A small victory and an Epiphany

Well, here it is - we cracked the 8 mile mark. We're not content though, not by a long chalk.

The progress made has been swift thus far and not without its bilious by-products but hey, no pain, baby, no gain.

I've been cycling to work, working (sic) on CV fitness and stamina. It's coming in droves. I can now do The Hill in nosecondsflat and still have the wherewithal to smirk at the queueing cagers at the top of the hill.

Now, Spaniards, my second bugbear, is surmountable in those gears not reserved for Gran. Big up.

And the little push on St Mary's? A piece of the proverbial dealt with en attaquant.

The net upshot - no weight loss to mention. Bah! I guess the slimming waistline and the rattling around of my duty belt at work show some reason for the positive delta-V.

On the return, Heartbreak Hampstead is now a no Gran zone. The meander at the top is replaced with a steady push to the inn with the weird kink. The cars cannot now keep up with me on the downhill! Go pedal power.

So, in short, I'm on my way. We both are. Stay tuned!

Training for the Edinburgh Marathon

Well, Sarah and I are on our way - we did just under 5 miles in 00:56:32 before breakfast and feel great (probably because of the breakfast, rather than the running...)

Keep posted for more updates and, hopefully, some images of us suffering. Just so you can imagine being there. Or something.

Anyhow, please visit our sponsorship page here

Si

Loop

Tie on my trainers, seize impetus now,
straining and stretching, I pull and I prime
each muscle's slumbering sinew taut, then
Hustle downstairs to the shimmering street.

A bustle - a jostle, away! I weave
round the oblivious, walking their way...
But I run, I loop, cocooned, iPodded
and feel the burn from the blistering beat.

Inclining my ear, I run on synclines,
Matching my feet to the drum's conscious stream.
Faces and forms shift past like the sweat which
In rivulets forms: flow down past my feet.

In loops of loud passion, of panting and
pacing, the mind empties thought out like spit,
spat from horn-mouthpieces onto sawdust...
Doubt's dilemmas gone: the circle's complete.

SiKee '08

Food for thought

For a while I've been toying with the idea of returning to vegetarianism. While a student, I gave up meat for the majority of my second year after having a bad reaction to some food. Living in digs meant I ate out more often, being too ignorant and lazy to cook for myself. A third academic year in Germany made it very difficult to keep this up, as I would again eat out with friends: not a problem, you'd imagine, but it was strangely challenging trying to obtain food without the merest trace of meat in it. Even ordering an "assuredly veggie" salad had me picking out random bits of pork from within it, much to my annoyance.

Recently, I've realised that my lifestyle has been largely unhealthy, despite my exercising and trying to keep my fast food intake down to negligible levels (since seeing Supersize Me). I have been having problems with illness, digestion, disrupted sleep patterns and keeping up my energy levels. I am able to (force myself to?) exercise well, but I tend to feel "flat" most of the time. The problem's solution appears to me to be "half a no-brainer". Why? On the one hand, I think I've the same reaction to meat again, as I had before, which has had a knock-on effect on my general wellbeing. On the other, I actually enjoy eating meat. So, in order to test my feelings about this, I watched Earthlings. I was quite frankly shocked and appalled at what was reported.

I am now convinced that a return to vegetarianism is of twofold benefit to me - not only on an altruistic level, but also on a nutritional one.

SiKee

Baby, we were born to run

I felt led to share this (once I found out how it's done) and perhaps give a fillip to those of us out there who need some motivation to get up off their backsides and get fitter.

If I can, anyone can.

Just do it...

Answerphone Doggerel

Unfortunately, Si's without:
he might be on the phone or out.
But if you numbers leave, with name,
he might be back in touch again.

SiKee '08

A New Drum

A feckless, poor rhythm
he taps on and raps on
his rhythm, his life, a
base mixture of strife.
He carried, he fought,
he tried and he bought...
He sees now and wakes from
a slumber - his vision:
a sunrise, a bright light,
a rebirth from twilight.
A realisation -
idealistic-causation:
rerouting his efforts
he moves to the sun.
Embracing life's fun,
smiling through tears, he
gives new life to ideas.
Now finding his rhythm
he'll bang a new drum.

SiKee, '08

A Night At The Pub

Distant, dullish memory:
a fragment of being,
a fallow living,
whittled from one's lethargy.

Fluid flowing, flavours flee:
a segment, a sipping,
a pulled cork, quaffing -
doling out one's decency.

Resplendent whole majesty!
A starlit, quiet ev'ning,
a rebound singing
out a changing melody.

SiKee, '93

On the skies - Life's Picture

Frontal patterns fold again, intermittent play-
ing isobars, jumping, creating haze.
Lumb'ring, they stick out their chests, emblazoned
all with chivalric crests, marching to the fray.
Anabatic activity: the bray
of loud thunder - lightning springs its webbed maze.
Dreadnoughts of the sky fire broadsides to raze,
with ionic fire, on dark lands they play.
Cool rain thunders on rooftops - the earth's prize;
sent down through sewers, avoids parched ground. By
these drains lurks man's pervading art - despised
by nature and those men who say they're wise.
But nature's is the purer art - the artist whom I
most admire is the one who paints the skies.

SiKee, '90

Prosendämmerung

Animal divinity,
a mere mnemonic mystery,
oft-repeated rosary,
pagan rote-read fallacy;
jerker of the tear.

Life's dream rhythm: accidie,
augmented chance philosophy,
breath-harped, shaping restlessly,
words waged as in Arcady,
combined to form idea.

Black-white quantic poetry
not vented vanquished coquetry
gains grace when, compared to thee,
feeble mediocrity,
one may deign to hear.

Verse, Final Solution be
and, purging inconsistency
Inverting the hierarchy,
drown out mob indecency!
Prose, verse has no peer!

SiKee, '93

Regression

I have glimpsed only a splinter of heaven.
One only affirms the thought,
the instinct,
the creed,
the
Thing In Itself.

Happy are the bickering pigeon-holers
when they find novelty:
a standard,
a base.
"A"s
don't equal "b"s.

Why not live in a world where nothing matters?
A pleasant, ignorant bliss:
our playground;
our youth;
hour
and minute dead.

SiKee, '94

No such thing as... A Long, Hot Bath

Strange, I heard you calling me.
Your voice did peal, permeate,
Reciprocate,
Rebound round my meniscus sea.

I played with transparent hillocks
Jellymould tops did undulate,
Shift in state;
Showerheadinvertedwaterdreadlocks.

Strange sense aroused roused up me
Brings me brought ground on round, resonate
Confusticate!
Bastard bathwater's cold all around me.

Your voice no longer challenged me;
I get up from my reverie la, late
In a state
Of mild dampness, see.

SiKee, '92

The Luddite's Ode

A pencil weaves its winding way,
planned or not, between the lines.
The hand that holds, the poise controlled;
a poet writes, but thinks of rhymes.

What joy it is to write so well
without a thought of one's technique
Of putting marks down: uprights, arcs
that do the heart's own language speak!

The mundane and the practical
the pigeonholed belief endorse
But see not this, and that do miss
which plainly does not prompt discourse.

So now their word-processor's come
and banished all our pens and ink,
The pencil with its humble fill,
in favour of machines that "think".

For now one needs to concentrate
(and poets' words are dangerous)
Not on rhyme, for that's sublime
but miskeying's ridiculous!

SiKee, '93

Inflight

Hanging by a multitude of sins,
of sucking babes on a wing,
of hopes and dreams not realised,
of wishes forgotten, not made.

Reflecting on past times yet unfulfilled,
musing on a romance,
waiting for a second chance,
smiling at a second glance...

Heaven is split forever -
pieces lie glinting on Earth:
others as Northern Lights,
others in the memory of her eyes.

SiKee, London - Houston, '99

Forest Fable

Dryad of the woods,
poised between two trees,
Knows not where to take her rest,
cannot choose with ease.

Spruce stands tall and true,
lissom, lithe and strong.
Evergreen and full of life,
poetry and song.

Apple tree is rich,
garlanded with leaves.
Lush boughs yielding fruit so fresh:
dandy in green sleeves.

Dryad has to make her choice
'fore the chill arrives.
Whom shall she shelter within
and enrich their lives?

Choose, o spirit, well
while the tempest brews!
For trees of autumn beauty
charm in winter lose.

SiKee, '93

Hello world

"Greetings and all that!" the happy man cried,
debased and down-at-guard,
eyes alight, full of rapt expectation,
hanging on your first words...
bated breath for your utterances but...
you nod and that's all folks.
It's interpreted as a simple nod,
a flinch in these bright lights.
Still, you ignore, feeling sure in your
dreamlike and carried world,
covered in their sick blood and corruption,
passed from expectant souls
to holes. All they want is a word... a word!
Will you break your silence
and give it to them?

SiKee, '08