Supreme beauty

Posted on April 13, 2011 by Andy

It’s not often I get out of bed before Shell. Nor at 5:15am. But when the incentive is seeing one of the most famous places in the world, you kinda make an allowance. Just a shame the sun wasn’t considerate enough to rise a little bit later.
By 6am it’s fairly light and we stumble down to meet today’s guide who introduces himself simply as DK. He seems very enthusiastic and instructs our driver, Inder, to a point which we are informed is a shortcut to the Taj Mahal. “Six minutes’ walk from there,” DK tells us. Camera fully charged and ready to go, I can’t wait. The rush hour traffic is still in bed, so we have no problem getting there quickly. The air is cool but comfortable and we march quickly past several locals on the way to the main event.

Gorillapods in the midst
As we arrive in the courtyard at the entrance, we get pounced upon. “Hello sir – do you want book? Lovely book.” A seller flicks through a souvenir book of many photos in front of my face. I decline but he is persistent, “Maybe later? My name is Raj. You remember that when you come out later: Raj.” Ok, Raj, how about you let me go in so I can take my own photos? DK sorts the tickets, we step through the metal detector and have our bags searched. We have a spot of trouble with my camera bag, containing my extremely dangerous and potentially lethal Gorillapod. Obviously not recognised as a small tripod, the security guard bends it curiously, perhaps waiting to see what weapon it can transform into. It has to be confiscated. DK manages to sort out where it can be collected later, assuming it has not been subjected to a controlled explosion.
The courtyard is assembled from a deep-red brick, sandstone local to here. The first thing we see is a huge square arch through which promises the Taj itself. All around the edge of this entrance is large Arabic script from the Koran. It’s not painted on, though – it’s black marble inlaid into white marble. We marvel at the effort and the detail. This place was clearly not done half-heartedly. Time to enter…

Strike a pose
We’re here! I’m looking at the view of the Taj Mahal that you see in the photos, the movies and all the postcards: facing the front with the water leading up to it. Where do I start clicking? The sun is weak still from the east but is gradually lighting up one side. The sky is blue with a few streaks of cloud. More importantly, not too many people are here yet. I am like a starving kid in front of a buffet table of all his favourite dishes. I start to snap away, but I soon discover DK has a menu of his own he wishes to share with us. “Go down there. Take one here then I shall take one of you two up here. See the reflection – get a good shot there.” Blimey. Well, he has said he’s been here about 4000 times, so I guess he knows the good shots. We are soon hurried to the Diana table, as it’s now known after Diana, Princess of Wales visited here and her now infamous pose in 1992. DK takes our photo there, after a short wait behind a woman desperate to recreate Diana’s sad look. Next, DK delights me in offering to take photos of an Andy/Shell Speciality: the star jump pose. Cue lots of energetic jumping, checking, different angles and looking like a fool. He even takes a cute dangling-the-Taj-from-our- fingers photo. I begin to think of others but we’re off again, this time for a closer look.
The eastern corner of the main building now sparkles as the sun’s rays hit the detail of the building. As we walk up to the plinth, we begin to appreciate just how beautiful and detailed the outside is. It’s so clean, so immense, revealing more and more as you move nearer. But DK doesn’t want us to go too near just yet – more silly photos are needed! We then sit down and listen at length to the history of the Taj.

Kiss and tell
Some people order a nice headstone when their spouse dies. Others dedicate a park bench in their memory. Shah Jahan decided to construct a mausoleum for his third wife, Mumtaz, taking 20,000 people 22 years and 85 million rupees to build. Fair play – after producing 14 kids for him she probably deserved more than just an obituary in the local newspaper. DK proceeded to tell the whole love story, from the king’s first sighting at the women’s market to his vow on her death bed to never forget her. If his love was as beautiful and perfect as what is now in front of us, he was a lucky man.
DK seemed intent on ensuring we were to show each other the same affection. “No wife, no life!” he said many times to me. Every section of the story demanded a kiss between us. He then took my camera and started taking more photos of us with the eastern side in the background, demanding we give him a good subject. “Pose number 1…” We stand side by side. “Pose number 2…” We embrace. “Pose number 3…” We kiss. By pose number 7, I begin to wonder if he wants to get us arrested.
We eventually move to the guest house and get more history, from plans for a second Taj across the river (which we had unknowingly visited the night before) and how the king’s son didn’t like his father spending so much on his obsession and his eventual imprisonment as a result. More kisses ensued. Was DK just getting a kick out of this? As nice as it was hearing the story, after a while I just want to see and explore further and of course capture more of its beauty. Soon, we enter the mausoleum.

Dead gorgeous
Intricate doesn’t do it justice. We aren’t allowed to take photos inside which is a shame because there’s so much detail here I’d love to record. The light within is neither strong nor weak, just enough for respect and warmth. An entire slab of marble has been carved with delicate patterns. Flowers aren’t painted – they’re made from small, cut precious and semi-precious stones and stuck within the white marble with unerring precision. What’s more is that they are arranged to form heart shapes, allegedly to indicate the king’s broken heart at her death. The two tombs lie side by side in the centre, forever encapsulated by this beauty. Above the chatter of tourists I detect a gentle whooshing sound rebounding off the upper walls. Everything perfect, quality superlative. The effort and craftmanship is outstanding. I shuffle around with my cloth overshoes in awe.
Outside I get more shots, dropping behind Shell and DK, determined to get as much as I can. We see the Agra Fort in the distance, our next destination. More poses, more silly shots and kissing. Some of them are quite cute, I think, maybe a future picture for our own castle. But time ticks on and we soon have to go. I marvel for the last time at the symmetry and scale of the site. As we leave, I’m relieved to have my Gorillapod returned to me unscathed. We then see Raj, back as promised, eager to sell us books of images we’d just seen. I decline after a brief viewing, a tad disappointed we didn’t have more time to take more photos; I could have stayed for hours and filled a hard drive of pictures. Still, the laughs, the poses and the memories will live forever, hopefully like this wonderful place itself.

Hold that fort
After a quick breakfast at the hotel, we’re plunged into Agra traffic on the way to the fort. This time it’s special: an impromptu bit of roadworks have apparently popped up ahead so everyone is turning round. I’m no longer sure which direction is which as the road now resembles a rugby scrum. If it was in England, the ref would have blown and it would have taken an age to sort out. Here, we slip through like a skilled pro and arrive at Agra Fort.

Blimey. There’s nothing small scale around here. A huge gate, long slope and massive courtyard is just the start. Moved as a display piece in front of one of the buildings is the king’s bathtub, with probably enough room to hold the synchronised swimming Olympic final. DK shows us the queens’ rooms and the dancing square where the ladies strutted their stuff whilst the king watched. If a girl was lucky, she was taken behind the screens for the king to entertain her. A gentleman’s club for the 1500s. DK was keen to emulate his event. “Pretend you’re the king! Take your lady behind the screen!” I begin to wonder if he has hidden cameras around here.

That’s bazar
The views from here of the Taj Mahal are cool, reminding me of the Eiffel Tower views from Notre Dame in their closeness to the cities’ main attraction. We see where the start of the king’s love affair began, overlooking the green square that was the women’s bazar where he first saw her. We also see its end, the prison where the king was held by his son, where his final sights were of his creation in her memory. We peek in a mosque again and also where the king held his public audience, all the time DK describing the history. It sounds like the king was happy to talk to his people, listen to their problems and try to help them, like a live Dear Deirdre for the masses. I take my opportunity and ask DK for fifteen minutes of photos on our own, and the schedule allows it. We’re free! I run off with Shell and take a few shots I had my eye on when we were going through. Content with the collection, we head out, contending with more beggars and sellers of tack as we wait for the car. We’re off to Jaipur, five hours’ drive away, but we’ll stop en route to a ghost town called Fatehpur Sikri.

Another journey, another chaotic section of road. This time the road had pretty much descended into a rough track through a small village. It feels like we’re driving through a market as people, shops, camels, horses, carts and bikes are on every side. We’re the widest vehicle here. As always, the chaos is navigated and we get through. A little later we arrive at the foot of what is actually a walled city. Getting out, we navigate through a group of yet more sellers before jumping on a bus full of locals to the top of a hill to see the main buildings.

It’s a trap!
The city was built by Emperor Akbar, who also built Agra Fort, and was the grandfather of Shah Jahan, he of Taj Mahal fame. Akbar had three wives, one Christian, one Muslim and one Hindu, and built a house for each, sized accordingly to the children each gave him. Nice way to cause resentment between women there, then. Due to a promise to a priest who predicted three children, he had to stay here ten years. When he left, the place eventually deserted. This was pretty lucky for us, seeing as we were nosing around today. The parliament house with its raised walkway, public audience courtyard, market square, the king’s own house and bedroom, complete with awesome raised bed were all very interesting to walk around and hear DK’s explanations. (plus less enforced kissing). Everything ornate and pretty, except for some bats up a chimney I was asked to photograph.
We forgo a bus ride back down the hill which we are told would bring us out into all the shops – i.e. hassle. Instead, we walk, and get escorted by a horde of small children offering to sell us pens. It’s extremely hot, I’m thirsty and I’m not interested, thank you. They soon give up. Unfortunately we get to the car park and attract another group, this time slightly older. “I’m a good boy!” says one, who looks as innocent as Dennis the Menace. We shrug them off and get into the car, saying goodbye to DK down the road with a tip to send him off with. No doubt he’ll be back at the Taj tomorrow asking for more kissing photos. Next up: a long drive to Jaipur to complete India’s “Golden Triangle”.

The roads are losing their wow factor now. I’m nonchalant about trucks and cars coming at us on the wrong side of the road. Men clinging onto the back of cars doesn’t faze me. I’ve given up on planning a Keep India Tidy campaign. And then just when you think you’ve seen it all…”Jesus!!!!” Ok, it maybe wasn’t the most appropriate word to exclaim, but we’ve screeched to a halt on the dual carriageway for a dog that must have wanted to commit suicide. The fact that Inder beeped 300 yards away and that the dog was clearly looking at us didn’t stop it from crossing the road as if one of its parents was a hedgehog. We even had to wait for it to complete its slow journey to the centre, probably for another attempt on the other side. Luckily, the trip passed without further excitement and we arrived for our final leg of the tour.

Spice, spice baby
Jaipur seems a big city, certainly a lot nicer than Agra. It’s richer, too, and it clearly shows in its buildings. We stop at the Golden Tulip for the first of two nights. We’re tired, so we check in to a seventh-floor room with a good view of the city, snooze for a bit and then go down for dinner in the “Spice Loft”. We have a nice meal, even if the service was a bit erratic in bringing out our drinks and dishes at different times to each other. I have an extremely spicy chinese chicken soup and a masala that looks suspiciously like a balti. I say to Shell that I’m so happy that we’ve seen the Taj Mahal today because my biggest fear was to get “Delhi Belly” and be forced to miss out. “So far, so good, though.”
Half an hour later and I feel like I’ve had a chilli enema.

After a wonderful day full of fascinating sights, the inside of the hotel toilet isn’t exactly my idea of capping it off. Now pass me the spare bog roll…

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How the other half live

Posted on April 10, 2011 by Andy

I’ve been on five continents, racked up a few countries. I’ve seen the super rich and downright poor. But today I’ve seen more life in 24 hours than I have since I first stepped outside my home isles 24 years ago.

6:30am, Delhi. Feeling fresh. Goa is behind us, having flown up yesterday afternoon (almost losing Shell in the process as a result of overbearing Indian bureaucracy). We’ll be back there in a few days for the sun and beaches, but today is all about the capital and true India. I play it safe at breakfast, feeling a little curried out for the moment after the last two days.

Inder surprise
At 8:30 we are greeted by our guide for the day, Jussy and our driver, Inder. Apparently this is no coach tour – we have our own taxi the whole way!
We drive from New to Old Delhi. “Clean Delhi, Green Delhi” Jussy announces. He’s not wrong about their slogan – I’m amazed at how green this part of the city is with all the trees and parks that fly by our windows. But that’s not all that’s going past: welcome to rush hour, Delhi-style. Lanes are ignored. Yellow and green three-wheeler tuc-tucs force their way through with their passengers. Women ride sidesaddle, helmet-less on the back of motorbikes weaving in and out of the cars. Beeps sound out, several a second. Push bikes slowly intermingle, joining in the melody with their bells. Trucks and buses add height and width. Nothing is more than an inch apart. And yet… there is no anger, no frustration. Beeps merely indicate one’s presence and indended actions. Everything is calm, everyone gets on. Bizarrely, traffic flows.

Beggars belief
We see a bit of Chandni Chaowk, an area that is regarded as the heart of Old Delhi. Stopping at lights, a small, grubby girl does cartwheels outside our windows in the road, begging for money. Further up, a mother cradles her baby in her arms, miming an action for help to feed her baby. I shake my head at them all and look away, guiltily. The advice we had was to not give money to street beggars, but it doesn’t make it feel right when it’s right there in front of you.
We pass narrow streets with an overhead electricity cabling system that looks like it was installed by a drunken, blind electrician with a death wish. People pick from trees halfway up, a few feet away from pylon wires. Let’s face it: if Health & Safety came here, they’d have to close the whole city down.

Jami dodger
Our first stop is Jami Masjid, India’s largest mosque. It’s huge, red and decorated in fine details. Impressive, but perhaps not quite our thing. I still have memories of many a temple in Kyoto, so we decline to go inside and head on with the busy schedule.
We are taken past the Red Fort, but as our tour will include the identical one in Agra, we do no more than flirt with a small section of it from the car. Next up is Rajghat, where Mahatma Ghandi was cremated.
The place is a small park, green, well kept with a large square and centrepiece that can be overlooked or approached up close. We go up and Jussy gives us some information on the great man and the history of our two countries. It’s a wonder why they still like us so much. We take it all in as we watch a few Indians pay their respects. All is peaceful until a large group of protestors appear and congregate around the eternal flame, chanting, waving flags, tv cameras and all. Something to do with anti-corruption, apparently, but as quick as they appeared, they’re gone, leaving us to go down and see the memorial. It feels strange being in a place with so much significance to a country.
The guide takes us past India Gate – a huge monument to commemorate the soldiers who died. It’s a landmark site in Delhi and one you often see in photos, so I’m looking forward to some good snaps in this blue sky. Alas, we’re only allowed a 30 second stop to take whatever angle we’re given. Hmmm, I’m not sure this tour is really giving me what I want out of Delhi.
Our final stop is at President’s Palace, not too dissimilar to Buckingham Place, and with its own version of Pall Mall. Again impressive, but sadly again we have just a few minutes here before the guide says goodbye and leaves us with our driver and a long trip to Agra ahead. At our request, we go past another recommendation – Humayun’s Tomb – but we cannot see much and we start to go out of Delhi. I can’t help but be a little disappointed. My friend, Rob, had called Delhi “fucking insane” and although it was indeed a culture shock, I felt that maybe we’d only scratched the surface. Little did I know that the journey we were just about to take would shake and exhilarate me like no other.

Life, but not as we know it
This is ridiculous. Amazing. Tragic. Impressive. Every few miles another adjective falls from my lips. We pass through the outskirts of Delhi but the trail of life never ceases as it merges into neighbouring towns. Shops, shacks, primitive housing, people outside everywhere. Everyone is doing something: selling, buying, eating, loading, transporting, fixing, begging, beckoning. They’re there in their hundreds, each place swarming with life. Another man pees by the roadside, yellow arc proudly visible. Litter piles up in grey and plastic mounds. Pepsi battles with Coca-Cola at roadside shops.
Why is that lorry coming straight toward us? We’re on a dual carriageway! Inder merely gives way. Why can’t we go now the light is green? Oh, there’s a herd of cattle slowly going past. I look to my right and there’s a camel pulling a cart. To my left is a man on a bike with a chair on his head. A family of 8 pile into a tuc-tuc. Minutes later, the record is 10. I Iose interest after a mind-bending, axle-straining 17 is left behind in the rear view mirror. Men cling on to the backs of cars. How many on a motorbike? One, two, three…heck even a family of four! Everyone going somewhere, anyhow they can.
We swerve for loose cows. We beep at erratic dogs. Hand-painted trucks, tractors, carts pulled by various animals, motorbikes, pedal cycles, hand cycles, mopeds, cars, tuc-tucs, JCBs. Vans piled high of goods and topped with humans. My eyes are wide open but everyone stares at us as we go by in our comfy, air-conditioned chauffeured car.
The landscape is flat and a mix of green and brown. A dust tornado lazily saunters by. Pink flowers punctuate the carriage divider. Brick chimneys rise up in fields. Women slap mud on hut rooves. Kids of all ages, old men, old women at work. Nothing too big to carry. Broken down vehicles being fixed by the roadside. Large birds roam the sky. Smart religious buildings appear. I dare not blink.

We cross the state border and stop briefly, left momentarily alone in the car as Inder runs an apparent errand. Trucks are stationary up ahead and sellers are alerted to our presence. We suddenly feel like a stranded zebra at a river crossing. Tap-tap on the glass. Do I want to buy a book? Tap-tap. “Monkey! Photo with monkey, yes?” Shell shakes her head, trying not to look at the animals on tight leads, faces inches away. Up ahead, a disabled man shuffles toward us. I hope the car is locked. Finally, Inder returns and we move on, relieved. To him, probably just another drive. To me, the four hours that had just gone by was from another world.

Agra phobic
We arrive in Agra prepared for the worst after a less than favourable review from a friend. It’s the nearest city to the Taj Mahal, though, so how bad can it be? The answer comes soon.
The streets throng with animals, people and vehicles. Grey buildings little more than shacks line each side. A main roundabout makes Piccadilly Circus look like Toy Town on a Sunday afternoon. Vendors sell everything from snacks, drinks, trinkets, clothes, pots, bricks to camera film. Horn after horn. Civilisation seems to be petering out. Then Shell suddenly takes a sharp intake of breath… is that…yes! Over there! Beyond the trees, the Taj Mahal! It’s great to get a glimpse of it, but it doesn’t really do it justice from the car. I want to get near it tonight.

We arrive at the hotel, an oasis of luxury, and get a warm welcome from the rep. Choosing the sunrise Taj Mahal option tomorrow, we also agree for our driver to take us there for sunset a little later tonight. It is the main reason why we came to India, after all. A brief snack and tour of the hotel and we’re ready for a closer encounter.

Play your Taj right
Our driver, surely not fully rested after the long drive, takes us to a spot to get the Taj in the background. (When I say a spot, I mean he stops the car in the middle of rush hour on the inside lane, ignition running.) We get photos of us with the main attraction, but we want more. Inder kindly obliges with a drive into Chaos Central.
We go up a narrow road, flanked by cars, buses and tuc-tucs on each side. People fill in every available gap. We soon hear that they’re making a movie here right now, and the stars’ trailers are up ahead. No room to swing a cat’s whisker, but somehow we get to the end of the road and leap out with a promise to meet up after “somewhere down there”. It’s at this point we suddenly become celebrities.

Maybe it’s the sunglasses we’re hiding behind. Maybe they think we’re part of the film. Or perhaps it’s just the sight of two grains of white sugar in a sea of demerara. “Hello!” the kids say, delighted when we acknowledge. My hand is shaken a dozen times. Phone cameras are trained on us. If only we looked like we knew where we were going, for what we seek cannot yet be seen.
Eventually, we find a ticket booth and pay a small sum for what promises to be a view and start down a green track. As the bushes part and we look to our right, one of the seven wonders of the world is upon us.

Wow. We’re looking at the back of the Taj, across the river, with a few other people who have paid for this privilege. It’s impossible to get a sense of the scale, even when seeing the tiny figures of men and women at its base. Symmetry. Detail. Finesse. Splendour. I’ll save my words until I see her up close.
The sun is setting and birds circle above as I click away at my main prize. Shell seems stunned. We’re finally here! The dome the turrets, the buildings either side all get captured on film. May I return safely to show my efforts. I want to stay longer, maybe for something special, perhaps a little disappointed in not capturing a killer shot. But tomorrow’s shoot is just twelve hours away, and Inder appears to capture us together at dusk before we walk back, through the staring crowds, returning to our taxi and the sea of pandemonium. Back at the hotel, I file away all the scenes in my mind and drift away, waiting for tomorrow’s riches.

From the celebration of one man’s creation to commemorate his lost love centuries ago, to the present struggle for existence in this fascinating land. If life has a spectrum, today I saw new colours.

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Indian getaway

Posted on April 5, 2011 by Andy

Most people pop down to their local curry house on a Saturday night if they want a ruby – Shell and I decided we’d go authentic style. By the next morning, we were in India…

It appears to me that the airport bag handlers in Goa have no concept of the carousel. As soon as the bags start their journey on the merry-go-round, they are taken off and put to the side, leaving everyone standing like they’re waiting for the bus that never comes. Chaos reigns. Culture shock? Probably not even started yet. We soon find our Thomson rep and get pointed to Bus A down to the right, so we walk off.
“Sir? Sir? Want a taxi?” someone says nearby.
I smile politely, “No thanks.”
A hundred yards and several similar requests later, my smile is a little forced after each identical response. Ah, Bus A. Some bloke takes our bags and gives them to the guy who will load them into the bus. “Thanks,” I say.
He opens his hand, showing two recognisable coins and looks at me, “Pound coins? Pound coins?”, thrusting his palm towards my face. Oh, it’s like that is it? You do ten seconds of work and expect a tip? I oblige, only because we’re about the first ones here, he looks persistent and I can’t be bothered with the hassle after a long flight. We board and wait.
Palm trees blow in a brown, dusty landscape while mopeds buzz amongst the cars on the motorway ahead. I hear a familiar cry of an unseen bird, and recall the wildlife of the Maldives last year. Bus finally full, we depart.

Within minutes, I discover that it’s probably best to be a passenger in a Goan vehicle with your eyes closed. Normal rules of overtaking don’t apply here – beep, manoeuvre, mirror, regardless if oncoming traffic is near. On a bend? No problem. Just another challenge. Mopeds, pedestrians, trucks, buses and cars all jostle for position on varying degrees of road like an 80s video game.

The rep on the bus supplies us with information on the area in a chirpy but well-rehearsed up and down voice that grates after a while. I gaze out of the window and see fields with cows, herons, other birds and the odd fisherman. We pass sporting fields where goalposts look on untroubled as cricket takes centre stage. We hear that the roads are quiet due to the partying after yesterday’s world cup win. Celebration of a billion people – must have been one hell of a party.

We arrive at our hotel as the only ones from the plane coming here. We’re doing a five-day tour round a small part of India, whereas everyone seems to have come for Goa on its own. We appear to be the only Europeans here in amongst a crown of people checking in or out. Suitcases everywhere. Suddenly, a man sidles up to where we’re sitting and asks us to get in a photo a woman is taking of him. Obviously a white couple are a photo coup around here! We go past the pool and loud pop music accompanied by live Spanish guitar played by some dude outside the restaurant. Different.

The room is very nice – we thought we were being put into a dive, so this was unexpected. Double shower, huge bed, view of the pool, big TV. We take a small nap, tired after our travels, and then venture out after deciding that the dodgy acoustic musak versions of Madonna and George Michael were a bit too much.
“Sir! Sir! Taxi?” We’d barely stepped out of the front gate. No paths to speak of, we slowly stroll down the road, single file, with the sun warming our heads. We pass local stores, shacks, barbers and builders, all with a rough, run-down look about them. Walking past the river, I spot the silvery blue of a kingfisher perched on branch jutting out, bringing a spot of welcome colour.
“Taxi?” another car slowed down beside us. I shake my head. “How about tomorrow? Next week? I take you to waterfalls!”
I’m not sure if these guys are annoyingly persistent, or persistently annoying. Still tired, careful of the sun and not willing to risk playing chicken with scooters and cars, we head back to the guitarist in full swing. “Welcome to the ‘otel California…Such a laarvly place…”

Another small nap and then dinner. Buffet, Indian style. Nothing too spicy, just a few different curries, garlic naan and lime pickle with a kick. The waiters practically fall over themselves to help, smiling all the time, making us feel welcome. We stay for ages, chatting long after the last bit of sauce has been mopped up. Fed, happy and ready for bed, we escape before more loud music starts up. Luckily for us, this soon ceases, and our first day in the sub continent is complete.

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Boro’s night of glory

Posted on January 28, 2011 by Andy

I couldn’t let the events of Saturday 8th January pass without a blog on one of the greatest shocks in recent history…

I’m actually here. The Lamex Stadium, Broadhall Way, Stevenage. I fully admit I’m hardly the most loyal Stevenage Boro – sorry, FC – fan around, but it’s fair to say that I’ve followed the results of my home club every week for as long as I can remember. A few visits here over the years plus three FA Trophy finals, but I’ve always regretted the big one in ’98 – when we almost shook the footballing world as a non-league team by getting a draw against Premiership Newcastle. For some reason, I didn’t get a ticket and just watched it on TV instead. So when the Magpies got drawn against us again, I was determined to come down and take part in a bit of history.

My ticket to watch history

“It’s gonna be 3-2 to us” I confidently predict. Well, when I say confidently, I mean optimistically. Odds are, they’ll beat us comfortably. Yes, we’ve moved up in with the big boys in the Football League since our last encounter, but we’re hardly setting League 2 alight. They have a few players out, most notably Andy Carroll, but I still expect them to win. I’ll settle for a draw tonight, though.

The East Terrace is filling up and making a lot of noise. That’s what surprised me at Wembley last year – the fans are a noisy and persistent lot! Silly tunes without words strangely create a great, catchy atmosphere. The “Wooooooah!” song is a particular favourite of mine. At the far side, the black and white shirts are gradually populating the stand like a sea of barcodes. Shell is making her debut on the Broadhall Way stands as we make our way onto the north terrace. It’s a cold evening, and we’re both wrapped up in gloves, scarves and hats. Where to stand? Right behind the goal would see some great action and maybe get us on the ESPN cameras, but the view might be a little pants, so we go just to the right of it, on the back row. The dark blue skies gradually turn black as I take a few photos, read the programme, and send a few texts, excitedly telling people where I am.

The teams come out and line up, swapping ends. Stevenage to attack the goal in front of us first, so I’ll expect most of the action nearest to us will be in the second half. I strain to recognise the Newcastle players – not exactly their best team. Ahhh, Joey Barton and Alan Smith – two charming blokes who wouldn’t look out of place in a Friday night brawl in Stevenage Old Town. It’s a shame there’s not the names of the 1-1 draw in 1998 -where the likes of Shearer, Barnes and Pearce played – but then that’s surely a bonus for us.

The game kicks off and then almost immediately is halted due to Nolan getting a ball in the face, sending him down to the grass for a minute or so. Shame. The scoreboard opposite us slowly counts up the minutes on its low-tech display; just enjoy every minute when we’re still in the game, I think. We seem to have started well, not looking too overawed. I get handed a poster to hold up from the Comet saying “Borough Barmy Army” and wave it in the air a little. Ummm, now what? Failing to make it stick itself to the stand behind me, I put it on the floor. I’ll settle for some gentle verbal encouragement. The crowd has a chuckle when their goalie, Krul, does his first kick and lands on his arse for his efforts. Premier League? You’re having a laugh…

I’m itching to see a shot, and after some encouraging play and even the odd corner, I get impatient as Stevenage players get near the box. “Shoot!!!” I yell, hoping for a screamer to be unleashed right before me. I watch as Bostwick drifts forward directly in front of us…he’s hit it…it’s going towards goal…it’s low and accurate…it’s going in!! Damn! Krul makes a great save to his right and pushes it away. Wow, that was close. Time ticks on, and despite the odd scary moment when we can’t quite see how good the Newcastle breaks are from down here, Stevenage hold their own and make it to half-time level.

Shell hasn’t turned blue just yet, and has quite enjoyed it, it seems. Blokes around me chomp into burgers, looking content at the night’s action so far. The Geordies strip off their shirts and sing “Cheer up, Stevie Bruce!” in reference to their greatest rivals going out of the cup today. Calm down, you’re not exactly setting the cup on fire based on that performance. The second half kicks off. “C’mon Boro!” Can we do it? Five minutes in, and I watch as Stevenage surge forward. Looks like there’s a bit of space. Have a dig…there goes a shot…deflection! It’s…it’s…it’s gone in!!! The East stand erupts and half a second later we do too, as we comprehend what’s happened. I almost can’t believe I’m clapping and cheering Boro taking the lead over Premier League opposition. Get in!! Wow – game on!

Newcastle attack, and Day tips one over the bar from Nolan. Don’t count our chickens. Five minutes later and we go forward again. Why not? Attack ‘em, I say. They’ll be rocked and more than a little nervous. It’s hard to see from this end but we’ve got it on the right and there might be something on as the ball angles its way towards the goal..hang on…did that just… a split second later the noise tells me what my eyes thought they’d seen. It’s 2-0!! 2 flipping 0!!!! “Get in!!! C’mon!!!!!!!” I bounce wildly, almost falling forward as the guy in front gets a hand on his back. Arms raised in the air, fists clenched. This is no longer a nice lead that is probable to get wiped out, this is looking like a match-winning lead! I take some video of the celebrations, photos of the scoreboard, update Facebook. This could be some story unfolding…

“Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio!” Tiote’s just been shown the way to the dressing room! Newcastle are down to 10 men and are two goals in arrears away from home in the second half. If we’re gonna do it, this is the best opportunity ever.

As the minutes slowly increase, I begin to get worried. They say 2-0 is a dangerous scoreline, and Newcastle start to get a bit of the ball. A few shots come towards us, but nothing to worry about. 79 minutes, and a free kick to Newcastle. Keep it going, Boro. The ball comes in towards our keeper Day…but it breaks loose to two Newcastle players on the line! Just a few feet away I watch in slow motion as they turn and swing their legs towards the ball and sweep it in to the net. 2-1. Damn. Only…only…they didn’t. Somehow, the laws of physics were defied and the ball stayed out! Either that or the complete numpties missed an absolute sitter by failing to even make contact with it! Blimey. Let off. No time for reflection, however as Winn is now charging up the pitch…go on!! Surely? Nooooooo! Quite unbelievably, it’s still 2-0.

90 minutes are up. The black and white contingent are not happy, their hopes descending like the bright crescent moon watching above. “We can see you sneaking out!” Four injury-time minutes left. The crowd is nervous now, but I’m still confident. No way can they get back into this. No wa- oh. Barton lashes an unstoppable shot and the net bulges in front of us. 2-1 and still nearly four minutes left. Oh crap. Please don’t say we’re that close to history and gonna blow it. I so want to say I was here to see a victory. I can’t believe we might throw it away. I glance at Shell who is hiding behind her gloves…

We’re still attacking, and rightly so. Can we finish them off? WE CAN!!!! It’s 3-1!!! Definitely game over now!! Goodbye Geordies!!! We’ve done it!!! Finished off a Premier League side like they were schoolboys. The final whistle pierces the cold air and as I cheer, clap and look at the incredulous and happy faces of those around me I know I’ve witnessed something special here. A few teenagers start to run onto the pitch, followed by others. Despite warnings, the stewards let a few kids on, too. Shall I go? Invade the pitch? I know it’s wrong, but I’d like to. Hmmm… maybe if I was actually right at the front. I decide just to record the moment and soak in the atmosphere from the stands for a while.

Eventually, with music ringing out telling the whole town of our mighty victory, I pick up the Comet poster as a memento and head for the exit. I may have missed the sensation that was 1998, but today I was part of FA Cup history.

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10 to 11

Posted on January 1, 2011 by Andy

2010 was some year for me. How would I describe it in one word? A Journey. Ok, technically that’s two words but it’s my blog and I can cheat a little.

Journey is certainly apt in the traditional sense – I have been lucky enough to have been able to see a number of new places in the world and even a familiar, well trodden (or run) route.

It has also been a journey for me professionally, having spent almost an entire year doing a role I never thought I’d ever end up doing. Ok, I’m not talking about something exotic such as a porn star or a motorcycle stunt driver, but a Project Manager seemed just as unlikely to me a year ago. (I imagine that it’s less fun than the other two, though). I took it to challenge me, to give me new skills, to provide a change, and it’s certainly done all those.

Finally, I shared a journey for virtually the whole of 2010 with a girl whom I was lucky enough to find when trying something new. It’s been exciting, fun and a trip that’s going to take us to pastures new this year, too, I’m sure.

So, what were my highlights and low points of 2010?

Well, football sucked. Being an England and Liverpool fan last year wasn’t exactly fun. More like…shit. Watching England play terrible in a World Cup they actually had a decent chance of winning was bad enough. Witnessing Germany take us apart was worse. Add to that the December decision which meant I may never see us host the World Cup in my lifetime (even if I live to 110) was enough to make me wish I was I’d been born in Barcelona. If I had been, of course, I would have probably celebrated a trophy or two recently; instead, I watched Liverpool fall to 7th last season and then the ignominy of watching us flirt with relegation. 2011 had better be an improved year on the pitch.

On the flip side, going to the World Cup in South Africa was a great experience. A second World Cup for me and another continent to tick off on my list. The footy was great, the country an eye-opener and the holiday with my friends a delight. 

I also got to see Sacramento and the amazing Pompeii, Brussels and its Atomium, and revel in the blue tranquility of the Maldives.

I had a high in New York in finishing my third marathon, but was bitterly disappointed in not having the strength to reach my target time. I took with me, however, unforgettable memories of the best support I’d ever seen.
During that time I also had the lowest point of the year, when I had to put my cat, Geri, down. I don’t know when I was last that upset, and it was as devastating as it was fast. Twelve great years and then she was gone.
In terms of births, my cousin Claire started on perhaps the scariest of journeys – becoming a mum for the first time and giving our family a new edition for the first time in years.

Plenty of good nights out were had with the lads, including several Cambridge trips ending in a long taxi drive back or sleeping under a table in a Travelodge room of six people.

2010 was also a landmark for me – I made my debut as a published author! Two of my short stories I’d previously written got printed in two separate anthologies. Two books you can buy on Amazon have fiction in them that I came up with! You just can’t put a price on that feeling.

Overall, I really enjoyed 2010. Maybe it’s the getting older thing but I do feel what I experienced this year grew me as a person in different ways to my travelling of ’09. I’m also finishing the year as happy as I can remember being. In fact, I’ve just looked at last year’s entry and realised what a crap time that was. Amazing what a difference a year makes. Just don’t mention the footy…

So what now? 2011 will be hard work, but hopefully of the good kind. It’s the year I finally do up the house and drag it into this decade. Ok, ok… this century. I also need to get my writing back on track – 2010 was a barren year with barely a key hit in anger. I’ve decided to write something every day this year – even if just this blog, a few personal thoughts or a proper story. So far, so good.
I want to continue my running, get stronger and faster and have more achievements in it. Also, succeed at work, see more of my family and visit new places.

Well, I’ll check back to this list next year and see if I achieved all that or whether it ended up as the proverbial New Year’s resolution crap that nearly everyone does. 

Have a good year folks – fight those challenges, complete those journeys and have a few laughs on the way.

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New York Marathon 2010: The Whole Story

Posted on November 19, 2010 by Andy

It’s marathon blogging time again! Just as in 2008 (see http://andrewmales.com/2008/11/) I want to record everything about my marathon – from decision, to training, preparation, the race itself and the suffering afterwards.

Why? Well, for one I have the memory of one of those orange things that swim around in a bowl, so I want to record everything so I can look back at it some day. Secondly, it allows anyone who cares to visit the site to see just how much goes into doing a marathon.

So, this is an introduction to a series of posts that’ll give you the 2010 New York marathon experience through my own eyes. You’ll hear about and literally see blood, sweat and read about the tears that was my journey. Feel the pain, the hope, despair, elation and hopefully you’ll work out just why the heck we runners put ourselves through this…

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New York Marathon 2010: The Whole Story – Training Days

Posted on November 19, 2010 by Andy

The Decision  

January 2010: My friend, Steve, has said he’s running NY again this year. Last time was fantastic, but do I want to do it again? Hmmm…  

Reasons For  

  • It’s a great experience
  • I know I can do it
  • I want to better my last time
  • It’ll be cool to share and chat about it for years to come
  • I’m one marathon ahead of Steve, so I can’t let him equalise!

Reasons Against  

  • Been there, done that
  • It’s not cheap
  • I’ve a few holidays planned this year, which might get in the way
  • It’s damn hard work and needs commitment to do the training
  • Last time, I beat Steve by 48 seconds (I’ve milked it ever since). I’d almost like to retire on that note! What if he beats me this time?

I look at the options and think about it. No reason to pull the trigger just yet.  

April: I decide to go for it. What the hell. I could do with another challenge and to get fit again.  

Training Begins  

April: A few, short, ad-hoc runs, but nothing serious. Got plenty of months to do it properly.  

May: Hardly anything. Ongoing groin problems are starting to worry me. Have to constantly tell people that it is an old footy injury and has absolutely nothing to do with my girlfriend…  

June: The World Cup dominates the month, especially my trip to South Africa. Spend more time on the golf course than on the road. Slip into a mini-depression at England’s performance.  

Muscles and Brussels  

July: OK, now it’s time to start properly. I dig out my old schedule. I research lots of schedules, different methods of training. Go long? Go fast? Go often? I faff around for a few weeks deciding, before realising that it might be a good idea if I went out and actually start running. I start my schedule and take it easy. Thigh, knee and groin all complain a little, but I’m starting to get used to running regularly again. Even a long weekend trip to Brussels doesn’t stop my training as I am disciplined enough to put in a stint on the treadmill there (once I’d translated the buttons).  

Got to Get it Off My Chest  

August: Damn common colds! Why haven’t we cured them yet? They’re pointless and annoying, and now that it’s gone down to my chest I cannot run. Still, I’ve put in a good cycle of runs early part of the month, so I’ll just rest like a good boy and wait until I can go back out.  

I’m Welywn There – Give me Moor!  

September: A few runs  – including my first race in nearly 2 years in Welwyn – make it to a separate post: http://andrewmales.com/2010/10/02/not-so-cool-runnings/.  

I finish the month with two significant runs: first, the Moor Park 10K…  

This is great training as I want to get faster and it’s a chance to beat my 10K record and maybe get under 50 minutes. Prospects don’t look too good, though, as the rain starts to come down. Still, if my girl’s gonna make an effort to stand here in the wet to watch, then maybe I better turn it on. I start strong from the back, gaining confidence overtaking many people as we do a couple of laps around the field. I want to keep a good pace, so I constantly keep an eye my watch. It’s going well until…what the hell’s this? A golf course? And a long slope? My legs go all heavy and suddenly I can see the records drifting away from me. Must continue. The downhill is a welcome relief, and I’ve survived the possibility of a rogue hook from the 7th hole. I run past the place where Steve got married and where I delivered the best man speech of legends. Pride drives me on. After recent longer runs, 10K seems quite short, and I start to push it. I laugh in the rain and almost sprint past a few people as we enter the field again. Come on Andy – go a bit faster but don’t go too early. Wait for it…Wait for it…Now give it all you’ve got!!! I go for the line like there’s no tomorrow. Strong and oozing the last remaining bit of energy I turn the corner to see the clock still in the 49th minute! I take the glory, the records and a wet hug. If I can run like this for longer, under 4 hours will be mine…  

Character Test  

My schedule says run 16 miles today. It’s grey, wet and uninviting out there. Bugger. Still, what’s the point in training for something if you don’t prepare in all sorts of different weather? It could rain on the day in New York so I need to be sure I can go long even when soaked. Oh well, here goes my longest run since ’08…  

I’m glad I invested a lot of quality Vaseline time before I went out. It’s only been a few miles but I’m soaked through, trudging round my home town on a Friday afternoon. Everyone has vanished – if it weren’t for the cars spraying slowly down the road I’d have sworn aliens had come down and zapped everyone else. Perhaps they thought I was done for anyway. I have no idea what is sweat and what is rain, but everything from my running top to my socks are weighed down with liquid.  

I celebrate getting into double figures, telling myself that 6 miles to go is just 10K, and I can do that in my sleep. A few more laps round the lake…13.1 miles…a half marathon! Just keep going…  

I think I’m going mad. I’m clearly laughing in the rain now, loving it. My legs are just on auto pilot and I’m ploughing on, smiling. The ducks look at me strangely.  

15 miles and gravity is not my friend. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d swear I was going backwards. A small slope, but to a sodden mess with screaming muscles it feels like Everest. Regroup, Andy. Get over it, start again then speed up. Keep up the pace. Reach your goal. I turn towards home.  

I’m nearly there. Home is almost within sight and the watch says 15.90. Ha! Think you can beat me, world? Think the rain will make me quit? You never heard of Andy Males? Pah! You stick your 16 miles as I’m gonna do it. Just let me get to my warm shower…  

Life’s a Beach  

October: You would think that the best time to book a 2-week holiday to a paradise island where you can relax on white beaches, laze in pools and generally do nothing all day is ideal for after a marathon, right? Well, I’ve decided to do it in reverse and go to the Maldives one month before the big race. This is partly due to the timing of my girlfriend’s (Shell)  birthday, but I can’t say I’m annoyed at the prospect of missing two weeks of the cold and wet of home to do my training. We’ve picked one of the bigger islands which has a gym, and enough dirt track to actually do some of the smaller runs outside. Time for the first stint in the gym…  

This is not what I planned. Some silly rule over no sand in the gym means I can’t run there in my trainers I’ve just arrived in. Oh well, I’ll try a few laps of the island. It can’t be that hot in the morning, surely? A couple of miles later, I stop and ring out my vest. I’ve never sweated so much in my life. What’s more, I’m sun-burnt, with clear white lines from my vest. In terms of fashion, it’s an epic fail.  

Time for the big one: 18 miles. This is the peak of my training, the furthest I’m gonna go. I can’t possibly do that sort of mileage outside here – I’d either be reduced to a prune, burnt to a crisp or get dizzy running that many times round the island. So, the air-conditioned gym and the treadmill it is. Can it be done? I have Shell on hand ready to supply me with towels, water, gels, Lucozade, and I have cheesy MTV hits and a mirror to study my form. Let’s do it…  

60 minutes in and I’m finding it tough. Air conditioned? Right now I feel like I’m in a sauna. Towels are running out and I look a mess. The treadmill display defies all logic, warping time. Counting up, I feel like I’ve got a lifetime left. It cuts out at 60, whereby I have to reset, giving me a few seconds of vital respite. Here we go again from zero…  

1 hr 58 and I’m praying for the next reset. My upper right leg is very stiff and I’m not sure how much further I can go on for. Mentally, I’m being drained. I’ve done over 12 miles and keeping a good pace, but how can I go on to 18?  

2hrs 10 and I’m all but gone. The stop button taunts me. It wants me to press its red, shiny loveliness. My brain wants me to press it. My legs are sending telegrams to my brain saying “STOP!” No, don’t do it, Andy. Do it! Press it! NO! YES! STOP! Continue!! STOP! Arrghhh! My arm raises high and goes to hit it. NO! Resist! I somehow drop my arm again. I’m in total turmoil, as my legs pound on and on, various counters proudly displaying my misery. STOP! NO! STOP! NOOOOOO! NOOOOO!!!!!!! Hello? This is Andy’s Emergency Breakdown Service. We have evidence to believe the reasoning side of his brain has shut down and is not taking the necessary action. We will now take control. The message to press the button is made by the part of my brain I did not know existed until now. SLAM! My hand slaps against its square face. I’m done, spent. Willpower is zero. 14 miles and I’ve quit for the first time. Gutted. So gutted. Brain melted and I feel so disappointed.  

Too Little, Too Late?  

November: Training’s all but complete- but have I done enough? A steady increase in mileage and pace has led me to be confident, but have I done sufficient long runs? With a 16 mile maximum, and only 6 runs in double figures, it looks like once again I’m gonna be at that start line not knowing whether I can achieve my goals.  

Comparison of miles from NY 2008 and 2010

Comparison of miles trained for NY 2008 and 2010

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Ready or not

Posted on November 7, 2010 by Andy

It’s 9:15pm in a hotel room in Garden City, Long Island, New York. As soon as this post is done, I’m off to bed. At 4am I’m getting up and starting a day that I’ll never forget.

I’d like to say the preparation has been great, but it hasn’t. My legs aren’t in as good as shape as I’d hoped, and quite frankly I do not know how long certain muscles will last out. Will it just be a case of battling through the pain, or will I just lose all power?

The flight over was one to forget. The first half of it was spent mostly in the confines of a small room where my body tried its best to get rid of anything and everything inside me, including, it felt at times, my organs. I even had to take oxygen just to get me through it!

Next up: I caught a cold. Perhaps I got it just before I left, but it’s not gone yet. How much will it affect my breathing? Can I run as fast as I want?

The worst out of everything was the extremely upsetting news of my cat, Geri. I won’t detail it all here, but it gutted me.

So why put all this here, now? To give me excuses in case I run bad? No, it’s to give you an insight into how even months of good preparation can be affected by unforeseen circumstances. But it’s more than that – I’m writing this to tell myself that I’m gonna get up tomorrow and DESPITE all this, I’m going to nail New York. Whether I get under the golden four hours or not, I’m not quitting. I’m still fighting. It’s not going to beat me. Life can suck sometimes, but you have to continue to reach for your goals. I shall run alongside people who have gone through so much more…and probably with those who will go through worse.

Am  I ready?

Just watch me go…

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Not-so-cool runnings

Posted on October 2, 2010 by Andy

Want an insight into the pain, the glory, sore nipples, buckets of sweat and killer bushes that is my marathon training? No? Oh well, go away then. But if you are interested in my latest efforts, then please read on…

Welywn Garden City 10 Miles

I feel like I’m 12 years old, waiting for a PE lesson to start. This is probably something to do with it being 10:30am, standing on a school field in a pair of short shorts. I’m at the start of a 10 mile race, with nearly 400 other runners ready to tackle the streets of WGC…right after we do a lap of this school field.

It’s my first race since the ’08 marathon. I look around me – everyone seems to be a proper runner: lean, kitted out appropriately, many in running club colours. There is casual chat around me regarding running, families and the like. I’m just here for the training, to log my first double figures of this campaign and hopefully get in under an hour and a half. It’s also payback time: I had entered this very race in ’08 but had to pull out due to injury, instead watching Steve and T “8-head” go round it without me. Today, I have my girlfriend, Michelle (aka “Shell” to me), along for support, and perhaps Si and his family, no doubt ready to take a photo of me looking in some bad way that he’ll post to Facebook within two seconds of taking it. For now, Shell snaps away as I warm up minutes before the start.

The air is cool, and the sun is threatening to break through and make it uncomfortable for a run. The local MP does some inspirational speech that few people will remember seconds later, as the horn goes and we stream through the starting gates. “Beep!” goes the shoe chip to start my own personal clock. I tuck in midway through the field of runners as we trample a route through the grass. Taking the inside and passing a couple of others as our legs threaten to tangle, I feel like I’m in a proper race. Don’t get boxed in! Use your shoulders! Get in a medal position! Ok, I better calm down, I’m nowhere near the front and it’s not the Olympic 1500m final. This is illustrated quite clearly when we go to get out of the field and come to a small exit that seems to be constructed to only fit about three spotty kids across, not a hoard of athletes who have no wish to slow down and break stride. Great planning. Soon though, I’m out on the streets.

Somehow, I’ve isolated myself. There’s a woman running in blue shorts some way ahead of me that I’m focussing on (not her bottom you see, just, err, as a marker, you know) but there’s not much directly behind me. Suddenly I panic – I’m not last, am I? I glance over my shoulder and see a steady line of people some way back. Phew. I wave to my fan club (Shell has now been joined by her friend) and appear to get a few photos taken of me. On I go.

The drink stops are well-received, although I struggle to handle the small plastic cup. Running with it is fine, it’s just when I try and take a sip I feel like Ted Striker in “Airplane!” There are not too many hills over the two-loop circuit, but my thighs certainly are telling me when I’m going up them. More conditioning is needed if I am to tackle NY, methinks. I pass Shell again, trying my best to look strong and fast. As soon as she’s out of sight, I revert back to a slower, more slump-like posture. It’s beginning to hurt now.

Si appears out of nowhere and cheers me on, iPhone at the ready. The kids are instructed to wave, but seem to be a little bemused at who it is they’re exactly cheering on. Nevertheless, it’s great to see familiar faces and spurs me on. We go through residential areas, on pavements, passing kids going about their Sunday hanging around. Marshals lurk around every corner, pointing in the direction to take, dressed in fluorescent green vests. With my sense of direction, this is probably best, otherwise no doubt I’d end up in St. Albans.

I’m at my lowest now. I’ve just seen the 7 mile sign. 7? 6 was ages ago – it surely must be 8 by now. “Not long left!” said the marshal a while ago. That’s just cruel. All very well her sitting there doing next to nothing, but don’t give us false hope, say it how it is. “Go on! You’re knackered and have about half an hour of running ahead, but keep going!” would been preferable, and more honest. My legs are heavy, my vest is awash with sweat and I feel I’m slowing down. C’mon Andy. A runner in front of me stops, walks for a bit, then continues before I catch up with him. That’s not gonna be me – I don’t stop. Left foot follows right follows left…

More photos, and then I get the sense of being on the back straight. The 9 mile marker has suddenly appeared, sooner than I expected, and this gives me a boost. Either that, or it’s the energy gel I took 15 minutes ago. I pass one of the club runners and feel proud. ’ave it, Harlow Runners. I run round the school – I must be nearly there! Then I see one of the most hated sights in races: people who’ve already finished, walking back to their cars with their white finishers’ bags. Damn you! I still have work to do and you’re basking in the glory already. I continue. When’s it going to end? Down a long stretch, I see a crowd gathering. Time to up the pace, bring on a strong finish. Men in front of me suddenly are left in my wake as my burst surprises even me. Just before the school entrance I see Shell…and we enter our very own race as she dashes to try to capture me crossing the line. Ah, let’s give her the shot she wants, slow down a little, relax. I come towards the line and in sight of the announcer who sees me: “AND HERE COMES NUMBER 350 <quick check of the list>……..ANDY MALES! GIVE US A SPRINT FINISH!” My brain switches to show-0ff mode – I run harder. I sprint. I go for the line like I’m running for Great Britain. The crowd (to me) go wild as I approach. And look at the time! 1:27! I’m under 1.5 hours! I smile as I cross the line and celebrate, not that Shell captures it. Ooops. I think she didn’t keep up with my sprint. That’ll teach me to showboat! I collect another medal for my meagre collection, my goody bag and slowly walk back to the car, smiling smugly at the runners still coming in.

 

Sorrento Treadmill

Going away anywhere for more than two days means working out where I can run. Here, in Sorrento, Italy, I don’t have many options. Mount Vesuvius looks at me across the bay, challenging me. Hmmm…I might walk up part of you tomorrow, but I don’t think even Steve meant that kind of hill running as part of my training. Trouble is, my hotel is a) on a bit of a hill anyway, and b) in Italy, with Italian drivers close to narrow pavements. I happen to like my limbs in one piece, so I decide to tackle the treadmill.

The hotel is full of people over 50, so I rate my chances on taking the only treadmill; I was right – not a soul around. Twelve miles here I come. Except…twelve miles is a long time – both to run, and to stare at my face in the mirror for what will be two hours. It’s damn hot in here, too. Oh well, gotta be done. Shell decides to jump on the cycle machine to keep me company.

The digits on the treadmill cheerfully display 2 hours to go. I get into my stride. 1 hour 50. Just over ten minutes later, it switches to a delightful 99 minutes left. Oh wonderful. I continue, wiping sweat from my brow, arms, neck, armpits. It’s a hopeless task – I obviously have a leak somewhere. 89 minutes. Just think of the achievement. Keep going. Shell’s jumped to the stepper. I start to play a game with my mind – 79 minutes doesn’t mean 79 minutes – it just means I’m in the 70s. Soon, I’ll be in the 60s, and then that just an hour left. I even ramp up the speed a little – the quicker I go, the faster I get to 12, right?

I’m somewhere in the 40s now, and having to resort to music to keep me going. Not real music, of course – I have no iPod with me – it’s the jukebox in my head. It’s been playing Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” for a while now, something to do with “Ohhhhhh, we’re halfway there!” that jumped out at me when 6 miles were clocked up. Various other fragments of tunes float around, repeating lines as rhythms that I run to.

I’m nearly there. There’s enough sweat around me to fill the swimming pool and my left groin is complaining but I’m still going. Shell has long finished exercising and is relaxing with her puzzle book nearby, giving me encouraging shouts every now and again. She also supplied me with an energy gel and became the saviour of my nipples by going and getting two plasters. You have no idea the difference that makes!

Down to the 20s…teens…then it’s single figures! C’mon on! Nearly there…almost beaten you, treadmill. Think you’d win? Ha! C’mon! 5 minutes …4…3…2…1 minute…30 seconds…two full hours and we’re done. I stop my watch, slow down to walking pace and smile as 12.11 miles is displayed. As I limp off to my room, Vesuvius seems to taunt my calves, whispering, “tomorrow…tomorrow…”

 

 Cycle Track Half Marathon

From the glory of WGC, the beauty of Sorrento…to the cycle tracks of Stevenage. After a few days’ rest and carb-loading, I’m ready to attempt another milestone in my training: a half marathon of 13.1 miles. Unfortunately my legs are not the only thing that is ready to run today, and I don’t mean my nose. Something I ate? Not sure, but things aren’t looking good as I contemplate two hours away from a toilet. Ahhhh, the joys of long-distance running…

I leave it to later in the day to recover, which is good, aside from the fact it’s got quite warm out there. For the first time, I’ll have ongoing support, in the form of Shell riding next to me. No megaphone, but at least she can carry the gels and water bottle and keep me company. We set out for what is a daunting run to me as I begin to realise it really is getting serious.

The first flaw in this plan is that I start off more concerned that Shell is ok on the bike; she’s more used to the static kind found in gyms, and it’s been many a year, it seems, since she rode one that actually went somewhere. I remind her that it’s like…well, you know the rest. It feels a bit weird at first, having someone right next to you. I’m not sure if I prefer her in front or behind, but it does take my mind off my running. A couple of miles in and I hear an awful noise behind me – yep, that’s the chain come off. Great. I realise it’s not good for either of us for me to complain at this stage, so I just pause the clock and quickly fix it to get her back and cycling. Let’s hope that’s the last hiccup.

I’m hurting now and strength is being sapped out my thighs by the invisible gods of the hills. This is bad. How am I going to cope in New York with its bridges? Any incline is proving difficult for me. I have a stitch, my right knee is sore, my ear is making me dizzy and once again sweat is cascading down my face. I start to dig deep. “COME ON!” Various outbursts and mantras fall from my lips as I strive to keep rhythm and my legs going. I must not quit.

I’m in Fairlands Lakes now, doing a few circuits. Home is not far away. I raise my arms and spread my fingers to indicate the passing of the ten mile stage. Think of the rest. Think of the milkshake that awaits. The achievement. Think of the…suddenly a bush jumps out me, scratching my arm and hand with its thorns. Stupid bush! Stupid council! Why don’t they trim these things? I’m bleeding, sweating and hurting all over. Great.

Shell has been great, keeping me going, giving me water, encouragement and most importantly not falling off or damaging my bike. I reach the home straight, less than a mile to go. “Time to bring it home!” I say, and start to sprint. Twenty seconds later, I’m barely running. My energy bar is critically low. No showboating this time, Andy, let’s just get home. Soon, I’m running out of cycle track as I finally get near home. 13 miles…13.1 and stop. I’m absolutely knackered. My legs are shot. I’m a mess. And just think – in not so many weeks’ time I’ll have to do that again…twice.

Oh crap…

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Start spreading the news…

Posted on August 26, 2010 by Andy

Start spreading the news
I’m leaving today (well, November)
I want to be a part of it (and I will)
New York, New York

These vagabond (err, running) shoes
Are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it (and all 5 boroughs)
New York, New York

Apologies to the great Frank Sinatra there – I’m sure my version isn’t quite as snappy, but it’s a trashy way to start this blog and catch your attention. Shameless but relevant: it’s to inform you all that on November 7th 2010 I’m running the 26.2 miles of the New York City marathon…and to let you know of all the charity sponsorship details.

Re-rewind

I admit that I haven’t updated this blog much recently. It started off detailing my 2008 training and race, then went on to my amazing sabbatical, then various random things, mostly footy. I had intended to put lots of World Cup stuff here, but then all the enthusiasm kinda drained from me when England actually took to the field.

So, what am I doing about it now? Well, I enjoyed writing about the training last time, so I’m going to do it again with my training now. I’ll throw in some footy posts, as well as at least one update about my South Africa experience (which is nearly finished anyway and is quite a story!) but generally it’s for you to know how I’m doing.

Money, money, money

With a quick swerve of tunes, we reach the important bit: I’m running for charity. Two charities, exactly. One is for seriously and terminally ill children, Dreams Come True, and the other is for a local hospice, Garden House.

You can read all about them on my Just Giving pages – what they are, what they do, why I’m running for them. The links are below and you should also see a donate section on this very website.

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010DreamsComeTrue

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010GardenHouse

 

Every breath you take

So what do I give you back in return? Updated blog entries on my training struggles. There’s always tales of injury pain, illnesses, getting soaked, dogs trying to savage my ankles and general kill-me-now moments that I’m sure you’ll have a sadistic interest in as I prepare over the next two and a bit months.

You’ll also get to see some embarrassing photos of me. For every £200 I raise, I’ve pledged to put up on my JustGiving sites funny (but clean!) photos I have of me from over the years.

And of course, you’ll get the warm, fuzzy feeling of helping to make a difference to someone who really needs it.

So what are you waiting for? Check out my sites, read my blog, spread the news and join in.

It’s up to you…

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