Friday, 31 August 2007
One step forward, two steps back
Until lately I was never much of a one for walking anywhere. True, walking is less strenuous than running, or surfing, or screaming abuse at Dave Challinor for 90 minutes. But it is still physical activity, and therein lay the problem.
But the doctor said if I didn't reduce my cholesterol then my heart might stop at any moment (the risk presumably being heightened while screaming abuse at Dave Challinor). My options were to do some exercise, give up pies and ale, or take some tablets with terrifying potential side-effects (warning: may cause drowsiness, nausea, or the sudden melting of your liver).
Of these three unappealing prospects I settled on exercise. And rather than spend two or three nights a week in one of those appalling gyms, dribbling like a lab rat wired to an electric shock machine, I settled on the much more dignified business of walking. Walking is environmentally sound; it gives you time to think and daydream; and, most importantly of all, it is much cheaper these days than getting the bus.
Furthermore, walking is the favoured form of activity of many top athletes and sports professionals. Anyone who has watched international football recently will know that members of the England team, for example, clearly prefer 90 minutes of walking to any kind of running at all.
And walking to and from the football is an important part of many supporters' matchday rituals – which is being destroyed by the move to new stadiums in the middle of nowhere.
Town are away at Shrewsbury tomorrow, a fixture traditionally enriched by the leisurely stroll to Gay Meadow from the superb Three Fish pub in the town centre. But the Shrews have now moved to a depressing-looking new ground on cheap land out of town. Any seasoned user of foot power will tell you it's the walk first, then a few pints – not the other way round. So after a pre-match drink that journey to the edge of Shrewsbury would feel more like 30 miles than three – and, as if this were not already too great a feat of endurance, instead of having a nice long bath at the end of it you'd have to watch a fourth division football match.
And this would apply equally to the Mariners' proposed new stadium. When (and if) we make it to the Fentydome, I'll miss that stroll along the Grimsby Road from the Rutland Arms. I'll miss the lovely Huddersfield couple who run the chippy we always stop at. And I certainly won't be joining in with the chant "Driving down the A180 or perhaps using a park-and-ride system to seeeeeee the Buckley's aces/And then waiting two hours to get out of the car park afterwards".
But the doctor said if I didn't reduce my cholesterol then my heart might stop at any moment (the risk presumably being heightened while screaming abuse at Dave Challinor). My options were to do some exercise, give up pies and ale, or take some tablets with terrifying potential side-effects (warning: may cause drowsiness, nausea, or the sudden melting of your liver).
Of these three unappealing prospects I settled on exercise. And rather than spend two or three nights a week in one of those appalling gyms, dribbling like a lab rat wired to an electric shock machine, I settled on the much more dignified business of walking. Walking is environmentally sound; it gives you time to think and daydream; and, most importantly of all, it is much cheaper these days than getting the bus.
Furthermore, walking is the favoured form of activity of many top athletes and sports professionals. Anyone who has watched international football recently will know that members of the England team, for example, clearly prefer 90 minutes of walking to any kind of running at all.
And walking to and from the football is an important part of many supporters' matchday rituals – which is being destroyed by the move to new stadiums in the middle of nowhere.
Town are away at Shrewsbury tomorrow, a fixture traditionally enriched by the leisurely stroll to Gay Meadow from the superb Three Fish pub in the town centre. But the Shrews have now moved to a depressing-looking new ground on cheap land out of town. Any seasoned user of foot power will tell you it's the walk first, then a few pints – not the other way round. So after a pre-match drink that journey to the edge of Shrewsbury would feel more like 30 miles than three – and, as if this were not already too great a feat of endurance, instead of having a nice long bath at the end of it you'd have to watch a fourth division football match.
And this would apply equally to the Mariners' proposed new stadium. When (and if) we make it to the Fentydome, I'll miss that stroll along the Grimsby Road from the Rutland Arms. I'll miss the lovely Huddersfield couple who run the chippy we always stop at. And I certainly won't be joining in with the chant "Driving down the A180 or perhaps using a park-and-ride system to seeeeeee the Buckley's aces/And then waiting two hours to get out of the car park afterwards".
Labels: challinor, drinking, fentydome, idleness, new stadiums, shrewsbury, travel, walking
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