Marathons Aplenty
I signed up for the Chicago and then Berlin marathons some time ago but I blog them today for posterity. One day at work, while pondering my poor state of fitness and general lack of extra curricular activity, apart from furrowing a nightly path from the couch to the fridge and back, I received an email from the gym, inviting all interested parties to participate as part of a Merrill Lynch team in the Chicago Marathon. Having been in Chicago more than 10 years ago, I recall 2 things from my time there, cold and wind... yet I was keen to return. Chicago is afterall a beautiful and viby city in the summer and I thought seeing 26.2 miles of it from street level might provide a different perspective on the place. About a week later, stricken with compulsive single mindedness reminiscent only of marathon training days gone by, I discovered the Berlin marathon was taking place a month before Chicago and I figured it would be a good warm-up. I later found out both of these marathons form part of the World Marathon Majors, consisting of the Boston, London, Berlin, Chicago and New York marathons. I hope to
do London next year and maybe NY too, we'll have to see how high and how long these levels of enthusiasm will hold! The Berlin Marathon
takes place on September 24th and the Chicago Marathon on October 22nd.
An afternoon at the US Embassy
There have been times when I have cursed my South African heritage. Usually it occurs while observing a rugby spectator, prone to dronk verdriet, sporting a new springbok jersey stretched over a monsterous boep brandishing a castle lager and a piece of droewors, but there is another equally distateful experience, that of waiting at an embassy of one country or another for some disinterested, tired, bored and generally disgruntled civil servant to process a visa application. To date, I have experienced only one pleasurable (mmm, that may be a slight overstatement) visa acquisition experience, strangely enough, at the Hungarian embassy. The entire process took about 10 minutes and cost pretty much nothing. Contrast this with the experience of being relieved of yet another £100 for a 3 day visa to France and one starts to appreciate just how tiresome and frustrating this exercise can become.
So it was, with very little enthusiasm, that I began the process of obtaining a visa to visit the USA in October to run the Chicago Marathon. The process is simple, call a premium rate number and make an interview booking, pay an extortionate fee for the interview. Then wait 6 weeks for said interview and expect to be there for 4 - 5 hours. Once your number is called, your 2 minute interview complete and your application approved, pay still more money to have your passport couriered back to you 5 days later. During those uncomfortably long and sardined 5 hours, I had begun writing a blog entry, slating the US and their embassy for the most inefficient, insensitive and costly visa application process, but I must regrettably take it all back now. Whereas France sees fit to grant me only sufficient time for my hotel and several restaurants to extract their necessary revenue, the US has made what can only be described as a leap of faith by granting me a 10 year visa based on only a reference letter from my employer, a bank statement, a utility bill and a declaration that I never have been, and am not currently, affiliated to any terrorist organisation. Yeeee-ha, I'm a goin' to Chicago.
Bovey Castle, opulence in every stone
This past weekend, four of us made the journey into the West Country to Bovey Castle in Devon to celebrate, a little belatedly, the birthday of my housemate and friend, Frame, aged 29. I’d never been to Devon, about which I have heard many good things, and it was with no small amount of excitement that I awoke on Saturday morning, very early and strangely with no fuzz head, to commence the journey to Paddington to meet up with the other members of the weekends travel party; Laura, Melinda and of course Frame, who at that point had no idea where he was going and indeed with whom. The look of incredulousness on his face at bumping into familiar faces at the Starbucks, in an obviously non-coincidental way, was matched only by our bemusement.
After we’d all gotten our fix we were off on the 9:05 to Exeter St. Davids, the closest station to Bovey Castle, where we were met by our driver in a spacious new Land Rover and it was obvious from that point the Castle would not fail to impress. Some 30 minutes later we entered Dartmoor National Park, 368 square miles in size, home to Bovey Castle and according to our driver, the last true wilderness in England. Shortly thereafter we arrived at Bovey Castle, turned into the drive and passed a helipad and several holes of the estate golf course while winding our way up to the house. Our driver, a very informed and also informative chap, as the reader may by now have deduced, told us the estate was originally built and owned by the Viscount Hambledon, son of W.H Smith, First Sea Lord of the Admiralty and more familiarly, namesake of the stationers and book sellers we now see all over Britain. Later it was purchased by First Great Western rail and converted into a hotel and it is in this capacity which it continues to exist today. Bovey Castle is exactly the type of place one might expect it to be, yet the impact of first laying eyes upon it is at once inspiring and profound. One is awestruck by the largesse and opulence of the place. It appeals to all the senses simultaneously. One can almost taste the scones at high tea, something which in fact we did taste the very next day.
But first things first, after checking in, we wandered the grounds, savouring (viz. photographing) them fully, while waiting for our rooms to ready. It was crisp out. Fly casting lessons were being held on the lawn. The mature golf course unfolded below. The stream at the bottom of the hill glistened with effervescent clarity and ice splinters. The air smelled of the country. Everything was green.
Later we walked to the town of North Bovey, half a mile away along a riverside, where we had lunch (and several glasses of Merlot) at a delightfully quintessential country pub called the Ring of Bells. Pub food can often be boring and bland or else on the other hand, gastro excellence. This pub fell somewhere between the two and made for an excellent afternoons pastime. Merrily we walked back down the lane, through the woods, over the river and up the hill to our rooms which were, as expected, perfect. The hotel is themed strongly in 1920’s style, from the décor, to the font used on the room numbers. A “Hits of the 20’s” CD was playing in the room and at no time was there any compulsion to reach for the iPod and the music of more recent decades.
Dinner that night took place in the hotel dining room. There were high expectations all round but Bovey Castle once again delivered with each course extracting uncontrollable aah’s and biblical references from each diner in our dinner party. I think I may have shed a small tear over the apple crumble such was its perfection.
Sunday morning dawned and it was sunny, a perfect day for exploring. One of the hotel staff had offered us a tour of the Castle the day before and he met us at breakfast to say he’d made arrangements. After watching a charming falconry display we set off in a 6-seater golf car with one of the grounds keepers, an enthusiastic individual, former golf and tennis coach and clearly avid outdoorsman. He proudly showed us the Bovey Castle he knew and loved. The sentiment rubbed off, a lot.
Careful not to lose or waste any time, Frame hatched a plan to take a country walk and our driver was nice enough to take us out to the moor, commenting quite nonchalantly as he went on landmarks of the area, a 500 year old granite cross here, a 3000 year old bridge there. One can begin to feel quite humble amongst things built during the Iron Age. The moor was desolately beautiful.
At last the day was drawing near its close and we departed Bovey Castle after the most excellent and obligatory tea and scones. There was less talk in the car this time.
Bovey Castle is a bastion of English countryside opulence. It stands for the way things used to be and perhaps the way they ought to be. It is an experience not to be soon forgotten and hopefully soon repeated.
Cape Town, there’s no place like home
After almost a full year away from home, the time came at very long last to make the journey back to Cape Town for the annual familial tradition of Christmas time merry making. I look forward to it with a certain sense of nostalgia each year as the experience of seeing old friends and family, celebrating the years most holy day and edging ever closer to the ushering in of a new year culminates. Yet, there is also a sense of impending excitement as all my hopes for the time spent there tend inexorably toward their fulfilment.
So it was that I set off on December 22nd, half dead and dying from a severe bout of influenza, en route home for the season. After an awful flight where I could actually feel exactly the location of my entire sinus tract in my skull upon landing, I arrived and went directly to my GP, who prescribed rest and anti-biotics. Three days and around 54 hours of sleep later, I emerged to commence the vacation in earnest. Christmas day was spent at my dear sister’s house and Paul’s Christmas turkey was, as expected, perfectly prepared for the second year running. Large helpings of Christmas pudding and tryptophan (found in dark Turkey meat) saw the day end early enough to prevent any idle stargazing.
The rest of the vacation was, as expected, the realisation of all expectations. My father and I played a round of golf on Boxing Day at our home course Westlake and despite the near gale-force conditions, managed 2nd in the competition. Lunch the next day in Kalk Bay preceded a very choice session at the Mount Nelson champagne bar which then lead into an excellent night at the Camps Bay hotspot, Ignite (formerly Eclipse). A day was spent at Paul’s wine farm, Oudekloof, swimming, tanning and generally taking it real easy. In the remaining days, brunch at Balduccis, lunch in Blouberg, dinner at the Millers Thumb, a beach party and a very fine home made potjie by recently engaged-to-be-married and all round great mate Joey, collectively served to make the last three days truly memorable.
Cape Town never fails to impress and every year I see it being dragged, more or less willingly, into the international limelight, a fact evidenced by the price of, well, everything. Yet it still maintains its small town charm and intimate sub-culture. For my own part, as long as there are still some good friends, mountains, beaches and a sense of belonging, there will always be no place like home. Now if only I could get there by clicking my heels three times :~)
If you haven't already been to Cape Town... GO!
Paris Marathon 2006
A couple of weeks ago, I signed up for the next Paris Marathon, taking place on April 9th, 2006. As far as world marathons go, Paris is definitely in the top 10 and I am already looking excitedly forward to it. I am not however, looking excitedly forward to getting back into training while the mercury skirts the zero degree mark outside!
The route is particularly scenic, passing by many of Paris’ most famous attractions and reaching its end at Avenue Foch. Last year there were around 35,000 runners from 88 countries. I imagine this year will be something along the same lines. Fortunately, the organisers had the foresight to operate a ‘bib system’ whereby faster runners get to start ahead of the rest of the pack by choosing a start group. The target time this time round is sub 3 hour, something of a benchmark among marathon runners.
It might just be time to get those thermals out and rejoin the Wednesday night marathon group at running club.
Amsterdam weekend
This past weekend, Laura and I met up in Amsterdam for a weekend of, well, basic R&R really. I was originally supposed to run the Amsterdam Marathon, but for several reasons, decided to give this one a miss and come out fighting next round. No matter, it was always going to be a fun weekend and simply put, I love Holland. For some reason, it always feels like going home. There’s something familiar about the place and the people (those scantily clad, behind crimson glowing glass doors notwithstanding). It’s almost as if some genetic memory, tucked deep away in the cortex, makes its way, tulip like, towards the surface and suddenly one is at peace, at home. Amsterdam is all charm. The canals, the squares, the quaint shops and restaurants, people on bicycles everywhere, it’s the sort of place that really feels like a vacation weeks later upon reflection. The Dutch are also really laid back and incredibly friendly. In most countries (viz USA) this would amount to annoying faux-friendliness, but in Holland there’s a kind of genuine generosity about the people which makes all the smiles and polite gestures fitting.
In any case, that really is enough ego stroking for the Dutch. This weekend was all about relaxation and relax we did. Apart from sleeping until 11am and meandering along the canals, we also watched a movie, in Russian, with Dutch subtitles (yeah, hmmm), checked out the Heineken Experience and cashed all those free beer tokens, watched some of the Amsterdam Marathon, took in a performance of Boom Chicago’s "Bite the bullet" (a must if you’re ever in Amsterdam) and generally made a point of avoiding expeditious activities. The key to surviving London is frequent escapes. For sheer practicality, Amsterdam rates right up there at only an hour flight time, an hour time zone change and on the whole great bang. Highly recommended and next visit eagerly anticipated!
Bella Italia
This past bank holiday week, Laura, I and 7 others took our collective selves over to the Italian Riviera for a week of proper hedonistic living-it-up. Never having been to Italy, I was very excited to finally be visiting the land of leaning towers and it was with no small amount of excitement that we departed the UK via Heathrow on Friday evening. After a brief stopover in Frankfurt and nearly missing our connecting flight due to, well, sheer laziness really, we arrived in Nice, France where we would be spending the night before driving over the border into Italy towards our final destination of Rapallo.
In my experience, a vacation is usually filled with various logistical challenges and we had out fair share the moment we got off the plane. We booked a hotel near the airport in Nice for the night we arrived, but upon looking at the booking confirmation, we discovered that nowhere upon it was the name of the hotel printed. No matter, the address was there and so we set off, bags in hand, across the airport car park, grass and adjacent highway to our hotel. The details are a little fuzzy from this point on, blind rage does that, but as an exercise of my consumer rights, I’ll just say this; never book anything through AirportHotelGuide.com (not linked because they don't deserve higher page rank).
The next day we headed back to the airport to pickup our rental car and once again encountered adversity. The line for collections was roughly equivalent to the number of Liverpool FC fans in Nice at the time and it was some hours before we were on the road in our little Fiat Panda, sounding like a truck with its 1.3 litre multijet diesel engine. After a brief stop in Monaco and a few other spots along the Cote d’ Azur, we eventually hit the highway and experienced psycho Italian drivers first hand. Speed limits mean nothing to the Italians who seemingly believe that just because all roads once lead to Rome, they now own them all and therefore have a birth right, ratified by the pope in Rome and sanctified by God in heaven, to ride their chariots, mostly 1.3 litre Fiat Panda multijet diesels, like demons escaping from hell down the motorway. So after a few close shaves, some obscene hand signals and aggressive use of the horn, we arrived in Rapallo, our final destination and a charming little coastal town about 8km away from the famous town of Portofino.
From that point on, the universe must have decided we had paid our dues and just about everything went right. The villa was awesome, the weather was great, and Italy was everything I ever hoped it would be. For the first time in a long time, this vacation actually felt like a vacation instead of a temporary reprieve from the grind of every day London life. With everything left behind, midnight swims, G&T’s at 11AM, sun tanning, ocean swimming and generous amounts of fine Italian cuisine were the order of just about every day. In short, Italy was awesome and a destination I shall definitely return to one day, hopefully not too long from now.
Amsterdam Marathon 2005
Following up on the success of last weekends Edinburgh marathon, I decided to keep the momentum going and signup for another marathon, after all, one needs something to keep one out of mischief on Friday nights and there really is no greater deterrent than the prospect of running 15 miles the next day to keep you going easy on the Chivas. When I was looking around for another marathon to do, I wanted one which was taking place in September or October and as I soon discovered, there really aren’t many interesting ones going on at that time of year. Sure, one can signup for the Beachy Head Marathon, or the Baxters Lock Ness Marathon, but heck I’ve never even heard of Beachy Head and well, we were in Scotland last weekend and I’ve already been to Loch Ness. Besides that, there really isn’t any monster anyways! Among those that did look like viable contenders, were the Chicago and Amsterdam marathons. I spent about two months in Chicago some years ago and have a special affinity for the city, but the distance, cost, time difference and prospect of having no support were major deterrents despite the attractive mental imagery of running along the shores of Lake Michigan and re-savouring the humours and vapours of the windy city that is Chicago. Chicago is also a massive race, this year, according to the website, entries close on August 15th or when 40,000 runners have registered. That’s quite a formidable event. Eventually, after careful deliberation, Amsterdam emerged as the clear choice. Last year 16,000 runners participated in three events. This year’s marathon, the 30th one held, takes place on October 16th will no doubt prove to be a memorable event and an excellent opportunity to improve on that PB (Personal Best for those non-runners) of 3:22:10 set at Edinburgh. Let the training begin.
Edinburgh Marathon 2005
This past Sunday (12th) saw the running of the 2005 Edinburgh Marathon, an event which my good mate Russell and I have been training for ever since we signed up in December last year. It's been a long road; both of us have been injured, ill, through physiotherapy and bottles of vitamin C and back on the road come the Wednesday night Serpentine running club training run. Running a marathon is a must-do goal to set in one's life. Triathlon's, summiting Everest and Iron Man competitions aside, it's one of the most physically challenging activities one can undertake in one's lifetime and for me personally the realisation of a dream and proud sense of achievement. All these months, the fact that we would be running fully 26.2 miles on June 12th has never been quite so real than when we were lined up on the start line amongst 11,000 other runners in biting cold and persistent drizzle. Thinking back to my days as a track athlete, lining up on the starting line before a 1500 meter race, barely able to hold back the natural compulsion to heave up all those butterflies, the experience of watching the yellow numbers of the start clock counting down wasn't entirely dissimilar. The race started with a resounding, Signal Hill noon gun kind of bang and we were running, only 26.2 miles to go Russell quipped. I pretty much went at my own pace from the get-go and eventually settled into a good 7 minute per mile pace with a welcome partner I recognised from running club, looking for the same target time of anything under 3 hours and 30 minutes I was. My lurvely girlfriend Laura hauled my good folks around the course at a rate of knots to make it to 5 points on the course to shout cheers and hand-off Squeezy energy packs, very impressive. Without boring the reader with a mile-by-mile blow account of the race, it was good going for the first 16 miles, then miles 16 - 18 started to get rough, 18 miles is the most I had ever done in training due to injury quite close to the race and I started to feel the effects of the increased distance and persistent pounding on the legs. Strangely this coincided with a pregnancy like (I would imagine) craving for jelly babies, odd. By mile 19 I was hurting and still had more than 7 miles to go, a marathon in its self at that stage. I kept in my head 2 things, one, that if I just kept putting one foot in front of the other it would eventually all end and two, I had already done enough to secure a time well inside my original target and need only keep going. Until the end of the race that’s exactly what I did, one foot in front of the other, always fighting back the urgent desire to walk, to stop, to lie down even, but never succumbing to the temptation. As my father would say, a lot of character was built in those last miles. I finished the race some 3 hours, 22 minutes and 10 seconds after the gun. Russell finished around an hour less than his original estimate, in an excellent time of 3 hours, 31 minutes and 59 seconds.
Next time, 3 hours.
UPDATE: Results are out, go see for yourself
Bank holiday weekends rule – The Lake District
This past week bank holiday weekend, Laura and I went to the Lake District via my folks place in Manchester. The plan was to relax, take in some mountain air and mountain lakes, walk a lot, sleep late and eat real good. That’s pretty much exactly what we got. We stayed at a proper authentic guest house, dating back to the 1600's called Hornby Hall. Everybody always talks about the Lake District like it's some kind of magical land in the North, a land of elves, fairies and other mythical beings, essentially what every kid imagines when they read Lord of the Rings and tries to imagine middle earth. In actual fact the inspiration for middle earth comes not from the dramatic landscape of New Zealand, but from Tolkien's home town of Hogs Head in South Africa's Eastern Cape. In any case, I digress; the Lake District is in short, sheer beauty and perfection. It's as if a covert sub-division of the English National Heritage goes around every morning diligently applying dew to blades of grass and moss to rocks while holding tenor bleating classes for the local lamb and sheep population. The landscape is so perfect one need only snap a camera arbitrarily in a few different directions and enough material would have been gathered for an award winning exhibition and photographic book deal with Random House. It really is picturesque to the point of looking suspiciously fake and one feels a definite compulsion to bring chaos to the order by dotting a few oddly formed tulips around granny gardens and asking for a fine grappa at the local inn. For a short break, the Lake District is highly accessible and good value. Highly recommended!