, the view (Tower Bridge on one side, the London Eye on the other) reminds me how exciting it is to live in one of the greatest cities on earth, when travel beneath terra firma sees you depart one urban street and pop out in another.
I have Paul Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express" for company, allowing me to mentally relocate from the Sutton Service to other trains on the other side of the world, and disembarkation in Herne Hill with a walk through the park towards home.
So, then. A more civilised way to travel. And one that means some poor French exchange student doesn't have my beery stench being breathed all over them from close quarters.
But then I'd be squashed in a hot tube with a smorgasbord of travellers across London - whereas here I'm in the relatively subdued and refined surroundings of fellow office monkeys just trying to get homewards after a hard day at work. That's what I'm looking for at this point on a weekday - none of the vocal exuberance of recently-arrived tourists, no shady characters lurking by the doorway. And, leaving Blackfriars station and crossing the Thames, the view (Tower Bridge on one side, the London Eye on the other) reminds me how exciting it is to live in one of the greatest cities on earth, when travel beneath terra firma sees you depart one urban street and pop out in another.
I have Paul Theroux's "The Old Patagonian Express" for company, allowing me to mentally relocate from the Sutton Service to other trains on the other side of the world, and disembarkation in Herne Hill with a walk through the park towards home.
So, then. A more civilised way to travel. And one that means some poor French exchange student doesn't have my beery stench being breathed all over them from close quarters.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Hits on the blog (hits on the blog y'all)
That post title sounds better if you lazily croon it in the style of mid-90s ganja-toking hip hop legends, Cypress Hill. Which is fitting, as I've been experiencing another mini peak in visits to the blog, once again due to a post about music. Or music festivals, in any case.
Last time it was because of Supajam and their free Feis tickets - something I don't really want to be reminded of for the simple reason that they came good on their offer, I ended up absolutely wasted and don't really have any point of reference for the entire event except a dark stain of shame on my subconscious.
This time, there has been a building crescendo of hits on the site (almost scraping double figures per day!) based around the same 6 words: Rock Stars. Pop Stars. And Divas.
I assume some frantic Googling is taking place in desperation for Bestival fancy dress inspiration, with the fun on the Isle of Wight kicking off in a mere 8 days. For once, I'm sorted. Yes, it's a tenuous costume, and yes, I bought it off Amazon. But it'll be a damn sight comfier (and easier to construct) than my efforts of 2009....
Last time it was because of Supajam and their free Feis tickets - something I don't really want to be reminded of for the simple reason that they came good on their offer, I ended up absolutely wasted and don't really have any point of reference for the entire event except a dark stain of shame on my subconscious.
This time, there has been a building crescendo of hits on the site (almost scraping double figures per day!) based around the same 6 words: Rock Stars. Pop Stars. And Divas.
I assume some frantic Googling is taking place in desperation for Bestival fancy dress inspiration, with the fun on the Isle of Wight kicking off in a mere 8 days. For once, I'm sorted. Yes, it's a tenuous costume, and yes, I bought it off Amazon. But it'll be a damn sight comfier (and easier to construct) than my efforts of 2009....
Bestival - my Mr Spoon outfit
it didn't quite work out how I planned in 2009 - when the theme was "Space". It became known as "Pritstickgate", as the forgetting of the eponymous white stick, combined with the mother of all hangovers after a 5am finish the night before, sank me into parcel-taping misery - much to the amusement of my fellow festival-ers.
Wouldn't half mind the weather to be the same this year as back then though.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance
I've finally got round to putting a new post up on Steppe By Steppe - waxing semi-lyrically (and at length) about our crash course in 'not grinding to a halt somewhere outside Antwerp'. Click on the funky red link to be whisked magically across the ether to my other blog.
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance: Apart from enthusiasm, we didn't have too much in the way of qualifications to suggest it was wise to drive a quarter of the way 'round the ...
Monday, August 22, 2011
Further efforts to deal with the endemic dog poo problem
we didn't see any dog poo on the beach whilst we were there - no doubt due entirely to these genius public health signs
Trouville
This blog has been in existence for about 3 months longer than I have been going out with my girlfriend, whom I refer to affectionately (some may say 'lazily') as J. She turned 30 in July, and - unable to whisk her off to a 5 star hotel in Rome as I wanted to - we ended up in the French seaside resort of Trouville, in Normandy. The "Parisian Riviera", no less. Or at least, right next door to it (the true posh spot being the neighbouring town of Deauville).
We left London early on Friday morning and arrived in Calais at lunchtime; having not realised that toll booths accept debit cards (given we had no Euro), the mighty Clio meandered through the French countryside for several hours before the majesty of the Pont de Normandie loomed into sight.
45 minutes later we were cruising the main promenade of Trouville itself, a bustling seaside harbour and resort dominated by a faded casino at the junction of quay and beach, and famous for the seafood that arrives by the trawlerload on a daily basis. We'd chosen it as our destination for the weekend by that most scientific of methods, Google. When I finally gave up pretending I could afford Rome, I asked J where else she would like to go - "to wherever the best mussels in Northern France are", came the reply.
A swift internet search later, up popped Trouville - round the bay a bit from Le Havre, and a more manageable drive from the ferry than Mont St Michel. Not the most romantic of reasons for choosing it, but the squeals of delight from the passenger seat as we jostled our way along the street convinced me we'd done ok.
Our hotel turned out to be perfect, and the town itself was exactly what we (or more importantly, J) had been hoping for. We managed to exist in a little French bubble for most of the weekend until hearing our first English accent late on Sunday - and for two full days we strolled, sunbathed, drank beer and ate fantastic food without a care in the world. It was my first time in the France beyond Paris as an adult, so imagine my surprise when my GCSE French not only wasn't mocked, but resulted in my getting everything I asked for. Ok, so it was a surprise to find myself eating goats cheese quiche on Sunday morning, but I did ask for it, even if I thought it had bacon in it. Again, it was only on Sunday that the spell broke, when a well-meaning bartender answered my pidgin French enquiry in English. I have to admit though, I was exhausted by that point after a full 48 hours dredging the dark recesses of my brain to uncover some half-remembered 17 year old piece of vocabulary so that I could buy a pen to write a postcard.
Mornings were spent drinking coffee and watching the population of the town stroll past - obligatory baguette under their arm. I'm pretty sure people can't eat that much bread; I assume it's just the done thing to have a baguette under one arm and a cigarette in hand, should anyone doubt the true Gallicism of your nature. Afternoons involved a beer with the elderly locals watching the world go by outside a local bar, a stroll through the market, and a bit of gentle sun-burning on the beach.
We followed Trip Advisor's tips on eating out, which resulted in us tucking into delicious duck and steak on the Saturday evening in "La Bolee Normande", a small family-run restaurant up a steep side street near the quayside. The ambience was great, the service friendly, the food delicious - but it deserves special mention for its unique take on fresh seafood. As we were mid-meal, two middle aged French ladies and what appeared to be a daughter came in, ordering a seafood platter which duly arrived around 10 minutes later. After a moment, shrieks and the sound of chairs flying backwards filled the air; I turned round just in time to see the centrepiece of their meal - a crab - making a break for freedom across the table. The women were shouting (but laughing) as the young waiter came ambling over to try and catch the crab, which had launched itself off the table altogether and was attempting to scuttle across the tiles to safety. The young fella got down on his hands and knees and returned triumphant, crab in hand, just as his dad - the chef - appeared to apologise, explain and grab the plucky crustacean to return it to the kitchen.
Reading between the lines & fluent foreign language, it would appear that the wife / head waitress had scooped up the crab to finish the dish, assuming it cooked. As the husband / chef pointed out - and as was evident when he returned with our hero - still steaming from his hot bath - 5 minutes later, a cooked crab looks completely different to a raw (or indeed, "live") one.
There's something about the atmosphere in the place and the general friendliness and openness we experienced from everyone all weekend that I would use that story as part of a recommendation to visit la Bolee Normande if you're ever in Trouville; the same goes for Le Noirot where I showed my cosmopolitan class by ordering salmon in a restaurant renowned for its seafood, yet was treated like a long lost son by the exuberant old head waiter.
Thanks Trouville - you made a nervous boyfriend and the birthday girl very happy indeed.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Rock stars, pop stars & divas
As usual, the arse end of summer has crept up on me unawares, and tomorrow sees my final payday before heading off to the Isle of Wight for Bestival, which somewhat unbelievably all kicks off 3 weeks tomorrow.
I am, of course, bereft of ideas for a costume for the fancy dress day on the Saturday, and am currently trawling the internet looking vainly for inspiration, like a desperate boyfriend in Muji at half past four on Christmas Eve.
The theme is "Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas" this year - which leaves the scope pretty wide, but it's proving more difficult that I thought. Apart from the truly iconic stars (yer Elvis's, Michael Jackson's et al), it's potentially difficult to dress as a rock god from yesteryear without just looking like a generic 80s hair-rock legend or a country & western singer. Likewise, take the likes of Boy George & Freddy Mercury out of the pop star equation, and you're left with a lot of formulaic nobodies in the main. Of course, there'll be someone wandering about with 3 packets of Birds Eye burgers defrosting on their person as they 'do' Lady Gaga, but I was hoping for something not immediately obvious (but recognisable) that hopefully half the other festival goers haven't emulated but bettered.
I've settled on two themes of investigation - abstract band references (e.g. putting a palm tree on my head and going as Oasis), or just dressing up as one of my favourite artists from the early-mid 90s, when my consumption of music was at its height.
If nothing else, the last two evenings have been an orgy of nostalgia, with everything from Snow to the Bluetones blasting out to the neighbourhood. At the risk of sounding like an old codger already, we really were spoiled back then in terms of the sheer depth of good tunes. Helped if you were into cheesy dance music followed by Britpop, obviously, which my age ensured I aligned with perfectly.
I am, of course, bereft of ideas for a costume for the fancy dress day on the Saturday, and am currently trawling the internet looking vainly for inspiration, like a desperate boyfriend in Muji at half past four on Christmas Eve.
The theme is "Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas" this year - which leaves the scope pretty wide, but it's proving more difficult that I thought. Apart from the truly iconic stars (yer Elvis's, Michael Jackson's et al), it's potentially difficult to dress as a rock god from yesteryear without just looking like a generic 80s hair-rock legend or a country & western singer. Likewise, take the likes of Boy George & Freddy Mercury out of the pop star equation, and you're left with a lot of formulaic nobodies in the main. Of course, there'll be someone wandering about with 3 packets of Birds Eye burgers defrosting on their person as they 'do' Lady Gaga, but I was hoping for something not immediately obvious (but recognisable) that hopefully half the other festival goers haven't emulated but bettered.
I've settled on two themes of investigation - abstract band references (e.g. putting a palm tree on my head and going as Oasis), or just dressing up as one of my favourite artists from the early-mid 90s, when my consumption of music was at its height.
If nothing else, the last two evenings have been an orgy of nostalgia, with everything from Snow to the Bluetones blasting out to the neighbourhood. At the risk of sounding like an old codger already, we really were spoiled back then in terms of the sheer depth of good tunes. Helped if you were into cheesy dance music followed by Britpop, obviously, which my age ensured I aligned with perfectly.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Taking it back to the old school
The ongoing rioting reminds me of being in Northern Ireland back in the mid-late nineties, when each summer would bring with it the familiar spectre of "Drumcree" and the associated civil disobedience that went with it.
Each year we would be subjected to around a week of riots, with local people rising up against the police in protest at being banned from marching down the Garvaghy Road in Portadown. Unlike London - where the main focus has been on looting shops - the goal was to lock down entrance to, and exit from, key strategic points in the country - be that towns, motorways, ports or airports. The weapon of choice was the petrol bomb & vehicle hijack, allied to the fact that in the majority of cases you didn't have the anonymity afforded to you by the big city - rebel against these people at your peril; hell, you probably recognised them (and they you) even with their faces masked. It had, of course, added significance attached in that it was perceived as being a religious & cultural issue - and woe betide you if you suggested you weren't supporting whoever it was that was taking affirmative action. In Ballymena, they were well served on the main dual carriageway into town, a massive Ford dealership on a hill above the road proving a perfect source for vehicles to roll down to the tarmac and torch.
When I was 17, I helped my sister move back home from university in Warwickshire. My first ever road trip involved a trundle up the M6 in her 12 year old Vauxhall Nova. There was nothing remarkable about the journey up to Stranraer, but the radio was keeping us abreast of developments back home. When we got to the ferry they confirmed that the road to the port of Larne - our destination - had been barricaded by Loyalists, and no one was getting in or out.
When we docked, imagine our surprise therefore to see our parents waiting for us. Somehow my dad had talked his way through the barricade, where the local "commander" had allegedly not only allowed him to pass through, but had also guaranteed he could get back out once he had collected us. Quite how he'd come to this arrangement, I don't know and if I'm honest don't want to, although I do retain a degree of intrigue and respect for the fact he plied his trade across the rural wilds of Northern Ireland as a salesman throughout some of the darkest periods of the troubles.
We travelled in convoy back up the deserted road from the port, hazard lights flashing as instructed to announce our arrival, only to reach the blockade (a hijacked articulated lorry turned sideways across the dual carriageway) and discover "our man" was no longer there. His replacement knew of no arrangement to let us through, and we were forced to return sheepishly to the port and spend an uncomfortable night with the rest of the ferry passengers, trying to sleep in the food court on plastic moulded seats.
Around 5am, word reached the terminal that a route may be open up the coast road towards Glenarm. Some discussion and decision amongst a discrete group of passengers later and we were slipping into our cars in the early morning sunlight. My dad somehow emerged as the ringleader once again, and he and mum headed up the convoy as we quietly eased out of the port and turned towards the back roads along the shoreline. My sister and I followed in the Nova, followed by a couple of other cars who were willing to take the risk to get back home.
It was an incredibly surreal experience - the watery daylight, the early hour, picking our way round and through still-smouldering car shells in the middle of the road. At any moment, I expected to round a corner and be confronted by a group of men in balaclavas - but it never happened. It seems that, wherever the intelligence came from, we had timed it perfectly to coincide with the night shift heading home to get a few hours kip. Eventually, after around 30 minutes, we turned left, tooted the horn in solidarity with the cars heading further north, and rose into the hills to head back towards home.
A few years later I was working for Belfast International Airport during my summer holidays from uni. My shifts started at 6am, and I remember plotting my route to avoid the roadblocks based on the information available at the time (as a rule of thumb, "take the most remote roads you can find"). I found myself high on the side of a hill overlooking the plain on which Antrim & Ballymena nestle, and remember just looking down through the mist at fires burning across the countryside - I could spot at least ten spots where burning barricades were clearly blocking access on the main roads.
Its weird - at the time it was just something you dealt with and were used to. Guys I knew at the airport had tales of previous years where they'd had to stay overnight at work because there was no way in or out. They ended up at the airport hotel having a by-all-accounts raucous party with some stranded air hostesses. Every cloud, and all that.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Riots in London
I was planning on posting something about our trip to France for J's birthday. Instead, I've got BBC News 24 playing in the background as pictures of Lewisham, Peckham, Hackney & Croydon ablaze fill the screen and news of trouble spreading to Birmingham filters through.
Tonight's rioting has even overshadowed what the shitty state of affairs bestowed on my adopted home town of Brixton last night. That it has spilled over into a 3rd successive night of violence ensures the whole thing is taking on a somewhat surreal quality. The news earlier reminded me of that bit in Shaun of the Dead where Huw Edwards is giving out official advice on how to cope with zombie attacks.
As I speak, Clapham Junction is overrun with jumped-up little vandals grabbing as much loot as they can from destroyed shop fronts - it tells you all you need to know that Currys & JD Sports are emptied whilst Waterstones remains unscathed.
This is my home. I've lived in Brixton for 8 years. That's a quarter of my life. The only place I've lived in longer is my childhood house. Apart from travelling across the river to work each day, my entire life is strung out in a roughly straight line across South London. Brixton in particular is that rare beast - a real community within central London, a fact borne out by the wealth of responses to last night's events on social networking sights and traditional news channels. All had the same message - that this is a vibrant community and a great place to live, and we're not going to let a few hooligans destroy that.
The people that looted our hood last night were not doing so to protest against anything. It wasn't a demonstration. It was just a focussed attempt to rob as much free shit as possible from the companies that have put their faith and money behind the regeneration of Brixton over the last few years. In 2009 the place was wobbling - Woolies was lying empty as were numerous other prime shop units, and the only businesses that seemed to want to come down to SW9 were Poundland and its imitators.
But then something changed. Windrush Square was redeveloped. H&M and T Mobile took over the old Woolworths building. Brixton's heart had a new look and was a genuinely pleasant place to inhabit. What will the little looting pricks have achieved if they drive those businesses out? There's a difference between gentrification and regeneration - naturally the former will leave the 'real residents' of Brixton feeling alienated and pushed out, and it will rob the place of its unique character. The squat evictions from Clifton Mansions on Coldharbour Lane were a case in point the other week, and it may well be the death knell for the community and atmosphere if the focal point of that most Brixton of streets becomes some yuppie apartment complex.
But regeneration is different. It gives an area a new focus & pride, attracts investment, makes people happy to live where they do. That's what Brixton has got in the last couple of years and that is what a crowd of 200 teenagers may have sacrificed in return for a free iPad and a pair of Nike Air Max last night. It's like they actually want to drive these businesses out so they can live in a ghetto and have something to justify their outlook on life.
The fact that I, and so many 'non-Brixtonites' like me feel so upset at the sights that greeted us in central Brixton this morning, means that we may just be able to stop them achieving their aim. I've been here 8 years. I am a Brixtonite. And apparently I care a damn sight more about it than a hell of a lot of people born and raised within swaggering distance.
Tonight's rioting has even overshadowed what the shitty state of affairs bestowed on my adopted home town of Brixton last night. That it has spilled over into a 3rd successive night of violence ensures the whole thing is taking on a somewhat surreal quality. The news earlier reminded me of that bit in Shaun of the Dead where Huw Edwards is giving out official advice on how to cope with zombie attacks.
As I speak, Clapham Junction is overrun with jumped-up little vandals grabbing as much loot as they can from destroyed shop fronts - it tells you all you need to know that Currys & JD Sports are emptied whilst Waterstones remains unscathed.
This is my home. I've lived in Brixton for 8 years. That's a quarter of my life. The only place I've lived in longer is my childhood house. Apart from travelling across the river to work each day, my entire life is strung out in a roughly straight line across South London. Brixton in particular is that rare beast - a real community within central London, a fact borne out by the wealth of responses to last night's events on social networking sights and traditional news channels. All had the same message - that this is a vibrant community and a great place to live, and we're not going to let a few hooligans destroy that.
The people that looted our hood last night were not doing so to protest against anything. It wasn't a demonstration. It was just a focussed attempt to rob as much free shit as possible from the companies that have put their faith and money behind the regeneration of Brixton over the last few years. In 2009 the place was wobbling - Woolies was lying empty as were numerous other prime shop units, and the only businesses that seemed to want to come down to SW9 were Poundland and its imitators.
But then something changed. Windrush Square was redeveloped. H&M and T Mobile took over the old Woolworths building. Brixton's heart had a new look and was a genuinely pleasant place to inhabit. What will the little looting pricks have achieved if they drive those businesses out? There's a difference between gentrification and regeneration - naturally the former will leave the 'real residents' of Brixton feeling alienated and pushed out, and it will rob the place of its unique character. The squat evictions from Clifton Mansions on Coldharbour Lane were a case in point the other week, and it may well be the death knell for the community and atmosphere if the focal point of that most Brixton of streets becomes some yuppie apartment complex.
But regeneration is different. It gives an area a new focus & pride, attracts investment, makes people happy to live where they do. That's what Brixton has got in the last couple of years and that is what a crowd of 200 teenagers may have sacrificed in return for a free iPad and a pair of Nike Air Max last night. It's like they actually want to drive these businesses out so they can live in a ghetto and have something to justify their outlook on life.
The fact that I, and so many 'non-Brixtonites' like me feel so upset at the sights that greeted us in central Brixton this morning, means that we may just be able to stop them achieving their aim. I've been here 8 years. I am a Brixtonite. And apparently I care a damn sight more about it than a hell of a lot of people born and raised within swaggering distance.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Bonne anniversaire, mon petite filous
I'm a crispy husk of a man sat before you, after a drunken night at Mango Landin', south Brixton's finest Caribbean-themed pub, saw us usher in J's 30s in some style. Everyone was incredibly generous and on top form, and we eventually made it to bed around 4am. There was only one thing for it yesterday - a hair of the dog and a burritto to soak up the excesses of the night before. Unfortunately, one hair turned into the drinking equivalent of a blocked plughole, and before I knew it we'd been in the pub for 5 hours - or more precisely, been in the beer garden sunshine for 5 hours.
I'm itchy, dehydrated and stingy all over today, which compounded my misery at work after the usual rubbish attempts at a night's sleep on a Sunday. The only thing keeping me going is the knowledge that it's a 4 day week for me this week; we're off to Normandy on Friday for the extended birthday celebrations.
I'd never heard of Trouville-sur-mer until I googled 'best mussels in northern France' (J's proposal to help us choose where to go), and this small fishing village popped up. A token attempt to research the place later, and I've discovered it's actually pretty famous as being the location for one of Monet's most famous paintings. "The Beach at Trouville", shown above, hangs in the National Gallery in London.
Relaxation is the order of the weekend, and we have our fingers crossed for sunshine. If not though, it'll give me the perfect opportunity to drag J along to see the Bayeux tapestry - something that mesmerised me at the age of about 11, but which I have to confess I'd kind of forgotten about in the past 20 years. Means nothing to J, of course, and trying to explain it to her is similar to her trying to get me all worked up over Grunwald. But I will, hopefully, be able to get along to see it and relive my childhood imagination of the Norman conquest.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Happy birthday J
Tomorrow, my lovely girlfriend Justyna turns 30. I remember when we first met, it seemed so far away - she was a young whipper-snapper of 25 and even I still had a year of my twenties left. Yet here we are, in 2011, still going strong and the big day upon us.
Alas, nearly 5 years of build up has not helped me think of the perfect present for her. 30 is significant; I wanted to make sure I bought something really fitting. Of course, this has translated into me spending the past 2 months stressing about it without actually coming up with an idea for what that might be. I feel shit but didn't want to buy some sort of tat for the sake of it. I'm hoping she's not too disappointed and we can go shopping together at the weekend, or when we're in France for a birthday long weekend towards the end of the month. It just sucks that she won't have anything from me to open, and I know I won't help matters by constantly going on about it - so even if she isn't bothered at first, she will be after me moaning about how crap I am for a couple of hours.
We are, at least, going out for dinner tomorrow, to a small but highly rated restaurant nearby. The menu changes every couple of weeks, but limits itself to a couple of options - you pretty much get what you're given. I hope, for both our sakes, it's at least an improvement on J's birthday meal last year, when we had crossed from the Ukraine into Russia and found a hotel on the outskirts of Rostov-na-Donu. Even then, I had big plans of flamboyant gestures and a luxury hotel room for the night (scuppered when the best hotel in town advised that yes, they had rooms available, but unfortunately no hot water). What I treated her to was a room underneath a raucous wedding reception, and a trip in the dark to a nearby shop to buy bread, cheese and beer due to the hotel kitchen being closed. She didn't complain though.
Happy birthday J - even though I'm rubbish at showing it, you make me the happiest guy in the world.
Alas, nearly 5 years of build up has not helped me think of the perfect present for her. 30 is significant; I wanted to make sure I bought something really fitting. Of course, this has translated into me spending the past 2 months stressing about it without actually coming up with an idea for what that might be. I feel shit but didn't want to buy some sort of tat for the sake of it. I'm hoping she's not too disappointed and we can go shopping together at the weekend, or when we're in France for a birthday long weekend towards the end of the month. It just sucks that she won't have anything from me to open, and I know I won't help matters by constantly going on about it - so even if she isn't bothered at first, she will be after me moaning about how crap I am for a couple of hours.
We are, at least, going out for dinner tomorrow, to a small but highly rated restaurant nearby. The menu changes every couple of weeks, but limits itself to a couple of options - you pretty much get what you're given. I hope, for both our sakes, it's at least an improvement on J's birthday meal last year, when we had crossed from the Ukraine into Russia and found a hotel on the outskirts of Rostov-na-Donu. Even then, I had big plans of flamboyant gestures and a luxury hotel room for the night (scuppered when the best hotel in town advised that yes, they had rooms available, but unfortunately no hot water). What I treated her to was a room underneath a raucous wedding reception, and a trip in the dark to a nearby shop to buy bread, cheese and beer due to the hotel kitchen being closed. She didn't complain though.
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| Justyna cuts some birthday bread with my multi-tool, in our Rostov hotel room |
Happy birthday J - even though I'm rubbish at showing it, you make me the happiest guy in the world.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
If you see slightly ugly looking links to another blog like the ones below...
...never fear, it is not spam (at least not by the standard definition - whether or not you class it as such is your prerogative*).
As I mentioned a few weeks back, I've finally got round to starting to blog about the Mongolia trip in more detail - subtly ignoring the fact that this year's Charity Rally departed on Saturday, meaning I'm over a year behind schedule.
As and when I post something new to Steppe By Steppe, I'll chuck a link on here in case anyone fancies a gander.
*if for nothing else, at least Bobby Brown should feel proud that he has ensured a generation of pop fans can now spell the word 'prerogative' without need for consultation of spell checker.
As I mentioned a few weeks back, I've finally got round to starting to blog about the Mongolia trip in more detail - subtly ignoring the fact that this year's Charity Rally departed on Saturday, meaning I'm over a year behind schedule.
As and when I post something new to Steppe By Steppe, I'll chuck a link on here in case anyone fancies a gander.
*if for nothing else, at least Bobby Brown should feel proud that he has ensured a generation of pop fans can now spell the word 'prerogative' without need for consultation of spell checker.
Steppe By Steppe: The pre-trip shop
Steppe By Steppe: The pre-trip shop: "We were stupidly, horrendously over-prepared. You don't need this much food. In fact, I'd suggest you don't need any (although I accept a co..."
Steppe By Steppe: Saturday 03 Jul 2010 23:03Duh duh duh duhhhh! Duh ...
Steppe By Steppe: Saturday 03 Jul 2010 23:03Duh duh duh duhhhh! Duh ...: "Saturday 03 Jul 2010 23:03 Duh duh duh duhhhh! Duh duh duh duh... by Tony Edgar of Steppe By Steppe The blog title is a vague referenc..."
Monday, July 11, 2011
The British 10K
So, the British 10K is done and dusted, and I sit here smugly in possession of a new Personal Best, a mere 5 years after setting the benchmark with my first ever attempt at running a race.
The above graph is how my Nikeplus saw it - pretty consistent, despite what my legs were yelling at me as we cruised along beside the Thames with all the grace and pace of a pontoon barge. As usual, the uncallibrated piece of plastic has diddled me out of the majority of the last kilometre, albeit it is closer to the correct distance than some of my training runs.
The final point of note is that I didn't at any point feel like having a celebratory cigarette, thus bringing to a close one of the less sensible rituals I've adopted in life and opening up the possibility of a fag-free future. Didn't stop me dreaming about smoking last night though. The obligatory sweaty photo with post-race grin was taken, and will be posted tomorrow.
And Gordon & Murray? Both also got personal bests, and both also achieved their aim. Gordon came home in a sterling sub-45 minutes, whilst Murray destroyed his previous best by 3 minutes (and his best training time by 15) to scrape the top edge of the hour mark, finishing in around 62 minutes.
We earned our beers yesterday afternoon - all 5 of them.
I was seriously starting to become concerned that my steady decline into old age was irreversible, but a few decent training runs had given me a smidgeon of hope that I may be able to potter round in a decent time. Having completed the Homecoming Scotland Run in Central Park exactly 3 months beforehand, I also knew that I was coming into this race having begun training with a greater level of fitness than ever before.
The pressure was on, then, and I was determined to give it my best shot. I simultaneously impressed myself with my willpower and bored my friends with my sober 'banter' over the course of 3 non-drinking hours in the pub on Saturday; a tagliatelle-loading session and restless night's sleep later, I woke at 06:30 on Sunday morning ready to go. It was slightly odd, getting up at that time on a Sunday, although somewhat fitting given that exactly a year previously we had wakened at roughly the same time - albeit in a Renault Kangoo, in a car park in Bruges.
Having arrived only slightly late at the bag drop near the Mall, I met up with fellow competitors Gordon and Murray, and we made our way to the start line - via a potential collective act of treason as a lack of loos forced us to use Green Park for pre-race slashes. I remembered the melee over the first few kilometres in 2008 - comparatively narrow streets combined with no pace-determined starting slots mean it's a free for all until the race reaches Embankment. We elbowed and sneaked our way as close to the front of the expectant participants as we could.
In bright sunshine, and only half an hour late, we were off. I knew I'd gone too quickly almost immediately, but in homage to that afternoon's Formula 1 British Grand Prix, I was doing my utmost to out-drag as many people as possible before the first corner. Gordon, who was aiming for sub-45 minutes, went with me, and we swapped our own personal lead a few times in the sprint to the first kilometre marker.
As usual, there was the usual collection of panting chunkers walking before we even passed the 1 KM sign - yep, they'd paid their money (or committed to their charity), but apparently not even bothered training enough to be able to jog 1,000 metres. Seriously. Why? You're putting yourself through, I assume, several hours of humiliation and discomfort, and pissing off everyone else who has made an effort and now has to run at 90 degree angles to try and avoid you strolling down the middle of the course.
As it was, Gordon made better use of the pavement & traffic islands than I did, and as we approached the 2km mark he was stretching ahead of me. I let him go - there's no way I could have maintained that pace and come home in under 45 minutes. After he disappeared I settled into a decent enough rhythm, although when my legs started to feel fatigued by the time we reached the turn at Blackfriars (around 4km in) I knew I was going to regret caning it in the early stages. Thankfully I was still able to maintain a steady pace and dodge the flood of urine in the underpass, as guys made use of the temporary respite from spectator-lined streets to relieve themselves.
I was doing ok until around 6.5km, when I became convinced that I'd clearly missed the 7km sign as I "must have passed it ages ago". To my despair, it slowly came into view as I lurched round a tree-lined corner; thankfully by that point Big Ben was also in sight and I knew that in 20 minutes it would all be over - if I only kept going and didn't listen to my legs which came closer than they ever have done before to convincing my brain that no one would mind if we just, y'know; stopped for a bit.
Westminster bridge. 8km. The majestic Gothic splendour of the Houses of Parliament forming a fittingly grand backdrop for a souvenir photo as we ran past. Alas, by that point I'd been shuffling on empty for over a mile and await with dread the results of the numerous photographers' efforts appearing on marathon-photo.com. Mind you, I think Murray's portfolio may turn out worse, given he accidentally blew a bubble of snot out of his nose as he attempted to smile for the camera on the way past.
Entering Parliament Square, I allowed myself a small smile; it was nearly over, given the finish was in Whitehall. Imagine my surprise and disgust, then, as we took the second exit from the roundabout rather than the fourth, and found ourselves trudging towards Victoria, for what felt like an eternity. I wasn't expecting this, as they've either changed the course since 2008 or I'd been fondly recalling it minus the shit bits. Eventually the turn came and I was heading back towards Whitehall, dreading there might be a final twist in the course.
I hadn't been checking my time as I ran - if I was ahead of schedule I didn't want to get stressed about seeing it through, whereas if I was behind I knew I had no more in the tank to raise my game. I adopted the tactic of pushing myself as hard as I could at each point in the race, without overdoing it to the point where I had to stop. Imagine my joy, then, as I rounded the corner and saw the finish line in the distance, and the glorious big old-school yellow clock, ticking its way past 56 minutes. My slowest ever time, recorded in New York, was 57 & a bit, and I knew if I made it over the line before then I was guaranteed to have done at least better than that. I also knew it had taken us a fair (if indeterminate) amount of time to get over the start line in the first place, and started to think it might be worth trying to speed up a wee bit.
I busted a gut along the final 400 metres, legs wobbling akimbo, and virtually collapsed over the finish line whilst reaching for the pause button on my Nikeplus. As I stumbled towards the water stattion I was just happy just to have made it without stopping - then I looked at the time. 49:25. Almost two minutes faster than I'd ever gone before and under the 50 minute barrier that I'd started to think was mythical (for me, at least). The official time has since rounded me up to 49:35, which is a little annoying, but nonetheless a still Personal Best by a significant distance.
Happy Days! I'm starting the think there may be merit in the whole "you can achieve anything as long as you try hard enough" school of thought.
I busted a gut along the final 400 metres, legs wobbling akimbo, and virtually collapsed over the finish line whilst reaching for the pause button on my Nikeplus. As I stumbled towards the water stattion I was just happy just to have made it without stopping - then I looked at the time. 49:25. Almost two minutes faster than I'd ever gone before and under the 50 minute barrier that I'd started to think was mythical (for me, at least). The official time has since rounded me up to 49:35, which is a little annoying, but nonetheless a still Personal Best by a significant distance.
Happy Days! I'm starting the think there may be merit in the whole "you can achieve anything as long as you try hard enough" school of thought.
 |
The above graph is how my Nikeplus saw it - pretty consistent, despite what my legs were yelling at me as we cruised along beside the Thames with all the grace and pace of a pontoon barge. As usual, the uncallibrated piece of plastic has diddled me out of the majority of the last kilometre, albeit it is closer to the correct distance than some of my training runs.
The final point of note is that I didn't at any point feel like having a celebratory cigarette, thus bringing to a close one of the less sensible rituals I've adopted in life and opening up the possibility of a fag-free future. Didn't stop me dreaming about smoking last night though. The obligatory sweaty photo with post-race grin was taken, and will be posted tomorrow.
And Gordon & Murray? Both also got personal bests, and both also achieved their aim. Gordon came home in a sterling sub-45 minutes, whilst Murray destroyed his previous best by 3 minutes (and his best training time by 15) to scrape the top edge of the hour mark, finishing in around 62 minutes.
We earned our beers yesterday afternoon - all 5 of them.
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Not sure if baked bean loading is known for improving performance
But I'm giving it a go. Big race tomorrow! The nerves are starting. Ordinarily i'd have a wee beer to calm myself, but am settling for lucozade sport instead. Not quite the same.
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Rawhide
Wind-down to the British 10K on Sunday is officially on. I did another 10.1km training run on Monday night round Clapham, in a respectable 51 mins, and followed it up with a cheeky wee 5.5-er this evening round 2 laps of the park, breaking the 30 minute barrier for the first time in years in the process.
I'm feeling in pretty good shape, all things considered. Apart from the thigh chafe. Something has happened to my legs - they've got chunkier or I've started running like a constipated penguin. Whatever the reason, as proven tonight, I can't even do a 30 minutes without lycra if I don't want to be walking like John Wayne for two days afterwards. Don't know which is the worse image - me in lycra shorts, or with red raw inner thighs. Can post some photos if you ask nicely to help you decide.
I was thinking back to my preparation for the last race as I tootled round the park this evening, and recalled that the Wednesday before the Scotland Run, I spent the evening getting soggy at Yankee stadium followed by drunk in the East Village, before walking approximately 20 miles a day for the next 3 days as we sight-saw all of Manhattan (in some cases more than once). I'm revelling in the fact I can do virtually no exercise now until Sunday, sleep loads and focus on stocking up on pasta. Less so, the 'not being in New York' part.
I'm feeling in pretty good shape, all things considered. Apart from the thigh chafe. Something has happened to my legs - they've got chunkier or I've started running like a constipated penguin. Whatever the reason, as proven tonight, I can't even do a 30 minutes without lycra if I don't want to be walking like John Wayne for two days afterwards. Don't know which is the worse image - me in lycra shorts, or with red raw inner thighs. Can post some photos if you ask nicely to help you decide.
I was thinking back to my preparation for the last race as I tootled round the park this evening, and recalled that the Wednesday before the Scotland Run, I spent the evening getting soggy at Yankee stadium followed by drunk in the East Village, before walking approximately 20 miles a day for the next 3 days as we sight-saw all of Manhattan (in some cases more than once). I'm revelling in the fact I can do virtually no exercise now until Sunday, sleep loads and focus on stocking up on pasta. Less so, the 'not being in New York' part.
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Congrats to Gav & Imogen
Huge congratulations to one of my best & oldest friends, Gav, who this evening is sitting somewhere in New York City with the weary grin of a boy who has just become a man.
Earlier today, his new son finally decided to make an appearance - only a week and a bit late. News from across the pond is that mum Imogen is somewhat exhausted but otherwise in fine fettle, as is Junior. No name as yet, apparently - I had to resist the temptation to suggest my own unwieldy moniker, despite the fact it would clearly set the young lad up for a lifetime of success and fame.
Gav & Imogen were amazing hosts during our recent trip to NYC and the joy of sprogdom couldn't happen to two nicer people. We could tell when we were over just how great a family the three of them are going to make.
In a true demonstration of the sacrifices I'm willing to make for friendship, I've offered to babysit if required. Any excuse to get back to Brooklyn.
Earlier today, his new son finally decided to make an appearance - only a week and a bit late. News from across the pond is that mum Imogen is somewhat exhausted but otherwise in fine fettle, as is Junior. No name as yet, apparently - I had to resist the temptation to suggest my own unwieldy moniker, despite the fact it would clearly set the young lad up for a lifetime of success and fame.
Gav & Imogen were amazing hosts during our recent trip to NYC and the joy of sprogdom couldn't happen to two nicer people. We could tell when we were over just how great a family the three of them are going to make.
In a true demonstration of the sacrifices I'm willing to make for friendship, I've offered to babysit if required. Any excuse to get back to Brooklyn.
1 week to the British 10K
Rather impressively, I avoided boozing to go straight home on Friday after work, and went for a run. Almost as impressively, I thought I was taking it pretty easy but ended up doing 3 laps of the park / 8.5km in around 46 minutes, which is a fair pace, especially given the massive hill I had to wheeze up 3 times.
I don't feel particularly fit - I've a sharp pain in my chest at times that feels like I've been smoking too much; and still get out of breath quite quickly - but I seem to be faster at running than I was (I just get the same amount of knackered going fast as I did going slow). I'm not sure if the non-smoking has much to do with it - my 'quitting' iPhone app reckons my lungs are pretty much still as bad as ever - but if nothing else I'm pleased that this will be the first race I've done where I haven't been a practising smoker at the time. Even before the Reading half marathon last year, I fell off the wagon about 3 weeks before the race.
I'm now off the patches again, having only had one slip up during the 10 weeks of the programme (a sly cig with Jimeoin a couple of months ago). I don't feel particularly 'non-smoky' at the moment, but I have survived 5 days and one weekend without nicotine and the cravings haven't really been noticeable. I can quite easily imagine myself enjoying a cigarette, and that's the sort of mental effect it's having on me at the moment - I don't so much crave smoking, as suddenly think it looks like the most relaxing and enjoyable thing I could possibly do. I'm still managing to remind myself of the more minging aspects of it (coughing up phlegm and the like), so for now, I'm holding off on a relapse.
It does, however, mean that the British 10K will hopefully be the first race I've ever done which hasn't been celebrated with a post-finish fag. I'll survive.
I don't feel particularly fit - I've a sharp pain in my chest at times that feels like I've been smoking too much; and still get out of breath quite quickly - but I seem to be faster at running than I was (I just get the same amount of knackered going fast as I did going slow). I'm not sure if the non-smoking has much to do with it - my 'quitting' iPhone app reckons my lungs are pretty much still as bad as ever - but if nothing else I'm pleased that this will be the first race I've done where I haven't been a practising smoker at the time. Even before the Reading half marathon last year, I fell off the wagon about 3 weeks before the race.
I'm now off the patches again, having only had one slip up during the 10 weeks of the programme (a sly cig with Jimeoin a couple of months ago). I don't feel particularly 'non-smoky' at the moment, but I have survived 5 days and one weekend without nicotine and the cravings haven't really been noticeable. I can quite easily imagine myself enjoying a cigarette, and that's the sort of mental effect it's having on me at the moment - I don't so much crave smoking, as suddenly think it looks like the most relaxing and enjoyable thing I could possibly do. I'm still managing to remind myself of the more minging aspects of it (coughing up phlegm and the like), so for now, I'm holding off on a relapse.
It does, however, mean that the British 10K will hopefully be the first race I've ever done which hasn't been celebrated with a post-finish fag. I'll survive.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
perhaps I spoke too soon
Huzzah! Perhaps my endemic pessimism has been misplaced once more?! Having had the weekend off exercise yet again, I decided to go out for a bit of a run tonight on flatter ground than I've been used to, if only so I could cover more distance. It gets a bit boring doing the same route time after time as well, so I decided to run up to Clapham Common via the delights of Kings Avenue & the South Circular, do a lap with all the hardcore joggers, and head back to Brixton through the back streets.
It's a route I followed many times whilst training for the Reading Half marathon last year, and it was nice to be back. I went out reasonably quickly but was struggling badly by the time I got to the turn for home at the top of Battersea Rise - the remaining minutes were spent doing a weird kind of "50s dance move" action with my legs as I tried to struggle home.
I'd mapped out the run on Nike's website before I left, so knew it was about 9.9km - in fact, as I have just discovered, it was actually 10.1km due to my meandering attempts to cross Brixton Hill during rush hour traffic. Ignoring the fact that my woefully inaccurate Nikeplus chip chose to knock a full 1.2km of the distance it reckons I ran - over 10 PERCENT of my total distance - I'm focusing instead on the time.
50 minutes 37 seconds. For a full 10k! Wahoo! My aim for the race in two weeks was to try and better my fastest ever run, which was 51.11 in my first ever 10k (almost 5 years ago - shudder). I'd sort of given up on it though, as my training has been disjointed, not unlike my knees. I figured get round, and try and sign up for another one towards the end of the summer when I've new trainers and no shin splints.
But maybe. Just maybe. I can do it!
It's a route I followed many times whilst training for the Reading Half marathon last year, and it was nice to be back. I went out reasonably quickly but was struggling badly by the time I got to the turn for home at the top of Battersea Rise - the remaining minutes were spent doing a weird kind of "50s dance move" action with my legs as I tried to struggle home.
I'd mapped out the run on Nike's website before I left, so knew it was about 9.9km - in fact, as I have just discovered, it was actually 10.1km due to my meandering attempts to cross Brixton Hill during rush hour traffic. Ignoring the fact that my woefully inaccurate Nikeplus chip chose to knock a full 1.2km of the distance it reckons I ran - over 10 PERCENT of my total distance - I'm focusing instead on the time.
50 minutes 37 seconds. For a full 10k! Wahoo! My aim for the race in two weeks was to try and better my fastest ever run, which was 51.11 in my first ever 10k (almost 5 years ago - shudder). I'd sort of given up on it though, as my training has been disjointed, not unlike my knees. I figured get round, and try and sign up for another one towards the end of the summer when I've new trainers and no shin splints.
But maybe. Just maybe. I can do it!
Monday, June 27, 2011
.....ah, forget it, I've no energy to think of a title
I write this with some difficulty, given my arm is stuck to the computer desk. I think it may have melted. After no summer to speak of so far, Mother Nature appears to have accidentally leaned against the thermostat after one too many sherries and south London has turned tropical.
We were promised a thunderstorm to dispel this two-day heatwave, but it has yet to arrive. It's pretty damn unbearable, made all the worse by my aversion to mosquitoes (or rather, their attraction to me). I'm too scared of getting exposed wobbly bits munched during the night to leave the window open.
The British 10K is in less than two weeks, but I've not done any training since Thursday. I was supposed to go tonight, but any thoughts of bettering my fastest time are pretty much done and dusted for another event, and I'm buggered if I'm risking heat exhaustion by trudging round the park in this weather. In more exciting run-related news, I have progressed to the point of emailing Runners Need to find out if I can just rock up to get some gait analysis done and finally, after 5 years, buy the right trainers. I also got an email from New York Road Runners this evening offering me some discount merchandise - although quite why they feel I need a "skort" is anyone's guess. Perhaps they've heard about my tendency to accidentally purchase women's sportswear, which has seen me return home over the years with a tennis skirt from 'Style 'N' Sport' in Ballymena (thought it was a pair of swimming shorts - in the 90s both were fashioned from the same acryllic shell suit material) and some ladies running shorts (in the wrong section in TK Maxx a few weeks ago; I didn't check the label, except to see the word 'large').
We were promised a thunderstorm to dispel this two-day heatwave, but it has yet to arrive. It's pretty damn unbearable, made all the worse by my aversion to mosquitoes (or rather, their attraction to me). I'm too scared of getting exposed wobbly bits munched during the night to leave the window open.
The British 10K is in less than two weeks, but I've not done any training since Thursday. I was supposed to go tonight, but any thoughts of bettering my fastest time are pretty much done and dusted for another event, and I'm buggered if I'm risking heat exhaustion by trudging round the park in this weather. In more exciting run-related news, I have progressed to the point of emailing Runners Need to find out if I can just rock up to get some gait analysis done and finally, after 5 years, buy the right trainers. I also got an email from New York Road Runners this evening offering me some discount merchandise - although quite why they feel I need a "skort" is anyone's guess. Perhaps they've heard about my tendency to accidentally purchase women's sportswear, which has seen me return home over the years with a tennis skirt from 'Style 'N' Sport' in Ballymena (thought it was a pair of swimming shorts - in the 90s both were fashioned from the same acryllic shell suit material) and some ladies running shorts (in the wrong section in TK Maxx a few weeks ago; I didn't check the label, except to see the word 'large').
Sunday, June 26, 2011
We've escaped the city for the weekend and I'm writing this in the sunshine outside my sister's house in the Cotswolds. A lamb roast is in the oven, as we await the return of her husband Chris from sheep-shearing duty. In the absence of tractors or landrovers coming up the lane, the scene makes me feel like we've gone back in time to the 18th century - half expecting a horse-drawn hay cart to appear around the corner at any moment.
Nostalgia for this time last year is in full effect - 365 days ago we were recovering from our pre-rally leaving party at the Prince Albert, and had just booked our tickets home from Ulaanbaatar. Am insanely jealous of everyone heading east in a couple of weeks, even moreso as they're launching from Horse Guards Parade this year, rather than Woburn Safari Park. Who knows, we might even have turned up on time if we'd left from central London!
Nostalgia for this time last year is in full effect - 365 days ago we were recovering from our pre-rally leaving party at the Prince Albert, and had just booked our tickets home from Ulaanbaatar. Am insanely jealous of everyone heading east in a couple of weeks, even moreso as they're launching from Horse Guards Parade this year, rather than Woburn Safari Park. Who knows, we might even have turned up on time if we'd left from central London!
Monday, June 20, 2011
Off my Feis
Right - first things first - the Supajam offer was entirely genuine and we got in to the Feis on Saturday with absolutely no trouble. Fair play to them - considering there were allegedly 500 tickets, the queue we were in had what appeared to be a couple of thousand in it by the time we arrived. But they didn't seem to be arguing - my friend's bar code had apparently 'already been used', but his name matched the barcode so in he came.
The event itself was enjoyable enough, from what I remember. The rain was sporadic, the food was tasty, the bands were enthusiastic and the people were friendly. I suppose it's somewhat inevitable that at a festival which is essentially 40,000 Irish people in a confined space, some drink would also be taken.
It's pretty clear I overdid it, even if I don't know exactly how it happened. Suffice to say I returned to my concerned girlfriend several hours behind schedule, having done a few laps of central London, and spent yesterday suffering through the hangover from hell. Chuck in a horrendous night's sleep last night, and at work today I was rough, sweaty and miserable, staring at my computer screen and barely uttering a word.
Tonight when I got home, I still had a sense of being drained, but alongside it was a weird recollection that this is what my Mondays always used to feel like. Waking up with "The Fear" on a Sunday morning; tossing and turning on a Sunday night; tolerating work on a Monday and resolving not to drink until at least the weekend again.
I don't know when it happened, but this isn't me any more. And this evening, I am incredibly grateful for that. The weekend served as a timely reminder of how life used to be, before I calmed down and grew up (a bit). I still get drunk regularly - I'm no poster boy for a healthy lifestyle - and I thought I still feel rough most weekends. I now realise I don't - I've just adjusted my tolerance levels in light of my reduced wastery.
So, in hindsight, thanks Supajam, for reminding me that I no longer want to be a pisshead stumbling round London after an all day drinking session. Or, for that matter, forking out £35 in a taxi ride home after a couple of fruitless attempts to negotiate public transport ended in fiasco. Every cloud, and all that...
The event itself was enjoyable enough, from what I remember. The rain was sporadic, the food was tasty, the bands were enthusiastic and the people were friendly. I suppose it's somewhat inevitable that at a festival which is essentially 40,000 Irish people in a confined space, some drink would also be taken.
It's pretty clear I overdid it, even if I don't know exactly how it happened. Suffice to say I returned to my concerned girlfriend several hours behind schedule, having done a few laps of central London, and spent yesterday suffering through the hangover from hell. Chuck in a horrendous night's sleep last night, and at work today I was rough, sweaty and miserable, staring at my computer screen and barely uttering a word.
Tonight when I got home, I still had a sense of being drained, but alongside it was a weird recollection that this is what my Mondays always used to feel like. Waking up with "The Fear" on a Sunday morning; tossing and turning on a Sunday night; tolerating work on a Monday and resolving not to drink until at least the weekend again.
I don't know when it happened, but this isn't me any more. And this evening, I am incredibly grateful for that. The weekend served as a timely reminder of how life used to be, before I calmed down and grew up (a bit). I still get drunk regularly - I'm no poster boy for a healthy lifestyle - and I thought I still feel rough most weekends. I now realise I don't - I've just adjusted my tolerance levels in light of my reduced wastery.
So, in hindsight, thanks Supajam, for reminding me that I no longer want to be a pisshead stumbling round London after an all day drinking session. Or, for that matter, forking out £35 in a taxi ride home after a couple of fruitless attempts to negotiate public transport ended in fiasco. Every cloud, and all that...
Saturday, June 18, 2011
We're in!
Cowering from the rain behind an ice cream van listening, aptly, to the Waterboys. Thanks Supajam! Less than an hour to get in. Now revelling in Irishness with several thousand countrymen
At the back of a very long queue
It seems the whole of London was the lucky winner of a Supajam ticket
London Feis
It's raining heavily on and off; the wind is battering the branches of the tree in the back garden off our bedroom window; I'm nursing a gentle hangover - all the ingredients of an Irish June afternoon, and therefore fitting that the London Feis is taking place in Finsbury park this weekend.
Time to test the Supajam free ticket offer. I received an email from them during the week confirming I had the ticket but necessitating download of a barcoded version instead, to present at the box office today. No problem. They also asked for an admin fee which they apparently forgot to request at the time I got the ticket. If I was feeling generous, I could pay the admin fee when downloading the new ticket. This may go a little way towards explaining the 'too good to be true' offer of a free £70 ticket - in that it was too good to be true. Supajam held their hands up though, and didn't 'force' anyone to pay the fee - no doubt realising what a PR disaster that might prove, especially (given the amount of hits I've had on the blog through "Supajam scam" keyword searches) that people don't entirely believe they're above board.
I'm leaving in about 20 minutes to head up to north London - will try and post to the blog if and when I'm "in". Although given O2's less than amazing performance at mass participation events, I probably won't have a signal. Can't guarantee I'll stay until the end - it's currently a toss up between Bob Dylan and avoiding pneumonia, unless the weather improves.
In tribute to the afternoon's entertainment, here's my favourite song from the day's headliner....
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Steppe By Steppe - the blog
A mere 11 months after leaving for Mongolia; only 10 after arriving in Ulaanbaataar, I have finally begun blogging about our adventure.
I was able to post limited messages from the road via SMS to the official charity website whilst we were away; I've always intended to flesh out the story in greater detail so that when I'm old and doddery, I can look back and remind myself that we actually did it.
As we approach the anniversary of departure, and try to quell the frustration and jealousy of not being involved this year, it seemed appropriate to finally commit what memories remain to type.
It's over at http://steppe-by-steppe.blogspot.com - I'm chucking on the build up at the moment so there is a lot of posting going on. Eventually, as I inevitably get less productive, I expect to add an update every few days or so. I think I can repost the entries to here, so will do so if I think it's worth reading.
The idea of the Steppe by Steppe blog is to bring together memories, photos, music and anything else that is significant of our 5 week road trip, so that in years to come we can look back and go "oooh" - who knows, maybe someone might even come across it when they're considering doing something similar, and realise that you don't have to be particularly capable to do so.
I was able to post limited messages from the road via SMS to the official charity website whilst we were away; I've always intended to flesh out the story in greater detail so that when I'm old and doddery, I can look back and remind myself that we actually did it.
As we approach the anniversary of departure, and try to quell the frustration and jealousy of not being involved this year, it seemed appropriate to finally commit what memories remain to type.
It's over at http://steppe-by-steppe.blogspot.com - I'm chucking on the build up at the moment so there is a lot of posting going on. Eventually, as I inevitably get less productive, I expect to add an update every few days or so. I think I can repost the entries to here, so will do so if I think it's worth reading.
The idea of the Steppe by Steppe blog is to bring together memories, photos, music and anything else that is significant of our 5 week road trip, so that in years to come we can look back and go "oooh" - who knows, maybe someone might even come across it when they're considering doing something similar, and realise that you don't have to be particularly capable to do so.
And as suddenly as they began...
...the views of my photos on have Flickr ceased....
Guess I'll never know what was directing people to the two Pepsi sign photos. Bit disappointed they stopped just short of 1,000 views though.
Guess I'll never know what was directing people to the two Pepsi sign photos. Bit disappointed they stopped just short of 1,000 views though.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Mum's on a road trip
Yep, as we speak, my mum is in the sleepy Spanish town of Loja, in Granada - halfway through a road trip from Alicante on the west coast of Spain, to the Algarve on Portugal's south coast.
I got a text from her this evening saying that they had stopped at a basic but comfortable hotel because they were knackered from driving all day; the next plan was to get some food in the restaurant and have a drink.
I smiled when I read it - it took me back to last summer, as those were exactly the sorts of updates I was sending back home from the Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Russia. Less so Mongolia - it was more about "we've randomly stopped behind a bush and popped open the tent for the night" when we reached there.
Driving takes it out of you - more so than you'd realise before setting off on a long, multi-day journey. There was truly nothing better than seeing a hotel in the distance just as dusk was beginning to fall, getting a room and being able to relax, eat whatever indeterminate dish they had available in the restaurant, have a beer, and sleep in a decent bed for the night. I can imagine exactly how mum feels at the moment - especially as Loja seems to be a very pretty town and one that, no doubt, she would never have visited but for this slightly barmy adventure to surprise some friends who are on holiday in Portugal. Nothing beats just experiencing strange and unknown places by chance.
I got a text from her this evening saying that they had stopped at a basic but comfortable hotel because they were knackered from driving all day; the next plan was to get some food in the restaurant and have a drink.
I smiled when I read it - it took me back to last summer, as those were exactly the sorts of updates I was sending back home from the Ukraine, Kazakhstan and Russia. Less so Mongolia - it was more about "we've randomly stopped behind a bush and popped open the tent for the night" when we reached there.
Driving takes it out of you - more so than you'd realise before setting off on a long, multi-day journey. There was truly nothing better than seeing a hotel in the distance just as dusk was beginning to fall, getting a room and being able to relax, eat whatever indeterminate dish they had available in the restaurant, have a beer, and sleep in a decent bed for the night. I can imagine exactly how mum feels at the moment - especially as Loja seems to be a very pretty town and one that, no doubt, she would never have visited but for this slightly barmy adventure to surprise some friends who are on holiday in Portugal. Nothing beats just experiencing strange and unknown places by chance.
Token running post
Finally got back out for a run tonight, and it wasn't as bad as feared, in that my shin didn't splinter into a million pieces as I trudged up a hill.
The time wasn't actually too bad, and I don't appear to be in any more pain afterwards than I was before I started. Maybe I'll be ok for the 10K after all....
Even the dumbass middle aged munter who tried to run me off the path in the park by pointing her bike directly at me (despite there being no one else near us) couldn't ruin my mood - I was annoyed to begin with as she quite clearly did it on purpose for reasons best known to herself, but later on took on a more philosophical bent. What's the point in making myself irate over something so bizarre? Certainly not going to change anything and won't get my own back on her either. If only I could be so level headed all of the time, let alone at the moment as I wean myself off nicotine. Well done me.
The time wasn't actually too bad, and I don't appear to be in any more pain afterwards than I was before I started. Maybe I'll be ok for the 10K after all....
Even the dumbass middle aged munter who tried to run me off the path in the park by pointing her bike directly at me (despite there being no one else near us) couldn't ruin my mood - I was annoyed to begin with as she quite clearly did it on purpose for reasons best known to herself, but later on took on a more philosophical bent. What's the point in making myself irate over something so bizarre? Certainly not going to change anything and won't get my own back on her either. If only I could be so level headed all of the time, let alone at the moment as I wean myself off nicotine. Well done me.
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Running update
Was gonna go for a run tonight to test out my wonky shin. Ended up having a couple of pints in the Regent on the way home instead. Best to rest the leg for a bit longer I think. Can't be too careful.
Monday, June 06, 2011
Put my feet where my mouth is
As it were.
I've just been idly clicking on the 'next blog' link (at the top of the screen if you cast your eyes upwards) to see who my neighbours are on Blogger. It appears that in the years that have elapsed since I last tried this, Blogger has somehow worked out a way of categorising the sites, and they have me down as a runner with a passing interest in New York. This is all well and good, save for the general lack of running-related posts these days and the fact I've spent a total of 8 days in NYC, albeit I'll be banging on about it for years to come.
Anyway, I should probably subject you to more tales of bunions and fartlek training in the future for fear of being outed as a fraud - or worse, a 'jogger'.
By way of introduction, here's a picture of all the training I haven't done in the past week:
I've just been idly clicking on the 'next blog' link (at the top of the screen if you cast your eyes upwards) to see who my neighbours are on Blogger. It appears that in the years that have elapsed since I last tried this, Blogger has somehow worked out a way of categorising the sites, and they have me down as a runner with a passing interest in New York. This is all well and good, save for the general lack of running-related posts these days and the fact I've spent a total of 8 days in NYC, albeit I'll be banging on about it for years to come.
Anyway, I should probably subject you to more tales of bunions and fartlek training in the future for fear of being outed as a fraud - or worse, a 'jogger'.
By way of introduction, here's a picture of all the training I haven't done in the past week:
Supajam part two
I've noticed a lot of traffic coming to the blog trying to establish whether or not Supajam is a scam - as I alluded to in my earlier post, I don't think it is, albeit I'm not 100% convinced that there'll be as many tickets as 'ticket holders' should everyone decide to rock up en masse on the 18th of June.
For what it's worth, and given a further fortnight's reflection, I can't really see what they would have to gain by offering completely non-existent "free" tickets to a festival. If they'd been flogging them for, say 50% of face value and then scarpering with the money that's one thing - but I've done nothing more than give them my email address and name. I give that to hundreds of websites a year and don't harbour too many concerns for the consequences.
I haven't changed my opinion that the worst outcome from the whole thing would be getting up early on the 18th to drag my sorry carcass from south London up to Finsbury Park, only to discover there is no ticket. What have I lost? 45 minutes of my life? You might even say that I'll have added some time to my life, given I'm normally still bumbling about in my pants at 1pm most Saturdays. The flip side is that, if it turns out to be true, I get £70-worth of Bob Dylan et al for bugger all. That has to be a chance worth taking, surely?*
Edit @ 22:05 - just noticed that the latest Supajam offer is discount tickets to Hop Farm, at £100 a pop, which somewhat negates my point in the 2nd paragraph. But the Feis tickets are free, therefore no risk as far as I can tell.
*NB - unless I post about it, assume I slept in / "couldn't be arsed going the whole way up to north London" when it actually came to the crunch, and am therefore unable to confirm if a lonely unclaimed ticket did, in fact, have my name on it.
For what it's worth, and given a further fortnight's reflection, I can't really see what they would have to gain by offering completely non-existent "free" tickets to a festival. If they'd been flogging them for, say 50% of face value and then scarpering with the money that's one thing - but I've done nothing more than give them my email address and name. I give that to hundreds of websites a year and don't harbour too many concerns for the consequences.
I haven't changed my opinion that the worst outcome from the whole thing would be getting up early on the 18th to drag my sorry carcass from south London up to Finsbury Park, only to discover there is no ticket. What have I lost? 45 minutes of my life? You might even say that I'll have added some time to my life, given I'm normally still bumbling about in my pants at 1pm most Saturdays. The flip side is that, if it turns out to be true, I get £70-worth of Bob Dylan et al for bugger all. That has to be a chance worth taking, surely?*
Edit @ 22:05 - just noticed that the latest Supajam offer is discount tickets to Hop Farm, at £100 a pop, which somewhat negates my point in the 2nd paragraph. But the Feis tickets are free, therefore no risk as far as I can tell.
*NB - unless I post about it, assume I slept in / "couldn't be arsed going the whole way up to north London" when it actually came to the crunch, and am therefore unable to confirm if a lonely unclaimed ticket did, in fact, have my name on it.
Wonderlust King
Have I posted this before? I make no apologies for sticking it up here again, if so. It seems odd that I wouldn't have already shared it - my favourite band, one of their best songs and part of the official soundtrack to our trip to Ulan Bator last summer - not to mention being an inspiration for getting off my arse and seeing a bit of the world in the first place.
Admittedly the official Steppe by Steppe soundtrack only consisted of 5 Gogol Bordello CDs, the Mumford & Sons album and a compilation that J's mate and her boyfriend had made for us, due to a massive planning error on my part. In fear of having my favourite CDs scratched, nicked or melted in whatever awaited us beyond the boundaries of the Latin alphabet, I wanted to take copies of the albums deemed worthy with us instead. As it was, I ran out of time - not only to choose the music or make the copies, but even to grab anything as we flew out the door, already late for the launch of the rally.
Gogol Bordello was, therefore, starting to get a little 'samey' even before we had left the EU and were lurching L'viv-wards. I just love this music though, as borne out by the 5 times I've been to see GB in concert, and to be experiencing the motherland of Eugene Hütz as he belted his Gypsy Punk through the Kangoo's speakers just made it all the better. Not that he'd probably allow me to call the Ukraine his motherland - with his Romany heritage I guess it's a lot more complicated than just being born somewhere.
Admittedly the official Steppe by Steppe soundtrack only consisted of 5 Gogol Bordello CDs, the Mumford & Sons album and a compilation that J's mate and her boyfriend had made for us, due to a massive planning error on my part. In fear of having my favourite CDs scratched, nicked or melted in whatever awaited us beyond the boundaries of the Latin alphabet, I wanted to take copies of the albums deemed worthy with us instead. As it was, I ran out of time - not only to choose the music or make the copies, but even to grab anything as we flew out the door, already late for the launch of the rally.
Gogol Bordello was, therefore, starting to get a little 'samey' even before we had left the EU and were lurching L'viv-wards. I just love this music though, as borne out by the 5 times I've been to see GB in concert, and to be experiencing the motherland of Eugene Hütz as he belted his Gypsy Punk through the Kangoo's speakers just made it all the better. Not that he'd probably allow me to call the Ukraine his motherland - with his Romany heritage I guess it's a lot more complicated than just being born somewhere.
900 up
I promised something epic for my 900th post to the blog, but after 5 days spent not writing anything because it seemed inadequate, I looked back through previous significant milestones and discovered that I've pretty much failed to acknowledge 800, 700 or 600 either. Pressure off, then. Maybe I'll time my new-found productivity to coincide post 1000 with the Queen's Diamond Jubilee this time next year.
In running news, I've got about 5 weeks until the British 10K - the latest run I've targeted to try and get a PB in. Alas, I ignored the health warning on the training plan I was using and launched myself into week 5 of 12 from the off (given time constraints when I began a fortnight ago). Four runs in 5 days later, I've given myself shin splints which even an easy week last week hasn't cured.
I'm feeling a bit tetchy sitting here when I want to be out getting fit and healthy, but there's no point going if my shin doesn't recover. I'm not having 5 weeks of pain just for the sake of a jog round central London.
It might finally persuade me to retire my old trainers and get some properly fitted ones, 4.5 years after starting running. Or I may just keep repeatedly mentioning it and failing to do anything about it.
In running news, I've got about 5 weeks until the British 10K - the latest run I've targeted to try and get a PB in. Alas, I ignored the health warning on the training plan I was using and launched myself into week 5 of 12 from the off (given time constraints when I began a fortnight ago). Four runs in 5 days later, I've given myself shin splints which even an easy week last week hasn't cured.
I'm feeling a bit tetchy sitting here when I want to be out getting fit and healthy, but there's no point going if my shin doesn't recover. I'm not having 5 weeks of pain just for the sake of a jog round central London.
It might finally persuade me to retire my old trainers and get some properly fitted ones, 4.5 years after starting running. Or I may just keep repeatedly mentioning it and failing to do anything about it.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
привет!
Ever wondered what our friends in Russia see when they log on to this very site? Of course you have.
The sight of Cyrillic takes me back to last summer, as we bumped and juddered through Ukraine, Russia, Kazakhstan & Mongolia. In particular, the "Who am I" section in the top left - translated to "Кто я?" - reminds me of the song that sound-tracked our first few minutes in Siberia, having just crossed over the border from Kazakhstan.
A deep orange sun was setting, we were out of Kazakhstan (kind of cause for celebration in itself), and we were not only back in Russia - the country that surprised us most on the entire trip - but in that mythical, infamous faraway land of Siberia. Our Russian dance CD, purchased in an Astana shopping mall, was blasting on the Kangoo's stereo..... This was the best song on it, and the video's a far slicker affair than many - or at least I - would have given the Russian pop music industry credit for before I travelled east.
This, by the way, is my 899th post on the blog. Expect the written equivalent of Wills & Kate's wedding celebrations by way of my next update. Cheers for sticking with it through the lean times, of both quality and post regularity (if, indeed, you have - if you're some sort of automated spam bot, feck off).
The sight of Cyrillic takes me back to last summer, as we bumped and juddered through Ukraine, Russia, Kazakhstan & Mongolia. In particular, the "Who am I" section in the top left - translated to "Кто я?" - reminds me of the song that sound-tracked our first few minutes in Siberia, having just crossed over the border from Kazakhstan.
A deep orange sun was setting, we were out of Kazakhstan (kind of cause for celebration in itself), and we were not only back in Russia - the country that surprised us most on the entire trip - but in that mythical, infamous faraway land of Siberia. Our Russian dance CD, purchased in an Astana shopping mall, was blasting on the Kangoo's stereo..... This was the best song on it, and the video's a far slicker affair than many - or at least I - would have given the Russian pop music industry credit for before I travelled east.
This, by the way, is my 899th post on the blog. Expect the written equivalent of Wills & Kate's wedding celebrations by way of my next update. Cheers for sticking with it through the lean times, of both quality and post regularity (if, indeed, you have - if you're some sort of automated spam bot, feck off).
Wrong again
So, turns out I conformed to stereotype once again last night, jumping to a pessimistic conclusion that I hadn't 'won' any Olympic tickets when there was still a full hour for the money to leave my account.
Admittedly, it wasn't so much negativity as a general inability to grasp basic tenets of timing - something I excelled at in New York, whether dragging everyone out of bed to get to a pub at 9am on a Saturday morning to watch my team play rugby (the game was actually on Sunday), or planning our entire trip around a Monday evening return flight to London (only when I went to check in online on Monday morning did I discover we had a 'free' extra day in the Big Apple...).
Yep, when my weekly text message from my bank arrived this morning, it confirmed that I have in fact been successful in my application for 25% of the tickets I applied for. I can't work out if this is a decent return or not - I had tried to offset the fact I was only going for the cheapest tickets by choosing events I figured wouldn't be as popular as others. I'm just happy to have any.
So it is, I wait with baited breath to find out where & when we will grab our own little slice of Olympic magic. The opening ceremony's out, due to the amount debited from the account; that leaves Men's Handball, Women's Volleyball (both Polish specialities apparently, in the notable absence of Ski Jumping from the summer programme), or - dare I dream - an entire morning in the Olympic Stadium itself, watching the opening heats of the Men's 100m. Bring on the confirmation on the 24th of June so I can start reading up on the rules of Handball.
Admittedly, it wasn't so much negativity as a general inability to grasp basic tenets of timing - something I excelled at in New York, whether dragging everyone out of bed to get to a pub at 9am on a Saturday morning to watch my team play rugby (the game was actually on Sunday), or planning our entire trip around a Monday evening return flight to London (only when I went to check in online on Monday morning did I discover we had a 'free' extra day in the Big Apple...).
Yep, when my weekly text message from my bank arrived this morning, it confirmed that I have in fact been successful in my application for 25% of the tickets I applied for. I can't work out if this is a decent return or not - I had tried to offset the fact I was only going for the cheapest tickets by choosing events I figured wouldn't be as popular as others. I'm just happy to have any.
So it is, I wait with baited breath to find out where & when we will grab our own little slice of Olympic magic. The opening ceremony's out, due to the amount debited from the account; that leaves Men's Handball, Women's Volleyball (both Polish specialities apparently, in the notable absence of Ski Jumping from the summer programme), or - dare I dream - an entire morning in the Olympic Stadium itself, watching the opening heats of the Men's 100m. Bring on the confirmation on the 24th of June so I can start reading up on the rules of Handball.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Bringing it back to the general theme of the blog for a moment...
.....which (when it started) was running, in case you hadn't realised - can't think why...
As mentioned in a few previous posts, whilst in New York last month I competed in the Homecoming Scotland 10K with my good friend Gav - it coincided with our trip over to see him and was a good excuse to pull my gutties on in anger again after nearly a year off.
The course is essentially a full lap of Central Park - what better place to drag one's aching limbs around at 9am on a Sunday morning? Beats the hell out of a dark Wembley industrial estate in a thunderstorm, that's for sure.
My time wasn't great, which was to be expected given my lack of training, head cold and general levels of excess during the preceding week, but I think I managed to style it out for a photo as I ran past our cheer-leading duo on the home stretch and the black & white photography cunningly disguises the worryingly red rings round my eyes at the end.
Quitting smoking is easy. I've done it hundreds of times.
I've always liked the above quote from Mark Twain, it sums up everything non-smokers need to know about the difficulty with which we self-afflicted junkies kick the habit.
Whilst not into the hundreds yet, I'm currently in the throes of what I believe is my 6th attempt in 2 years to quit the demon weed. This time around it's going pretty well - the only time I've done better was my first attempt back in spring 2009 when I gave up for 6 months before starting again in Sicily "because I was in Italy and all Italians smoke". I've had one cigarette in 6 weeks, and that was only because I got over excited talking to Jimeoin the other night.
Tomorrow marks a downgrade from Elephant-strength nicotine patches to something akin to a Silk Cut once every couple of hours. With it will come short-temperedness, moodiness, aggression and sulking. Whether anyone will notice the difference is open to debate.
Olym-not-picked
Well, according to the 2012 Olympics, today should have been the day that money should finally have left my account, if I were to prove successful in the ticket ballot. Despite one of my friends securing some U23 football action, and another (slightly concerning) mate off to the Rhythmic Gymnastics, my bank balance remains resolutely no closer to its overdraft limit than it was two weeks ago.
It seems I somewhat underestimated the demand for session 4 of the men's preliminary handball qualifying, whilst it should have been a no-brainer that a midweek session of women's volleyball would be equally over-subscribed. I'm disappointed. Like all regular lottery players, I've spent the last month lazily contemplating my application for £20.12 tickets to the opening ceremony being pulled out of the hat, safe in the knowledge that at least my decision to head to two lesser watched sports (at least in the UK) would prove sufficient backup. Not to be.
As it stands, I'm heading into the second round of ticket sales like an X Factor contestant singing to stay in the show. I'll take table tennis. Archery. Modern Pentathlon. Anything. As long as the tickets are no more than £20, obviously.
It seems I somewhat underestimated the demand for session 4 of the men's preliminary handball qualifying, whilst it should have been a no-brainer that a midweek session of women's volleyball would be equally over-subscribed. I'm disappointed. Like all regular lottery players, I've spent the last month lazily contemplating my application for £20.12 tickets to the opening ceremony being pulled out of the hat, safe in the knowledge that at least my decision to head to two lesser watched sports (at least in the UK) would prove sufficient backup. Not to be.
As it stands, I'm heading into the second round of ticket sales like an X Factor contestant singing to stay in the show. I'll take table tennis. Archery. Modern Pentathlon. Anything. As long as the tickets are no more than £20, obviously.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
bringing sexy back
I love the way that hits on my blog have been steadily decreasing since I started posting again. Nothing gets the creative juices flowing like feedback like that. A complete absence of content is better than anything I choose to share with the world. Cheers Google analytics.
On a more positive note, I drafted some communications blurb at work last Friday afternoon, having left approximately 45 minutes to do so - to which the Comms manager responded that she thought it was extremely well written! She 'really likes my style', apparently. Who knew I could even make software implementation sound sexy? See? Even just saying the words, on this blog, in this style.... "Software implementation".... Admit it, you're just a little bit moist now, aren't you?
With great power, etc etc
On a more positive note, I drafted some communications blurb at work last Friday afternoon, having left approximately 45 minutes to do so - to which the Comms manager responded that she thought it was extremely well written! She 'really likes my style', apparently. Who knew I could even make software implementation sound sexy? See? Even just saying the words, on this blog, in this style.... "Software implementation".... Admit it, you're just a little bit moist now, aren't you?
With great power, etc etc
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Supajam
I got sent a link yesterday by a mate, from a company called Supajam. In return for completing a couple of details, I apparently have been given a free day pass to the London Feis - an Irish festival in Finsbury Park next month featuring legends of the celtic world such as The Waterboys, Van Morrison and, umm, Bob Dylan.
All seems a bit too good to be true. Day tickets are pretty expensive (I know because I was checking them out a few weeks ago, although when I went to the homepage a few minutes ago it had crashed due to the number of people trying to access it - not overly encouraging), and I had to provide the closest amount to nothing of information. And yet, an email sits in my Hotmail as we speak, stating thus:
My assumption is that the 'free ticket' will be in much the same way as provided by the BBC and other TV companies to entice audiences to programme recordings - more tickets are 'won' than available on the day, working on the assumption that not everyone will turn up (the perils of giving people free things, even if it is for a full day's worth of quality entertainment). See also EasyJet as a case in point - I believe it to be true, rather than urban legend, that they always overbook their planes, relying on no-shows which are apparently 100% guaranteed for every flight. Or 99% guaranteed, which is why it occasionally gets out into the media, when a disgruntled passenger gets stopped from boarding their plane because everyone else actually turned up before them for once.
But I digress. The emphasis in the email is on 'getting there early' to get the tickets - so the assumption is that around 1,000 of us have been 'lucky enough' to win one of the 500 tickets. It certainly sounds like a good enough reason to trundle up to Finsbury Park in a few weeks time though, just in case. If anyone has had any dealings with Supajam in the past, let me know how it went.
All seems a bit too good to be true. Day tickets are pretty expensive (I know because I was checking them out a few weeks ago, although when I went to the homepage a few minutes ago it had crashed due to the number of people trying to access it - not overly encouraging), and I had to provide the closest amount to nothing of information. And yet, an email sits in my Hotmail as we speak, stating thus:
My assumption is that the 'free ticket' will be in much the same way as provided by the BBC and other TV companies to entice audiences to programme recordings - more tickets are 'won' than available on the day, working on the assumption that not everyone will turn up (the perils of giving people free things, even if it is for a full day's worth of quality entertainment). See also EasyJet as a case in point - I believe it to be true, rather than urban legend, that they always overbook their planes, relying on no-shows which are apparently 100% guaranteed for every flight. Or 99% guaranteed, which is why it occasionally gets out into the media, when a disgruntled passenger gets stopped from boarding their plane because everyone else actually turned up before them for once.
But I digress. The emphasis in the email is on 'getting there early' to get the tickets - so the assumption is that around 1,000 of us have been 'lucky enough' to win one of the 500 tickets. It certainly sounds like a good enough reason to trundle up to Finsbury Park in a few weeks time though, just in case. If anyone has had any dealings with Supajam in the past, let me know how it went.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Someone sounds funny
Udderbelly have rigged up a most agreeable venue with a couple of bars, food stalls and tables & lanterns in amongst the trees. It's a very nice alternative to the limited areas to have a drink on the south side of the Thames, which weirdly only has about 5 pubs between London Bridge and Westminster.
My girlfriend and her mate pounced on the star of the show at the burger van after his performance, and before the poor guy knew what was happening he was being led back, burger in hand, to sit with us at our table for a while.
Thankfully, he's a thoroughly nice, down to earth chap and spent about 30 minutes chatting to us about anything and everything, barely even flinching as I wheeled out another fact about him that I'd gleaned from checking Wikipedia before the show started.
Turns out he's from Portstewart, just up the road from Ballymena - upon hearing I hailed from there he mentioned that one of the guys in charge of security was from my neck of the woods. So far, so stereotypical, albeit this time the "I know someone from your town, do you know him too?" chat was being perpetuated by a fellow countryman. Of course, I responded with the "well, you know, it's quite a large town in Irish terms" and that was that - until Jimeoin spotted the guy in question and beckoned him over to meet me; turned out I'd been in the year below him in school, our sisters used to be best friends and we used to see each other around Glasgow 10 years ago!
The other thing that sticks in my mind is that he often has Australian people coming up to him to say their kid is called Jimeoin - because the parents wanted an "Irish" name. Which they have got, albeit a highly unusual one - given his mum made it up as an amalgamation of a couple of male relatives' names. Must be weird knowing there are people running round the antipodes named after you.
Anyway - cheers Jimeoin. Top bloke, good company and a funny bugger to boot. Highly recommended if he's playing in a venue near you.
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