Two track mind


After work today, I went out for beer with some of my co-workers, but that filled me with conflict as it’s also Wednesday night, which is track night, and I was having to choose between steamboat and running round an excessively damp and sweaty track. In the end I compromised, by not getting bent out of shape on beer and making a swift retreat to the National Stadium, to sober up and then run in circles for an hour.

Tonight was 5 minute intervals at about 10k pace, with a minute recovery between each one. This is not my favourite; five minutes isn’t a long time to do anything, but that 60 second recovery is not enough time for anything. Towards the end, when I wasn’t capable of running three laps in five minutes, by the time I got back to the start it was time to go out again, and I was still a bit sore from Monday, or from the beer, or the paint fumes from last night, or getting woken up at four this morning by a thunderstorm. It’s all about the numbers.

I managed to finish the session, even if the last ten minutes were when I’d given up on running 1:40 laps and had to content myself with staying below 1:50, and then, legs like jelly, I went home to talk to my wife and get cleaned up.

Then the siren call came from the people I’d been drinking with, to say they were still out and about. So (it would be rude not to, especially as one of them is leaving the country (in about a fortnight)) I got dressed in the foulest shirt I could find and took a taxi back to Clark Quay, which, even on a Wednesday night, was full of drunks. They’d also provided a band, whose quality was in exact and inverse proportion to their volume. Basically, I’d willingly gone to hell.

And my feet hurt, and I wanted to read a book, because I’m now at an age where Mark from Peep Show is an inspiration, not a warning.

By this time, everyone was either too drunk or too blind to work a phone, so all my attempts to locate them were in vain. I hunted around the misery-inspiring karaoke bars in vain, and contemplated my life.

Last night I was ambushed by missionaries recruiting outside City Hall MRT. They were marketing Jesus as a route to financial success, which is a fascinating form of outreach. I wonder if it’s predicated on the time Jesus went to the Temple, overturned the tables of the money lenders, and then set up a diversified portfolio of exchange traded funds and put options on the Roman Empire. You must remember, John 3:16 or something like that.

Sadly, I couldn’t go to find out more because I’ll be on a plane when they have their service/indoctrination centre. This isn’t the first time a business trip has provided a cast iron excuse for not joining an event of questionable mental influence. There was the time I avoided a "life changing experience" in a room over a pub in Richmond, by being in Morocco, riding a camel. But then who couldn’t say the same?

On the other hand, I assume the followers of Christ The Day Trader stay in at night working on P/E ratios and researching companies, rather than walking through crowds of the dregs of humanity (seriously, when you see somebody trying to get into a bar in Clark Quay at 11pm with the music at nosebleed volume and a toddler in a stroller, you despair for the future of this planet) so maybe they’re the ones with the right idea. Onwards and ever upwards…

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