Lost in Lewisham

I don't know about anyone else, but I'm not overly interested in the Olympics. Quadrennial celebration of the greatest sportsmen and women on the planet it may be, but does that make archery a gripping televisual event? I think not. Cycling? Certainly not. Horseriding? Just inbred posh types sitting on horses and whipping them occasionally, isn't it? Are there even any foxes to chase down and dismember in Hong Kong?

Instead, I've been concentrating on a new era of sporting excellence closer to home. Maintaining the momentum of last week, I've been cutting down on the booze, ratchetting up the lentil consumption, and pounding those South London streets (paved with gold as they are).

Things were looking grim on Monday when, after the optimism of the previous weekend, five miles of toiling around the windswept open ground of Blackheath left me broken, disheartened and not a little tired. I was in bed by ten.

On Tuesday, things were looking up. Nothing to do with running, though. More a spectacular pub quiz victory in the heart of upper class Hampstead. And a very tasty meal. And three most enjoyable, if drunk-in-moderation, pints of beer.

On Wednesday, I swear I had a minor hangover.

The good lady accompanied me for another ambling jog on Thursday night. Neither of us felt great enthusiasm as we set out, but heading out towards North Greenwich my spirits lifted as we hit the Thames path. It was good. It drizzled a bit. We had to divert through a building site at one point. By the time Claire decided to head off home, I was feeling rather spritely. Passing through Greenwich park, I headed out to the scene of my pain on Monday: the heath. Across it I ran, and down a side street, intending to curve round into Blackheath village and then home.

Unfortunately, I then got lost.

Forty five minutes and a detour along Lewisham High Street, past Lewisham station, and along a ridiculously long road where the signs started off indicating "Greenwich, this way" before rather worryingly transmogrifying into "You're practically in Peckham: have you got any idea where you are?", I stopped at a bus shelter to consult a map. An old woman with a tartan shopping trolley regarded me suspiciously.

I got home, eventually. A little later, an interesting thought occurred to me: I'd just run a very long way, and being totally lost had clearly been very efficient in making me forget my legs were hurting.

No such luck the day after...

Week 2 of "New dawn":
Outings: 3
Miles: 26
Alcohol intake: 3 pints bitter, 2 glasses wine
Bananas: 6
Hampstead pub quiz victories over loud, rich Americans: 1