Moving

"Grandeur" is not a word often associated with Pokesdown Railway Station. I'm not about to change that either.  It's the most functional of stations.  The station entrance is simple double doors sandwiched between Cheque Express ("Tel 42-22-52 for Kwik Cash!") and Klevaco Air Conditioning Ltd. The ticket concourse is bland beige flooring with white tiled walls.  The long platform - once a necessity to accommodate the hordes of holiday makers arriving by train - is deserted, sheltered by a shabby roof held up by iron stanchions, backed by a high wall.  That wall, at least, has in recent times been perked up with an impressive spray-paint mural, the length of the platform, but still it struggles to lift the station out of its misery. Situated in a cutting, there's little view to be had except the weeds that grow in between the rails.  Two years ago, the station was officially renamed "Pokesdown For Boscombe".  This probably tells you everything you need to know about the sort of people that normally disembark at Pokesdown - those that are inhibited, either by alcohol, language or simple map-reading skills, from locating the nearest station to their destination unless it's made explicitly clear.  Which begs the question "who gets on a train not knowing where they're getting off?", but I digress.

My commute now terminates at Pokesdown.

It's been moving week for the family, half a mile across the gently flowing River Stour to the tree-lined suburbia of Boscombe East.  It's meant a severe dent in the training regime. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday all fly by without a hint of exercise, save for the lifting of boxes.  On top of this, the upheaval means a bunch of takeaways, and the Easter weekend delivers chocolate aplenty.

On Monday I take myself out for a post Easter run. It's the familiar 5k loop around the Iford and Tuckton bridges, albeit that I now start from the opposite side of the river.  Everything starts well, as I keep a sub 8-minute mile pace along Barrack Rd.  It's notable that 8:30/mi pace, not so long ago a "stretch goal", is now considered slow and steady.

Gradually I feel the acid sting of half digested Mini Eggs rising in my oesophagus.  I immediately regret my chocolate intake. But I keep up the pace anyway, over the railway bridge and on to Stour Road.  The Garmin beeps to let me know that I've completed 2 miles, and it's a quick one.  If I keep going like this, maybe even on for another 5k best.  But then my brain gets in the way.  "Stop," it whispers gently, "you've earned it.  Ease yourself back in." I've become pretty good at ignoring my brain, as my wife would testify, however today, for some reason, it's not so easy. I slow to a walk, and congratulate myself on the run until now. After a breather, I speed back up, ready to attack the last mile at a similar speed.

"What the...?" shouts my left shoulder blade.

"This isn't what I signed up to" says the arch of my right foot.

The left foot nods in agreement.

"I'm sleepy," yawns my right arm, slowly going numb.

"I told you this would happen," moans my right knee.

"It's a disgrace!" grumbles the left knee.

"Hi, I'm new here!" proclaims my neck.

It's a disaster.  Every part of my body suddenly has a tale of woe to tell.  Things are so bad that I barely reach the other side of Tuckton Bridge before having to stop again. I've gone from Mo Farah to Big Mo in the space of 30 seconds.  Things continue in a similar vein for the rest of the run, and I'm mighty relieved to round the corner on to the finish straight.  I am a broken man.

With a holiday coming up next week, I fear this situation may not improve either.  And I still haven't got back in the pool.  The clock is ticking down to July 6th.  Erk.

Game of Bones: The Tale of Paa-Krunne

It was dark days in the Kingdom. The King's trusty steed, Knees, was rendered lame. Instead, the King - devilishly handsome and wonderfully benevolent - busied himself toiling in the fields; playing with his casual band of minstrels; attending the tremendous displays of derring-do by the King's Regiment.  Meanwhile, the Queen prepared the Royal household for its relocation across the sparkling waters of the great River Stour, into the hinterlands of Iford.

But none of this could hide the fact that the King was avoiding his duties. A great malaise was spread over the land. The waters of the lagoon lay undisturbed.  He found solace in wine and beer.  The twin trolls, Sloth and Gluttony, hid under the palace drawbridge, awaiting their chance to ambush the King.  People all over the land beseeched the messengers of the court to bring them news of the King, but they could not, for he could not even find the heart to update his blog.

But news reached the King of great trouble.  A great dragon, Paa-Krunne, had come down from the mountains, and was now troubling the peasants in the King's Park.  The King discussed the situation with his advisors.  Everyone expected the King to do something, but he feared for the still recovering Knees. He did not want to show his vulnerability in a battle that he might lose.  But when the time came, the King knew what had to be done.  This was the opportunity he needed to show his people his bravery and courage.  He knew that he must take Knees into battle, and slay the dragon - in under 25 minutes.

On the high plateau of the Park, the King laid eyes upon the dragon.  It was still 3.1 miles distant, but the King was brave of heart and strong of head.  He was surrounded by his loyal troops - Sir Greg, once rumoured to have slain the dragon in just 22 minutes; Sir Kennedy and his young trainee, Master Henry; Dame Black; Lord John of Motson.  Urging Knees into a gallop, the King rode steadily but quickly.

Paa-Krunne was still a mile away when the pair came to the Marsh of Fatigue. A fog hung heavy over the marsh, and Knees struggled to make headway through the soft ground.  The King was by now alone, and ruing his earlier pace.  He was longing for a tavern in which to rest, when he passed by a fair maiden.

"'Tis a tortuous journey, my lord," spoke the maiden.

"Verily it is. But we have come so far, and we are so near," replied the King.

"What is your quest?," she quizzed.

"I have come to slay the beast in under 25 minutes"

The maiden, red hair funnelled into a thick plait down her back, considered the quest. "Then I think you are travelling well, sire. In this marsh I fear I have lost my way, and I shall not reach my destination today".

"Then we shall travel together, fair maiden, for I too am lost in this terrible place.  I am Sir Mark," said the King.  He did not wish to reveal his true identity, for he was humble, as well as devilishly handsome and wonderfully benevolent.

"I am Lady Kate."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Come, we must not tarry, for the dragon is near."

Together they travelled, from the Marsh of Fatigue, through the Woods of Twisted Ankle.  The tales they told along the way passed the time, and compelled them onwards.

At the summit of the Hill of Doubt, they found the lair of the dragon, and inside, the awakening beast.  It noticed the brave adventurers.  The Hill of Doubt had sapped their energy, but they reminded each other of the rich rewards that awaited the completion of their quest.  The dragon reared up and beat its massive wings.  It was angry, and its fiery breath scorched the muscles and took away their breath.

"We must aim for the heart, Sir Mark.  Gird your loins, for now is the time we must attack."

"Aye, Lady Kate.  Attack we shall."

The party advanced upon the dragon, deftly avoiding its attacks.  The King charged at full speed.  The good horse Knees was now at his limits.

"Sprint now, Sir Mark, if you are to accomplish your quest!," squealed Lady Kate.

As Knees buckled beneath him, the King plunged his sword deep into the heart of Paa-Krunne.  The beast let out a moan that reverberated throughout the Kingdom, and slumped to the floor.  It was slain.  The King glanced at his most ancient Garmin to see that he had completed his quest in 24 minutes and 20 seconds.

As light returned to the Kingdom, the people rejoiced, and once more did the King update his blog.

Block

"You haven't posted on your blog for ages," says Benji.

"I know. I haven't had anything to write about."

"Perhaps you have writers' block. You should post about writers' block."

It's probably not so much writers' block as triathlon block. A general trough of apathy has followed the duathlon.  It's not been without it's highlights, most notably a 25:10 parkrun 5k, and an 8.5k lunchtime run, but otherwise it's a litany of missed training and underwhelming effort.

To underline the gloomy outlook, today my knees age about 30 years of their own volition.  It starts with a hill reps session with Greg.  The warm up run is fine, but as soon as we start the first run up the hill, the inside of my right knee pings and I have to stop. It's another few minutes before I can go again, and then it's gingerly.

Over the course of the afternoon, my left knee decides it needs a bit of the action too.  By the time I get home, climbing the stairs is a chore. This cannot be good.  It it maybe life's way of telling me that I really should get back to swimming. I haven't been for two weeks.  Perhaps, just perhaps, this is the opportunity I need to discover my inner dolphin.