About a ten days ago I developed a cold. Nothing too serious about that and after a few days, I thought I felt well enough to swim and have my first rugby training since I left school. It was hard work and my lungs burnt savagely. The next morning, I was coughing up blood. Clearly, all was not well.
On Saturday, a thirsty chap, I finished the 20 litres of water, which had been delivered on Monday. For one bloke on his own, without tea and coffee, I was sloshing back 3.5 litres a day. And I was still parched.
Still, I had my second rugby training. My lungs seemed stronger and I hung on until cramp claimed me a few minutes from the end of the session. I took this as a painful moral victory.
On Sunday, I played tennis (Evo was playing football on the pitch below us, the bands were rather distracting) and then I really started to feel dreadful. After a very early night, I passed out, woke up, passed out again, until after 3pm the next afternoon. More than seventeen hours after crashing, I dragged myself out of bed. For an insomnia sufferer, this is a lot of sleep. I’ve started taking it a little easier.
Showing posts with label swimming. Show all posts
Showing posts with label swimming. Show all posts
Monday, 9 February 2009
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
9.7.8 Death roaders, let’s go!
This was not something anyone had ever said to me before and, frankly, it’s a bit silly. Anyway, off Robin and I went, down “the most dangerous road in the world” (™UN 2004). It’s a 40km ride down 3,100m from rock and ice to sultry jungle. In fact, now there’s no traffic on it, it’s considerably safer than Hyde Park Corner—as long as you avoid the precipice perpetually to your left. The days of 100s of deaths each year are over. However, we were overtaken by another group, at the back was a man old enough to be indifferent to another birthday. Trying to keep up, he screamed past us; dangerously out of control, he dragged his right climbing boot as he tried to pull himself around the bend and away from the sheer drop—nothing but air for hundreds of feet.
Exercise here is a confusing business—there’s very little of it, apart from the ubiquitous football. The swimming pool is a place for standing around, flirting and showing off. My attempts to swim lengths involve slaloming around teenagers chatting, catching their breaths after two or three furious strokes of front crawl or recovering from landing on their backs after an ill-conceived dive.
There’s very little running, with the exception of the busy main road from La Paz to El Alto. Even in the dark, the slender hard shoulder of this steep climb, which rises 550m, is lined by people in tracksuits pounding the long dangerous route. The air is thin of oxygen but thick of carbon monoxide, so these guys’ lungs would be a wonder to scientists.
Bar the very odd, very solitary, lycra-wearing nutcase, only the police cycle in La Paz. On cheap bikes donated by the Chinese, they puff along (often on the pavements). Bicycle policemen are an utter farce here, a brisk walk up any hill would be enough to let any robber escape with his swag.
Exercise here is a confusing business—there’s very little of it, apart from the ubiquitous football. The swimming pool is a place for standing around, flirting and showing off. My attempts to swim lengths involve slaloming around teenagers chatting, catching their breaths after two or three furious strokes of front crawl or recovering from landing on their backs after an ill-conceived dive.
There’s very little running, with the exception of the busy main road from La Paz to El Alto. Even in the dark, the slender hard shoulder of this steep climb, which rises 550m, is lined by people in tracksuits pounding the long dangerous route. The air is thin of oxygen but thick of carbon monoxide, so these guys’ lungs would be a wonder to scientists.
Bar the very odd, very solitary, lycra-wearing nutcase, only the police cycle in La Paz. On cheap bikes donated by the Chinese, they puff along (often on the pavements). Bicycle policemen are an utter farce here, a brisk walk up any hill would be enough to let any robber escape with his swag.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
2.05.08 The tree where Nelson relieved himself
Next week, we’re off to Barbados where there’s surfing. In preparation for having to spend time under water, I plough back and forth in the hotel pool, while not breaking any of their rules: I haven’t any serious contagious diseases, indulged in horseplay of any kind or emitted bodily fluids into the water. Not even once. Honestly.
What with the earthquakes and hurricanes, buildings don’t last long in Kingston; Port Royal, however, is an exception. This fort once housed Nelson and has stood the test of time, while the land raised around it and sea retreated in the earthquakes of 1907 and 1692. As the sole white face on the tour of the museum and a Brit too, I felt uncomfortable as the tales of swashbuckling, colonialisation and slavery were dramatically unfurled, however, there was never a suggestion of anything other than shared history (and I met an African nurse from Hackney and felt more at ease).
On the way back my driver, Taylor, needed to find some time so we cut through a ghetto. Houses and shops on each side of the road were boarded up or burnt out, to the left were us were PNP (People’s National Party) supporters and opposite were their JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbours. Relations are not good and shoot outs across the road are commonplace. This should be the road to town from the airport but it is too dangerous and the solution the government came to was to build another road.
What with the earthquakes and hurricanes, buildings don’t last long in Kingston; Port Royal, however, is an exception. This fort once housed Nelson and has stood the test of time, while the land raised around it and sea retreated in the earthquakes of 1907 and 1692. As the sole white face on the tour of the museum and a Brit too, I felt uncomfortable as the tales of swashbuckling, colonialisation and slavery were dramatically unfurled, however, there was never a suggestion of anything other than shared history (and I met an African nurse from Hackney and felt more at ease).
On the way back my driver, Taylor, needed to find some time so we cut through a ghetto. Houses and shops on each side of the road were boarded up or burnt out, to the left were us were PNP (People’s National Party) supporters and opposite were their JLP (Jamaica Labour Party) neighbours. Relations are not good and shoot outs across the road are commonplace. This should be the road to town from the airport but it is too dangerous and the solution the government came to was to build another road.
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