the Howell Half-Marathon
Since the marahash blog appears to have spontaneously risen from the dead, and more than a couple of the denizens of the St. Radegund have unwisely admitted to signing up for spring marathons, it seems only fair that some kind of atheticism makes an appearance. So, to kick off this winter's tales, here's what happens when you volunteer to go for a quick trot with Hannah and Chris of a Wednesday evening...
1. Turn up at Chris's house. Store bike safely in garden, locking it to the splendidly-kitch collection of garden-gnomery next to the shed. Note inwardly that Chris is obviously very houseproud, compared to his carefree persona.
2. Stand outside waiting for Hannah.
3. Return to rear of house. Remove bike from next-door's garden and transfer to correct garden, shouldering open the unique one-hinge gate. Note inwardly that the correct garden in fact indicates a dangerously revolutionary character, as it appears to have been used as a training-ground for the kind of environmental protest groups that live under soggy bits of plywood and lock themselves upside-down to earth-moving equipment.
4. Set off in the dark towards Granchester.
5. Via Cherry-Hinton and Fulbourn, it appears.
6. Oh, and Trumpington too. Dissuade the ex-Army girl from attempting the Clay-Field assault-course to Trumpington Waitrose in the dark, and head on down Long Road.
7. Ignore screams of pain from legs, press on across Granchester Meadows. Fondly imagine this means a return via Brooklands avenue.
8. Or Chesterton, as it turns out. Run past appealing smell of food at Restaurant 22. Ignore stomach-rumblings.
9. Thunder over green-dragon bridge. Head in general direction of airport. Question self as to whether or not have actually completed a will recently.
10. Notice strange ache in right knee around the Big Sainsburys. Decide to forgo the joys of running back past Addenbrookes in an attempt to avoid a more permanent visit there.
11. Arrive back at Chris's. Consume standard recovery diet of picallili and jaffa-cakes.
12. Try to pedal home. Slowly.
For those with more masochism than sense, the Howell half-marathon may be found here.
http://www.gmap-pedometer.com/?r=1476258
Herd instinct
Due to a frantic hunt for some keys - any keys - I was rather late to last night's hash. Which gave me ample opportunity to admire the size of the circle (oo-eer missus) as I locked up my bike.
Wot a lot of folks. All enthusiastic in their pursuit of the good things in life, like, er, flour. This works in our favour as we charge across town, intimidating local scallies and bewildering new undergraduates with aplomb, but once we reach the on-inn, the atmosphere changes. Thoughts of the inevitable lengthy queue for the bar become uppermost, and the resulting sprint home is rarely pretty, as our on the spot photojournalist can attest:
Still, it means I can ignore all those annoying entries in my training schedule saying vague things like 10 x 1 min fast, 2 minute recoveries. I have a much more serious test for a Monday night: 1 x 5 minutes near death, 1 week recovery. I am confident that once I have worked out a means of reproducing the Radegund's bar every 10k around the Barcelona course, I shall be on the verge of a famous victory.
oops
Terribly sorry- posted that on the wrong blog!
...and please don't ask about my recent interest in Freemartins...
B
'Summer makes me drowsy, Autumn makes me sing, Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring'
(With apologies to Ms D Parker)
Fireworks night is over.
The Hash has a new king (queen).
Geese are travelling south.
Or any combination of the above. Anyway, all of these seasonal cues make me look forward to spring and wonder whether there isn't something missing from my life.
[Pantsonfire pauses. Thinks]
[Runs upstairs]
[Returns]
No, I did remember to pick the children up. So what could it be?
Anyone?
Supergeniusitude
It’s great what you find when you google marahash. Last year’s Matyrometer has been referenced on the really rather marvellous wordslustitude, along with such must learn phrases as nutsopath (a less clinically exact relative of the psychopath), cluster molestation (a cluster fuck that’s even more disturbing than usual) and the batshitometer (a precise, whacko detecting instrument). Google also dug out Jim’s dirty little secret. Maybe it’s time for the blog to live again, if only to provide the world with further obscure rinking terms?