Jungle Eejit

I heard it with my own ears from my own lips “Yeah, let’s do it – when do we sign up?” And then the high pitched voice of reason, that for some reason always abuses me in a Dublin accent - must be my Irish protestant guilt complex kicking in - screamed “Wha – are ye some kind of fecking eejit – wise up man – you’re nearly forty, can hardly fecking walk without wincing and what’s worse – you’re Irish, man – catch yersel on and stop all this feckin craziness right now” – He’s got a mouth like a cesspit that Dubber alter ego of mine!

Jungle marathon 2010 - 200kms over 7 days in 90% humidity in the Amazon jungle. Sounds fun – right? I mean the Padraig Harrington heckler in my head has a point. I am indeed Irish and it is a well known fact that we melt in anything over 20 degrees (68 for those of you of a Fahrenheit persuasion) and at 18 or above we hit the beach in the budgie smugglers with the whole family – but you see we still only go to the beach about twice a year. Just look at the TV forecast and choose your month, “London is experiencing an unseasonably warm October with temperatures hitting 21 degrees today” – all around the Emerald isle families scrabble for their swimming togs, children are yanked out of school, the beach sprint is on and then the screen moves up north and “In Belfast after a wet start, the day brightens for a fresh autumnal high of 6 degrees!”. July “it’s the hottest day of the year in Belfast today with highs of 20 degrees and................. mostly wet with dry spells”. Fuck it – we’re fucking Irish! And sure doesn’t the sun do bad things to your skin n all.

So you see heat and humidity are not exactly the natural habitat of us Irish but how hard can it be? 200kms over 7 days is barely 30kms a day – I know three people dropped out on the first leg of 16kms last year and you have to carry your own food and hammock but seriously....

Well then I suppose you could mention the creepy crawlies and mossies – and I could talk about 59 counted bites on my shins alone in Australia on one night in 1999 but that was just unlucky. I am generally at one with nature as anyone who has seen me screaming like a demented six year old girl and jumping on a kitchen table at the sight of a mouse will no doubt attest!

No, no the weather and nature will be fine – I mean I climbed a fecking mountain last year at 5895 metres I’ll have you know – OK, so I know it was cold and altitude and creepies can’t live above 3000 metres but still it’s kind of similar.
What else could stop me – well there’s the fact that I have never run more than 17 miles in one hit and my longest race is a half marathon. A wee bit of training though and 87kms straight on day6 of the jungle marathon should be do-able, N’est pas? The phsyio says that my hip lesion, labral tear and current ITB and “fat pad” problems won’t necessarily stop me.

“Necessfeckingsarily - you feckin halfwit” – yes, yes – I hear you - be off and leave me to be happy in my own mind. I could well be that I am indeed a fecking eejit but come on with all those cards stacked in my favour how can I say no?

A runners shame

I’m ashamed, my eyes flick from side to side and down to the floor – anything to avert your insightful glare. You just don’t understand – I really tried, right to the last minute I really really tried – hoping, praying that the shame would shake my sorry ass. My last hope of escape into the redemption parlour rather than the shirker cellar of shame rested in the bagful of kit on my shoulder. I glanced once at the running crazies in the Changi airport gym (yep they have two – one each in T2 and T3) and strode dejectedly past for the comforts of the Asian buffet and another glass of Bordeaux in the business lounge. A former world I had become scarily reacquainted with in the space of only a few days had won – I am indeed ashamed.

Water is not just for ducks or dogs

"Drinking water" - the clue is in the title Petunia, you vacant hideous credit crunched West London trustafarian halfwit. They don’t put fountains in parks and then pipe only toxic water to it in order to poison London’s masses and our 40 million tourists. When you see this heaving great lummox of a sweaty runner deigning to drink direct and cover his heed in Hyde park water then it’s ok for twee little Tristan too. Or maybe you think it's ok for "them" but not us, the £4.50 cafe latte brigade.

What type of man is he going to turn into if he walks around thinking that water fountains are “only for dogs”? What? - you expect a Great Dane to stroll up – raise a paw, push down on the tap and fill a pint glass before retiring to the Serpentine bar with his Cocker Spaniel mates. You fucking dullard – I nearly took your precious little hybrid child into care immediately or had you carted off to North Korea where'd you'd be reunited with the rest of the toxic waste or merely pushed you, Holland park arse over surgically enhanced tit, into the round pond – now that water may not be suitable for Tristy baby – but for you and the water rats – it’s just fine!

Candy floss or vitriol - we can choose

“Da – we’ve had a great day, haven’t we” said in an unmistakeable six year old Ulster brogue. If his old man didn’t get a lump in his throat then this Belfast runner surely did as I lollloped through the park en route to the sea. Never mind that the same innocent will be swilling litres of cider, smoking embassy regal singles and experiencing his first awkward adolescent fumble a few years hence in the very same park. For now the ducks, the pond and his daddy mean the end to a great day at the “musies” on the seafront with the Wurlitzer and Dodgems, endured through a belly of candy floss and ice cream.

Such a paradox this troubled land of ours – this 'great day' just 24 hours before a festival of orange trimmed in red, white and blue with an undercurrent of bigotry and distrust of the last forty years or three hundred depending on who you speak to. Fifteen police injured, petrol bombs fired aimlessly at the boys in blue, or black as it is here, who by definition now are an equal mix of left and right, of “proddy bastards” and “fenian gits”. The Belfast child can no longer understand these divides – earlier generations keep the candle of hatred alive when it needs to be extinguished so that the beauty of our great days by the sea can be shared without fear and without embarrassment that friends and family of yours may be the ones saluting a Dutch King of a bygone era or hurling missiles intent only at harming our fellow man.

People of Ireland – rise up – stand up for this strong Island, call it northern or southern, unified or divided but the landscape I see knows no religion and harbours no grudge but embraces us all in the warm cradle of our land. A land to be proud of and a land to be shared by generations who see no animosity in colour, only a beautiful emerald isle swathed in hope.

Carb overloaded

How did that happen? He giggled half to himself and half at himself. A perfect Buddha belly had somehow appeared and my old man glanced over at the slab of Cadbury’s finest tempting him from the sideboard. I am reminded of that moment when I’ve just weighed in at over 90kgs (198pounds) for the first time since I gave up the dreaded weed a year and a half ago. A svelte 83kgs (183pounds) when I ran the half Marathon and climbed Kili in December – where did it all go wrong?

“Muscle ways more than fat David”. Yeah right, and a fat boy burger with six bottles of Pear cider waiting for the shrivelled messiah that is The Boss on a sunny Sunday have nothing to do with it I suppose. Not very macho is it? – Pear cider, but trust me this is an alcopop for the over thirties. How I chuckled when the eight well hard rugby boys ordered their round on Saturday, pre-British and IRISH Lions rugby union test – their only question was “normal or Pear?” With all but one going for the latter. “What, with a little umbrella and a cherry on a stick?” I thought but here I was 24hrs later undercover in my shades and middle aged festival look quaffing the fortified fruit juice and getting decidedly tipsy into the bargain.

But the new weightier me cannot be blamed all on a Sunday blowout. Maybe I really am super fit and all the exercise is piling on slabs of, finely honed muscle. It’s really strange though because on me that muscle tends to sag around the gut and tit area! Nah, I’ve just glanced at Bertie the Buddha II in the mirror and it’s definitely flab – fuck it! – What have I got to do? – How did that happen?

All the fitness experts talk a lot about nutrition these days so maybe I’ll need to pay more attention to what goes into this temple of a body as well as exercising. I am sure I am not that unhealthy but then again a quick recap of the last four days include a shepherd’s pie, ham egg and chips, banana cake, a kit kat, oh yea – a burger and chips, a few pints (ok -six) of the black stuff, a bottle of claret and of course the pear juice. Maybe I’m onto something here – perhaps I’ve found the culprit – yes I’m a greedy bastard and the wheels have come off the calorific counter.

I would have needed to run to Wales, God forbid, and back to burn off the excess calories of that little lot so this week the Buddha is going to try to only eat when he’s hungry, maybe have some fruit without the added alcohol and generally be a boring four letter word. If that doesn’t work I’ll perch on the edge of the bed, look down at my rounded form, smile at happy dad memories and know exactly how it happened!

BelfastBoyRuns

Smiles and miles are back in fashion

My neuroses had crept up on me and I quit – yep full on, last Thursday, just upped and quit – 7 miles into a 10 mile run. Never ever had I done that before and it wasn’t even hurting – my head just quit – a bit like the ex-smoker who just reaches out for one cigarette and knows there and then that it’s over.

I hate quitting – really loathe it and I am not sure I ever have in my personal life. I’ve failed loads of times and I am planning to fail some more – but bailing out, quitting – I like to think it’s not in my nature but it was there – clear as day – “You big , no good, lardass precious petal quitter”.
I know what you thinking - “grow up you big wuss – it’s a bloomin run” and you’re probably right but it matters.

It matters because on a good day the feeling is – well it’s like those immediate post coital moments - but on Thursday it was just utter deflation – like the first time you ever got dumped and realised that maybe James Bond you weren’t.

Ok – I hear you, enough of the self absorbed introspective bullshit. I’m trying, I promise - today I just ran. No tempo, no pre-run nutrition , no make yourself look like a wassock dynamic warm-up and no fucking fartleg (don’t worry if you don’t know what that is – take it from me it’s properly rubbish and hard work) - I just ran with a smile on my face and it worked. I was bloody slow as always, it hurt a bit and I can feel the old knee pain a tad but it worked because I enjoyed it – loved it in fact. Fuck me, I even nodded a “Hello” at Mr Cyclist today – as opposed to the jolly green giant on two wheels tosser who got a very curt “fuck off you prick” last Thursday as he wheeled his way through another red light and nearly into my nether regions – why do they do that?

Sorry, I digress – I was smiling - no really I was. But honestly a red light is a red light isn’t it? I have never yet seen a sign that says “RED, STOP – except if you are dressed up like Captain fucking Kirk”. Sorry, smiling, smiling, yes ..... happy run smiling.

Gotta say that I'm relieved – it all got a bit serious there for a while – a bit like life – what’s the point if we don’t enjoy it, right? Most of the people I know have choice – many of people on the planet don’t, so I figure we need to choose fun - we need to choose to enjoy it because ..... We can. Whatever it happens to be. I have lots of its and they’re not all that simple I guess but the running it – I’ve got that one down now - It’s just running and it’s fun again. Morning Captain.

More fabric in the gym please

Strewth – put them away sunshine or go and buy yourself a decent set of undercrackers. Minding my own business doing a few one legged flamingoesque squats and there they were in all their glory – a big pair of ugly wrinkled hairy... cojones – courtesy of the ginger fella in front with the oversize shorts. I know what you’re thinking – eugh – ginger!

An absolute workout disaster and even now twelve hours on my eyes are still a bit queasy – I feel like I’ve paid for a man on man big balls peep show or something. They’re not a pretty thing are they? Let’s face it I’ve never yet heard anyone say “Hasn’t he got a nice pair of crinkly bollocks on him?” It’s just not going to happen is it? – No matter who you are, who you bat for – they’re something that we keep neatly tucked away in the Calvins (or 3 for a tenner M&S specials). And we certainly don’t give them a fucking airing on the gym floor .

I’d been having a few dilemmas about sports attire recently before the wrinkly prune moment. It is tricky – there are precious few of us, past a certain age who look at our best in lycra and climacontrol nylon so as a rule of thumb I think it’s best to blend in and not try too hard. I had briefly considered a singlet after spotting one on Mr buff uber fast runner - perfect for the summer I thought and then I looked down at my sweaty tee effortlessly hugging the gut and moobs – No, more is definitely more for the lived in figure.

And ladies – don’t think you’ve escaped – remember more IS really more – Irene Cara was hot in the lycra leotard twenty five years ago but I bet she’s not wearing it now. Well done - you’ve dropped a dress size or two – pat on the back, have a Ryvita, but that outfit with the pink swimsuit thingy over the knobbly knee leggings was three decades ago and there a few dress sizes to go yet. Come on – surely you don’t want to stand out – you must know that everyone over about twenty two looks shit in the gym – fact – so, blend people... blend.

And as for the camel hoof* thing – can’t you do something with that? – or is it just there and we aren’t supposed to look? It’s no better that the ginger bollock man – there are plenty of women in the gym who manage to avoid it so message to the middle aged not so fucking yummy mummy sweaty betty disciples - No – we have no interest in the breakfast look. I hear the sisterhood rising up – you shouldn’t be perving they screech – believe me – we are not bloody perving – the top 1 % in a gym might deserve a second look; the bloke toned like a mahogany table and the no arse green tea lettuce girl in the crop top perhaps but they know it and this is not California so we do a very British thing and ignore them - Ha - they can't stand it.

We, the other 99%, we love it and we know that rather than perving lustfully we are just kind of hoping that no-one has noticed us - the cardiac cheeks, hair matted to the forehead, sweat stained back and crusty white rings in the armpits, not to mention around the mouth, is not a look either of us want to share.

So get over it – get a T-shirt on, don’t point that thing at me and I’ll have a word with Ginge.

* ps - I have subsequently been informed it's commonly known as a toe not a hoof but trust me the ones in my gym are hooves!

BelfastBoyRuns

Temptation on the Canal run

There was no doubt in my mind Anastasia was the one, her imperious gaze fixed on mine and beckoned me – her top pulled seductively to the side – surely I would not give in so soon to the weakness that had blighted days gone by but Anastasia, and her glorious fullsome pose offered both comfort and just enough of a hint of excitement for premature retirement to be a consideration.

I could feel the cold stare of Scarlet burning through me as it was her who first grabbed me but far too brash, too glitzy and just too damned obvious for a man like me. As I glanced over my shoulder she now assumed a somewhat haughty air, resuming her business-like pose alongside the foxy lady – ah, the once impressive foxy lady - I considered the beauty of her prime, the sleek toned features still visible beneath the facade reflecting a life of hardship and neglect – the years had not been kind but I am sure that even the statuesque gleaming Anastasia may well have met her match in the prime of this foxy lady.

Imagining the feeling of her cold comfort on my aching limbs as we shared a glass from the long stem weakened my resolve further but briefly. NO, I looked at her squarely and she knew – consoling herself that maybe later when the sun hid and the disrepair of her ageing friend found a kinder companion in the soft moonlight bathing her tired form - but now I needed to keep moving and I congratulated myself as I passed from the allure of the femmes fatales through the stoicism of the Magpie and on to the character of “pippa blue" standing shoulder to shoulder with the youthful protector "frankie boy".

I struggled in the midday heat along Grand Union and into Regents Canal through Little Venice and on to Camden before turning back to once again face my earlier temptresses, smiling at the robust rump of “our lass sue” as she ushered me homeward – they all have stories to tell – these magnificent floating ladies of the London waterways.

BelfastBoyRuns

Which weirdo went down to the gym today

“Hi, Mark – the aqua mumble, mumble instructor here” – he extends his hand “You been for a workout?” - No shit Sherlock I’m in a fucking gym changing room wrapped in a towel . You meanwhile are standing there stark bollock naked and expect me to shake your hand. Where am I ancient Greece or something? Why in god’s name would I want to conduct a conversation with a weird naked stranger and more to the point why would I want to shake his hand when only a minute earlier he looked like he was trying to perform personal colonic irrigation with the same hand in his neanderthal attempt to dry his more than ample butt cheeks - well you can’t help but have a sneaky look can you?...

“Emmm, David” I stammered and shook his bloody hand – and then completely lost myself in a few hate filled seconds as I contemplated what hideous bodily fluids we had just exchanged as he battered on about aqua gym and being the highest paid aqua gym instructor in London and ..... “like I fucking care, you odious little man” my mind screamed but somehow my voice conveyed “really, that’s interesting”. He leant towards me, so that a lucky shower leaver (oh how I envied him) could manoeuvre his way round Mark's Oprah-shaming arse on his way to the locker sanctuary – which meant, I swear it, that his meat and veg actually touched my towel – yes - dangly bits belonging to him, touching a towel belonging to me. This is not turning into some homo erotic tale of note so what do you expect - I punched him, full in the face, blood splattered across the tiles, he squealed like a new born piglet and collapsed to a jubbery mess, writhing in his own claret.

I wish that last bit actually happened but sadly instead I just endured some more inane tales of the utterly expected in aqua land - oh how I laughed - wassock - before I somehow scurried to wash that hand -eugh, that hand, those fluids, And get me out of this towel. How much worse can a simple 10 metre walk from the shower cubicles to the locker be.... what a wanker (if you're American that's just like - well just imagine someone from South Carolina).

Still to this day I cannot work out what possesses a grown man to strike up a conversation like that – and he’s not alone. Is it me? Is it acceptable to flounce up to people in the bollocky buff and have a natter about nothing in particular? Is it normal for these same people to plonk their sweaty naked arses directly on the benches in the locker room or the sauna? Am I in some way dysfunctional that I like to have the crinkly bits tucked away before I discuss school fees or the price of a tall skinny latte and is my OCD so out of control that I like to sit on a towel ? It seems there are lots of Mark’s in the gym – maybe I am the weirdo.

Perhaps that’s why running appeals - space – real, seemingly unlimited personal space – something the tadpole man will never quite get.

And as for the aqua gym class – really great – I’d highly recommend it ;-) !

BelfastBoyRuns

Steroid postscript - 1.30am

A side effect of the side effect is that you can't sleep which could be fun but frankly just isn't.

- I could do some work but my host in the US has been down all evening so can't do the fun stuff and I can't be arsed to start adding up the subtractions in the start-up budget.
- I could go for the run but this is downtown Notting Hill - aka Ladbroke Grove and besides we've already established that I'm a purple ridden wuss.
- I could surf porn but I've seen all the good stuff already - come on - I'm joking - honest!
- I could write to my mum but I've never done that before.
- I could follow a thousand more people on twitter and see if i can get 1001 to follow me.
- I could boil an egg but what would be the point in that at this time of night.
- I could phone my mates in Asia and Australia but they're just not that interesting.
- I could go back to bed and count sheep but we all know that's bollox and never worked.
- I could start trading silly things again but I've already hit this quarter's stoploss.
- I could go and find out whose fucking car alarm is now going off and then attack it with a hammer and then I could get arrested in my boxers and get thrown in quarantine on account of my purpleness and then I'd miss my next dose of these steroidy things and then I'd start to itch more and go more purple and probably scream and then maybe because i'd screamed a lot and missed my dosage - I'd - bingo - flashing bulb moment - I'd be able to sleep.....

Where's my hammer?

BelfastBoyRuns
http://belfastboyruns.blogspot.com/