Equinox24 '19 - I knew she knew!

Equinox was hard. Really hard. In my head it always seems relatively straightforward and at 4mph (fast walk) 100 miles in 24 hrs is possible. In reality a lot of things have to fall in your favour to hit 100 miles (17 laps).
Good prep - mine was awful.
High level of fitness - couldn't be further from it.
Good training - in my dreams.
Free of injuries - not even close.
Stress free week build up with plenty of sleep - not a fuckin' chance.

Against the odds we did make it on Friday and Mich literally ran straight on stage to front The Detroits only 5 mins late at 8:05pm. Having been discharged from Hospital after a 2 day stay at 5:40pm. She had a 2 hr stress free adrenalin fuelled gig.

She hid her disappointment at not being able to run really well and we were both relieved we didn't have to put up a tent. The chaos of the day meant that instead of being in bed by 7pm it was nearer midnight. 
The following day I was stood on the start line, Gangster Morph, Trilby, no plan. Even by my standards I was ill prepared. I was thinking I'd be happy with my calves allowing one lap before the event. As it turned out it was a challenge just to make the start line. Once there and after being given the 'I'll be fine and you'll be fine' hug from Mich, I set off with the intention of doing one lap and see how it goes.

Powered almost entirely by the shared strength of those alongside me and the generous encouragement from those supporting I managed 7 laps, 3 sleeps, lots of laughs and some swearing. Unfortunately, decent mileage was never gonna happen as by lap 3 the heat had got to me, I was pissing creasote and I was ridiculously tired. I've fallen asleep in the Morphsuit whilst walking at Equinox before but it usually happens during the early hours of the morning or towards the end. I was worried this was happening 4 hrs in! Lap 4 was better after a Jacket Spud and 40 mins with Mich but fatigue was overwhelming. I had a break then lap 5 was a night lap. Then a sleep on a food bench. Another break and then lap 6 and 7 completed up to mid day arriving back to Johnny at 12:03pm missing the offer of #onemorelap by 3 mins. 7 laps is not to be sniffed at. My personal goals are ludicrously unrealistic but the reality is you can only do what you can do based on the circumstances you face on the day. The truth is I simply didn't have the strength of mind to endure. To push through the pain and fatigue. On reflection I'm happy with 7. It's better than 4 which it very nearly was and it's a world away from 3 which the whole of my body and the waffling space where my brain should be wanted it to be, teasing me to stop. It was like the devil himself, whilst sat comfortably on my shoulder, was offering comfort and respite and it could all stop if I just took his hand.

The people I run with make it possible. Not just the solos but everyone. We're all busting a gut out there. From flashes of Dennis the Menaces passing by with supportive shouts, to putting the world to rights with Wendy, to being humbled to tears by Rosemary (the Morphsuit hides a world of emotion ), to photo opportunities and hugs with fellow Equinoxers, to a shared hatred of That Hill, to teams whizzing by with a word of encouragement Aldridge, Simon Heroes, Shabbas, Poppyfields, to the lady sobbing her way down the back straight as part of a team who, when asked if she was OK, said "it just means so much to me". I could do no more than give her a hug and tell her I was proud of her before finishing the last 500 metres of that lap with tears streaming down my face, to laps catching up with old pals with great stories and personal triumphs, to having to take a moment to gather myself after a runner said they'd done Outlaw because of my Bmx exploits and from that had seen me tackle Equinox and thought it seemed like a good idea to have a crack at it too.

The supporters make it a joy. The power up signs that I can't read through the Morphsuit, the comments made that they think I can't hear because of the suit, the banter, the "see you in 40 mins", the shared fire pits, the hi fives and the low ones from the little ones, the kids running alongside in their Ironman suits (I had suit envy) and the constant bombardment of encouragement. 

Then of course family make it complete. The hugs, the tears, the crewing, the winks and the knowing looks. I got one from Mich as I started the back straight for the last time. She knew, I knew, she knew I knew and I knew that she knew too. A mental challenge of mine is to always run the field. Always. She hugged me as I went by and then got across to the finish to be there for my finish. Her strength is unimaginable at times. I take from her as much as I can to do the best I can. I was so pleased to fall into her arms at the end I nearly forgot my medal.

I've gotta shout out Johnny and Laura and their crew as well as Glenn and his and the shops, massage and food outlets. I called on all of them to get me through this at various stages. Matt from Pop Top Kitchen who fed me all weekend (apart from the spud) finally broke me at 12:30 Sunday when, having just finished and sat down, he brought my food over to me instead of me going to collect it and within the wrap (which was the Paul McGrath of breakfast wraps) were some ££'s for the charities.
I've said it before and I'll say it again its the best way to spend a weekend. I don't know how Johnny and Laura do it but just keep doing it.
I'm done with fundraising after 9 years. During that time you lot have raised shed loads. You lot have changed lives for the better. You've almost certainly saved lives. Thank you, sincerely, for your generosity of both hard earned cash and of spirit. I'm taking a break. I've stuff to deal with and a body to repair. I'll be back at Equinox in some capacity for sure but I won't be running again unless I've trained injury free. Thank you.
To those that don't like my sponsorship requests, my begging, or the way I tackle challenges (apparently its disrespectful to the sport) you can rest easy your timeline will be free......for now!  Morph out. 

We see the sun go down in your eyes

I'm in a pub - on my own. Many years ago that would not be an unusual thing to hear me say but the outcome would be quite different. Perhaps not the thought process but definitely the alcohol intake, the drunkeness, the aggressiveness, waste of money and wondering around somewhere trying to self destruct. Anyway, tomorrow, as I have for about 10 years, I am safe in the knowledge I won't have a hangover. 

While Mich rehearses with her band and because they’ve no milk behind the bar for me to have a cuppa whilst watching the footie I played some solo pool. It’s amazing how poor you can become at something you used to be so good at. To be fair I was playing pool every day and every night as a kid as my parents had got me a pool table one Christmas. 35 years on and the belly gets in the way for positioning, the failing eye sight means the end of the cue is about as far as I can clearly see and that gut instinct on positioning, lines and angles has long since departed. My mind wanders as I play. The odd shot flickers back to a less complicated time. The deep red sunset sears through the misted pub glass reinforcing a loss suffered nearly 32 years ago. A loss that weighs a heavy grief that I carry with me constantly. 

"The sun so bright it leaves no shadows only scars carved into stone"

I recently blogged about stress and anxiety and it’s talent for exacerbating grief. I mentioned in a video after a miserable run that as time ticks by and memories fade it gets harder and harder to remember my mom’s face. I can look at the few pics I have and of course I know what she looks like but as a real memory, an actual mental visualisation I can recall whenever I want, it’s becoming harder and harder. She appears in the odd dream. I don’t know, when I wake up, just how clear she was but it always leaves me so utterly devastated that it was only a dream and it is always so brief and unlasting. Often ruined by me being late for a job somewhere important like Buckingham Palace which will inevitably be set in somewhere weird like a football stadium or the local chippy and I’ll have lost my teeth or I’ll be naked trying to fry a mars bar and daffodil. That kind of dream! That brief moment though, where she comes in to order a battered Corgi or Swan, she’s in the queue talking to me and I have to ask her to hang on a sec while I serve the customer before, who could be Kevin Pietersen or Sport Billy, but she gets served by Richard Prior instead and leaves before KP’s pitta has popped for me to make his kebab! Of course I wake as I chase after her. Usually getting pretty close.

"Dress torn in ribbons and in bows like a siren she calls to me"

The last time I saw my mom was 27th June 1987. I’m sure it was a Saturday and it was bloody hot. I’ve no recollection of any part of the day until about 5:30pm ish. I had been out doing my paperounds. During that time my only moments of clarity, moments entirely devoid of stress and worry, were on the rugby pitch or whilst doing my rounds. I’d finished my rounds and had cycled the last couple of miles home no handed. A common challenge I set myself. There were only two tricky junctions to negotiate. Tricky when no handed that is. A right turn off Walsall Road into Little Aston lane being particularly hazardous and therefore all the more satisfying to complete without face planting onto the tarmac, because it’s a downhill build up and no handed means no braking so swinging a right at speed. The last turn was a more sedate right into The Grove which only became complicated if there was a car approaching and disrupting my window of opportunity to turn, again without braking. That day it was clear and I leant into the turn and set myself to power to the top of the hill with the aim to not fail by touching the handlebars. I remember the sun was shining through the spokes of my Raleigh 10 speed. I powered up the hill only looking up as I passed The Goldstones. Instead of a clear view to our house, at the top just to the left, I saw my Auntie Sue stood outside the Prices’. My heart sank and I dropped down onto the bars. My challenge suddenly entirely irrelevant as I was ripped, abruptly, back to reality. I pulled up and walked the last couple of houses up to Auntie Sue. 

I took out my ear phones and switched off my Walkman. I don’t remember what I was listening to although it was almost certainly Clapton or Hendrix. If I was a betting man I would say it was probably Hendrix Live at Winterland. I struggled to ever get past Red House and constantly rewound the tape to listen to it over and over again. There was something magical about Hendrix. A sound that I was transfixed by. I think The Cry of Love gripped me as much as any of his albums (most released posthumously!) and I would often seek solace in the emotion of his guitar and his delivery.

"Drifting on a sea of forgotten teardrops"

The Joshua Tree had been released 3 months earlier on 9th March ‘87 and whilst that album has held my hand throughout my life and all of it is associated with love, loss and grief, I don’t think I had been captured by it just yet. In fact whilst I know exactly how I can’t pin down when I discovered it. The how was down to Gavin Wade who gave me a taped recording of the album he had made. I can picture now quite clearly, in Gav’s very individualistic writing style, the label read ‘ The Joshua Tree & Unavailable B Sides ‘. Each letter styled with a flourish that covered just about anything he could doodle on! Since that day, whenever it was, The Joshua Tree has consoled me, accompanied me, comforted me and acted as an instant reference to my mom. Which is strange as I don’t think I listened to it until after she died. Similarly though, I remember a few years earlier, probably ‘83 or ‘84 ish, whenever I hear Night Swimming by REM (an absolute favourite of mine). I am taken back to sitting in the back of my Dad’s company car travelling back from The Priory Hospital in Edgbaston after visiting Mom and I’m looking out the window watching the street lights whizz by trying to light the dark. It’s weird because Night Swimming wasn’t released until Automatic For The People in 1992! In fact I can tell you the actual song that should spark that memory and it was The Flying Pickets - Only You! The mind has a funny way of dealing with things.

"Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse"

Anyway, whatever I was listening to I turned off. My Auntie Sue sat me down on the corner wall of No 7. She put her arm around me allowing a momentary respite from the glaring sun on my neck. “It’s time” she said as she gave me a hug. “It’s time”. If ever my world stopped spinning it was probably then. I knew, we all knew, that it was any day now that mom would die. What had started as breast cancer 4 years earlier had returned as an inoperable brain tumour with a vengeance. It had sucked the life out of her pretty quickly. I don’t think she had been ‘with it’ for a while but certainly she hadn’t come round for a couple of days. It had stolen everything from her. Her movement her figure her looks her wit her love her care.

I know we didn’t get up and go to our house straight away but I’ve no idea how long we sat there for. It could have been an eternity encapsulated in a second. It could have been a fleeting moment that dragged out forever. Everything that had ever happened in that street over the previous 8 years played out in front of me. Every game of volleys and headers, hedge hopping, knock and run, fights, tantrums, threats, laughs and stunts sliced through time to pause for a second as if to offer a moment of support or to unravel and fall away at the end. Eventually we did go in and the house was full, or at least appeared to be. Aunties and Uncles, friends and neighbours. Tears and silence mixing uncomfortably. My little brother was with Dad and I joined them. It might have been hours but I remember it as minutes. I said goodbye (she couldn't hear me) and I kissed her on the head. She took her last breath and in our dining room, converted to a bedroom, she died surrounded by us all. In that moment I was hit by every failing, every weakness, every time I let her down and acutely, so acutely, how much I still had to learn about her and from her. You don’t get a chance to right any wrongs. There’s no final words. No goodbyes. No last exchange. Just loss.

"Sleight of hand and twist of fate"

The sunset was deep red that evening. It trawled the horizon sucking in the odd wisp of cloud along with the last ounce of daylight. The Grove stood still and took it in. The world held it's breath as if in shock. I watched from my bedroom window in a house full of grief, sadness, loss and love. I took myself away - physically and emotionally. 

There’s nothing afterwards. No comfort. No gravestone chatter enjoyed by  Ricky Gervais in After Life. No videos to watch with prepared monologues to get you through the aftermath. No Post It Notes dotted about as a guide to how to live your life without. There’s no conversation you can have. Someone once suggested I write a letter to her as a way to help with the grieving process. It’s not for me. I’ll be waiting an eternity for a reply! We just die. We burn or rot and that’s that. We don’t rise. We don’t return as an animal. We don’t float about visiting. We don’t talk through old wrinkly women who can only deliver the message if we pay. We grasp at straws. At glimpses of comfort. We’re vulnerable and there for the taking. We accept the con in the hope it makes us feel better. It’s no coincidence the biggest con of all is the richest con of all.

"I'll see you again when the stars fall from the sky
and the moon has turned red over one tree hill"

Where The Streets Have No Name

I drive a lot in my day to day. If sport is on the radio I will listen to it. If not I will listen to Kermode and Mayo Film Review on the podcast and if I am up to date with that I will listen to U2. The other day I searched U2 on the BBC Podcast thingy and listened to a Radio 4 interview with them. The Edge was on about the simplicity of his chords and how he writes music with the idea that notes and chords are very expensive so he uses as few as he can. He keeps it as simple as possible. Of course he than adds the effects which give it the unmistakable Edge sound.

He played the opening notes to Streets without effects and the impact was immense. It's purity and simplicity was unnervingly beautiful. The impact was physical. The result is a sound that can fill stadiums borne out of simple notes in a box room bedroom. I played it back about 50 times whilst trawling through the mechanical wasteland known as the M42. Tears streamed down my face - a reaction I am having to get more and more used to as I have less and less control over my emotions.

You can listen to it here 10:38 into the interview https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/b00hpb1q

The point or link or reference I am trying to make is that something so simple and pure can rock the world and last week (I started this blog on the 5th February 2019) this was brilliantly exampled at The Spirit of Tamworth Awards night. Mich had been nominated as Coach of the Year. Something she has been doing for a relatively short space of time but which she throws all her effort into. Now, anyone can get nominated and if enough people nominate you then you're likely to get noticed but the panel look at the 150 word nomination messages sent in with each nomination. Mich, like so many of the other nominations in all the categories, didn't expect the nominations and didn't expect to win. Indeed notification of her being short listed surprised her to bits. The nomination they read out when announcing Mich as the winner was from a run club member who is recovering from a brain tumour and who had lost all her confidence. She explained how through Mich's run club and as a result of Mich's support she had regained her confidence and belief in herself. Whether she runs 5km or a marathon seemed irrelevant it was the belief that Mich had instilled in her. Mich will tell you that she doesn't really do anything other than get people together and make them run. Thankfully it's not up to Mich to nominate herself or give a reason because she entirely undervalues her impact on so many of us and just how much of a positive influence she is. Thankfully we know. Something as simple as "getting people together for a run" can rock the world.

Many of the other nominees in all categories and their associated stories were a real inspiration. Youngsters battling life threatening illnesses with a smile, fundraisers making a difference to others, people giving their time, money and effort to make someone else's life a little better. None of them doing it for recognition but doing it because they have a selfless sense of community. The room was buzzing with positivity. Humbling and inspiring. A lesson on how, tomorrow, to be a better man.
 

Black Dog Running

Today I ran with my Black Dog. The Black Dog. Side by side through the howling wind and stinging rain. So together I absorbed his anxieties, his panic, his fear and his loathing. I couldn’t shake him off. We were Siamese like. Joined at the hip. Through the woods he dragged me haunched to the ground. Labouring through the leaf mulch and ever deepening mud, rocks and stones shredding my hands and knees. Dodging falling branches becoming harder as the mud became thicker. Sometimes I’d begin to rise, to straighten to get free only for a sideways gust to whip a branch up into my face and drop me again to my knees. A salty mix of sweat and blood flowing into my mouth from my nose or the sting of red leaking into my eye from a split above. Either way enough to instantly put me down and gasp for breath. Every moment of relief, every burden offloaded, just a momentary pause. I ran today searching for a clarity that seemed impossible to find. There were glimmers. Miko and Chief tried to draw me away from the Black Dog, tried to free me, but a sharp ‘no’ called them away before I could be free. A wondering thought to something more snowflakey would see me almost straight, almost breathing free, almost in reach of the unobtainable light at the end of the tree lined tunnel. Every step became a chore, a reason to stop. Extra laps added as punishment for weakness increasing the frustration. Hips taking the brunt of each laboured effort up the hill. It wasn’t until the last lap that I took control, found a moment of clarity, tamed the dog constantly lurking in the background. Successfully dodged the remaining branches and skipped over the mud with a lighter feel. I’d gone out for 8 miles of control. I’d finished with nearly 12 and a resolve to try again. To be a better man.