Marathon Diary 03

Announcing in public that I intend to do the marathon was a way of keeping myself honest – and motivated – to train and actually get down to the act ot running. If it’s out there, hopefuly people will hold me to it and make sure I go through with it.  I profess to be self-motivated, but in fact I’m the world’s worst procrastinator, and so I need something to spur me into action a lot of the time. I hold off doing things until the last minute, until the sweat of a deadline is thick as clotted cream on my forehead. Then, and only then, will I spring into action. The result is always satisfactory, if a little tardy.

So, in the interests of honesty, I’ll have to admit that Friday and Saturday of last weekend were not good days for the training regime. Sydney’s weather crisis kicked in on Friday, with heavy wind and rain that, while fairly familiar to anyone on the west coast of Ireland, still managed to destroy towns, motorways, and claim several lives. The rain came in bulky grey barrages, reinforced by brutish winds from the south which tore down trees and scattered branches like matchsticks across the roads and footpaths.

Rather than take the motorbike to work, I took the ferry, or rather I would have, had they been running. Five-metre swells rolled in through Sydney’s heads, and the ferries were cancelled. I hate rain, because it means no riding a motorbike, which means a long and boring trip to work. I like riding a motorbike in the dry, I like the immediacy of the power when you twist your wrist, I like the feeling of exposure and vulnerability, I like the noise of the exhaust and the speed, the way the wind hits me square in the chest and the convenience of slipping through the traffic. That all gets washed away in the rain, however, when everything is conspiring to sling you under the axles of a heavy truck.  So I sacrificed time and took the bus. And leaving the bike at home meant I could have a few drinks, which I did, and that inspired me to make a cheese-based feast when I got home, which I did, after which I fell into a stuporous and unhealthy sleep.

Saturday was no better. Nature had been launching itself against my window all night. The wind and rain rammed the window, reminding me of a drunk I once saw, who had apparently swallowed a hefty dose of PCP and was feeling suitably invincible, flinging himself at shop windows on Grafton Street one night, running from side to side, from window to window, and doing his best to ram-raid the shops with his head. Hauling on outdoor-friendly clothes over my pyjamas, I went out to the seafront to watch foamy mountains of sea-water slamming into the shore at Manly Beach. The sea was all a-rage, and as the rain kicked in again, I headed home for a three-course breakfast and a large helping of the newspapers.

That was about as lively as it got.  I jogged, briefly, to get out of the rain and under a canopy, and the day of rest had made my feet seem lighter. I made soup (from scratch) and some devilish hot chocolate. I ate cereal bars and drank a bottle of south Australian red wine. I vowed to run in the morning.

Some days, though, it’s the thought that counts.