Too Many Syllables

It’s the Beeston 5 mile race tonight and naturally rain is forecast again for later.

It’s also Daughter’s physics exam today for which she’s had to borrow a calculator. A few days ago we had three calculators downstairs but in the meantime, somehow all three seem to have got mislaid. I’m tempted to text her and ask if she’s checked the bathroom to see if she’s stacked them up in there, alongside the purse she lost last week.

L tells me she’s heading off to the ‘Arb’ at lunchtime to read her book and presumably chill with ‘da kidz’ (the students). The ‘Arb’ used to be known as the Arboretum but that’s too many syllables obviously. Of course she’ll need a can of Strongbow in one hand and will have to wear her trousers at half mast if she really wants to blend in. She shouldn’t bump into Big D because he should be in his English Literature exam about now.

She’s reading a book called 'Atlas Shrugged' by Ayn Rand, which she says makes War & Peace look like an Enid Blyton. To be fair, it does look like heavy going which is perhaps why she keeps getting distracted into chick lit. So 'Atlas Shrugged' probably isn't the only book she’s got with her.

Run time. L walks the dogs over to the race and I meet her there in the car. She plans to then run back whilst I take the dogs, and my father, for a pint or two. The run starts conveniently just behind one of our favourite pubs, the Victoria.

I have to say I don’t feel particularly fit. All my aches and pains appear to have cleared up but the consequence is I’ve barely trained at all for this. I look around and the race has pulled an impressive field of 170 and there’s some outstanding talent here, running talent I mean, obviously. I quickly downgrade my expected finishing position. At least the rain hasn't materialised.

It’s a horrible run, pancake flat, which might sound good but it’s not really my type of course and my legs just won’t co-operate. I run a 6.10 first mile which is perhaps a touch suicidal and at two miles my protégé from work, on his race début, comes past me. I stay with him most of the way but I just can’t close the gap and I finish thirty seconds and five places adrift. I’m a minute and half outside by best time for the distance, that’s lack of preparation for you but to be honest, it’s still not a bad time. My colleague though, has done very well. I’m not bitter, he ought to be beating me really, he’s fit, trains hard and his legs are a lot younger than mine. The only thing that may have held him back was a lack of belief, he didn’t actually think he could run that fast. Well now he knows he can, so they’ll be no stopping him and I’ve got to race him again on Sunday. I’m not optimistic.

I get home and then just before 11pm we get a call from Son who’s been in Bakersfield, e.g. on the other side of town, miles away, watching the England match and he’s missed his last bus. As I’ve had a few beers, L drives and I ride shotgun to navigate. Eventually we locate him in some obscure corner of Nottingham and bring him home. It’s only about an hour’s round trip. The joy of kids.