One year ago almost to the day, I was confessing to you how I had broken my New Years Resolution and had found myself at lunch on a Friday eating fish and chips at my desk. It’s been fish and chips again today fair enough, but hurrah for this, at Sweetings with a bottle of Pouilly Fume and a fine old friend. And I would be feeling very chipper except for one thing. On Sunday, as you will probably be aware given the refined sense for the rhythm of life that reading this missive affords you, I’ll be running the Rugby School “Crick” again. This is my fifth ( and last ) time participating in what is the longest standing organised cross country race in the world. It has been run on largely the same route through the countryside around Rugby for the last 177 years. It’s a pretty horrible prospect at the best of times, but this year I have worked myself up into a particularly heightened state of anxiety about it.
The run follows footpaths, across fields, ditches, puddles, railway lines and countless stiles. It’s mostly uphill and always seems to be into a stiff breeze. Furthermore at 10 miles, and I don’t want to seem like I’m swanking here, the issue for me at least is not so much about finishing it, but the time I do it in. Aside from the poignancy of it being my swansong the added pressure comes from the fact that last year I lost the title of the first parent past the post which I had held for the preceding three years. I’m may not be the most competitive fellow you’ve met, nonetheless believe me when I say I want to win this honour back. Together with a modicum amount of training, I’ve found the time to do a bit of research on the person who beat me and who, I gather, has the temerity to run again this year. Turns out she is an Australian triathlete who has lived in this country for twenty years and represents Team GB ( for her age group - which is reasonably advanced ) in Ironman contests. What is it with these women in my life? First Georgette Lenoir ( whose women’s world record time in the 1922 Olympic 800 metres I have yet to match ) and now this one….she’s called Tamara Hardman if you must know. I suppose she had to do Ironman with a name like that.
And if that wasn’t enough I’ve got a head to head going on against Bob who is also running this thing. This is not going to be a repeat of last year when I passed him at the 6 mile mark as we made our way along a footpath by the Oxford Canal. He didn’t seem very bothered at the time. He was more concerned that a handful of jelly babies had fallen through a hole in his pocket and were trapped in the lining of his shorts frustratingly out of reach. No. This year there is a small wager involved and I’ve told all his friends in house about it. Bets are being taken. Tee-shirts commemorating the contest have been designed. Bob is fired up. Lots of pressure.
So, this has the potential of going very wrong especially as on Saturday night I’ve got a boys night out in Cambridge. In fact, let’s accept it, I’m toast.
Talking of competitions my sister in law has just sent me a photo of an egg one of her hens laid weighing in at 133 grams. Do you know how amazing that is? Enormous. I sent you a photo of one my own hens’ eggs, a few months back, so proud was I of it. That was a meagre 96 gms. So fair do’s. Big respect to Debbie and if anyone can beat her egg please let me know. ( boom boom! )
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