Time to pick yourself off the canvas

IT's just gone five 'o clock in the morning and a sleepless night has passed.

Outside, I can hear the crashing of the waves on the shore; a freshening wind pumelling the sea against the stony coastline.

I lay on the sofa last night with the window slightly open falling asleep to the rhythmic and somewhat hypnotic sound of the waves - that sobering sound will be disturbed at first light in an hour's time by the squawking seagulls busily picking at the rubbish bags laying on the street in an early morning feeding frenzy.

Meanwhile, through the darkness and with the lights of the pier switched off, there is just the torchlight of a lone, brave, night time angler standing on the edge of the pier. You can just about pick out the white horses of the waves lapping against the shoreline and metres from my window a westerly breeze is stretching out the palm trees which line the promenade, slightly bending their thin trunks.

Today, I had envisaged writing a blog about another rave run; this time an eight-mile canter through the glorious New Forest yesterday on a beautiful morning when the sun blazed across the forest.  I was even writing the blog on my run, trying to pick out the sights, the sounds and the smells of this moment in time.

How I ran along lazy, crazy paths, up stamina-sapping hills with the warm air almost choking your lungs, before sheltering under the canopy of trees taking in the luxurious cooler air. Running along winding slopes, the fragrant fresh smell of the forest in the air, deer skipping ahead of us into the undergrowth, as we ran past ponies grazing lazily in this most peaceful of settings. It was the most perfect of places.

But maybe another time. From the eggshell blue skies of little under 24 hours ago to the darkness of Eastbourne right now with dawn just around the corner, this perfectly picks out the mood of the hour.

I had plenty of time for reflection last night on one of those horrendous train journeys home - five-and-a-half hours from Bournemouth to Eastbourne, which should ordinarily take around three hours.

Sunday engineering works meant an annoying bus trip between sleepy Barnham and even sleepier Angmering through West Sussex, where we expected a Brighton-bound train to be patiently waiting for us by the platform. But was it heck? The train didn't turn up for nearly an hour - great organisation.

Information from the rail company was notably sparse - two bored, luminous jacketed rail staff just warmed their heels by the small cafe not exactly putting themselves out with spreading the news - good or bad. Maybe they were embarrassed by the late Sunday evening chaos. All we had were repetitive Tannoy messages forewarning passengers about engineering works which we already knew about!

During that wait, I thought about the changes in my life, reflected on my last blog, and read some of the comment pieces in the Sunday papers about the legacies of these summer Games.

It is ironic how in my last blog about the Paralympics I wrote what an inspiration these Games have been to us all. It was a shame I missed Coldplay on stage at the closing ceremony last night, all this while cooling my heels pacing along the platform at Barnham station.

In my blog I wrote how in life there can be no barriers if we wish to fulfil our dreams. And this is surely true, although a bit pious. I suppose it matters which route we take and how tortuous it is too - whether there are any killer, stamina-sapping hills to climb before reaching the top, and how we tackle them when are bodies are achingly tired and our minds are hitting us with conflicting messages.

As I was struggling up one exhausting climb yesterday which kicked in with two sharp rises, my fresh-as-a-daisy running partner Ian called out "Keep going, Dave, think of the view at the top and what you will see when you get there."

How prophetic were those words in the context of the climb I'm facing right now.

Knock downs in life are tough to deal with, it's getting off the canvas with the potential of facing the next barrage of blows which is the hardest to accept. The easiest option is to stay down for the count, but then that's the lair of quitters.

I guess that's what makes those brave Paralympians stand out. They keep getting off the canvas. For them there is no other option. In the early days with the pain at its rawest, both physically and mentally, it must have been the hardest of obstacles to overcome, but does it get any easier? The scars never got away..

As dawn rises over Eastbourne and a new day awakes us all, it's time to pick yourself up and move on with courage and determination. There is, after all, no other option.