Scotland - less flat than Peterborough

Well, on Sunday morning, I donned my tracksuit, wired myself up to the heart monitor, and headed out. Given the lack of training over the last week, and the fact that I was going be running in Edinburgh (less flat than Peterborough) I decided that a circuit of Arthur's Seat, which should take about an hour from the flat, would be an excellent start. I went outside and turned the Garmin on, whereupon it started to tease me. It has to locate the necessary satellites, and often takes a few minutes to do this. Irritatingly, it has a bar that supposedly indicates its progress in this, but what actually happens, especially when you change locations, is that the bar indicates almost complete, and then drops back to half way. Sometimes it does this several times. I think it's going, "yep, yep, yep, Woah, it says we're in Edinburgh. That can't be right! I'd better check that again. Woah... still Edinburgh. Right, once more. NO!" Then it asks some questions, which go, "Are you indoors right now?" "Have you moved several hundred miles since you last used this?" (This part is true, by the way). Then it starts again. This is OK in Peterborough, where summer means that the temperature is, you know, over 16C, but let me tell you, ten minutes of this in Edinburgh, I had nipples like bullets.

Anyway. (I definitely overuse the word anyway). I set off eventually. I was struck by how much less friendly runners, and passers by generally, are in Edinburgh, than in either Thornbury or Chirk. Never mind. I suppose in cities you have more reason to be suspicious. I passed two American ladies out for a run, when I'd started my ascent of Arthur's Seat, and caught a snippet of their conversation "so all the hours of organising and making sure the clients were covered, has all been absolutely worthwhile, because I got to do THIS". Which made me wonder if she's always been looking forward to running around Arthur's Seat as some sort of dream goal, or whether she was enjoying the Edinburgh Festival.

I had a minor dilemma over which way round I should run Holyrood Park. I intended a complete circuit this time, so could choose - either downhill first, then a slow ascent, and then downhill again, or steep ascent, slow descent, and then a climb. I suppose in potential energy it shouldn't make too much differenece, but I decided that the second would bethe  more challenging option, and I needed challenge. I could tell you about managing to get my running nose to go down my throat without gagging, instead of down my face, and then almost choking, but you wouldn't thank me for it, so I won't. Oh, whoops.

On the way back home, I observed how quickly a light breeze reduced my warmth gained from running to shivers in an instant. Moments later I passed a lady wearing a green sari and a full length woolly winter coat, whose shoulders were hunched into the wind and we exchanged a meaningful glance that said - this chill is miserable, isn't it? Although in all honesty, her glance might equally have said - what on earth are you doing out dressed like that, in this weather? Generally I like having meaningful exchanges of glances with people, though it almost always happens in foul weather, I've noticed. (Mind you, I tend not to notice the more romantic sort...)

I somehow struggled all the way home, egged on by some heavy droplets of rain, and maintained a good spead of 10 m/m average, for my 6 miles, which I was pleased with. The shower helped warm me up, and I hastily set out to catch "Best of the Fest", which again, had a guest appearance from The Magnets (again, enabling me to a comp ticket). After the shenanigans of a ventriloquist, a card sleight of hand artist and an Australian comedian (who made me think of Sally, actually, as he recounted a problem he'd had with gulls waking him in the morning. In Australia, it was a couple of crows, and in Ireland, it was pigeons. But in Edinburgh, it was seagulls. He said they tapped on his window in the morning. And as he said, "But you know, your seagulls aren't just bird-sized, they're like 12-year-olds in costume" which I thought was remarkably true.). After the show, I set out to see a show by a girl I met at Andi Osho's show early in the month. I don't know what it was that had impressed me about her and her friend, but they both told me about their shows, and they sounded powerful stuff, so one of the things I really wanted to use my extra time for was to see their shows. Happily they hadn't sold out. Hers was called Dream Pill, and was about the sombre subject of sex trade of young girls from Nigeria.

I saw my friend in the ladies just before the show, and she remembered me, too, and seemed really pleased I'd come to her show - it was her last day. But, wow. It was brilliant. The two little girls (well, actually young women, but convincingly playing a 9 and 10 year old) were utterly charming, and we loved them straight away. It was with trepidation that we engaged with them. We knew this story wasn't going to have a good ending. And we were right. The innocence of the two girls made their horror story unbearable. It made me feel utterly helpless and genuinely horrified and sickened. I was in tears by the end of the show. I wanted to do some shopping, but my emotions were so intense, I felt it was only right to wait for the actress to come out so I could congratulate her. And her friend, who I'd met with her, was also waiting - like her, he remembered me immediately. He was delighted when I said I was coming to his show, Mad about the Boy, the next day. I was excited to learn that he had picked up a Scotsman Fringe First award earlier that week. It baffled me that Dream Pill hadn't had an award too, in all honesty.

Well, the evening held my penultimate Magnets gig for the 2011 Fringe, and had a drink with the Magnets and their fanbase, including Britta, who regularly travels over from Germany to see them (when they aren't touring there), proving that they do have fans more devoted than me (you can also replace that with "bonkers") and was actually celebrating her anniversary of the first time she saw the Magnets; then I was honoured to be a guest at the Magnets "aftershow party" (even though they hadn't quite finished, it made most logistical sense to have the party then) which was a meal in a delightful family-run Italian restaurant, Cafe Artista, in Marchmont. It was a merry occasion, with much vino consumed, and toasts made by all. I suggested a song for the owner, Bruno, which, once he understood that we weren't asking him to sing, seemed quite pleased, and certainly tapped his foot all the way through "I don't feel like dancing", which was sung by not just the boys, but all the "WAGS" as well. (I didn't spoil it, although I did hum along a little). Maybe the Magnets should consider broadening out a little...

Perhaps a little too much wine though... to really consider myself "back on track".

Another trip.

I'm still going with the best plan for dealing with a cold being to ignore the fact that you have one. Well, that and drinking a tonne of orange juice, green tea (which I have recently decided is the cure of all ills) and glug echinacea (tincture, always) at every opportunity. In accordance with the instructions. Under no circumstances, though, should you pander to a cold by taking time off from your hectic lifestyle. But that's a given already, right?

Well the weekend came round eventually, after four days of not (really) training - pilates counting more as an antidote to aching muscles than training per se. And what I had planned this weekend, the August bank holiday weekend, was a weekend off, where I would relax, do a bit of gardening and housework (long-overdue) and possibly pop over to Melton for my cousin's birthday celebration, advertised on Facebook as a party called "Destroy the Silence", where I am assuming his band, Pretentious, Moi? would be playing. Although in all honesty, I decided some time ago that I wasn't going to be able to do this, so I actually have no idea where the party was. In the event, it was as well I'd let him down gently at an early stage, because I ended up going back up to Edinburgh.

I know, I know, I've already been to Edinburgh - and what a great time I had! But you know, there are some friends that you'll do anything for, because when they ask, it's because they need your help, and you both know that when you need each other, that's when it's important. It kind of reinforces the friendship. It's good. Well, that happened. Emma rang. She said her plans had fallen through, and she didn't know what to do. She had to get her 8-week old daughter Dorrie, her son Jasper, and a month's worth of stuff, home from Edinburgh on the train. Her husband had to go straight to the next gig. She was by herself.

I'd like to sound like a hero here, and say I just told her straight off, "yep, I'll come". That is, of course, what happened, but the lack of heroism is because of how close I was to doing that anyway. The rational side of my brain said that I needed the weekend at home, sort self out, sort house and garden out, and most of all, sort cat out, train sensibly, get on track. The part of my brain that has taken over as dictator, however, already had a list of shows it wanted to see and had missed. It had psychologically already spent the money for the train ticket. This was simply the extra justification it needed. I'm happy(ish) to report that the majority of those shows had already sold out, so my Dictator-for-Life, Party-till-you-drop brain was foiled, but the missed shows weren't replaced by early to beds and healthy diets.

So, let's see, I had planned on coming up on Friday afternoon, but owing to feeling full of cold, I changed my plans to come up on the Saturday. I actually had a sober, and early to bed week, in a desperate attempt to clear the cold. I thought I'd better do a little more sorting of the house as well, so on Friday, I did some washing up, and generaly tidying, and also picked up about 400 rotten pears off the garden floor, and tried to disperse the drunks (made entirely of wasps, you understand), in preparation for Ian who was coming round to salvage some of the unrotten (less rotten?) pears, and I was keen that he wasn't killed in the process by my stripey, humming friends. More because he had kindly agreed to look after Frank at the same time, than out of genuine concern.

On Saturday, I continued the assault on the house, it was long-overdue, and several loads of washing were achieved. I set off for Edinburgh in the afternoon. I have to say, it still lifts my spirits every time I arrive. I walked over to the Magnets' venue, ensconsed myself at a crowded picnic table outside, and waited for the show to finish. The heavens opened, and a deluge of rain came down, doing little to diminish the crowds, but making me feel slightly smug at my umbrella-protected shelter. I later learned that the deluge had started at about five to seven each night with such precision that the backstage crew were genuinely unnerved by its regularity. The Magnets were just pissed off at the dip in sales on CDs that resulted from their crowds rushing off to seek shelter elsewhere. We made our way back to the flat in the downpour, and had some dinner, before heading out to see the Magnets guest on "The Horne Section" at 11pm, which is a great show, mixing some comedy banter with whacky games, set to some improvised musical accompaniment (including, but not restricted to, horns) and guest turns that I remember fondly from last year. However, we left the flat somewhat late, and had to run all the way to the venue, which was helpful, as it was a great way of kick-starting my belated training activities.

It wasn't the early bedtime Sally has been beseeching me to take. Somehow, it never is.

Stagnation

I know you probably all think I am backing up with hundreds of posts again, and are all agog to keep up with my busy schedule. Sadly, this has not been the case, although I was put in the peculiar, and uniquely disturbing, position on Monday of emailing Sal to say I thought I should get back on the case anyway, and the hell with the cold, and she reiterated the importance of my waiting until the cold had subsided. Training through a cold prolongs the cold. Let me tell you something about me and colds - we have a long and not very fascinating history together: briefly, though, I get them often, and they stay a long time. So on the one hand, I'm in favour of not prolonging them for any longer than they already stay; but on the other, it could take out a lot of training time. However, the current, disturbing scenario was that I was begging to go running, and being told, no, by the fitness freak. This was deeply unsettling. On the other hand, I didn't have to go running, which was OK. I did feel a bit **eugh** so not going was something of a relief. And Sal said I had to listen to my body, and the message it was giving was stronger than usual, because there was a definite part of my brain that resented seeing Dave dripping with sweat on the way back from his run, when I was going to get a sandwich. Mind you, he said he did the fengate run at 7.5 minute miles, which would explain the sweat. I couldn't run for 20 minutes at that pace. I doubt I could run to the end of the road, to be honest.

On Wednesday, I did go to my pilates class. Well, it's hardly aerobic, is it, and could only help stretching out some muscles. The cold had reached its usual sort of plateau level where it leaves me feeling OK enough to go to work, bar swollen glands around the throat, but exhausted by the end of the day (let me tell you, on Tuesday evening, I turned down wine in favour of tea). I think pilates probably did me good, even though I got Anna into trouble by mentioning to Anita that I'd heard rumours that she'd said that either the classes had been very quiet, or I'd been absent. Anita said, in fairness, that she hates it when we're quiet. (I offered to come to her other classes for a modest fee, but she didn't take me up on it). Oh, I had a quiet evening in, but had a good long facebook conversation with one of our reserves managers who recently left the organisation. I'd tell you his name, but as it's Dave, we're just going to get hopelessly confused. Anyway, he says he's got a new job with RSPB, so I could dub him RSPB Dave, so you don't get confused with Running Dave and Theatre Dave. (And my Dad. Anyone remember him, from my first blog? I've probably blown it trying to hide his true identity for fear of him suing me, so I'll just have to try not to say anything libelous about him or my damaging upbringing.). Anyway, I am trying to persuade RSPB Dave to come and visit us in Peterborough, which would be fun.

I had all but decided to ignore Sal and the final throes of my snotty cold, and go on a short run at lunchtime today. I brought in my running things, and remembered to charge up the garmin and everything. About 10:30, it started chucking down. My day wasn't going terribly smoothly anyway. I'd had a hiccough with Mapinfo in the morning - GIS is one of those things that is amazingly convenient but when you actually try to use it, it eats up hours and hours of your time. Even the GIS person I asked, Babs (AKA the NE tea lady), was unable to laugh derisively and sort out my problem with a couple of easy keystrokes, although she did ultimately sort out my problem. (She did entreat me to get Richard to help, but I actually couldn't do that incase he made reference to the fact I mentioned him on Facebook, which I know he doesn't like, the previous evening, so she had to persist with the problem herself). By lunch time, I'd sorted out the map, but didn't like what it was showing me. It was still raining, which felt like an apt reflection of my spirits. I was in no mood to get wet through, no matter how ambient the temperature was. The remnants of my cold hanging round me like a talisman against running, I was nontheless forced to stomp downstairs and face the misery outside, in the hopes of doing battle, with my bad mood pitted against the elements. I had the good fortune to borrow Jim's umbrella, and a little solace from him as I vented my rage on the way passed, which meant that my mood had some chance at least.

And as if Jim set me off on the right pathway, I passed Justin on my walk, and he said nice things about my blog - he sympathised with my lack of enthusiasm for running in the rain, and says he lacks motivation for running, so I suggested he join the Natural Runners, and he's promised to think about it, even though he's aware that this could make him fodder for the blog. Then I met Jill, and I didn't have the energy to tell her that nothing she says will make me think any less of myself as a director (another long story) so I just buried the hatchet like an adult or something; and then Luke and Keely, who always cheer me up. So it ended up being considerably more sociable than I'd felt like being, and although I did sort of share my bad mood around a bit, on the whole I came back feeling suitably refreshed. 

I started thinking about how uncanny it was that the rest of my life mired at the same point my training did... and then I thought that if you are stuck in stagnant water, the only way out is to make a big stink. Which was pretty much what is going to happen when I get my work sorted out. Oh well. Think I can cope with that.