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.