• P.S. I Love You

    by  • January 22, 2012 • 0 Comments

    Ok, dear reader, let’s not get carried away.  That P.S. isn’t a romantic little postscript.  No – the P.S. – that’s Palm Springs.

    I’d booked flights to LA some time ago – at least in part to try Air New Zealand’s new Club seat  - but then totally forgot to plan anything else for the long weekend.

    Time was short but you can pack a lot into four days.  I briefly considered whether it might be possible to drive across the States – Gumball Rally style. Or whether I should try my luck getting to the summit of Mount Whitney in winter.  Or even run a section of the Badwater Ultramarathon (somewhat easier in December than July)

    But after a rather high-octane few months, I thought it better that I re-learn the skill of lounging by a pool. I had an uncharacteristic urge to sit quietly and read a good book by day, before gorging on high-calorie American food by night.  If that’s what you want, there’s no better place to do it than at the Parker in Palm Springs.

    Famous as the late-1950s hangout for the Rat Pack, Palms Springs is very much cool again.  Nestled at the bottom of the Coachella Valley, it’s dwarfed by the San Jacinto Mountains to one side and the San Bernardino Mountains to the other.

    Two hours East from LA, Palm Springs and its Mid-Century Modern architecture, felt like the appropriate destination to celebrate what I was trying to pretend wasn’t a significant birthday. Still a little sore from a race earlier in the year, I figured this would be the first step in my rehab. So I flew to LA, picked up a rental car – a little two-seater cabriolet since you ask - and headed East on Interstate 10.

    Today Palm Springs is a retro-chic resort town. With wide main streets and an easily walkable centre, it’s got the best of American motorcar culture, without all the downsides. There’s something charming about resort towns just outside peak season (it’s why I love Chamonix in May).  The restaurants, shops and hotels are still open, but you virtually have the place to yourself.  It’s like the whole town has a moment of breathing space.

    And what air to breath. On the edge of the desert, Palm Springs has that crisp dry desert air, somehow every breath feels restorative.

    And so to the Parker. A quirky 1950’s motel that’s been tastefully restored into a full-service resort hotel. It feels like a Conde Nast photo-shoot.  Yet out of peak-season, you don’t have to put up with the celeb hangers on.

    So I took on the Parker’s manifesto, raided the minibar and spent the next two days having a good steam and a nice soak in the hot tub, and generally pampering myself in the whimsically named Palm Springs Yacht Club. The grounds of the hotel are perfectly setup for doing very little – the hammocks were my favourite. I had the odd gentle run up into the mountains – I couldn’t resist. Sea level to 3000ft in one hard slog.

    Palm Springs might fail my ‘Provincial Test’ – it’s impossible to buy a copy of the FT, or any international paper for that matter – but it feels more open than many American towns of its size. It reminded me of the Short North in Columbus – artsy, interesting buildings and good food. Throw in a nice pool and good room service, and you’ve got a perfect lond-haul weekend getaway.

    The Wharf at Sunrise

    by  • December 21, 2011 • 0 Comments

    Some runs are more memorable than others. Most of the ones that stick in the mind tend to do so because of the stunning landscapes.  While that normally means mountains, lakes and forests, just occasionally the built environment makes your jaw drop too. Here a stunning sunrise was the perfect ending to my morning run.

    It’s All About the Paper

    by  • December 17, 2011 • 0 Comments

    On my summer holidays, on a far-off island in the Med, I like little more than a week-old copy of the Economist.  Or a three-day-old copy of the FT. Devoid of daily editions, and short of reading material, I’ll read them from cover to cover, savouring obscure articles until the paper becomes worn and the staples wear through. Then I’ll admonish myself and wonder why I never paid more attention to politics in Brazil, or hedge funds in China, or whatever.

    It’s a break, more than anything, from overwhelming choice.  The luxury of more time and less choice.

    This Christmas holidays, I’m hoping to be snowed in. With television unplugged and laptop run flat, maybe I’ll have the chance to read the papers from cover to cover.

    I’ll be starting with Monocle Alpino.  Cool pages, by a warm fire. Perfect.

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    Powerless at LAX

    by  • December 4, 2011 • 0 Comments

    “Please return to your seats, fasten your seat belts, put your seat into the upright position and stow your tray tables for landing” You know the drill: the familiar sound of the flaps descending; the whoosh of air as the undercarriage deployes.  The end markers of the runway come into sight, then – hopefully – [...]

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    To Fly. To Serve. To Can’t Be Arsed

    by  • November 26, 2011 • 0 Comments

    To fly. To Serve. This is British Airways’ new advertising slogan. Sadly they weren’t doing much of either last Sunday when I was due to fly back from Brussels. Fog had yet again crippled Heathrow, whose resilience to bad weather is comically poor. My first flight was cancelled. And the second delayed by nearly five [...]

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    Moving On – Again

    by  • November 14, 2011 • 0 Comments

    Things are looking a bit different around here.  You see, I’ve moved.  Both to a new town – more on that later – and to a new web server.

    For a while I’ve wanted to do a bit more with this blog than was possible with a blog hosted on wordpress.com.

    So while things might look a bit different, it’s the same content. And the same rules.

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    Do or Die

    by  • October 24, 2011 • 1 Comment

    It’s taken me a while to finish writing this account of my run of the Ultra Trail du Mont Blanc. I think I’ve probably avoided writing about it till now because I couldn’t face to reliving the trauma.  What follows is a rather rambling report of a very long and ugly race. It’s written more [...]

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    Overcoming and Becoming

    by  • July 16, 2011 • 0 Comments

    Uneasy flyers say that if God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings. I say if he had meant us to swim, he would have given us floats. Once, as a child aged six or seven, I did a sponsored swim. Whilst my classmates spent hours clocking up laps, I did [...]

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    By Halves

    by  • June 13, 2011 • 0 Comments

    It either marked the beginning of the end, or the end of the beginning. I can’t quite decide which. Regular readers will know that at the tail-end of last year, I entered myself for an Ironman – 140.6 miles of swimming, cycling and running. This rash decision was tempered by the fact that it was [...]

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    To Tom

    by  • April 30, 2011 • 0 Comments

    Since 1951 the Tour de France has led its riders to the summit of Mont Ventoux just fourteen times.  Despite, or perhaps because of its relatively few appearances, it has become something of a legendary climb. The French often use the word ‘mythique’ to describe the climb. It’s an odd word that doesn’t quite translate. [...]

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