Apusapus
...but I'm guessing it wasn't my destiny anyway :-).
Like all sad runners, I promise myself every year that "next year, I'll *really* take things
seriously". And each year, I try, I really do. But then something rolls along and I get sidetracked
and return to the same old routes, same old training routines, which keep me fit but will never turn
me into "Vet of the year". This time my new year is buggered before it even started.
Those of you with too much time and a high boredom threshold will know that baby Hunter has been
doing a little karting this year. Partially to amuse me and partially to see how well his natural
aggression and competitiveness could be diverted to an area of life that caused less upset to those
around him. Sadly, and surprisingly, he's become hooked. He's won a couple of races - nothing
significant - but now has the glazed look of a trophy hunter appearing in his eyes. I kept waiting
for his enthusiasm to fade - normally he has the staying power of Dwain Chambers sans drugs - but
it's got worse instead of better. He is, he believes, a world champion in the making. He isn't, of
course. I'm *almost* certain of that. And yet...
Yesterday found me signing a rather large cheque to a man who seemed very happy afterwards. In
return, I am the proud owner of a second-hand converted motorhome that can house two kart chassis,
three engines, numerous spare thingies, and a driver and parent. As we've sold his training kart to
some other sucker, we only now have to buy the two kart chassis, three engi...... You get the drift.
WTF has all this to do with running, you ask? Little and nothing. 'Cept my Sunday morning long runs
have just disappeared for the foreseeable future, to be replaced by hours spent freezing my ass off
at some windswept racetrack while baby embarks upon his quest for fame, fortune and trophies. I
shouldn't complain really - I have the fun of helping to set the karts up and testing - thus I get
to play racing hero too. Nevertheless I have the strangest feeling that this pastime may be in
danger of taking up rather more of my personal time that I'd willingly surrender. Cash I don't mind,
you can always get some more. But time is a commodity that no-one's selling and, as I age, I regard
it as an increasingly valuable resource.
What this means to you, dear rec.runner, is that something has to give. And what's giving is my time
spent playing on this thing. That's right! This bloody computer! Which is a hell of a shame 'cause I
*really, REALLY* enjoy myself here. But you see my problem? Time formerly spent running is being
encroached upon by learning about kart and engine maintenance, datalogger setup, driving half way
across Scotland for some damn track session, etc, etc. So the time formerly spent ->here<- will now
be used as run times! Simple, no?
should let me go with dignity and a smile. We've had some fun, we've had some tears. We've had
numerous partings, but you always knew I'd be back (usually within the hour). And, truth be told,
I'd never planned on leaving, merely becoming a permanent fixture - a portal through which all new
rec.runners must pass before being accepted into the herd. But real life, true to form, has other
ideas. Hell, I haven't even had time to work on a *huge* post giving you an update on the year-end
awards votes.
So, my little chums, we come to the last para. Who was 'Roger Hunter'? What parts of his story were
true? Did anyone give a fcuk? I'll tell you what. If a kid with his helmet painted in Saltires
looking like stars ever wins a Formula 1 race, look around for his Dad. That'll be me. With any
luck, I'll still be wearing running shoes. Take care, you dickheads. Safe and long runs to you all -
yeah, even you, Wobbot.
Roger. <oh, Matthew, you really were a totally hopeless stalker. you never got within 60
miles of me :-)
Like all sad runners, I promise myself every year that "next year, I'll *really* take things
seriously". And each year, I try, I really do. But then something rolls along and I get sidetracked
and return to the same old routes, same old training routines, which keep me fit but will never turn
me into "Vet of the year". This time my new year is buggered before it even started.
Those of you with too much time and a high boredom threshold will know that baby Hunter has been
doing a little karting this year. Partially to amuse me and partially to see how well his natural
aggression and competitiveness could be diverted to an area of life that caused less upset to those
around him. Sadly, and surprisingly, he's become hooked. He's won a couple of races - nothing
significant - but now has the glazed look of a trophy hunter appearing in his eyes. I kept waiting
for his enthusiasm to fade - normally he has the staying power of Dwain Chambers sans drugs - but
it's got worse instead of better. He is, he believes, a world champion in the making. He isn't, of
course. I'm *almost* certain of that. And yet...
Yesterday found me signing a rather large cheque to a man who seemed very happy afterwards. In
return, I am the proud owner of a second-hand converted motorhome that can house two kart chassis,
three engines, numerous spare thingies, and a driver and parent. As we've sold his training kart to
some other sucker, we only now have to buy the two kart chassis, three engi...... You get the drift.
WTF has all this to do with running, you ask? Little and nothing. 'Cept my Sunday morning long runs
have just disappeared for the foreseeable future, to be replaced by hours spent freezing my ass off
at some windswept racetrack while baby embarks upon his quest for fame, fortune and trophies. I
shouldn't complain really - I have the fun of helping to set the karts up and testing - thus I get
to play racing hero too. Nevertheless I have the strangest feeling that this pastime may be in
danger of taking up rather more of my personal time that I'd willingly surrender. Cash I don't mind,
you can always get some more. But time is a commodity that no-one's selling and, as I age, I regard
it as an increasingly valuable resource.
What this means to you, dear rec.runner, is that something has to give. And what's giving is my time
spent playing on this thing. That's right! This bloody computer! Which is a hell of a shame 'cause I
*really, REALLY* enjoy myself here. But you see my problem? Time formerly spent running is being
encroached upon by learning about kart and engine maintenance, datalogger setup, driving half way
across Scotland for some damn track session, etc, etc. So the time formerly spent ->here<- will now
be used as run times! Simple, no?
should let me go with dignity and a smile. We've had some fun, we've had some tears. We've had
numerous partings, but you always knew I'd be back (usually within the hour). And, truth be told,
I'd never planned on leaving, merely becoming a permanent fixture - a portal through which all new
rec.runners must pass before being accepted into the herd. But real life, true to form, has other
ideas. Hell, I haven't even had time to work on a *huge* post giving you an update on the year-end
awards votes.
So, my little chums, we come to the last para. Who was 'Roger Hunter'? What parts of his story were
true? Did anyone give a fcuk? I'll tell you what. If a kid with his helmet painted in Saltires
looking like stars ever wins a Formula 1 race, look around for his Dad. That'll be me. With any
luck, I'll still be wearing running shoes. Take care, you dickheads. Safe and long runs to you all -
yeah, even you, Wobbot.
Roger. <oh, Matthew, you really were a totally hopeless stalker. you never got within 60
miles of me :-)
