Beckham & Me

Well, we both got the bad news this past week: he's nearly 35, has sprung his Achilles and won't be part of the Brit squad at the World Cup. Me: I'm nearing 60, and this running stuff just hurts more than it used to!

But I thought I'd share a few impressions of the 1/2 Marathon last Sunday. 5700 runners finished the 2010 Adidas Silverstone Half Marathon, and I was somewhere in the pack. That's a lotta folks, and we each had an RFD chip on our shoe, so we got an exact time going over the start and finish lines. I heard the gun go off, but it took about 2&1/2 minutes for my crowd to get past the start line.
The race was at Silverstone, which is a huge Grand Prix race track out in north Oxfordshire. It's built for speed, and it must be a real magnet for disabled folks who really want to sprint, because of the smooth surface. That's right: it was 13+ miles of pavement, winding past cavernous viewing stands: sometimes in warm sunshine, sometimes with a cold north wind. I was fantasizing that I could keep to a nine minute pace (nine minutes per mile), and did so for the first half or so. The spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak, so I eked out a roughly ten minute pace. Disappointing, but still inspiring to be one of thousands of unique shapes, sizes, levels of fitness and pace.

A big "thank you" to all my supporters: I raised 75% of my goal, about £350 (about $525) in support of the Child Bereavement Charity. You would not believe the thousands of people, all wearing T-shirts identifying themselves as running for an amazing number of different charities! Dogs, disease research of all stripes, and social causes without number were among the beneficiaries -- I can't imagine the awareness and the millions raised.

I've done races where one passes through urban grandeur, over majestic mountaintops, and under full moonlight. But the view is pretty much like this most of the time. You run steadily with one faceless lot, evaluating their T-shirts, headbands, and strides. Then you speed up or fall back, and find yourself staring at an entirely different lot.



In any race you can see the finish looming, take a quick internal inventory of your remaining resources, and try to show some speed, style and dignity at the close.

Surely you whimper; sometimes you cry. Over the line your outlook immediately brightens, knowing that you are now free stretch, and to seek the warmth, repose, food, sleep, beer, or whatever else will finish your labours with satisfaction.

Winter Whinging

Christmas came, and darkness.
Our "paper" anniversary (1-January). And snow: lots of it, repeatedly -- at least for this part of the world.
In between the snowy bit came days of staggering clarity, time for afternoon walks, with the winter sun glancing off the river to blind frolicing dogs and their walkers too.


Her Majesty's swans can never be over-fed; they and the other local flocks gather wherever the joggers and pram-walkers are out sunning.

And somehow the damp cold, slipping, sliding (and maybe some late nights) made need for days in bed -- for both of us, at various times. And gave rise to wondering what happens next (now that Ellie has earned her Master's Degree (with Distinction)?

The answer is that we spent the winter preparing extensive applications for Ellie to gain a visa extension as a "post-study worker" and biting our nails. Just last week we heard from H.M. Border Agency that Ellie (and husband) have "leave to remain" for a year or two, and that she can pursue apprenticeships, work, and further training in her field. Life is good!

This winter we had two special trips to London: we phoned our local MP and gained admission to a tour of the Houses of Parliament at Westminter, much of which is jaw-droppingly grand and historic. And on another cold sunny morning we met our local Vicar for prayers at St. Margaret's Church in Westminster Abbey, and stayed for evensong in the Abbey. On the way we happened upon Parliament's copy of Rodin's bigger-than-life tableau of The Burghers of Calais alongside the River Thames.



January, February, and part way through March we have seen the sun slowly climb the garden wall. We admit it: we have become Winter Wimps, and revel in the bird tweets and recent crocus arrivals in Lane End.
We have four feeders in the front tree, and the little winged piggies eat enough to make us think of having a teenager to feed.


Enough of this wool, wind, and wet! The winter rains have gone, at least for the past week, and spring is upon us.