It's tolerable in the Midlands

20 weeks to go (9 December)

I’m sent to Coventry by work [take that, satire] and fit in a quick jog in my lunch hour.  Jesus.  If only it were a ghost town: What a disgraceful place.  I don’t take my customary photo of the run because I don’t want to scare the locals by exposing them to new technology.

I return to the Midlands at the weekend for a much more enjoyable trip to Birmingham, a day of gluwein at the German market rendering it something of a struggle getting up for a jog at 7am.  As always when I’ve got some free time to myself I take a nostalgia tour, heading from Harbourne to Selly Oak to Edgbaston before one last trip to town along the canal for old time’s sake.  They knocked my halls of residence down a few years ago – whilst I was watching, coincidentally – and I’m intrigued to see what they’ve done with the place.  It’s like an Alpine retreat.

The sun is shining bright in Birmingham and it looks magical.  I stop in my tracks, run that thought through my head again.  Am I coming down with something?.  Six months ago I was saying something similar about Western Australia’s Pinnacles, now I’m waxing lyrical about Smethwick.  I vow to increase my vitamin intake and lay off the eggnog (because it’s absolutely rank, natch).

Regardless of the scenery it’s a hard slog, my interest in the new Bristol Road bypass not enough to motivate me to build on my furthest distance.  It’s still a healthy mileage, mind, yet when I get back to Harbourne I’m disappointed to learn that Waitrose isn’t yet open.  I down a pack of soggy ham from a corner shop instead for a protein fix, prompting me to re-open discussions with my housemate about whether or not to go down the protein supplement path on my return. 

I get back to our friends’ house for coffee and brunch, milking their amazement that I made it out and about for all it’s worth.  I feel on top of the world and complete my entire Christmas shopping in the hour we waste in the Bullring waiting for the train.  For once my girlfriend is rewarded by my good mood and I take her to Austentacious, the funniest Jane Austin-Parody-Improv show in town.  She loves that sort of thing, bless her. 

Back in Brixton I pick up some protein powder on sale in a Holland and Barrett and lug it back to the flat.  It feels like the sort of thing I should be taking as my muscles are exhausted at the end of each week, but I can’t shake off the feeling that this sort of thing only works on pecs and biceps.  Housemate Davide reinforces my concerns by arguing passionately that running doesn’t count as real exercise and so it sits unused on the top of my cupboard, until I discover the empty tub in his room some months later.

One thing I’m starting to notice writing this blog, and if you've persevered this far I’m sure you have too: It’s dull.  Marathons are always talked about as feats of endurance and that’s spot on, though not quite in the way I first thought.  The ordeal is as much mental as it is physical: Dress it up as much as you can with glib phrases and pretty pictures but it’s just left foot, right foot for hours at a time.  My Nike+ is currently reporting that I’ve jogged over 400km in the last two months: What a monumental waste of time.

By way of closure to this section: Some glib phrases and pretty pictures to remind you of me reminding myself of my time at University.

The scene of none of my triumphs

 

The fourth best pub in the vicinity of the University

From the second I saw the Arts faculty I never regretted my decision not to go Oxbridge