Sometimes the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls.
Walking from Waterloo Station to the City of London, you can read this entire poem along the underpass.
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The oldest regularly-held sporting event in the world reached its 153rd edition in London last Saturday, and I was lucky enough to watch the coverage along with millions all around the globe.
The Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race, from Putney to Mortlake.
Rowing – it’s a sport I know so little, which taught me so much of what I know.
Now I could tell you that sport is all about fitness. I could tell you that it’s about improvement, and dedication and companionship. I could relate the heightened mental acuity felt by the long distance runner, show you the slow-motion symmetry of a perfect iron shot towards the flag on a silent summer’s evening, or try to describe the sound of a mountainside half-shrouded in cloud.
Sport might really be about all of those things. But I know that’s not true.
It was rowing which taught me that lesson. It was the summer I spent doing this. The summer when I learnt that sport is all about fear.
It’s spring. The sun is out. The clocks have changed. And so have I.
I left my old job three weeks ago. It was time for change, and so for a few weeks my time’s my own. My days are brighter now, and I feel refreshed, revitalised and renewed.
The sun shone all the way into London. I stepped out of the train into an unfamiliar crystal haze as a cool spring day stretched all along the South Bank. The river walk was empty in the early morning, and yet through the silence I could hear the echo of running shoes on tarmac, all around me. I was only walking, but I could feel that exhilaration.
It took me just a quarter of an hour from Waterloo Station to reach my meeting at Tate Modern. Fifteen minutes to gaze across the Thames, at the city shining back at me across the water. Pale blue pastel sky above the distant dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, a vision of glinting white limestone pillars growing ever nearer.
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Posted in 2007, history, life and times, London, summer
All winter long, I walked across the park.
I was working on a deal, and it seemed that every week I’d be in London for a meeting, somewhere. In busy winter weeks at work, it’s hard to run, and so I try to walk instead.
And where better to walk than across Hyde Park ? At 350 acres, it’s one of the largest central urban parks in the world, and perhaps the most famous. Nearly every park, in nearly every other city, owes something to Hyde Park.
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Posted in 2007, history, life and times, London, winter
1. London is Olympic – 21.04.2006
The London 2012 film and music were playing at the Expo last night, reminding me that Sunday will see the first marathon in this newly Olympic city of ours.
And inspiration for the marathon start line just doesn’t get any better than this.
I look into the window of my mind
Reflections of the fears I know I’ve left behind
I step out of the ordinary
I can feel my soul ascending
I’m on my way
Can’t stop me now
And you can do the same
Heather Small – May 2000
Posted in 2006, London, music, racing, the marathon journey
My winter’s journey of 18 weeks and 499 miles is over. Only four more days and 26 miles to go.
From the bleak beginnings of a frozen, snowy Christmastime in Scotland, through fifty Crawley lunchtimes and Guildford nightfalls I’ve wandered.
Along pretty Surrey towpaths and under pitch-black Houston skies, I waved those winter months goodbye.
I’ve seen the North Downs slopes from every side, gasped breathless in the Alps, and loped lazily down last weekend’s Warwickshire lanes and the Avon riverbank, too.
It’s been a long way, this year.
I’ve felt no real promise, honest aspiration, or even false pretence of quicker feet or swifter legs, this time.
Just run through winter, until you reach the spring, I said.
So I just got through it. And now I’m here.
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