Life in a Dust Storm

Another Winter

2023-07-19T11:30:00.009-07:00

Well, nothing has changed. Actually that's not quite correct. Inspired by the Tour de France, on television and having read a book about some guy's decision to ride the Tour course, but two weeks before the real race, I've decided, next spring, to cycle the length of France, top to bottom. We did LEJOG a few years ago, in 14 days. Next year's jaunt will not be done with time limits and strict distance targets. It will be leisurely, on back roads, may include mountains, done slowly. We'll stop at cafes and restaurants and stay in delicious auberges. The "we" is me and a friend from 45 years ago, when I was living in The Park, teaching in Selston and the Trip to Jerusalem was my local. He has agreed to do it but I sense he is not fully committed. But whatever, I'm doing it.

The summer has been disapponiting. Cool, wet, cloudy. Still, I'm aiming to remain in Nottingham and try to tolerate autumn and then the misery of winter, with the bike trip to focus on.

Stuck

2023-07-19T10:50:00.004-07:00

I've been skulking in the shadows, trying to work out what the hell is going on. Not globally, not even in the country of my birth but in my life. I find myself in a trap, albeit a trap of some substance, comfort and even elegance. Three years after resigning and escaping the sand pit, I live the bulk of my life in the house I worked years to buy, our so-called family home, in which the girls spent some time, one more than the other, and my wife lived, against her deep desire for blue skies and warmth, and took care of the little one and I spent holidays.

Now, the little one, with her husband and son, are moving to Portugal. I am very, very happy about this for many reasons.This will have a large effect on me. I currently take care of the tiny one two mornings a week. I collect him from home and take him to Cafe Nero where I have a flat white and he eats raspberries and blueberries from his (raspberries) and my finger. We have a pretty one sided conversation and sometimes he leafs the pages of one or the book and then we walk (he, lazy, sits in his pushchair) around the leafy streets of the area and chase the squirrels in the park. Then I drop him at the nursery.

Of course, one of the reasons for my pleasure in their relocation is because, as if I need it, I will have greater reason to visit one of my favourite places. Back in Blighty, I will have my other daughter and family, who live close by but the kids are older and for one reason or another we don't have the close relationship we might have.

My wife pitches up from time to time and we rub each other up the wrong way and live an unspoken truce. It's a situation I don't understand but we seem stuck. She sees our house as the home to be handed down to the girls when we have both pegged it.

Top and bottom is that I am pretty well forced to live in the six month cold of England when I would much prefer the temperate latitudes of Portugal or Spain or France.

A Flaneur in Lisbon and Other Catastrophes

2022-10-20T06:13:00.004-07:00

As UK or more accurately, England, descends into utter chaos rarely seen in countries other than Italy and sub-Saharan skip fires, I thought I'd leg it to somewhere, not unaffected by the plague of political and economic uncertainty, deprivation and depravity bleeding across the continent, warm. Portugal is, was and will be my European destination of choice. So, with optimism and a vision of clear blue skies, I booked TAP from Manchester and a train from Nottingham to Manchester airport. Worst case scenario, steerage on the train and rain in Manchester but as it's all under cover, so what? In order to get to the airport in time to check in, I booked the first train of the day. Of course, we have been unaffected in recent decades by the bane of travellers (and others), the railway strike. Well, one was announced for the day before my journey to the sun and I was duly infomed that my journey would be cancelled as the train performing that route would, that morning, be in the wrong place, slumbering in Chesterfield, possibly. The second train of the day would be run but would be too late and leave me crying in Manchester. What to do?

So, I booked a coach for the previous afternoon to take me to Manchester, as the first coach on the day would, you guessed it, not get me to the airport in time. The train journey takes around two and a half hours, whereas the coach, visiting Leeds and resting there en route, takes five and a half hours. Two of those hours were spent in Leeds, the idea of which filled me with luke warm indifference. However, I had forgotten that when I was a student in Hull, I did, on occasions, head up the line to Leeds for a great day out. And so it turned out. Leeds, long pushed to the dusty recesses of my mind as an unattractive industrial remnant, rose to the occasion. It turns out to be a glorious product of the prosperity of industry, displayed in magnificent architecture, a huge indoor market, high end shops, the like of which one is surprised to see beyond London's West End, great restaurants and pubs, (notably Whitelocks Ale House, in Turk's Head Yard in the city centre) and a sense of confidence, optimism and pride. I liked Leeds.

I had, of course, to book a hotel for the night in Manchester. Most were pretty uniformly around £90 to £100 a night but I chose easyhotel, at barely over £50. I had stayed there before once, so I was aware of the pod-like nature of the rooms. But I had a window on to the street, it was spotless and equipped with everything I could want. Bargain. Recommended. I legged it out to a "Mexican" restaurant, not my usual choice but the receptionist in the hotel liked it. I didn't. I have to say that the only aspect of it commanding note was that one of the young ladies waiting at table had corporeal dimensions which Kim Kardashian may well be envious of. It put me in mind of the assertion that bumble bees, built as they are, defy the laws of physics when in flight. I need say no more.

Enough of that. I arrived in Lisbon, was embraced by a warmth different from that of a hot day in England, headed to the metro, bought a 20 euro Via Viagem card and got out at Anjos station. Coincidentally, having suffered the delays and expense of choosing Manchester airport, the airbnb I had chosen in Lisbon was on Rua Cidade de Manchester! What could go wrong? As it happened, nothing. The apartment was exquisite, the walls stripped of plaster, exposing bare brick and stone, oiled floorboards, a loft sleeping area, modern kitchen and bathroom.

My habit in Lisbon is always the same. Walk, stop at a random cafe', drink uma bica (um cafe'), eat a croquet de bacalhau, a pastel de camarao, followed by the pretty compulsory pastel de nata, for which Portugal is rightly famous. I head in differnet directions, crisscrossing roads and parks, dodging yellow trams which doggedly scale and descend the hills on railway lines as they have for 150 years. The number 28 is regarded as an absolute must for tourists, as it judders and rattles along lath thin streets in the historic bairros, the carriage bursting with foreigners gawping at the passing tableau which includes a displaced Englishman with a smug expression. Most of the passengers, rather than marvelling directly at the passing scene, for the privilege of which they had paid handsomely, gazed at their mobile telephones, recording the moment which can never be repeated, so they can watch it at a cold remove, later.

To do the same thing each time I visit Lisbon may seem unimaginative. But the city is both small enough and large enough to walk and yet see what you missed on previous walks. As a flaneur, progress can be slow and tortuous but never tourtured, never boring. I see strange and wonderful curiosities on my travels. There are so many options for places to stop, sit, drink a coffee, watch the world. There are small cafes in corners, quiosques in parks, miradors overlooking the rooftops and the river, o ponte 25Abril and the facsimile of Christ the Redeemer in Rio. There are roof-top bars, one of the best of which is the Sky Bar atop the Tivoli Hotel, with wonderful views down the Avenida de Liberdade, across Praca de Rossio (Praca Dom Pedro IV), on to the Arco da Rua Augusta and so across the Praca Comercial (Terreiro do Paco) and the Tejo. This bar I would suggest, has a level of sophistication which would indicate it is not for the bum crack and tattoo tourist. One thing I notice on my meanderings is an absolute absence of that demographic, so evident in England. Other bars with rooftop views are Chapito, Java and La Paparrucha. This is not an exhaustive list.

I did the fado pilgrimage. Fado, I've tried, I've really tried but the only artist who I fully appreciate is a black, blonde, Mozambican called Mariza. Tasca do Chico is renowned for its good cheap tasca fare of caldo verde and flamed chourico as well as a number of performances each evening, notably by Chico himself. A TV crew arrived on my night, filming performances but thankfully not interviewing diners.

Mercado da Ribeira, close by Cais do Sodre station, is a fruit, veg and fish market with an updated food market. Busy! Not two minutes away is Cafe Janis, so popular, they queue to get a table.....I mooch a couple of hundred metres inland and find another, quieter place to get my book out and to do some reading in the filtered sunlight fracturing through the canopy of the large tree in the tiny square.

One day I walked to Parque Eduardo VII to collect my running number for the marathon, rather pointlessly, as I knew I couldn't run because of my damaged Achilles which refuses to recover fully from the damage sustained in Bath. On I went, past the superb restaurant, Eleven, at the head of the parque, where we dined en famille years ago. I headed to Alcantara where the Aqueduto das Aguas Livres strides across the valley, built in 1748 to deliver fresh water from the countryside to the people. From there to LX factory skulking under the bridge, with its exotic, vibrant shops, galleries, workshops, restaurants and bars.

I went to Cascais, where river meets ocean, to meet the blonde, eat fish rodizio and stroll in the sunshine.

It all flashes by. Eight days, just like that and I'm heading to the airport too early in the morning. Good flight, turbulent landing......and ughh, cold.

Picadilly Circus

2022-09-28T09:33:00.001-07:00

DiscoverWildlife

There they were, this sharp morning, doing their hop skip and a jump on the fence, the same courting dance they performed months ago as the sun was strengthening. As we are barely days from October, the same sun weakening, they're still at it.

I can't help but wonder how the weather affects these pigeons, wrapped as they are in feather duvets. Warm in winter, cool in summer, I guess. Whenever human duvets are so described, my right eyebrow ascends, in question. I fail to see how my 13 tog winter duvet could possibly keep me cool in summer.

Squirrels have turned my lawn into a pothole nightmare. Next year I'll be armed with an airgun. That'll show them.

Cats imperiously prowl across from one neighbour's garden to the other, effortlessly scaling the 6 foot fences in a single bound.

Magpies strut, elegant and shining, they brook no company.

The robin, fearless, friendly, dare one say cute, appears as I retreat from digging, weeding, scarifying, pulling out a juicy worm, disturbed by my activity, coming up for air.

And lastly and belatedly, my new friend the amphibian. I bumped into him on a soggy evening, on the way to the shed. He ignored me.

The bad old days

2022-09-26T08:53:00.001-07:00

the guardian

Meanwhile, in the distant past......

The two pigeons are here again. They are checking out the wisteria with a view to making a home as has been done every year before. The lady of the house, who is not resident at the moment because of the so called lockdown, doesn't like these non-paying itinerents as they defecate on the floor slabs. But as she likely won't be here for some months, it's not a concern. So I'll let them build a home and have a family.

It's a windy, cold day in mid May (2021?). This day is payment for all the glorious days we have had through April and early May. This April was the first I have experienced in twenty-seven years in England and it was one of the best in living memory. Long, long days of stillness and blue. Days of prostration and running topless. Days which have, in early May, given me a tan worthy of a Mediterranean holiday.

I'm perhaps supposed to be inconvenienced by the lockdown but I'm not. Two aspects of it could perhaps be a source of irritation. No pubs and no shops. The first is unwelcome but as the off licences are open (falling into the 'essential' category) I can get a bottle of wine or a few beers. Shops? I'm not a shopper and the supermarkets are open so most things are acquirable.

Pretty well everything else I normally do, I still can do. I go running, cycling, I have the garden and the house, both of which require a spot of attention from time to time.

I am posting this some 16 months later. Although covid is still circulating it has become much more benign. No one wears a mask bar the freakiest weirdo and the odd oriental. (I use that word because everyone knows what I mean by its use. Asian won't do, Indians are Asian and they don't wear the mask now. Also I can't for the life of me understand what is offensive by referring to someone as 'from the east' especially if their precise nationality is unknown). I have just received my second booster jab.

Mangled timeline: Uganda

2022-09-20T12:20:00.002-07:00

I'm not sure exactly where this fits, a few posts ago I expect, as it stradles times already mentioned, introducing my withdrawal from the workforce, my introduction to......

I wrote this with my hand: it starts ....

Two years ago, (it's now three), I was within one week of retirement. What did that look like? There was little sense of relief, I was not thankful to be released from the daily grind. Teaching had only infrequently caused discomfort and that rarely provoked by the teaching but invariably by elements associated with it; parents, management, the odd awful child. Indeed, had the management of my last school permitted me, I would happily have done another couple of years. In truth I think the school would have extended my contract if it were not for Kuwait's employment regulations: 70? You're out.

When the news of my impending departure leaked, I received a call from one Sawsan Dajani, who had been the owner at my first school in Kuwait, Gulf English School. She had heard I was going and called to offer me two years in Cairo. However, starting up in a new country with all that involves did not appeal. It was a close call....it could have put another £60,000 in the bank.

So I returned, I packed up my belongings and came home.

Settling into the house we bought some 20 years ago was easy for me but it was not so easy for my wife to have me around. She had been the "resident" there during that time although she spent much of her time in Portugal. Nonetheless, she regarded our house as her "terra". She regarded my protracted presence irritating. We maintain an uncomfortable truce.

The first plan for my new-found liberation was to visit Uganda to stay with old friends Sven and Jane near Fort Portal, in the west. Sven worked for a vanilla estate, organising sport for the workers. Jane was head of a local school. It was a school of one's dreams. The pupils were largely local, up to eleven years. The school was set in a lush valley, with open classrooms and a sense of happy calm. The children came from poor families, manual labourers, subsistence farmers. It's a fee paying school but the fees are tiny. The staff are largely locals, trained to teach. There were also foreign teachers, Europeans whose children became part of the school population. I went there often and I never saw any of the poor behaviour or bad attitude that blights English schools. I sat in on classes, watched assemblies, attended an evening candle-lit story telling which was magical. I ran an 8km route with the cross country team, over red dirt roads. As if this was not enough for memories, the school is set amongst ancient volcanoes, the now cold mouths of which house lakes, around which we ran, for pleasure.

During my stay, I ran in a mountain goat half marathon and cycled in a 100km mountainous and stupendously potholed race which was one of the most demanding acts of my life. I have to add however that the race included a stretch of road worthy of Switzerland; a 14 km silk motorway, unremittingly downhill. This road was a donation from the EU. The rest was a rock strewn, root-crossed, mud clogged morasse. Still, like most of such experiences, in retrospect it was a wonderful experience. I remember that bottle of cold Nile.

Sven and Jane lived in a wooden structure, raised off the side of a slope which was the side of a volcano, on the lip of the caldera we would take our breakfast, ripe avocado rather than butter. The fruits were freshly picked from a tree up which the male employee scrambled, returning with half a dozen, the size of large mangoes.

There was a lodge near by, Ndali, a hugely expensive destination for the well heeled but to which we had access through the friendship of the owner. It lies on a ridge overlooking another crater lake above which large prehistoric-looking birds of vast wing span glided and screeched. The lodge, exuding the very essence of Africa, consisted of thatched cottages for guests. The main building, overlooking Lake Nyinambuga, had the sort of bar you would prefer never to leave, lounges furnished with sumptuous couches of local wood and cushioned with the feathers, of, no doubt, local fowl. The paths at night were lit by candles. The owner brought a large telescope out one night and focussed on a line of planets, Venus, Jupiter and Saturn, whose rings were clearly visible, with the crescent moon joining in.

Reasons to be Cheerful

2022-09-13T09:49:00.002-07:00

I am sometimes told that I am negative. I look through the emails and whatsapp messages and I find that while able to recognise negativity, I don't often present it. On the contrary, I feel I am very optimistic. Being pessimistic just seems, well, so negative. I constantly react to setbacks with positivity, looking forward to inevitable improvement. I never consider things getting worse. There is always an opposing opinion, I know.

Not related directly with the above, some while ago I was pondering the astonishing fact that since I left school, I have never had to put on a uniform. I must belong to the only generation in history not to have gone to war. This got me thinking about the various facets of my life which are marked by rare good fortune.

I headed up the sheet of paper Reasons to be Cheerful The following is not in any particular order.

1. At 73 years old, I can claim to be pysically fit. When uninjured, I run regularly, enter races, anything from 10km to 100km. I am able to run a marathon in under 3:50, 10km under 50 mins. Next year I am entered to run the Comrades Marathon in South Africa. In 1987 I won the Boston Marathon, albeit Lincolnshire in 2:35. My best was at Derby in 1987, 2:27:09. I take no medicines or medicaments.

2. I can come and go as I wish. Since the sad demise of my marriage, I have few restraints. nobody relies on me day to day. I have no pets. The only dependents are a few plants which are easily catered for. So I can travel and do.

3. I have been able, as well as paying off two mortgages, to provide enough income through savings, house rental and pension to see me through the next 27 years; I aim to live to 100.

4. Although there have been rifts, I see one branch of the family regularly as they live not one mile away.

5. We purchased a lovely unassuming house in a good part of Nottingham. It has a verdant garden, garage and shed, I which I keep my two bicycles.

6. I sleep really well.

7. I very rarely need to go shopping. Once every ten days or so to the local supermarket, not 500m away. My needs are few, the spend is slight. I have enough clothes to see me OK for quite a number of years.

8. I live on the edge of Nottingham, therefore on the edge of the countryside. My running is largely off road, on trails, pathways, across farmers' land.

9. I never need to work again.

10. After the 11+ examination, I was sent 5 miles away to a grammar school whereas my brother went to the very local brand spanking new comprehensive, for which I have been eternally grateful.

11. Leaving school at 16 after a non-stellar academic career, I walked straight into a job. Barclays Bank.

12. I left the bank after 4 years and with Kate, went hitchhiking around Europe at a time when hitchhiking was normal.

13. Conscription into the army was abandoned, so no military service.

14. I went to teachers' training college based on O level results....one of the last cohort so to do.

15. On completion, got a teaching job immediately through the old-school network.

16. I left teaching to go the France....worked on camp site for 3 glorious months.

17. I got a teaching job in Zimbabwe, after 2 fabulous years working at the Trip.

18. After 4 years in Zim, got a job teaching in Q8, with no degree. Now not possible.

19. The invasion was embarrassingly easy for me.

20. My parents took care of family while I was in Iraq and of me when I returned.

21. Return to Kuwait easy as I had a record of service.

22. I retired at 70, just in time...covid struck 9 months later.

23. I was one of the last cohort to get my pension at the age of 65.

Conversely, here is my Reasons to be Miserable list

1. The dislocated relationship with the other half of the family.

Rusty Knife?

2022-09-12T06:08:00.007-07:00

The days, so many, sometimes slip and slide past, propelled on leather-soled, holed shoes, on damp flags, under sombre slate grey, even as summer is declared. The few, skip and scamper lightly, barefoot, on new mown grass amid precocious heads of yellow, blue and purple, colours nature can conceive as well as an occasional JMW, a Monet, a Rousseau.

The fact is that there they go, joyful or not and here we are, left with the memory and the bleak prospect of post-autumn. That season creeps from behind almost unnoticed as summer reasserts itself for a day, doors hang open, pigeons warble, the odd small plane tracks across the still blue sky. And, yet, look closely, there is a lick of rust in those leaves while these deny it, new growth of creepers feeling their way up the fence. The breeze becomes wind, the dashes of cloud are no longer effervescent bundles of promised sunshine, they are shallow, thinly white and grey, almost silver but the cyanic blue has gone and when allowed a brief cameo, is weak, with the chill of the north.

Hungry?

2022-09-09T10:57:00.002-07:00

I have a friend, Kelly by name, Irish by origin you may presume but no, at least not directly, more Birmingham. At least I bothered to have been born in my claimed nation.

Patrick, (his further claim to Eirean ancestry) was a teacher at my ultimate school in Kuwait, New English School. Business was his subject. I'm always a little skeptical of teachers who teach a subject which, if they applied the knowledge they impart to the empty vessels, would make them rich. I hold my self and other art teachers to the same criticism. If I know art so bloody well, how come I am not rich from painting or sculpting or printing?

Well, some year after my departure from the sand pit, Patrick threw the towel in and hot footed it to Hungary, his well chosen European bolt hole. As is often the case, the choice of country was guided by the nationality of his wife. You got it, she's Hungarian.

I went to Hungary in 2013 to run the Budapest Marathon about which I have written here before. I would just like to mention, however, that the run was one of my current era best times, 3:16. Budapest made a huge impression on me. At that time I had no idea that Patrick had a house there. Had I, I would not have stayed at the rather down-at-heel hotel, the Benczur. At least, however, it was very close to the start and finish of the race.

I have, subsequently, visited Hungary twice. I have stayed with Patrick and Noemi in their house in Buda at the top of a single track road as it peters out on the edge of Budaors. It's a hilly area, great rocky outcrops towering above groups of houses, some magnificent, built, according to Patrick, with Fidesz money.

31st July, 2022, I embarked on a simple train ride, direct from Nottingham to Manchester and on to the airport. The first problem was the train I had booked didn't exist. So I got the next one. Unfortunately, it didn't go to Manchester. So I would have to get on a bus from Sheffield to Manchester. Buses are slower than trains and the available time was slipping away. We got to Stockport, where the bus terminated. It would be two more trains to get to the airport. Missing the flight seemed like a distinct possibility, so I jumped in a taxi direct to the airport. The customs and passport control at the airport would only depress me to write about.

Arrival at Budapest and the formalities were silk-like. Straight through, into a taxi.

Patrick likes to have an arranged 'event' for me. Last time it was axe throwing. Very entertaining. I pre-empted his plans this time by saying I couldn't possibly do an escape room. Gives me the claustrophobic willies. So we didn't do that. The second day, saw the arrival of another NES teacher, Rhoda, an American music teacher, who had been thereatening to descend on Patrick for some time.

We spent the next few days in and out of the city, along the river, cocktails on riverside boats, beer in ruin bars, walking in the hills and lounging in sunshine. Then we went to their cottage on Lake Balaton. High on a steep hillside, the house had been for the production of wine from the surrounding vineyards. There were unlimited opportunities to walk, run and to drink fine Humgarian wine while barbecuing in the early evening. One of the most curious events was a considerable walk to a baker's in the woods, unreachable by car, which had to be booked in advance and wasn't open many hours a day. It was stunnning, the food was excellent, the views breathtaking. And then it was time to return to Manchester, to be charged outrageous money for a 3 mile taxi journey. I think it's called rip-off Britain.

Remi, running and a Greek warrior

2022-09-03T06:07:00.006-07:00

The Remster

Time runs away. I have another grandchild. Name of Remi, born to Rebecca and Jonathan. He's 7 months, has started nursery, into which he seems to have fitted with ease. He is a dream, to me, although Rebecca does have moments of despair in the night when he will not sleep. He is remarkably sociable, he laughs a lot and he smiles when he sees me, which makes me happy. He is going to nursery to meet like-minded small people and I have undertaken to deliver him on a Thursday morning. Rebecca gets emotional on leaving him of course but his contentedness allays that.

I have had a chequered recent history in running....After my 5 weeks in Tenerife, I ran a 10km alongside and over the river, on the embankment. The Nottingham Winter Warmer. It went well enough, though a little slower than I would have liked 48.03. Damned cold.

Next, the Nottingham Festival of Running, a four lap half marathon around Colwick Park on 17th July. Better pleased with the result on this day when everyone was complaining of the heat. Half the course was shaded in woods. 1:46:05. No damage, training going well towards the Bath Two Tunnels marathon on 21st August.

However, on my last longish run, seven days before the race, my Achilles started grumbling. I stopped running at about 14km, got the bus home and hoped for the best. On arriving in Bath and checking into my Airbnb, I walked the barely 500 metres to the park where the start and finish would be the following day. In the back of my mind, though the Achilles felt fine, was the awareness of its recent condition. Well, I started and ran well for a few kilometres but sure enough, a tiny but discernable twinge surfaced. I continued, the pain increased and it became apparent that the full marathon was out of the question. Further, it became apparent that I would be unable to run the full half, so I walked the last 5 kilometres, giving me an awful finishing time of something over 2:30. Had I been able to complete the half without pain, I would have been on for a 1:40.

So here I am today, nearly two weeks later and I am still limping. Time, I have learned, is the healer with the Achilles but I have a half marathon in two weeks and a full marathon in five. The marathon is the Lisbon, which I have run 2 times before. It's fast, along the Atlantic and the Tejo estuary and quite flat. I was aiming for 3:45.....but those hopes are fast diminishing. The upside is of course that I shall be in glorious Lisbon come what may.

Covid Strikes Again

2021-12-07T07:19:00.001-08:00

Well, on a very cold December day (T shirt, light wool sweater, heavier wool sweater, bubble jacket, and all of that, indoors, with the heating on.), 6 days since the passing of the alotted day for the birth of my fourth grandchild, (what can be holding him back? Too cold, I suspect, he being of part Portuguese blood.) I find myself typing on this infernal machine and intermittently gazing at the grey day scurrying shudderingly past.

It took me eight weeks to recover from my misfortune or stupidity in Kenilworth. Improvement in my Achilles or the muscle behind it was so slow as to be undetectable but eight weeks later I went out for a tentative 2 km and it was fine. I'm now up to a longest run of 15 km and will embark on speed work in a couple of days.

Covid continues to fascinate and surprise us....South Africa has served up the latest incarnation and the knee-jerk reactions are jerking around the world. It seems that we learn nothing from the previous lockdowns, which universally have been pretty well pointless. The Omicron variant is known to be in the community, independent of foreign travel and yet the brawny cavalier, in the rotund shape of our leader, Boris Johnson, slams the barn door, though the horse is long gone. Christmas, 3 weeks away could well, again, be subject to lockdown and surveilance. I, for one, am able to continue my life unperturbed. I ignore the government panic buttons. However, my plans to escape to the Canary Islands for 6 weeks in January and February are on hold until a day or two before my planned departure, as anything can happen in the interim.

In my head at this moment I have an image of the bar in The Ferrry in Wilford, a small village on the edge of the city by the Trent, which has an open log fire and welcoming staff. It is to here that I sometimes decamp for the warmth and the beer. I take a book, newspaper or a crossword and spend an hour or two. In summer I go to the large garden and stretch in the sun, feeling very self satisfied. But today, storm Barra has announced its presence and half of Britain braces itself for snow.

Where did those two years go?

2021-09-14T06:59:00.002-07:00

It is now approaching two years since I last posted, such a contrast to the early years when I used to post even twice, possibly three times a day.

My last post was written in mid lockdown 2. When normal life was suspended, more or less the only legitimate shopping one could do was in the supermarket. My life was not otherwise unduly disrupted. The lack of 'hospitality' otherwise known as the pub, was not much of a deprivation, beer etc was available in the supermarket if one was so inclined. The rest of my life continued as normal, I ran, cycled, walked as I always had, gave others on the street their two metres. Masks were initially a rare sight, "the science" at that time not advising them. However, soon enough "the science" swivelled full circle and the maskless became considered heretical. As I write this, 14th September 2021, rain steadfast from a tarnished sky, I recall recent runs where, when approaching an often female (but not always) walker they make a determined swerve to a hedge and turn away. I usually utter a barely audible "Weirdo!", in the faint hope they might hear me. We are nearly all fully vaccinated but still they are glued to the horror stories we were fed by the government and media. Also, going into pubs which are now fully open, I chuckle to see staff diligently wiping down surfaces, despite "the science" determining some 8 months ago that as no one contacts the virus through physical contact with a surface touched by a carrier, there is no point in wiping those surfaces. The upside is of course that everywhere is pretty spotlessly clean.

Running was largely recreational throughout 2020, there being no races. I was registered for London but had to defer my entry until this year, 19 days away. It was in March 2021 that I started to train with intent. Several years ago I entered The Race to the Stones. It is a 100km run from Lewknor in Oxfordshire to close by Avebury stone circle in Wiltshire. It's run on the Ridgeway, a 5000 year old track along the chalk ridge which drovers and tradesmen walked, high above rivers and mud. On that first attempt I failed, largely as I had not done sufficient training. I got to the half-way point and tearfully withdrew.

I swore of course that I would never consider doing it again but that is what runners usually say after a painful, gruelling race. Memories of the miserable agony fade but the nagging knowledge that the race "beat" you remain, indeed, they eat at you. So at some point I registered to run it this year. Training included three very long runs on consecutive weekends, a 35km, a 45 and a 55. So, with my son-in-law there to second me, I set off from Lewknor at just before 7am, on a perfect morning, cloudy, slight rain, in rather better condition than on the first attempt. His job was to be invisible but present. He achieved this brilliantly, wearing camouflage with a hood, which allowed him to be pretty close as I trudged past, unaware. I ran all the way to the half way point, where I especially did not wish to see him. Knowing the car was there, warm and comforting could have tipped me over the edge, as it had the first time. He was there though. That first 50km I ran. It took about 6hours. I agree, that sounds like a very long time to run 50km. But this was not a road race. The running surface encompassed virtually every kind of tortuous, irregular, unforgiving rooted, rocky, muddy terrain imaginable. The ascents were steep as were the descents. Where there were paths they were narrow and not flat, throwing the balance out with every step. My optimistic target was 12 hours, which rapidly was adjusted to 14 and ended at 15:45 or there abouts. The second 50 I barely ran at all. If the first half had been hilly, this half of the run contained the most unremitting climbs, very steep, going on forever, with multiple but false summits. And, naturally, reciprocating mountain-goat plummets.

I had hoped to finish in daylight, but within 10km of the line, the sun died and the head torches came out. Somehow, although it had cost me a pretty penny, my torch was way weaker that many others. While running with a group it was relatively easy to see the path, such as it was but as those runners pulled away and left me with my feeble candle light, the going became tough. On top of which I could feel my screaming toes. I imagined what they would look like when I removed the socks. Well, I've seen worse. To date I have lost 3 toenails. Not as bad as it may sound, it's painless.

As so often happens in running races, the course designers build in a malicious sting in the tail, like bringing you close to the finish only to take you away again, just for fun. And so it happened here. It actually wasn't a surprise that the race didn't finish at the Avebury stone circle but given its name it damned well should. No, the course takes you to the stones, makes you run around the stones but then spits you out to run a kilometre back past incoming runners, headlights magically bobbing around against the night sky, then across a wide field and left on to a farm road, which seems never to end and then in a glare of light and cheering, you cross the line. I took my medal, wobbled unsteadily, sat down, shivered maniacally and then enterred the crowd, to be warmly welcomed and congratulated. Into the car, heating on full blast, back to the hotel. Painfully up the stairs, hot shower. Bed.

Three days ago, I went to Kenilworth to run a half marathon. I had been training seriously for London and this was a half marathon en route. That training had been a bit curtailed by a groin strain a couple of weeks ago, which took 7 days to clear up. So training hadn't been perfect. I told my coach (yes I have engaged a coach) that I would aim at 2 hours, very slow for me but I thought it would perhaps avoid any damage. Typically, I ignored my own advice, and, feeling good, I stretched out a bit. Honestly, I felt a two hour half marathon would be demeaning. So I ran through lovely countryside, undulating yes, but not hilly and on the way back to town, felt that I could lengthen my stride a wee bit more. I had had a twinge from my right Achilles at around mile 6 and I thought of withdrawing but I decided I'd just do a bit more and see what happens. Well, it seemed to subside and on I went. As I ran up the final straight to the finish, in the heart of the town, it finally said "Enough!" and I was forced to effectively hobble the last 20 metres. Anyway, I was quite happy with the time, given the hiccup in training, 1:44:59

So here we are 19 days from London and I'm nursing and icing my latest injury. I will report back.

This has been one of the most dismall summers in my experience. Yes, of course there have been good days, but overall,,,,

I was hoping to run again in Chiang Mai this Christmas, my seventh but all the news out of Thailand points to no opening up for tourism this year. So....Cuba? Canaries? Let's see.....

Retirement, Uganda, Chiang Mai, Phnom Penh, England

2020-11-19T03:20:00.028-08:00

I'm writing this at my "office" desk, in the kitchen of my house in Nottinhgam. Having retired from teaching and escaped the "sandpit" some eighteen months go, I have undergone a rather rocky journey into becoming a UK resident again. The weather is the culprit. The first year was pretty plain sailing, after all, I arrived in summer and had but a mild taste of the foot-hills of autumn before I left in late October. Just before leaving, I ran the Lisbon marathon, finishing six minutes faster that six years earlier. I went to Uganda via Dubai, to stay with old teaching friends from Kuwait, Sven and Jane, in their impossibly romantic wooden house with its own volcanic crater lake on the lip of which we routinely breakfasted and sipped sun-downers, watching the astonishing aerial and aquatic wildlife about its business. More of this later.

After seven idyllic weeks which included a ridiculous mountain goat half marathon and a 100km cycle race, I had a one night stay in Entebbe before heading to Bangkok and Chiang Mai, with the intention of staying for 3 months, to become infused with Thai life. My friend James came along, leaving his lady friend in Pattaya to fend for herself. Not being a typical tourist, I did none of the obvious things, elephants etc, and focussed on flâneur activity, roaming without intent, observing, noting, reacting, being sent down a side road at the end of which there appears to be a structure of interest. And continuing, not knowing where I was headed.

We punctuated our Chiang Mai sojourn with a week in Cambodia, more specifically, Phnom Penh, in the Riverside area which turned out to be where all the action took place.

We both decided to curtail our stay in the north and headed to Pattaya for my final ten days. But that proved to be an exercise in déja vu and in the end I was happy to be on my way back to Blighty. News of the coronavirus had arrived while I was in Thailand but had not substantially affected any aspect of life. On arrival in England, I noticed things had changed and people were giving a wide berth to others. No masks were yet in evidence. Since then we have had one protracted lock down, an opening up and then a second lockdown in which we now sit. All non-essential shops are closed, as are pubs and restaurants. Supermarkets are making money hand over fist while the smaller shops stagnate and face obliteration. The high street will look very different when all of this is over. Winter has arrived, the sweaters are out.

Olive Rose Weaver, foldable.

2020-01-26T04:47:00.001-08:00

It's a few years since, when we travelled with the grandkids, we would pack them into boxes and baskets, to save space. Olive Rose Weaver used to prefer basketwear.

Retired

2019-08-24T09:32:00.001-07:00

It seems almost prescient that today, the 24th August, the day before I would otherwise head for London Heathrow and fly to Kuwait to start another uncomfortable year in the sand pit, the sun is alone in the sky, the air is warm and the leaves on the trees rustle just enough to attract the eye. I take this perfect afternoon, accompanied as it is by cold, still, dry cider as a sign that staying is going to be far better than returrning. Thank god it's not pissing it down.

My departure from Kuwait was orderly, I got my police report done independently of the school's bus trip to Farwaniya Immigration /Police offices. The process was scratchy, filled with moments of wondering "OK what happens now...." and "Sit down Mr" moments. But it all worked out.

I got the freight organised; they came, packed, (under my supervision), they left, with my Kuwait life's possessions. The school were professional in their procedures; I was paid all that I should have been and as I had many times assured the doubters, as the plane left the tarmac, I did not look back. And neither have I in the 2 months since.

Landing in UK after these many years of working abroad was not as momentous as you might assume. I am, after all, employed by the school until the end of August. It is only now on this the 24th that I begin to feel that the expat chapter is drawing to a close. I am happily organising the rest of my life, beyond September. I know the returning staff have, in the next few days, got to go through a Google boot camp to get them to jump horrible technological hurdles, which would depress me beyond words. As they get on with that, I am looking forward to a half marathon next weekend, the Hornsea Half on the east coast, near Hull. A friend from 45 years ago in my early teaching days in Nottingham when I was living in The Park (golden years), and who I have known ever since, is coming down from Newcastle and we will meet in a great pub and talk nonsense. For that is what we do. I once got off a flight to Bangkok and as I raced through the labyrinthine halls of the airport, I bumped into him and his wife. A few words of nonsense and we parted. They were for marine diving in Vietnam and I was to Pattaya. Then it's the Nottingham Half on 28th September with the Shrewsbury just a week later.

Lisbon Marathon is the main target of my running year, though not the last. 29th October, I'll be running through Cascais, out to Boca do Inferno, back through the town and all along the Tejo, finishing, as I should, in the Praca do Comercio at the end of Rua Augusta and its magnificeent triumphal arch. The last time I ran it, with the Robster, some 6 years ago, it culminated at the site of the World Expo, unbefitting for recognition of heroicism in the running of a marathon.

By this time I should have got my head around acquiring a visa for my entry into Uganda late October where I arrive with an Africa lump in my throat, coming in low over red dirt roads and fields of maize. I will stay 7 weeks, being of assistance to either Sven, in the building of the series of lodges he is building on the edge of the crater lake they have bought over the years or to Jane, as her PA in the school she heads. I will do these things, I will run the red dirt roads, I will absorb Africa.

When that comes to an end, I'll head to Chiang Mai in northern Thailand. I'll meet James en route and we'll head to our chosen gaff for a three month stay. I'll run, we'll mooch, we'll talk to bar girls, we'll do what one should as the September of our lives heads toward winter.

Mid March I'll jump abord an Emirates flight via Dubai back to UK, there to ponder my next foray; into the unknown this time, South America, perhaps.

But having been accepted into the London Marathon, again, 26th April and early July, Race to the Stones 100km, (again), I'l have things to keep my mind alive.

How Thick Can One Be?

2019-04-30T02:59:00.003-07:00

Crete

Amsterdam went and in the relaxed warmth of a cafe I reflected on my performance. It was not a comfortable run, largely through lack of adequate training, which seems to be the most frequent criticism. Insufficient mileage was the main culprit, followed by lack of nutrients, possibly, though I'm not really convinced. I recently watched a video of Bruce Fordyce, multiple winner of the Comrades Marathon, in which he said that he had in recent runs forgone the use of gels and electrolyte drinks, in favour of water. But I do think I suffered from salt deficiency, as the cramps I fought in the last three kilometres were excruciating.
So I set to training for the next one, Chiang Mai in northern Thailand a few days before Christmas.

Years ago I ran 3:19 but over the last few attempts my times had faltered. I was ready for this, however and, equipped with pacing instructions written on my inner wrist, I felt good. If a run ever does, I can say that this one went like clockwork. I followed instructions, went out easy, increased pace at 10 km and at 30 km tried to run a little faster. It worked! I ran 3:23, my best in a few years.

So, wouldn't you think that armed with the solid evidence of a working modus operandi, I would train harder but run the same way in the next one. You would wouldn't you?

Yes you would but I didn't.

The next race was a half marathon at the end of January, in Muscat. Again, I have run it many times and always acquitted myself well enough. And so it was again, finishing in 1:35.

Then came the Malta Marathon at the end of February, which was cancelled at the last minute as the mother of all storms tore across the Mediterranean. This gave me the solid but untested training to head for the next one, the Crete at the end of April. It took place in Chania a lovely town on the north coast. My hotel balcony looked out over the historic Venetian Harbour and there were plentiful bars, cafes and restaurants in the winding stone streets. The sun shone on race day, though the temperature was sharp. Perfect combination. Again I had my pacing instructions on my wrist. They were 5 seconds per kilometre faster than Chiang Mai, which reflected my better training and higher expectations. However, rather than feeding off the Thai experience and restraining myself in the first kilometres, I went off like a hare. Dumb, stupid, infantile beginner's mistake. And of course I suffered. Yes, I flew through 10 km in 46 minutes, yes I went through the half marathon in 1:36, but I knew that I was sunk. My legs began to tell me, shaking their heads and looking to the skies in their disbelief that I should be so dull. As I came into the town with barely 5 km to go, three or four small hills reared their heads, and such was my disintegration, I gave in and stride walked to the top.

Had I done it well, I could have done 3:15. As it was I went through 42.2 in 3:23:30 almost stride for stride with Chiang Mai. My final published time, however, shows 3:24:53, the discrepancy being mismeasurement by 300 metres.

Back in the pit, I prepare for my last and final departure from Kuwait in the early hours of 14th June, to begin my new career as traveller sans responsibilité.

Amsterdam Marathon and Cramp

2019-02-04T06:32:00.000-08:00

Peter Lublink and Father Christmas

To Amsterdam. Again. This time there would be little indulgence. I was there for the marathon. I was hardly well trained. A mid-October race means August and September training. And of course, that means in Kuwait at the harsh back end of summer. Even by mid-October, the temperatures were resistantly high. So one did ones best, in the company of Peter, the Canadian. I had an airbnb on Overtoom, not so far from the Olympic Stadium, built for the 1928 games. My room was below ground and had a steep wooden staircase. I regarded it with distaste, thinking of my painful post race descent to lie under the goose down and recover.
The stadium start was magnificent, thousands on the track shared long ago by Olympians. Out we went, in waves, up Amstelveenseweg, swinging right into the Vondelpark and on through the city onto the Amstel. All was good until we approached the city from the countryside. Cramp attacked, along with tiredness. I slowed, stopped at watering stations, gulped electrolytes and stumbled on, back into Vondelpark. Several times the cramp gripped my thighs and calves, bringing me to a halt. A man stepped on to the road and briefly massaged my thighs and sent me on towards the stadium. Of course, all this shillyshallying took a toll on the time. I ran into the stadium and around the 400 metre track, to the finish, in 3 hours, 43 minutes and 51 seconds. At 4 minutes slower than Rhodes, I was not well pleased, as that race had also been a bit of a shambles. In the weeks after, I had to come to terms with the fact that unless I analysed and altered my training, I was pretty well doomed to similar ignominious failure. Merely completing a marathon is not a success. And the advancing years must be challenged.

A Sweep of Blank Space

2018-10-13T09:01:00.001-07:00

The second of June has receded, sinking below the distant horizon and here lies a sweep of blank space; space which seems the wider for its lack of the ripples a beach shows when the tide has gone. More than 120 days has stumbled by and not a word written.
Well, my life like many others goes through periods of tedious banality with which I would not burden you. Whoever you are.
Within the banality, there have been moments of activity. Soon after posting on the Rhodes marathon, the school year ended and I headed home. I had booked airbnb and train tickets in Shrewsbury, where I was to run the half marathon for the second time. Shrewsbury? a charming, small town, surrounded by a meander in the river Severn. Historic, organic, full of fine churches and more importantly, great pubs, one of which, the Loggerheads, has one of the last active shove ha'penny leagues. This is not trivial. In a country which is in the final stages of losing all of its cultural anchors, the longer such things survive and flourish, the better.
My bnb was great.
The run started in the same parkland as before and followed the same course, through the heart of the city and out into the country. I managed 1:35:07, which put me in first place for over 60 and the winner of 40 quid. Following that there was a series of four races, dubbed Grand Prix, around Nottingham and run by Holme Pierrepont running club. The four runs were in parkland, on trails and comprised a 5 km, 4 mile, 5 mile and 10 km. I was first finisher in all events within the over 65 age group and gained 50 squid for my troubles. All good so far.
Then, mid July, loomed the 100km Race to the Stones. I'd been training for this race for months. Before I died, I wanted to do another seriously long ultra which would reflect the 90km Comrades I ran in South Africa in 1984. Week by week, the long run extended but simultaneously the weather in Kuwait deteriorated. My running partner, Peter, who had no race in view, was fantastic in supporting me on ridiculously long runs, up to 45 km. Nonetheless, heat and humidity increased and we had to push our runs back into the night, ultimately starting at 10pm and finishing at 2 or 3am. The consequence of running in these conditions, on very flat roads was that inevitably I was not ready for seriously hilly, rutted trails of southern England. Be that as it may, my support, Nick, my son in law, and I headed down to Lewknor, where we were to stay the night in the Mercure Thame Lambert Hotel, ready for an early start the following morning. After a meal in the Leathern Bottel, a fine pub, we adjourned.
The field in which the race was to start was full of people preparing to embark, slapping on Vaseline, filling water bottles, checking off lists. A lot of these people were setting off with a pack on their backs weighing several kilos. It didn't make sense to me, as, at more or less 10km intervals, there were very well-stocked feed and aid stations, so well stocked, it seemed to me barely necessary to carry anything beyond emergency clothing and head torch. So I was travelling light. Water bottles in my running vest and not much else. The run went across and through lovely English countryside, broad fields of ripening wheat, fierce inclines, barely runnable within root-strewn copses, single track rutted paths where a moment's distraction could see a runner tumble. I saw the evidence of this at feed stations, bloodied knees, lacerated foreheads. This, fortunately, was not my fate. Mine was worse. Despite best intentions, after the 4th aid station, I began to realise that I could not sustain the level of pain that I was experiencing. As I approached 50 km, half way, I analysed the options. They were two. To continue after the 50km aid station, crippled as I was, hoping that as some runners find energy returns and legs regain their rhythm. Alternatively I could abort, admitting my lack of distance and hill training and vowing (in a day or so), to return, properly prepared. I shuffled up the hill, where Nick was patiently waiting, I was crying. I don't know whether non-runners can understand this, but the extremes of running, even watching someone else pushing themselves to the limit, can bring one to tears. I'm not really sure why I was crying. Perhaps it was the pain, perhaps the admission of failure. I think my decision to stop simply disappointed me. But stop I did and we headed to Marlborough and its eponymous hotel. In talking it out with Nick, I realised I had taken the correct decision. If I had gone on, having taken six and a half hours to reach half way, I knew that, in my dire condition, I could not do the second half in less that nine hours. If I were to finish the race, I wanted to do it in a reasonable time. That to me meant maximum 13 hours. If or when I do it again, in 2020, I would have trained on hills and over a long period. I would be ready.
So, as always, the reward for a race is good food and beer. That done, the following day, we returned to Nottingham and the bosom. More than good food and beer, I had booked flight and hotels in Portugal. Three days in gorgeous Lisbon, walking, lounging, wining, dining and soaking the character and mood of one of my very favourite places.
Then I took a hire car and drove down to Vila Nova de Milfontes, on the Alentejo coast. A largely new town, it nestles around a historic castle, privately owned. Around the castle are old cobbled streets, with chic cafes and restaurants, very Portuguese yet quite un-Albufeira. There are stunning views out to sea and over the estuary.
On arrival back in UK, I contemplated the following 3 weeks. I had little to do bar run a half marathon and I was getting pushed and pulled and cajoled into going to Thailand to have a larf with my two friends, which is of course what I did. And then back to the sand pit.

Roads to Rhodes et al

2018-06-02T13:15:00.003-07:00

Two medals!

Doesn't time fly?
I last posted in February about the half marathon in Muscat at the end of January. In April, I flew to Rhodes via Bahrain and Athens for the Roads to Rhodes marathon. I loved Rhodes. My airbnb was the best I have stayed in. The run was great; well organised, a two lap course along the coast, alongside the city and harbour walls. At the end, James, having just arrived from the airport, was there to welcome me. I was attacked and treated for the worst leg cramps I've ever suffered. I was happy to be 2nd over 60, the winner being 7 years my junior.
And here we are with the end of the year swinging alongside the quay ready to moor, momentarily, just long enough for me to be piped aboard and with a belch of black smoke and a thrust away from the shoreline, we head off towards ten weeks of possibility.
That possibility is, in my case, a sprinkling of disparate plans, looking rather sparse when viewed from above. They start the very weekend I arrive. Thursday 14th June I hit the tarmac running and head to Profeet in Fulham to buy a pair of trail running shoes for a forthcoming run, more of which shortly. After that I'll jump the Tube and meet my daughter in Richmond. We'll have breakfast together, stroll around in the inevitably glorious early summer sunshine and then have a lunchtime pint, the thought of which I have been savouring for some time. Then I'm on the train to Nottingham, first class, £14.20.
Bella will be there, the first time I've seen her since last summer. One reason for her presence is the imminent operation on our grandson's hole in the heart. On the Saturday I'm off down to Shrewsbury to run the half marathon. Six days later there's the 60km training run scheduled, the day before the 50 mile bike ride, all of which sounds a bit hectic and we'll see how that goes.
Then on 26 and 28/6 there's a 4 mile and a 10 km race followed after a 30 km training run on 30/6 and, on 3/7 and 5/7, a 5 km and a 5 mile. Then on 7/7, a training run of 20 km along the canal.
All of this frenetic activity is leading up to RTTS, Race to the Stones. This is a 100km race from Lewknor near Oxford, to the Avebury stones. It traces the ancient path called the Ridgeway, along the chalk escarpment of the Chilterns and the North Wessex Downs.
As you can imagine, running such a race takes some planning and a lot of training. Training has been interrupted; injury being the prime culprit. The Achilles has played its malign but a more or less niggling bit part. Some 4 months ago I took to Jeff Galloway's sworn practice of walk run. I found, in experimenting with the relative lengths of walk and run, that I seemed to be able to run for weeks, into months with no injury. Only once, about 4 weeks ago on an innocuous 10 km medium pace mid-week training run, the Achilles said "enough!". I laid off for a few days and then got back into training. And it's been fine since. So I have to thank Jeff for his advice.
The next problem has been the increasing heat. Last Friday I ran 30 km with a friend but it had to be a night run. We started at 9 PM and ran 'til one in the morning. That's a really slow pace but a) It should be, in training for a 100 km run. b) we stopped running quite a number of times to get water and c) it was 33 Centigrade but thankfully, not humid. Last night I went out to run 40 km but only made 10 before I pulled up drained by the humidity and dripping.
So the training has been bitty to say the least. I had hoped to max at 60 km in training. Not sure I'll now make it. But, the race I will run.
If next weekend is dry, I should be able to put in a decent long run and I have a spare weekend in Nottingham to do a long one. I can pretty well rely on cool temperatures but UK does tend to humidity.
After that race, I will deserve a break in a beautiful country and Portugal fits the bill. Three days in Lisbon and 4 days on the Atlantic coast of Alentejo.
The only other event pencilled in to the schedule is the Newark half marathon on 12th August. That's a local one, a motorbike ride away. And that seems to be it. However two Jolly Boys are putting pressure on me to go to Thailand in the first half of August. But that would cancel the Newark, as well as costing over two thousand quid. Considering I could only be there for a maximum of ten days, that's an expensive holiday. Added to which I'll be going to Thailand at Christmas for the Chiang Mai marathon.

Gargles and Pain Killers

2018-02-06T23:31:00.001-08:00

I'm trying to accentuate the positive but at each turn, as I peer above the parapet, my head is hammered back down. And it's all at the hands of some evil virus. On the 10th January, long having returned from a rather good break in Thailand, I got the tell tale twitch in the throat. I had a half marathon approaching but it was, I thought, far enough away to allow a cold to wither and die.
In the nine days before the race it took its miserable course and I went down to Muscat doubtful of being able to run the following day.
However, the day broke and I sprang from bed never having felt better. So I ran and felt no pain whatsoever. It was a good run and I finished first over 60 in a time of 1:40:14. I would have been happy with that without a cold.
Anyway in the following days the cold re-established itself and developed and has remained with me to this day, 7th Feb. I have had antibiotics and all kinds of gargles and pain killers but still it will not release its grip. I have run only three times since the race, more than two weeks ago and my breathing is not quite right; the passages feel raw. I've had my lungs checked, they are fine, so my spectral fear of pneumonia is assuaged. I wait, partially drugged, while this malign organism plays around my head, looking forward to the day I can again tie the laces of my running shoes with serious intent.

Here We Go Again

2017-12-18T22:26:00.000-08:00

Morning sun streams across the desks, is reflected by the mirrors and its passage is undisturbed by children. There are none. We have entered the glorious examination fortnight. Not so glorious, as I remember, for the children. But for the staff! Oh, how glorious..hours unmolested by the inanities of small brains, whose utterances stun..."Tissue....." from dullard boy, covering his nose as if there is a tide of snot heading south. "Er would you mind forming a coherent sentence, you brainless mollusc?" teacher, reaching for rusty knife.
So, what to do with the acres of time, space and opportunity, diminishing, shimmering to the horizon?
Music. Mascagni, Vaughn Williams, Bruch, Mendelssohn, Springsteen, Jam, Al Stewart, Flack, McLachlan, Annie Lennox, Van Morrison, Texas and on and on and on.
But wait. There are reports to be written. Yeah, but I've cracked that. We moved to a drop down menu comment bank last year and, once having inserted the grade and effort, completing the comments takes 17 minutes per class. Contrast this with the astonishingly time consuming method in place when I arrived 11 years ago and the difference is breath-taking. The first year they took 40 hours to complete. Now I'm down to 8 hours. And 2 weeks to do it. But don't tell anyone.
And we sit, we talk, we drink coffee when we feel like it, we reminisce, we plan, we book flights,

we day dream of other places, a parched road in Ecuador; bush Africa on a red dirt road, running;

wiseGEEK

a Thai beach bar witnessing, again, the miracle of the sun falling amongst impossibly dramatic clouds and blueness so deep you become emotional, as I am now, recording the flickering image.

In two days time again, I'm on the big bird to Chiang Mai and my 5th run of the marathon. In my mind I'll be on that red road.

Pagan Fun

2017-11-24T03:42:00.000-08:00

pocahontascommentatorplus.blogspot.co.uk

And so the year stumbles to a ragged end. Web sites harass us with the hitherto unknown Black Friday sales, an unwelcome further commercialisation of Christmas in November, now beloved of those with too little money and too little brain to realise that 40 quid off a 200 quid flat screen smart TV, is still an expense of 160 quid, on top of the monthly expense of 4,000 TV channels. For something no one needs. And they then claim inability to put food on the table for their five snotty and screaming darlings. Don't confuse "need" with "want" mon brave, as my wife so easily does. She will vehemently pursue the patently irrational and unsupportable argument that she truly needs the leopard skin stilettos.

That's got this post off to a flying start. Over here in the sand pit, when I first arrived in 1987, the approach of Christmas was evident in shop windows, with sprayed on snow, Father Christmases. and Christmas trees. Not so much these days. The fundies don't approve. But I was talking the other day to my class of 6th form art students, five girls and a boy. Conversation touched the coming holidays. I asked them who celebrate Christmas. Three female hands shot up, smiles beaming. These were the three Muslim girls. Yes, they said, we always have a tree, give presents and love Christmas songs. The others are all Christian. Two celebrate but with less enthusiasm than the three girls and one is in a sect related to the Plymouth brethren and doesn't indulge. It causes me a sad chuckle to reflect that as these three Muslim girls revel in pagan fun, there are those PC lunatics across Europe demanding that office celebrations and decoration be abandoned in deference to Muslims, in order not to offend. Mad, mad, mad. I cannot imagine any Muslim society adjusting to the tiniest degree the celebration of their rituals to defer to sensitive Christians. I once witnessed a goat having its throat cut near the entrance to my apartment block. And still it goes on at the end of every Ramadan..

Had my best half marathon in 3 years, 1:36:45 in the Gulf Bank 642 half, finished 18th of 360 male entrants. Started at Souq Sharq on the coast road, through Souq Mubarakia, on the coast to KPC building, all the way back along the corniche, past the Seif Palace and the towers, down to KFC, then a U turn and back to the start. Flat as the proverbial.

School, one way or another is mired in exams for the next four weeks. And then, once again, I'm off to Thailand, to run Chiang Mai and on Christmas Day fly down to party town, to... well... party.
I do from time to time get stick from interfering busy bodies, never from family, who seem to think I should be in Nottingham for Christmas with my family. No I shouldn't. I'm with my family for most of the summer, ten weeks, in relative warmth. None of my family is Christian, I certainly am not. So, these ne'er-do-wells presumably think that some virtue signalling is appropriate. Freezing ya balls off would do. No. Aim't happnin'.

I've deactivated my facebook account. It was painless and I am suffering no withdrawal symptoms. It just became dull and pointless. I realised I neither needed nor wanted it. God knows how many productive weeks of life I've gained.

Relatively Horizontal

2017-11-03T07:48:00.002-07:00

Tubs and his brats at the PDO club

Oman was wonderful. The pleasure starts at the airport. As the doors of the bus transferring us from the plane to arrivals opens and I leg it up the ramp to the visa/money exchange, on this occasion in competition with a Japanese man, I see the welcome smile on the faces of the Omanis behind the desk. There is always a welcome and the bureaucracy of the visa issue is minuscule. Within 2 minutes, I'm heading to passport control and am through and onward to duty free. A bottle of vodka and a case of beers; 5 minutes and I'm out of arrivals and looking for Tubs' van with the two windsurfers on top. In I get, hurl abuse at him and away we go, along the pristine roads lined with flowers and trees and lawns, past the soft-lit filigree domes of mosques glittering in the crystal dusk, past the magical distant switchback streetlights of the road which climbs to nowhere, the idea of which was dreamed up by a dreaming city planner unconstrained by rules. He foresaw surprise and delight in the eyes of the visitor seeing it for the first time. And then again and again.
And this time, Tubs had moved out of his large but encircled town house. Rather than occupying a 3 floor, 6 bedroom mansion, he had been obliged by PDO, his employer, to move back "on camp" as a cost cutting exercise. With some resentment, they chose and occupied a four bedroom bungalow. It had three bathrooms, 4 toilets and a huge extended terrace beyond the sitting/dining room, which was occupied by Miriam, his wife, usually relatively horizontal, watching or not, the flat screen TV emitting some of the worst television on planet Philippines. If she wasn't watching that, she was watching mindless rot on her smart phone. The terrace, at around 20 metres by 5, had ample room for many loungers, a BBQ and plants. It also led to a smaller terrace which housed the bar and pool table, both of which got a good hammering over the 5 days. James also arrived, about 12 hours late, having been delayed in Bangkok.
I enjoyed all the banter, the bars, the incessant Only Fools and Horses, the Oktoberfest night at the club, where an alarming number of men were wearing lederhosen. This was alarming because you have to assume that these men take the aforementioned with them, always, wherever they go. Along with the long white socks and the purple feather.
One of my greatest pleasures of being there and being back on camp was that I could run on almost totally empty roads. And roads of such perfect surface, that they shone in the reflected light of the streetlamps. Add to this that "camp" is an area of craggy barren rocky hills and valleys, I had the pleasure, (yes), of hill running.

The rolling roads of PDO camp

On my last morning there, I was met outside Tubs' place by the Robster. We parked outside Qurm park and went for a run of around 16 km, along the beach road (Shatti), past the Opera House, through the diplomatic quarter and back. Then to Costa, appropriately on the coast, to sit among civilised people, expat and Omani, quietly enjoying the morning sunshine under broad trees, watching the waves lazily come to shore.
Then back to the sand pit and the 642 half marathon in 2 weeks, then Thailand and the Chiang Mai marathon at Christmas.

No Apologies

2017-10-13T05:27:00.003-07:00

To use a hackneyed expression, "Doesn't time fly when you're having fun?" But it's true.
My last post was August 22nd. Since then I have returned to the sand pit, have been teaching in my penultimate year for 4 weeks, become a 90% fruitarian, picked up my Pilates regime again, been training for the 642 half marathon here in Kuwait towards the end of November and have been looking forward to a five day holiday, in ten days' time, in my favourite Middle Eastern country, Oman. It is such rewards for remaining at the "chalk face" that I look forward to with such relish.
They brought us back to Kuwait ridiculously early, 28th August, given that the children were not going to attend until the 11th September, meaning we were there two whole weeks with, let's be honest, little to do. Adding insult to injury, four days after arriving back, we were on holiday for Eid al Adha, for 4 days. Sometimes pragmatic assessment of the bleeding obvious is lacking in school management.
However, we are well paid to be here so here we were.
There was a temptation to use the holiday as an excuse to go somewhere else but having just arrived back from Blighty, I didn't.
I used to teach a Polish girl, Justyna, when I worked at Kuwait English School. She was a prodigiously good artist, among many such talented IG and AS/A students at that time, a golden era of talent.
But she left and went on her way to university and employment and I didn't hear of her for very many years. My elder daughter, some time last year, brought my attention to her Instagram account in which she regularly posted on her life, largely in South-East Asia, largely in pursuit of epic tropical fruit, with her partner. I became curious, followed her and gradually became inclined to eat more fruit, especially after she disclosed the results of a full medical check-up, which showed that she was, after 2 years of being a total fruit eater, in perfect balance. Every aspect of her blood test was perfect. There was no excess of sugar, no lack of salt, cholesterol was in balance, all was good. So I started, end of August to hit the fruitarian trail. I am still doing it seven weeks later and feel 100%. My digestion has improved noticeably but in all other respects I feel no better, no worse. Since I started, I have not ingested any meat, potato, pasta, pizza, bread, rice, no vegetables and no dairy products. I do however allow myself tuna and eggs from time to time in pursuit of protein. I suspect that being a runner, fruit alone may not provide enough. I am training for a half marathon in November and a full marathon on Christmas eve. This morning I ran 18 miles in training and I found no shortage of energy, which the lack of all those carbohydrate loaded foods might suggest. So on I go.
The running, fruit eating and the Pilates have reduced my body weight by around 6 kilograms. My BMI is on the low side of normal for my height. And, feeding my narcissism, I have the traces of a 6 pack, which gives me reason to smile, even at the age of 68. Critics merely say I'm "thin" of which there is no doubt. But that too makes me happy.
My penultimate year? Yes. I will do one more and then bow out, for two reasons. First, I reckon my finances are just about sorted to see me to the end, and secondly, I cannot work in the school beyond the age of 70. So, as of 12th June 2019 I become "retired" but am in no conventional way going to retire. I intend to travel, to bum around those countries I have wanted to visit for so long.....South America, generally...Mozambique and other African countries, the Far East. By "bum around" I mean travel light and impromptu, perhaps without a clear plan of where I am going next. My hair will grow, my beard too. I will become more interesting, more interested, more humble; I will tan, become thinner, fitter, run and relish the freedom to do so.

Have a Bath!

2017-08-22T05:54:00.001-07:00

To Bath! Not before time you may say.
My last hurrah! before boarding the big white bird next Saturday and returning to the sand pit, was to take the train to Bath Spa to run the Two Tunnels Half Marathon. I had planned to do the full but the right Achilles demurred.
I spent the Saturday wandering the city. What a stunning place it is.

Enlarge this photograph and you will notice a pattern of holes beneath most of the windows. I wonder what they were for.

The race was an interesting one. As the name suggests it ran through two tunnels which had once carried both passengers and freight, until Dr Beeching's axe closed it in 1966. Now the 5 mile track is part of the Sustrans cycle network.

Much of the rest of the course followed the Kennet and Avon canal. Now, all of this is perfectly fine. But a stupid person could assume that a half marathon run on an old railway path and a canal tow path would be pretty flat. Well, it wasn't. The park housing the start area was elevated, which gave a sharp downhill straight away, but in turn, that meant that at the end.....the very end.....we had a steep climb to the finish. Added to which, parts were run on roads, accessed by vertiginous stairways and slippery shale flights of steps. And we know, don't we, that canals, while being pretty damned flat, also climb and fall, requiring further sharp inclines over cute humpback bridges. All of which explains my less than stunning performance. I had hoped for a sub 1:40 but ended up with 1:46:03. However, I was held up for at least a minute at a pedestrian crossing, waiting for the green man. My real time would be 1:45, but hey.

I was first over 60 and am chuffed with that at the grand old age of 68.

Some ancillary nonsense.

It has irritated me for some time that train announcements on railway stations not only tell you the number of carriages a train has, (who cares?), but that they say "...is FORMED OF four coaches".

Imagine how deliriously beside myself I was, on Bath station, to hear "the next train to arrive at platform one will be the 11:26 to Salcombe and has four coaches". Who first of all deems it appropriate to obfuscate and then dreams up these contortions that so annoy 68 year olds?

Sometimes it's easy to dislike someone instantly. I was at a table window seat on the train home to Nottingham yesterday when, stopping at a station, a young man got on and sat in the facing aisle seat. In doing so his knee collided with mine three times despite my moving it so as to avoid further collision and, far from apologising, he not once looked at me. Ignorant ****.

As a father and two demanding, self obsessed noisy, incoherent brats got off, two men later got on and sat at the adjacent table. As well as having loud, banal, nay, boring conversation, they started to play a dice game which involved tossing 5 dice onto the Formica table top, repeatedly and loudly. I thought of offering my newspaper as a buffer but decided not to. It probably would have invited a tirade of abuse. The cult of one's own importance above others is alive and well.

I wonder how many, in passing this pub, know what victuals are.