MK Don @ MK Dons

I realised the other day that I'm an MK Don! Don't worry, I haven't suddenly and inexplicably switched my footballing allegiance to a club that didn't even exist eight years ago, and only came to be following the highly dubious process of taking over Wimbledon Football Club and relocating from South London to Milton Keynes in Buckinghamshire. No, what I'm saying is that I'm a don as in the university lecturer definition of the word, and working for the Open University, I'm based in Milton Keynes. So that makes me an MK Don in a non-football sense.

Milton Keynes is an strange place. The pretty village of Milton Keynes dates back to the 11th century, but the much larger town that has been built around it started life as one of the post-war new towns in 1967. It's famous for, amongst other things, the grid system of its roads, its numerous roundabouts and  of course its concrete cows. I've only been into the town centre on a few occasions, and have found it a grey and characterless place. Milton Keynes' outer areas, though, are green, pleasant and extremely pedestrian and bicycle friendly, with fields, lakes, canals and a wide variety of leisure facilities.

University Roundabout, Milton Keynes

The Open University, often referred to simply as the OU, is based in the parish of Walton to the south of central Milton Keynes. Walton Hall, the old manor house, is now a part of the university campus and is used as office space, including the Vice-Chancellor's office.

Walton Hall

The large campus is similar in look to many of the newer universities in the UK, but as the OU specialises in distance learning approaches, the only students on campus are the 200 or so postgraduate research students. The OU was started in 1970 by Harold Wilson's Labour Government, and has gone from strength to strength ever since, although the current changes to the funding of higher education in England are going to present the University with some real challenges over the next few years. Much of the campus has the feel of the 1970s, although in recent years it has been enhanced by a number of more contemporary and innovative buildings.

Jenny Lee Building

Each building is named after somebody important in the history of the OU. I'm based in Stuart Hall Building, which makes me chuckle every time I enter. After swiping my security card to open the automatic doors, I have visions of  a Belgian dressed in an over-sized animal suit attached to a length of strong elastic hurtling down the stairs to the accompaniment of wheezy and infectious laughter or half expect to hear those dulcet Mancunian tones pronouncing "And here we are at the Coliseum for a match of titanic proportions ..." Sadly, though, the the building is named after Stuart Hall, the eminent cultural theorist and not the loquacious broadcaster. 

Stuart Hall Building

My footballing namesakes, the MK Dons, play at Stadium mk on the outskirts of town towards Bletchley surrounded by light industrial and retail estates. Charlton were the visitors yesterday for a 7:45pm kick off, which provided me with the rare opportunity of attending a midweek away game. Not much to look at from the outside, inside Stadium mk is a spacious and comfortable place to watch football. The concourses are wide and airy, the seats padded with plenty of leg room and excellent sight lines to the pitch. As yet no seats have been installed in the upper tier, exposing yet more unattractive concrete. Stadium mk was chosen as a venue for the 2018 World Cup, and the plan was to put the rest of the seats in by then, but of course the English Football Association were not prepared to pay the necessary backhanders to FIFA officials, and consequently failed to be awarded the tournament. Therefore when or indeed whether the stadium will be finished off is anyone's guess. Even with the current capacity of 22,000, the MK Dons struggle to fill even one third of the ground with their own fans, so unless the opposition are a team like Charlton who were backed about a thousand noisy supporters last night, the ground must feel very empty and lacking in atmosphere.

Inside Stadium MK. It wasn't much fuller after kick off.

Charlton approached the game as league leaders and unbeaten in their first nine games of the season. MK Dons were only a few points behind, however, and were easily the better team in the first half playing some lively, attractive football. MK went ahead in the 21st minute thanks to a penalty awarded  for a rash challenge by Chris Solly on Dean Lewington. I was sitting behind the goal not far from the incident, and at the time I was convinced that there was little wrong with Solly's challenge and that the award of a penalty was harsh in the extreme. I must have been at just the wrong angle, because having seen the television replay there can be absolutely no doubt that the ref was correct.

A scramble in the box as Charlton press for an equaliser.

After the break, Charlton were much improved and the game developed into an exciting end to end affair. An equaliser seemed to be coming, but almost as likely was that Mk would equalise at the other end. On 75 minutes a superb spin by substitute Danny Green left his marker for dead and provided the time and space for the Charlton winger to whip in an inch perfect cross for another substitute, Yann Kermorgant, to latch onto with a powerful header that found its way into the net via the post and the motionless goalkeeper's leg. The travelling fans, myself included, erupted with joy. Further chances were spurned at either end before the final whistle, a draw probably the right result. Two good teams had produced an entertaining game, with fans of both seeming in very good heart as they started to make their way home.

The Charlton players thank the fans for their support.

A day in Milton Keynes that had combined business with pleasure was nearly at an end. Forty minutes later I was back home in St Albans after smoothly negotiating a succession of roundabouts and the relatively uncongested M1. 

The Longest Mile

My intention was to write this blog entry last night. Unfortunately I felt so shattered after my exertions during the afternoon that after a hearty dinner and a long soak in the bath I went straight to bed. So here I am one day later, surprisingly free of aches and pains, beginning my report on the Windsor Half Marathon.

I'll start by saying straight out that it didn't go to plan. Nowhere near in fact. The weather let me down. My legs let me down. The lack of flatness in Windsor Great Park let me down. But it was fantastic nevertheless. Doesn't make sense?  Let me explain.

Heading towards the Copper Horse statue of King George III along the Long Walk at the start

After a few weeks of distinctly chilly autumnal weather, summer decided to return for this, my final half marathon of the year and with a 1:00 pm start, much later in the day than is usual for such events, I found myself sweating even as I stood amongst the massed ranks waiting to start. This was not encouraging, especially with the first mile of the course comprising of a steady incline along Windsor Park's majestic 'Long Walk'. 

'Learn from previous mistakes' I told myself, 'Take it really slowly to start with; don't use up all of your energy early on'. And take it slowly I did, expecting the terrain to level out once the 'Long Walk' had been negotiated. However it turned out that the second mile was mostly uphill as well, and in fact the whole course was surprisingly undulating, the only exception being a mile long level section approaching the impressive Guards Polo Club, along which seemingly out of nowhere a fierce headwind made forward momentum nigh on impossible.

As if running 13.1 miles on a hot afternoon wasn't hard enough!

After three miles I was really struggling. My legs felt like lead, screaming their dislike of the heat and hills combination with every laboured energy sapping stride. What goes up must go down, however, but whilst the downhill sections were very welcome to start with, negotiating them soon began to pull painfully on different muscles and place an increasing strain on my knees. The whole experience felt brutal. Progressing so slowly, I felt for a while that I would never make it to the finishing line. The stretch between 6 and 9 miles seemed particularly endless. Only a week before I had completed a 10 mile training run trouble free and fleet of foot, and I found myself wondering how it was possible for my body to feel so different from one long Sunday run to the next.

The scenery, though, was fantastic. Windsor Great Park is vast and especially beautiful at this time of year as the leaves begin to turn into the browns, reds and oranges of autumn. The tied houses of the Royal Estate workers were fascinating, some of them pretty chocolate box cottages, others not insubstantial country piles in their own right. The park even has its own pub and Village Store. The route was very well marshalled by cheerful and encouraging military types, who were assiduous in clearing up discarded water bottles almost before they had landed on the ground. Strict orders from their boss in the castle, no doubt. The Royal love of horses was there for all to see, not only in the strategically placed statues of Kings and Queens on horseback, but also in the pungent lumps of manure that necessitated the occasional swerve as I progressed along the estate roads.

Struggling almost from the outset, I found myself nearer to the back of the field than I've been in other events this year. Amongst such company a pattern emerges, as floundering athletes summon up the energy for a burst of overtaking before fading again and being overtaken back by the runners overtaken shortly before. It's a recurring cycle and soon you start to recognise and feel an affinity with your fellow strugglers, get chatting and encourage each other along. It's very uplifting and enjoyable, and something those serious runners towards the front lose out on in my opinion. Particularly worthy of a mention yesterday was runner number 397, name unknown but affectionately dubbed by me as 'Bird Man'. He was probably a few years older than me and his running style looked even worse than mine felt, but every time I caught up with him he would point out something of interest overhead. 'Look, there's a flock of parakeets over there!' or 'Did you see that Hawk just now? I think it was a red tailed one.' Fantastic! In the end, I managed to pull clear and finished a couple of minutes ahead of him, but I bumped into him again after collecting my bag and shook his hand.

The finish, and beyond that, Windsor Castle.

The final mile, back along the Long Walk was torturous even though it was downhill. Every inch of my legs was hurting by now, and although the finish was in sight all the way, a cruel optical illusion meant that for a long time it didn't seem to be getting any nearer as I pounded towards it. With Windsor Castle in the background, though, this was a majestic and inspirational end to the race and I overtook a lot of runners as I approached the finish, only being overtaken once, by a young couple at least twenty years my junior. Once over the line, I felt strangely elated. The race had been tough, really tough but I'd made it in one piece and the visual magnificence of that final mile had somehow raised the experience to another level.

My time wasn't good by any stretch of the imagination. It was by some measure the slowest of my three half marathons this year. It meant that Project 50 would not be graced by a PB for this distance. On the bright side, though, it was comfortably faster than both of the half marathons I ran last year, in itself a pleasing and worthwhile outcome. It also made me realise just how well I'd done to achieve my PB (over 30 minutes faster) five years ago at the age of 45 having started running only two years before that. Everything's relative. I'm beginning to think that without some kind of bionic implant I probably won't get close to that particular time again, but that's not going to stop me from continuing to lace up my running shoes and enjoy the incredible high and the sense of well being that comes from a really good run, irrespective of the time. And as yesterday proved, even a bad day on the road can end up as a positive experience if you just stick at it.

First day of Term

It was back to school today for Hannah. But this wasn't just any old first day of term, it was her first day at secondary school so something of a big deal. Well, a big deal for Juliet and me, as Hannah seemed to take it very much in her stride telling us to stop fussing about and getting all emotional. It's hard not to, though, when you feel so proud of your daughter and she looks so grown up and smart in her new uniform.

All set for the first day at Secondary School

It doesn't really seem so long ago that Hannah was about to embark on her first day in Reception. Was it really seven years ago?

Reception Class at St Marks awaits

So, a new chapter begins. No more dropping off and picking up from school for me now. Hannah will be walking to and from school with her friends from now on. It feels like an independence day of sorts. I hope that Hannah enjoys her new school as much as she has enjoyed her two primary schools. With her natural enthusiasm, I'm sure she will make the most of all the opportunities that will come her way.

Back of the Kew

September has arrived and the last few days have felt decidedly autumnal. The summer, if you can call it that, has absolutely flown by and today brought the first of my busy programme of running events scheduled for the final four months of Project Five O. I'd originally planned today's race, the Richmond River Run, as my final attempt at a 10k but coming too soon into my post-holiday training to offer any chance of a decent time, I decided to treat it as a more glamorous training run and have entered into another 10k race for the beginning of October.

A canoe gliding sedately by

About 500 runners set out at 9:00 am from Kew Green right outside the entrance to the world famous Botanical Gardens, and I positioned myself towards the back of the field. This turned out to be a tactical error as after 800 metres it was necessary to climb 8 narrow steps onto the tow path, and by the time I reached them a considerable queue (or should that be Kew?) had built up causing a delay of well over a minute and I experienced a sense of deja vu having spent most of last Friday afternoon stationary on the M25. If I'd been in with a realistic chance of achieving a PB today, this hold up would have dashed my hopes straight away. In the event, it was no more than a minor annoyance.

For the first 4 kilometres I maintained a steady if unspectacular pace, but started to slow slightly as the route turned for home at the half way stage after passing under Twickenham Bridge and a brief incursion into Richmond's Old Deer Park. Aptly named I thought at the time, not feeling at my most sprightly by this stage.

Camera shake on the move at the 8k mark

This section of the Thames is very pretty and extremely popular with joggers, walkers and cyclists even relatively early on a Sunday morning. This did necessitate a bit of dodging and weaving at times, and the tow path itself was a little uneven in places, interrupting my rhythm, but I thoroughly enjoyed the surrounding, which stirred great memories of when I walked the entire length of the river back in 1997. Not in one go I hasten to add, it took me 10 days, which amazingly is 2 days longer than the comedian David Walliams is hoping to swim it this week to raise money for Sports Relief. Now that's impressive.

Kew is directly under the Heathrow flightpath and I lost count of the number of aeroplanes passing overhead. It can't be much fun for the local residents, but there's something very exciting about being so close to aeroplanes just after they've taken off, wondering where they're off to and thinking about journeys you've been on in the past and ones to come. In my case, I found myself starting to get very excited about my work trip to Japan next month. And all the while I kept plodding on towards the finish, nearly grinding to a halt between 8 and 9k, before surprising myself with a very dynamic sprint finish. Before I knew it, it was time to receive my medal from the Mayor of Richmond.

The Mayor of Richmond waiting to place a medal around my neck.

My time was slow as I had expected, 1:09:18, but I was encouraged by the thought that, but for the queue at the steps, it would have been my second fastest 10k time of the year, although still a long way short of my PB for 10k. Realistically I'm coming to the view that my I may never be able to regain sufficient speed in my legs to achieve my times of 5 years ago for the shorter distances (if you can call 10k, 6.25 miles short) and my best chance of achieving a PB may well be in the Florence Marathon in November. Nevertheless, I'm going to give this particular distance one last go for Project Five O in the Hertfordshire 10k on 9th October.

Camping it up!

In my younger days I went camping on many occasions, and really enjoyed the outdoor experience. However, with Juliet consistently showing zero enthusiasm for holidaying under canvas, until last summer the most recent nights I spent under campus were back in 1997 when I walked along the Thames Path from its source at Kemble in Gloucestershire to the Thames Barrier at Woolwich.

Last year, however, I finally found myself a campsite companion when Hannah announced that she wanted to go camping during the summer holidays. So, with a new tent and various other bits of equipment packed into the back of the car we set off to Norfolk, where after we'd set up camp in fine sunny conditions, it started to rain and didn't stop for the entire four days of our stay. Fortunately the novelty of being under canvas kept Hannah's spirits up and didn't dampen her enthusiasm for another attempt this year.

Juliet's sister, Rachel and her family have been living in Jersey for a year. Against all expectations when we started to think about planning a visit for this summer, Juliet announced that she was willing to give camping a try. After all, she reasoned, if things got too grim in the tent, there would always be Rachel's sofa to sleep on if an emergency room couldn't be found in a hotel. In the event, Juliet seemed to even quite enjoy the outdoor experience, although possibly not enough to want to repeat it in a hurry.

Our tent is to the left next to the caravan.

The weather was mostly fair during our stay, and the campsite at Rozel was picturesque and well kept with very clean facilities in the shower and toilet block, which even included a hairdryer no less. I think perhaps the only real negative, and it's the one thing about camping that I really struggle with myself, was the inconvenience of getting up in the night to answer a call of nature. Or in my case, calls of nature, my bladder sadly nowhere near as efficient as it was in my younger camping days. It's a right old pallaver, and even more so in rain as heavy as we expeienced on our final night, even though as a male I have the advantage of being able to use mother nature's own urinal, also known as the grass a few steps outside the tent.

The picturesque harbour at Rozel Bay, about a mile from the campsite

We had a lovely relaxing time throughout our stay in Jersey. My young niece and nephew, Katie and Josh loved spending time with their older cousin and vice versa. An unexpected and massive bonus for us were the front row tickets that Rachel had bought us for the famous "Battle of the Flowers" parade, which has been an annual highlight of summer in St Helier since 1902. It was by some distance the most colourful, creative and enjoyable carnival style event that I have ever attended and we all left the seafront buzzing with excitement.

A throwback to the 1960s during the "Battle of the Flowers"

This was my third visit to Jersey, having spent a week there in the early 1980s with my brother Simon and a weekend in 1987 on an inter-bank sporting visit when I was working in the City. The Sunshine Hotel, where Simon and I stayed, no longer exists having been pulled down to make way for a residential development. Not surprising really I suppose, as it was already pretty dated when we stayed nearly 30 years ago but I was nevertheless disappointed not be be able to spot it as we emerged from tunnel that passes under the Fort at St Helier. There was an element of hi de hi about the hotel with its chalet style rooms and organised evening entertainments. Dining room places were allocated in advance and non-negotiable. We were placed next to a couple of lairy OAP eastenders, Bill and Lil. Lil was especially loud and Bill had a fondness for string vests and pants that extended to putting more of them on public display than was strictly necessary, but they were a game old couple who meant well and enjoyed a laugh. For the whole week we managed to keep up the pretence with Bill and Lil that I was a dustman and Simon was unemployed and that I'd paid for him to come on holiday to cheer him up. They kept repeating how kind this was of me (e.g. "Ahhh, ain't that lovely Bill?), and were also unnaturally interested in what my job as a binman involved. By the end of the week I'd described so many of the unusual objects we came across in people's bins that I almost believed I really was Bromley's answer to Curly Watts.

Another noteworthy couple on that holiday were Mr and Mrs Buckle, whose chalet was next to ours. The Buckles, who seemed to disappear back to their room immediately after dinner every night, told us nearly every morning that we had woken them up on returning to our room in the middle of the night. We felt that this was unfair as after their first complaint we were careful to slip back quietly each night and concluded that either Mr and Mrs B were very light sleepers or just habitually miserable. Either way their moaning grew increasingly irritating and eventually prompted us to exact a measure of revenge on our last day. As we left our chalet for the last time we noticed that the Buckles had left their key in the door on the outside. We quietly approached the door, removed the key and buried it in a flower bed. Twenty minutes later as we waited in reception for the coach to take us back to the airport, an announcement was made over the tannoy,

"Would Mr and Mrs Buckle please return their room key to reception"

"You had it last," said Mrs Buckle to her husband "where did you put it?"

"We must have used it to get into the room when we returned from the shops this morning" replied Mr Buckle, "Are you sure you haven't picked it up since then?"

"No, it must be in your trouser pocket" answered his wife "Oh but you've changed into your going home trousers since then. It must be in your suitcase"

At which point Mr Buckle started to empty his case onto the floor just as the coach arrived. Ten minutes later the Buckles, very flustered and arguing with each other, were the last people to board the coach. Of course, as a responsible 50 year old I would never do anything like that now, but I do allow myself a little chuckle every time I remember this episode.

Anyway, enough for now of anecdotes from my youth and back to August 2011. After a brief interlude  in Cornwall (see Doin' it Dreckly), Hannah and I dropped Juliet off at Newquay Airport for her flight to Gatwick and subsequent return to work, and headed back towards Weymouth to spend a further three days under canvas at Haven's Littlesea holiday park.

Our idyllic pitch at Littlesea next to the Wildlife Reserve
.

The park, which is enormous, consists mainly of very well equipped static caravans. The camping area, positioned next to a beautiful wildlife reserve, is very well kept with washing facilities even more pristine than those at Rozel, and campers have the same access to all of the central facilities at the park as guests staying in the permanent accommodation. However, once we had put up the tent in sunny but blustery conditions, somehow our enthusiasm for camping seemed to have evaporated. Our hearts were no longer in it. I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps, unless you are a die-hard camper or a member of the SAS, living under canvas is fine up to a point but that after a certain number of days, five in our case, a tipping point is reached at which the lure of your own bed and the attraction of a short dry journey to the lavatory seizes control and starts to override everything else. At 4:00 am on our second night we were woken by the rain hammering down on the tent even more fiercely than we had experienced in Norfolk last year. It was still coming down just as hard when we eventually dared to brave the outside world 6 hours later and heard from fellow campers that so heavy was the deluge, large parts of Bournemouth and Poole, a few miles along the coast, were completely under water. Fortunately the camping area, although sodden, was relatively high up and so not in danger of being flooded, but by now our minds were made up. If there was a break in the rain, we would pack up the tent and return home one day early. This just wasn't much fun any more.

And luckily, that's exactly what happened. The rain relented for an hour or so, just long enough for us to break camp and set off for home just as the heavens opened again. At home the following day, prolonged sunshine and a keen breeze enabled me to put up the tent in the back garden and allow it to dry out and be be packed away neatly ready for next year. By then, of course, my enthusiasm for camping will have returned. However, I'll definitely be taking my tipping point theory into account in the planning process. Four days max!