Wimbledon Common Dash for the Splash 10km race review

We’ve all seen that bit in a BBC wildlife documentary where the herds of wildebeest frantically scrabble their way down a steep river side, before wading across and emerging on the other side, unless the crocodiles get them.

Well, on Sunday at about 930, on a cold, hard but bright morning, I and 199 hardy soles went through our own river crossing on Wimbledon common. Down a slippery mud bank, through 2 feet of freezing water, and up the other side. Feet sodden, socks soaked through, and still 9.5km of hard, muddy, slippery running ahead. Brilliant.

The Dash for the Splash 10km was my first race for over two years, which is appalling, but it was certainly one to remember. The course not only involved the above water crossing, but numerous sections filled with grey, gloopy mud that weighed you down and long rising hills that dried your feet out. Then there was a middle section where we ran through saturated common ground, filled with water from the recent storms, forcing you knee-deep in freezing water to find the path again.  

As such it wasn’t a course for a personal best but a time of 45 minutes and 31 seconds was one I was very happy with. It would have been quicker but for the fact the final kilometre was on unbelievably slippery grass across a playing field.

I was overtaken by about five runners in spikes, while my old trainers (thankfully chosen over my shiny, clean news ones) just failed to gain any traction at all, forcing me to run like Bambi and focus more on staying upright than putting in a hard kick for the finish.

Still, even losing those places I came 37^th, which wasn’t too bad. Now, the next time I do a 10km (possibly next weekend) the lack of mud, water and river crossings should make it seem a doddle.

The ups and downs of escalators

I read an article the other day about the etiquette of standing or walking on escalators - let's not call it 'riding', it's not a roller coaster or a whale is it?. Apparently, in some cities, hardly anyone walks on the escalator while go-getter Michael Bloomberg said he walks up and down escalators at every opportunity.

Well, being financial titans isn't the only thing I and MBB (as his friends call him) have in common, as I too am a committed escalator walker. I love the double rising sensation of your legs being given a boost by the endlessly revolving loop of an escalator's giant silver steps. Twice as fast and half the effort. Of course sometimes I don't (see: hangovers, very early mornings) but this is rare as even in poor states I find a bolt up an escalator does you a world of good. 

It's also great free exercise and whenever escalators are out action on the underground, forcing commuters to trudge down and around spiraling staircases, it must make London a much fitter city. There should be a No Escalator Day. 

Two fun things: 1. In tube stations with two parallel escalators, take a different one each (if with someone else of course, or do it secretly with a random) and stand on steps opposite one another. Then watch to see if one goes faster than the other.  At Angel tube it used to be that one escalator was considerably faster so I'd give people six or seven steps head start and still win

2. When going up, stand (yes yes I know) and look straight up. If you do it right it gives the sensation you're at 90 degrees and the people above should be tumbling through the air towards you. It's worth practicing as it's a brilliant sensation. Waterloo is good for it. 

Of course the most importance thing in all this though is, while there is nothing wrong with standing, if you're going to, please stand on the right. 

The Olympic Flame

Well there you go, I saw it - took me an age to find through the thronging crowds but nice to have final seen the thing, even if it was only for 10 seconds.

A trip to the Euros in Warsaw

Last week I was lucky enough to get sent to Warsaw in Poland to meet up with UEFA and talk technology before heading to the stadium to see Poland v Czech Republic in the quarter-final of the European Championships.

While there I sat on the seats reserved for the coaching staff and the substitutes, so of course I took the opportunity to sit there and gesticulate wildly at the imaginary players on the pitch in front of me. It was fun.

During the match the crowd was dominated by Polish fans who had either pre-bought tickets for the quarter-final assuming their team would make it through, or just wanted to see some more football as it's taking place in their city. This meant chants of "Polski!" were far louder than anything the Czech or Portuguese fans (of which there were about 12) could muster during the game.

Ronaldo won it for his country, after numerous misses, and seeing him in action for the first time - the preening Portuguese winker - it was easy to see why he's so much better than most other players. Firstly, he just looks bigger, and is clearly so much faster than everyone around him. As Hansen loves to say, "it's all about pace and power, if you haven't got that in the modern game, you're toast".

Also, why does Mark Lawrenson hate football so much? To hear him commentate on the BBC you'd think he'd been ordered to serve a lifetime's sentence carrying out a task that brings him as much ennui as possible, with the judge concluding spending all his time being paid to watch football the worst punishment he could imagine.

Sleepovers

When you're young the idea of a sleepover is incredibly exciting. The chance to stay at a friend's house, or have them to yours, is the stuff of "Please mum, pleaseeeee" for years. Yet, even as a child, once the hallowed night has taken place, there's something mildly disappointing about the whole thing. It's just sleeping somewhere else, really, but not as well and coupled with waking in a strange, alien world, of if it's at yours, with a bunch of friends you wish would leave sharpish as they're driving you crazy.

Growing up, such events are obviously far rarer, but the night buses and the early closing of the tube mean that crashing on on good friend's sofa post night out, or after a wine and US Open tennis 2am evening, is preferable to a two hour journey with drunks and weirdos across the city from north to south.

Even so, waking at 7am having had a terrible night's sleep, miles from home, facing a day of relentless yawning, you can't help but wonder if you would have been better off risking the nightmare buses after all. 

It's disappointing how quickly sleep becomes an important part of your life, your thoughts, and defines your ability to function. Not in an active way, an "I must go home to sleep soon" controlling way, but a passive, next day "why did I go to bed so late" moan, that becomes ever more frequent each year, the days of going out til 3am and suffering no ill effects the next day long, long gone. And don't even get me started on two to almost three day hangovers.

Or maybe I am just a wimp. Thoughts?

Mo Farah winning the 5,000m

Earlier this year I was sat in a restaurant in Hong Kong. I was exhausted, hungover, jet-lagged and hungry. Despite this I felt compelled to try and convince two of my dining companions that running races are genuinely fun when the topic reared its head.

I can see why those who have never strapped on some trainers and tested themselves against the road, the elements, distances and indeed others, would possible view running as a staid, dull sport, but those who have done it, particularly those who race, understand it is so much more than that.

Watching Mo Farah sprint to victory having already run 4,800m in South Korea earlier today I was reminded of this, having myself just laboured to a measly 2km around the streets of South West London. The hit of adrenaline you get as you storm towards the finishing line, over any distance, is like nothing else. I play football and tennis but the buzz from running, particularly as you near the finish line, is better than these sports for a sense of exhilaration you rarely experience in day-to-day life. That runners high you so often hear about.

I once finished 17th in a 10km in Cornwall. It was a hard, wet, muddy, cross-country route, but come the final 200m I found myself neck and neck with some club runner from Newquay. I thought I had the measure of him coming into the final stretch and so started to kick for home, pulling a few metres ahead, then I sensed him coming back at me, no doubt determined to prove his credentials. He was on my shoulder.

We matched each other stride for stride. I told myself I would not let him past me, I would beat him. I dug in again, pushing harder again, and once again pulled away by a few meters. We were barely 50m from the line. The crowd of friends and families that had come to cheer on loved ones noted our battle and cheered louder as we hurtled into the finishing gate. He was closing again but I dug deep and held him off to claim 17th, rather than 18th.

Utterly meaningless of course, but at the time, in the moment as it happened and the glow afterwards, it was exhilarating, and of course exhausting. He shook my hands afterwards and we congratulated one another on a great race.

That moment, more than the London Marathon or other races I've run, always reminds me of why running really needs to be experienced before it can be judged, why my two associates in Hong Kong where so wrong to laugh at the suggestion running can be fun and it's why watching someone like Mo Farah sprint to the line to claim gold for Great Britain is so exciting.

 

Me post marathon with Will.

Skiing and trying to get an expensive holiday on the cheap

The weather has been glorious since I got back from Las Vegas (see below) so what better time to get ready to go skiing in the Alps thanks to my mother's ability to find excellent last minute cheap holidays?

I've been skiing several times in my life and each time at a similar time of year because, basically, you get a much better deal for your money if you wait until the spring time than in the winter – plus it's usually a good deal warmer too.

Skiing is a bizarre holiday if you think about it – you get up early, put on mostly uncomfortable, unfashionable clothing, carry a bunch of cumbersome equipment to the bottom of a hill, get taken up the hill on chairs on wires that drag you to the top of a mountain over and over again so you can slither back down on six foot pieces of plastic at the risk of injury and embarrassment and you do this for between five and seven days in a row.
Combine this with travel and often alcohol, and you've had a holiday that really requires you to take another break once you're back to help you recover from the exhaustion you've no doubt succumbed to.

Still, at least that gives you an excuse to look for another cheap holiday, and what with two bank holiday weekend coming up, there's no shortage of time in which to do so.

I'll be heading back to Cornwall for the first time since the frozen, snow laden days of Christmas (doesn't that seem a long time ago?) where hopefully now all will be green, light and warm.

And then it's the Royal Wedding, which seems to have come about awfully quickly. I remember everyone moaning we'd be inundated with Royal Wedding stuff until the big day and, while we have, it doesn't seem to have been overkill really, does it?

Still, you can guarantee Wills 'n' Kate won't have to worry about trying to get a cheap flight when they go on their honeymoon, it'll be first class champers and caviar all the way. How the other half live eh?

Arsenal, Barcelona, the global game and Spanish breakdown cover

My last post on my first premiership football game reminded me of a conversation I had with a taxi drive in Barcelona in mid-February that started around the time I was pondering what the Spanish for breakdown cover was.

This was because, you see, we were whooshing past an English number-plated car that was pulled up on the hard shoulder with its hazards flashing.

However, my taxi driver was far more interesting and helped me to really live through that old cliché: "football is a global language".

He was a very friendly chap, keen to talk about London because his beloved Barcelona FC were playing Arsenal that night (this was the first leg of the tie, remember) and he wanted to know if I supported them. I don't.

But, despite his enthusiasm to talk footyballs, he's English was not great, while my Spanish is non-existent. Yet, through names such as Messi, Rivaldo and Ronaldhino we were able to spend a fun twenty minutes discussing the best players the Catalan team had produced and I asked him what he thought of these great players he's seen.

He said was Messi is "electric", Rivaldo was a "great thinker" and Ronaldhino was a "magician". Magician had to be mimed through a charade-like performance of him mimicking pulling a rabbit from a hat.

I got it eventually and we both laughed at this in that lovely, 'overcoming-a-language-barrier-to-reach-common-understanding' way that foreign people do.

For my part I outlined my admiration for Messi by saying, in a lilting, faux-Spanish accent, "Ah, Messi, si, footbul, gol, gol, gol, gol, gol,", as in, he does score a lot of goals, doesn't he?

It was a great way to see that, despite all football's negatives (and there's been plenty recently), it really does provide a common platform that can bring people together from any background and give them something to talk about with enthusiasm and interest.

Oh, and cubierta de la interrupción is Spanish for breakdown cover.

P.S. for non-football fans I promise that's an end to this flurry of blogs on this topic.

Premiership football

I went to my first premier league football match last Saturday to see Fulham v Blackburn. It was a great game that ended 3-2 with a last minute penalty.

I've been to a few football matches around London, such as Arsenal Carling Cup games and saw Wales play various nations like Slovakia and so on in Cardiff, but to see a premier league game did feel different.

There was more of a frisson of excitement, more an air of being at an event that was of wide interest to those beyond the game because it's the premier league.

The fact I was there with a friend his three Canadian uncles who had traveled over for a few days traveling around to see as many live games as possible only underlines this.

The crowd was rather sedate, though. I mean, they cheered and chanted and all the rest, but the people in front of us where two couples, one with a baby, who chatted casually during the match.

In fact it seemed the two people to our left, a father and son pair I am sure, were the only "diehard" fans in our immediate vicinity who seemed to be make pronouncements to no-one about the games various goings on.

It's a nice ground, properly old and retaining the sense of history by being perched on the banks of the Thames and opposite a bunch of normal houses. Must be a bit of a pain for those living there every time Fulham play, but you probably know that's going to be an issue when you move in.

While I enjoyed the game and was very glad to have been and would go again at some point in the future, I still can't quite understand the passion of some people who would go week in, week out home and away to watch a game.

Keep on Running (and therefore enjoying pizzas more)

Did you have a good Christmas and New Year? I did - it was too good in fact. I had far too much food, booze and even the occasional take-away, thanks to a tempting pizza menu offer that came through the letter box one cold night.

As such all my good fitness based work that had taken place in the autumn was completely undone. So, during a night of quite contemplation, I decided the only thing for it was to enter a 10k race to force myself to get training.

So March 20 in Clapham Common is the location and going sub 40 minutes is the goal.

Long-time readers of this blog will remember I did a 42.20 in Richmond about 18 months ago which is the fastest I've ever run (over that distance) when it was quite undulating and very wet. I also did a 44.12 on a three-lap course in Hampstead that took us up a climb of almost one enter kilometer each time around. As such I am confident I have the capabilities to hit this time, even if it is going to be painful training for it. Still, no pain and all that…

I'm not just a speed merchant though, and do enjoy running purely for the pleasure. Even on cold nights there's actually sometimes nothing better than getting outside and pounding the pavement for a few kms, listening to some choons (Arcade Fire's The Sprawl II, the top song of the moment (still)), or chatting with my running mate around the highways and byways of South West London.

So far training is up to 4.5km in 22minutes, which is not too far off, need to add 500m and lose two minutes, and hopefully with increasing light and receding cold this will become easier as well.

The other benefit of all of this running is now I can enjoy a pizza after work without any guilt...

The Jim Beglin Phantom Voice Syndrome

Last night, during Holland's 3-2 win over Uruguay in the World Cup (a Football Manager style result if ever there was one) commentator Clive Tyldesley was forced to go without his commentating mate Jim Beglin, who was ill.

Strangely, ITV had no replacements for him, so Clive was alone, a single voice talking to the millions back at home (or possibly no-one at all). Even stranger, though, than this decision, was the fact that despite Beglin not being there to chip in with agreements or further "insights" I could still hear want he would have said.

Example, say a close offside, Tyldesley would say something like, "That's a tight call by the linesman", and there'd be silence. But I'd hear Beglin, in those dusky, back of the throat tones adding, "Oh, you know I think the linesman's got that one wrong Clive". I imagine many other viewers suffered from the Jim Beglin phantomn voice syndrome throughout the game too. Perhaps ITV were banking on this?

It worries me that I have, by only the age of 25, heard so many of Beglin's phrases when he is sat next to Clive for all those Champions League games, that my brain can conjure up his voice and his phrasings itself.

Anyone else get this sensation during the game?

Catch up

Hello, been too long since something was entered here.

Tennis. 70-68! Where to begin; tennis is sometimes unfairly maligned by people, believing it not to be a hard sport, not tiring, not exhausting, but any sportsman that can play a game, hurling their body around for almost ten hours is clearly some sort of athlete. What's more you have to do it while battling moments of calm, reflection in between points, and then pull of incredible shots, often under immense pressure of 'one mistake and I'm out'.

I've been reading Wolf Hall (still -it's very long...) but it is also very good, in places, which is hard to fully explain, but it's just that in some places the story really picks up and rattles along, and with a little historical knowledge, some of the asides, or hints at the future are very well handled ("You know she's a witch," says one character of Anne Boleyn before she marries Henry, and we all know how that turned out...).

While I am enjoying it I am looking forward to finishing it too, before I go away on holiday next week, as it's a massive book, even in paperback, and quite a tough read, requiring full concentrate; not that I can't concentrate mind you.

I finally got a smartphone too, after months of writing about the things, and it is very nice having a such a sleek piece of tech, that enables me to bring up maps, email and the internet as and when required. That's all really.

The World Cup is coming to life too, although I've not been disappointed with it at all. It always starts a little slow as teams try not to lose, but come the end of the group stages, you often see enthralling end to end games as teams suddenly have to win, as evidenced today with Italy's somewhat surprising loss to Slovakia.

Er...the weather's nice isn't it?

World Cup memories

Four years ago today I awoke bleary eyed, tired, and robbed. It was the day after my last exam at university. My bank account had been skimmed to the tune of almost £400 from Bulgaria (Have you been to Bulgaria? The woman in the bank asked me...) and I had, in spite of this, gone out to celebrate the end of student life – it was a fraudulent celebration as I was actually on for a post-grad course, but hey ho.

Later that afternoon, I, and about 19 others, went to the pub to watch Germany play out a highly enjoyable 4-2 win against Costa Rica. It was the start of the World Cup 2006. The sun shone, the atmosphere was carnival, with students everyone winding up their final exams, and the massive over expectation that the "Golden Generation" (snigger) would finally deliver.

They didn't of course, and later that month, back in Cornwall, we slumped out of the local bar after England's dismal showing against Portugal.

In 2002 I slumped into Geography half an hour late after England's dismal 2-1 defeat to Brazil in the quarter-finals. The only player who had a shot in the second half was Danny Mills, which shows what a weak team we had. This was the world cup of early morning kick offs, of the tournament being over each day at about 1pm UK time, leaving you free to make the most of the afternoons – if you were a schoolboy who'd completed his exams of course. For workers it must have been terrible.

In 1998 I was at my auntie's 40th when Croatia stuck three past Germany, to much celebration from those assembled, and the next day I can still vividly remember commenting, struck with wonder at the thought of such an age: "At the next World Cup I'll be 17…". I had been at home for the England v Argentina match, and watched as the team swash-buckled their way out of the tournament after an engrossing match.

In 1994, I only really remember watching Brazil v Italy, in the drab, Americanised final in the Pasadena Rose Bowl. It was a limp match, ending on penalty shoot out. Poor.

Interesting though, measuring out your life by major events, notably the World Cup, I can only imagine where I'll be when 2014 in Brazil roles around.

Anyone care to join in?

Walk on

About two months ago I interviewed Nat Severs as he passed through Cornwall as part of his epic walk around the entire coast of mainland Britain. So all of Wales, all of Scotland (look at the west coast, yeesh! So many inlets).

Nat's blog and photo diary has made for fun reading and it was great to be able to write about his epic walk. As you can see from the images attached, click to enlarge and read (just about), he's certainly looking the part of the lone walker, striding out each day to rack up 20 miles plus.
Have a read of the article if you wish to learn more, or visit his blog and slip his charities a little virtual something for his troubles.

You don't get this on Final Score

Why Sky Sports News' coverage of the goals flying in around the country is the best in the country.



Chris' face is like that of a school boy who didn't mean to do something wrong but inadvertently did while the others laugh a genuine laugh not at him, but with him at the way he has so honestly admitted to missing a key piece of the action.

I've often said football's best moments are the comedy moments. Wonder goals and epic matches are obviously great too but the comedy from a missed open goal, a disastrous own goal, riotous crowd banter and chants and the overall joy of seeing a game that is so often at great pains to justify its own seriousness - the tactics, positioning, players ability to control the ball etc - undermine itself so frequently are often the best moments in the entire game.

Here is the news

I played my first sets of tennis of the year on Saturday. Very enjoyable it was too. Most courts seem quieter in the months before Wimbledon than after, can't imagine why. First games of the 'season' are always characterized by awful double-faults and wild, flailing backhands, but come September I, and those I play with, are generally down with some pretty nifty shots.

I started reading Midnight's Children on Friday. So far so good, but I gather it's one of the most unfinished novels ever written. I am determined to give it a fair whack so will update as I go.

I've been watching Arrested Development again recently, man it's good. Similarly, Lost is almost half-way through its final season and getting very interesting. I'll be glad when it's all over just so it's done and dusted but it's been a weird and wonderful journey to be sure.

Incidentally, I caught about 10 minutes of the latest 24 on Sky One last night. Can't believe that is still going. I was watching that when I was at secondary school. Now I am 24. Yikes!

The dream, it dies.

Okay Marion, concentrate, four years training, you can do this. Focus, remember what coach told you, hit the start hard, get some early speed up, build towards the middle, then fly to the end. Right, here we go, oh.

Y is for...

Yachting.

Coming from Cornwall I've done a bit of sailing in my time - possible not enough in some respects, but I've been in to the Carrick Roads several times, to the Scilly Isles and back, and so on, and it's much fun, as long as you can get a nice bit of speed up.

Sailing around the world seems to be a challenge of human existence that remains a significant feat of endurance and ability. Of course, GPS and Sat Phones make it possible for people to be far safer by allowing them to keep up to date with the weather, and stay in direct contact with the outside world, but like climbing Everest, while lots of people have now done it, it still requires a level of dedication that goes beyond the everyday. I found out about the clipper yacht race in which people of all abilities, starting from no sailing experience at all, take boats around the world over nine months as part of a race. I thought, that sounds like fun. Cost to enter? £40,000. Shame.

This video of one of the Volvo Ocean Yacht race boats skimming over the waves, surfing at one point (20-23 seconds), is a great example of the speed and excitement sailing can provide (and has the Pirates of the Caribbean theme music too):

V is for...

Vinter

No, not a put-on German accent pronunciation of winter but the name of one of the four school teams at my secondary school. The others were Wickett, Smith and, confusingly, School. Each team had a very definite and distinct personality.

School (green) were the top level athletes, the captain of the first XI, the rugger boys, the century scoring cricketers. They were the team to beat and most years came away with the overall sports day crown.

Smith (blue) were the renegades, the wild, unpredictable mavericks. One year they'd lose 6-0 to School in the football, the next year, with everyone expecting another cake walk, they'd produce an inspired display of attacking flair and verve and win 2-1, throwing the competition wide open; but they almost always finished fourth.

Vinter (yellow) were, for the most part, those who considered themselves good at sport, but in reality were not that good. They were full of bluster, over the top pronouncements of how good they were, why this year they would win the football / rugby / cricket / sports day. When it came down to it though they crumbled, turned on one another, and always finished third.

Wickett (red) were School-lite. Each team member was a suitable talented sportsman, able to pass, catch, throw and so forth with competence, but never quite to the level of School. However, if they functioned as a team they were hard to beat, and once or twice came away with a win in the annual round-robin sporting events.

I won't tell you which team I was in, but you can probably work it out.

You're not singing anymore

I went to Arsenal v West Brom last night as part of the usual once-a-year-Arsenal outing to the Carling Cup 3rd round (£10 tickets you see). It's always fun to go and be part of the throng of the crowd, cheer a few goals, boo a few villains etc and enjoy the pre and post match atmosphere.

One of my favourite things at football matches is the chants that make their way around the stadium. There were two good ones last night. At random moments the Arsenal fans would chant 'Who are ya?' at the West Brom fans who, after a moment of silence presented itself, would responded with, 'We are Al-bi-ion, say we are Albion'. It just seems so weirdly banal.

Second was the chant of 'Stand up...if you hate Tottenham, stand up...if you hate TottenHAM' (to the tune of, I believe, Go West). The best bit of this was when, as we started to hear the chant emanating from the other side of the stadium, two lads, no more than five or six-years-old, were the first to stand and in high, falsetto voices, proclaim their hatred for a bunch of people that live just a few miles north of them.