sunset

Click for more views of a Cavendish sunset.

Georgetown, Prince Edward Island

Today we drove east to Georgetown to see the schooner "Bluenose II" which was in the small port there. This is a replica of a 1920s Nova Scotian racing schooner. At one hundred and sixty one feet long and with a main mast towering one hundred eighteen feet overhead it is a very impressive timber ship. I put a few more pictures here which show the vessel in a little more detail.

to the australian wanker who keeps spamming me and my friends' sites...

You Patrick/Micky are the arsehole of the Lord, farting out the divine stench of your own putrefaction. Point your antipodean anus elsewhere. You are a dry drunk. You are still drinking in your head. You have no concept of real sobriety. Stay away because none of us has any interest in your weasel words. FUCK OFF.

running at fifty

You will look like this if you run too far, too fast, too often, too soon but when did I ever take good advice or embrace moderation? A couple of months ago I told myself I was starting off gently to build up but I set a pretty steep curve and allowed only one rest day a week.

At first I was stopping to walk during my 1.7 mile run, gasping for breath and my heart pounding. I would reach the finish with the watch stopping at just on twenty minutes and I would take another twenty to recover normal breathing and heart rate. Now, six weeks later, I can do that run in thirteen minutes ten seconds.

The “Map My Run” website, linked to Google Earth, lets you plot and measure routes and record times. I have five regular runs, the longest being five miles. Each time I run, I lower my best time by a few more seconds and am learning to pace myself on the longer outings.

Running as though I was still twenty-seven has been tough but the benefits are that my stamina has improved dramatically and my recovery time is now quite short. Oh, and I have lost twelve pounds in weight.

5 miles: 43 mins

3.2 miles: 28 mins 58 secs

2.6 miles: 22 mins 08 secs

1.7 miles: 13 mins 10 secs

1 mile: 7 mins 30 secs

the long distance runner

1985 Nike Air Pegasus running shoes. I pounded the pavements of Bournemouth in the 1980s wearing these exact shoes, (at the time, running from myself and delaying the time of evening when I would reach for the bottle.) Eventually it got to be too much like hard work and heck, I was young and immortal. Why on earth would I need to exercise in my late twenties.

Twenty-three years later I have dusted them off and begun running in them again. I have to say they are supremely comfortable and have that certain "retro" quality which is impossible to fake. At fifty I have discovered I am no longer immortal and I definitely do need to exercise. After three weeks of building up I now run 2.7 miles in twenty-five minutes - pathetic really but it is all my old bones can manage just yet.


2008 Nike Air Pegasus running shoes. I am too easily unsettled by anything new and unfamiliar so I was mightily relieved to find the same old model is still available from Nike a quarter of a century on (albeit updated a little). I invested in this second pair of special footwear partly to satisfy my craving for modern technology, scuplted into science fiction running shoes and partly to give my old feet something delicious to slip into as an occasional treat. These beauties were worth waiting for. I feel I have a distinct unfair advantage over my fellow pavement pounders as I gallop along on bouncy pillows of air. The vintage pair will be my workhorse runners and the new ones for high days and holidays.




Even running apparel has come on in leaps and bounds since I last browsed the racks of a sports shop. My new running shirt and shorts weigh precisely nothing and have to be anchored to the rail in my closet to stop them floating to the ceiling like party balloons. They are so light I keep glancing down to make sure I haven't had a ghastly oversight and gone running naked. The same goes for my wafer-thin tracksuit, which is in my favourite and rather eye-catching combination of black and grey. (Well, I couldn't resist having the full set and I will need it [even wafer-thin] when winter comes around.)

Never one to do anything by half, I have a vague notion of running long distances in due course. I like the feeling when my lungs work hard and fill to capacity without a twinge. I like my heart beating fast. My current run of just under three miles would need to be followed by a further nine of similar length to get up to marathon distance. That seems an impossibility as I sit with sore muscles and write this but why not aim high.

Maisie Jane

Born in the 8th minute of the 4th pm hour of the 8th day of the 4th month of the 8th year of the millenium. An auspicious date to step into this world. She might live a full century and will see incredible things. At fifty years my new daughter's senior, I hope I get to see some of them with her. We are here too.

a new life - part 14

His appearance was very different from the time of the crime. Yesterday he had shaved his head leaving a neat goatee. Since Black’s visit he had been cultivating a convincing Manchester accent, a Bolton dialect to be precise and Francis was precise. Jane had been fooled time and again by his mastery of voices. He had often called pretending to be her brother from Glasgow, or her workmate from Newcastle. Ha-way bonnie lass...

***

The payphone smelled of stale cigarettes.
“Black? Never mind who this is, I have information for you man.” Francis’ Caribbean lilt was very convincing.
“ I sold a gun to a girl called Sue. The word is man, she did something silly with it.” He hung up while Black was still stuttering.

You’ve got the gun Sue, not me. His mind was razor sharp now. He felt jubilant. The clouds of the last few months had well and truly parted. His perspective was clear, his memory complete. That last decision had been a masterstroke. Sue was holding a murder weapon and it was covered with her fingerprints. She worked for a bank that had been robbed. Good luck to her when Black started nosing around asking where she had buried Francis and his wife. Pick the bones out of that lot, he smiled wryly and set off on foot for the car park.

***

Francis swung his old Ford out of a nondescript South London long term parking lot. He gunned it across Waterloo Bridge and headed west out of town. It was a cool, late October afternoon and he rolled down his window inviting in the chill breeze to keep him awake.

He drove through Knightsbridge, Kew and Twickenham in twilight before reaching the Motorway and building to a comfortable cruising speed. Illuminated blue signs slid overhead, “Hampshire and the West.” Every mile pushed his old life further behind. He glanced at his watch, it would be dark when he reached his old father’s farm.

Checking his pocket for the twentieth time, he felt his passport and wallet. He settled back and summoned thoughts of a far-flung continent, imagining a palm-fringed beach with the whitest sand, the bluest sea and an impossibly tall glass of iced water.

Steppenwolf thundered from the stereo:

“Get your motor running, head out on the highway,
Looking for adventure in whatever comes our way.”

Behind him on the back seat a shovel rolled in time to the beat.


THE END