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/

Ugly but still running

Thank goodness for Prednisolone – 40mg a day of this little puppy has stopped the spread of the purple peril that has slowly consumed my body. Yes those really are my shins on the left and the rest doesn’t get much better. The downside is that my hopes of being part of Team GB at London 2012 are sadly at an end – the aforementioned steroid is on the WADA (World Anti-doping Agency) banned substance list. For your guide it was Diclofenac, an anti-inflammatory drug that caused the problem – not on the banned list – it bloody well should be!!

Feeling a whole lot better and certainly a whole lot less itchy – thanks for all your concerned tweets and blog comments – ok I admit I sent them to myself as no-one else seemed to care :-( . I may even make a run today but worried about scaring off the other plodders when they see the Purple Precious one here flaking his way towards them.

So the events of the last few days have really made me consider whether it's worth it or not – seriously this running bug seems to have had a lot of downsides and caused me to ingest and inject various types of medical crap which I had never even heard of before. And again my mammy says “it’s just not for you, son” - maybe she’s right but again I see all these running warriors on twitter and runners world and I haven’t even started yet – really – I haven’t done a marathon yet and I know my mind is ready for more than that – much more – I could climb more mountains instead I guess – I glanced at Africa from the Empress of the Serengeti (thanks Toto) in December. Then again I love the solitude of running but went out of my tiny in the lunar emptiness on the way up Kili.

Bugger it – I am going to run, no matter how neurotic it makes me and how many problems it gives me – I figure the new hip is due within a decade so better wear this one out properly first and maybe be a little more circumspect on what I put into my body. It used to be the wine and kebabs that worried me - now it's the drugs - they never did work you know!

So if you are squeamish - avoid Hyde Park at around 7pm tonight - lolloping speckled scaly purple mess getting back on the endorphin paved perimeter route.

BelfastBoyRuns
http://belfastboyruns.blogspot.com/

I ain't running and it ain't pretty

And now my sense of humour has completely deserted me. One hundred little warty things on one finger – and trust me it’s everywhere so no fun bobby here thinking there might be as many as a million of them over my blotchy purple body mass. Never had a medicine allergy before and frankly I don’t want another - looking forward to 8am tomorrow so I can see the doc – Save me from this lumpy, scratchy, parasitic purgatory please doc. Seriously embarrassing too – I had a sports massage booked for Friday but cancelling that – even if the rashy thing is subsiding I wouldn’t subject anyone to touching my scales. My eyes are now proverbial p*ssholes in the snow and yes people I am feeling very fucking sorry for myself.

The good news is that yesterday I was feeling guilty for not running; now the running feels guilty for calling me. And part of me thinks that if only I hadn’t caught the running bug then none of this would be occurring and I could be happily going through the trouser sizes closing my arteries steadily but then the other part thinks – I am never accepting a prescription again from anyone who is not my GP and with all these rest days under my belt how good is the next run going to be – sad addict that I am.

BelfastBoyRuns
http://belfastboyruns.blogspot.com/

Another excuse not to run

Always best to be honest on a blog I think so this morning I can honestly tell you that I am a wuss - a first class rash covered big southern wuss. Today was the day of the long(ish) run of the week – certainly 10 and maybe 12 miles but you know what it’s a wee bit dreek, as they sat in Scotland, outside and I am covered head to toe in the lurgy – nothing to panic about - just another bloody allergy 'cos being a sensitive wee soul I’m allergic to lots of things from the active ingredient in deodorant to prawns and now it seems anti-inflammatories. You see it all comes down to running again – I’m taking these tablets twice a day as a last step before the dreaded cortisone injection to mask the long-standing ITB problem which the doc tells me is mild but stopped me running for 2 months and feels like sandpaper being scraped along the inside of my tendon on every stride.

Everything was on the up – running nearly pain free for the first time in months and building the mileage back up to the level pre ITB (18miles long run territory) and now panic– breathe David breathe – panic - what if I have to stop the tablets and the knee hurts again and I turn back into Jabba the Hut? – see told you I was a neurotic wuss.

So instead of running I’m lying in darkened room, itching like crazy – every main body part (no no not that one – I said main!) covered in these little raised red sore things – now on my eyelids too – oh so attractive – think cabbage patch doll meets bulldog . Come on anti-histamine – kick in - How many of these Zirteks can I take? – don’t answer that – I can read the box and I’ve gone way past that already. I hope the anti-inflammatory diagnosis is right because the second candidate is red wine and that’s just not going to happen – no – no I’ll take the cabbage patch look rather than cut the Vin Rouge from my diet – come on be fair – take the red meat, the cakes – ALL seafood – Guinness even (I’ll get back to you on that actually) but not the Red – puhlease!

So when people say don’t you feel much healthier now you’ve kicked the fags, lost some weight and managed to run round the block a few times?! - No I bloody don't - bring me the Marlboro - but on the other hand I could stop being a self-indulgent precious wuss, get up and run through the itchiness – maybe later – right now I need to scratch.

BelfastBoyRuns

http://BelfastBoyRuns.blogspot.com/

The Spinning Stampede

Don’t even think about it – you can’t win – those girls have it got it down. I didn’t even get upset this morning when I failed to make the list for the eighty seventh time this year. They looked at me without pity – only the victorious post battle glow. The spin class list opens 15 minutes before the class starts and for the popular ones you gotta get there – well actually I don’t know – probably the night before. You better ask the sisterhood – they’re always there – always on the same bike smiling that “ha – we’re so smug and we’ve raised 2 ugly pretentious trustafarian children and the husband ditched me for a younger model and you dare even look at me the wrong way and i’ll rip every last hair from the crack of your arse with my teeth” . In fact it’s a blessed relief that I missed it again – maybe I do it subconsciously because Matron Mary and her cronies have got all the good spots sewn up and I invariably end up tucked away between Chubby Charlie and Grunting Gary – so the eyes get hairy butt cheek central and not much else for an hour while the ears get hippo snot creation. Oh the joy of running – that’s why I’m doing it I remind myself.

These spinning stampede victors – what’s the point when they sit there making crapping faces when the spinmeister implores us to turn it up a gear to level 8 and they blatantly haven’t ever moved it from level minus 4. What are they doing ? Trying to get fit or maybe lose some weight but no they have nothing left for the class after all that energy to get on the fucking list. Come on girls – you’re gonna have to sweat – week after week , same seat, same class getting bigger – STOP – you’re cheating – go and have Big Mac. I may not be the best spinner in the world and yes I know I resemble a new born giraffe when we’re doing jumps but I bloody well work it and one class is my limit – these lard asses – they mince out 2 minutes from the end and start queuing for class two – no kidding – they think they’re Olympic class crappers and want to show us the full array. Look you’re just fucking cheating – just like you did in PE at school – we know you – declare period pains 3 times a month to the shy PE teacher who never thought to quiz you and buses in the middle of the cross country – nothing’s changed. But hey – it doesn’t bother me ..... much.

I should just leave it alone – leave the spinning to the delusionists and the freaks – you know the ones 7% bodyfat, buns of steel and back, sack and crack – but I can’t ‘cos I’m preparing to run. Oh how I wish I could just run but apparently dumpy here hasn’t got the physique for it – triffic doc - how come Ron Hill (ancient running legend) has run every day for forty years and I get an arthritic hip after twice a week for a year? Yep, my physique isn’t that of a runner – you know all sinewy ,tight and ugly. I know this from two reliable sources 1. My physio – thanks Paddy Mcginty – who suggested I take up swimming (yeah cos that’s really like running isn't it? Feckin Eejit!) and 2. My mum who thinks I should just walk. Love you mum but walking for twenty years whilst devouring 30 Marlboro and the odd glass of the back stuff is what got me to the morbidly obese state in the first place. By the way that morbidly obese terminology is rubbish – ok so I weighed a couple of hundred pounds but the travelling doughnut salesman or whatever he was called (Neil Boyd) on America’s Got Talent – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W8oR91K7gZ8&feature=related - now he’s morbidly obese. So come on docs –get a better classification please – I’m happy with “fat b*stard” if it helps any.

I ignored them all and I ran 8 days out of ten and then I couldn't run for a month so I've resorted to doing what I’m told – cross training, squats, lunges, bridges and other butt strengthening exercises that are oh so attractive on a tubby chap of a certain age. l’ve aready confessed my addiction and love/ hate of running so if I want to keep it up I am consigned to the gym hamster routine and queueing with my menopausal friends. Roll on park running on Saturday – I get to fight with the dog owners instead. Don’t even start me on that one!

BelfastBoyRuns
http://www.belfastboyruns.blogspot.com/

Yoga for fatboys

My feet are either side of her head with my heels gripped on her shoulders, she grips my shins and somehow lifts my fat backside up against the wall so that I can feel the full benefits of Eka pada salamba sarvagasana**. Yes, inspired by other runners and frustrated by my old man set of injuries I’ve started yoga – if I know you, you can get back on your seat now. I reckon the funniest thing I could do for you is put a webcam in the studio and let you watch me suffer. This former heavyweight (105kgs, 230pounds or 16.5 stone – fat b*stard in any language) hadn’t seen his toes in ten years let alone touch them is now trying to “Om” his way to flexibility and strength. Seriously we do the Om thing – nearly got a fit of the giggles in session one but I quickly reminded myself that I’m supposed to be a grown up.

And then a friend of mine says “it’s ok ‘cos there are a bunch of fit women in the classes” – well there might be but I have to say I haven’t noticed them through my struggles and they cannot be overly impressed with fatboy here looking like he is about to internally combust whilst contorting himself into the constipated dog – yes I know it’s supposed to be the downward dog but as I said the webcam would not lie. The teachers are great and do their best to make you feel like you are progressing and try hard not to make you feel like the fat kid at swimming lessons but I’m convinced I’ve seen them suppress a laugh as I wince whilst lifting my leg to a full 30 degrees when it’s supposed to be 90 degrees - they call that one Ardha Chandrasana** - a bit of a killer for the chubby inner thigh – the ultimate chafing cure perhaps.

But yes the instructors are way ahead of the Pilates Android - you know who you are – this ever so serious hasn’t eaten more than a lettuce leaf in one sitting since 1990 kicked me out – yep kicked my sorry ass out of an intermediate pilates class before it started ‘cos I hadn’t had 2 or 3 months experience – I mean it’s fucking Pilates not an expedition to the moon – but oh so serious and oh so dull and I think I’ve vented enough now – but she is a f*ckwit! Ok, ok I’ve let it go – Yoga teachers – you are great – just one thing for the lady from last night – No the guy with a limp did not have his short leg lengthened by an inch in one yoga session – I know you love it and I know there are lots of things to say for yoga but seriously you are an intelligent lady – that just can’t happen and as for the miracle yoga cancer cure – please don’t go there.

So we’re on about lesson five now and I am completely bloody useless but I like it and I may even see the benefits – and I think I can do Vrksasana* although it could be a good decade before I get to Uttanasana* – gotta love the names right? Now don’t go telling people I like it – no good for the macho image – and more importantly don’t tell everyone in the gym either – the classes are full enough – and note to the ladies who lunch – look it’s yoga and it’s supposed to be relaxing so you tiptoeing in like a herd of fucking buffalos fifteen minutes late doesn’t work – go and see Andrea the Android in her precious Pilates class instead ‘cos this yoga thing is for fatboys only.

**A brief guide to some yoga poses: http://www.yogacards.com/yoga_poses.html

BelfastBoyRuns
http://belfastboyruns.blogspot.com/

Runners - Don't forget your nipple plasters

Running is such a pure sport. All you need is a pair of trainers and you’re off. Right? I’d love to agree and I’d love to get out of the house in one attempt next time. Take today – all set and ready to go except – I’d forgotten my watch – very key obviously because my pace varies so much that every 8 mile run in the last 2 weeks has been within 2 minutes of the other ones. But I have myself convinced that I can’t run without my watch – logical that the legs and wrist are linked - I mean how far will I run, what speed and how many calories will I burn? I try telling myself that my legs still work and there’s a fair chance that I’ll probably plod along at 9 minute miles, I’ll probably burn around 140 calories per hour and Hyde park is still 4 miles in circumference but oh no Mr Neurotic here needs his watch – last week I actually waited 30 minutes for it to charge before I set off – sad – yes yes I know but I’m happy in my own mind.

If only it was just the watch I’d be ok but then there’s the banana – yep gotta have one of those before I run, preferably 45 minutes before – and if I don’t – panic – another story for another day but pre Vegas half marathon I paid $25 for 3 bananas – seriously you read right twenty five fucking US dollars for 3 banana’s courtesy of the Wynn Hotel, Vegas baby – but oh the blessed relief when me and my bananas were united.

And then there’s the nipple plasters – now come on – you ever had a bleeding nipple? – mighty painful I can tell you so you never leave home without a plaster or two – the fact that when I finish they are nowhere to be seen is neither here nor there but my nipples are still intact as god intended them. And the share price of Mr Elastoplast is going through the roof. I must confess to presently experimenting with another type of nipple care – that being petroleum jelly or good old Vaseline.

Now there’s method in my madness with the old Vaseline because you see it is already on my “don’t leave home without one running list” so if I could double up its use then I’d have one less thing to remember and the hair could grow back round my nipples – bald nipples not a great look on an otherwise beasty torso. So Vaseline you see is to avoid runners arse – sometimes known as golfers arse and very similar to nappy rash. A decent application of vas around the bottom and between the thighs does the job – it’s more the chubby inner thigh problem for me but forget it at your peril and you end up running like John Wayne without his incontinence pants. So must not forget the Vas.

Nearly there, nearly out the door except I haven’t had my anti-histamine and now the sun is shining and the eyes are getting a bit itchy you need these or you finish looking like Ricky Hatton on a bad night. And sunglasses – obviously....silly of me to forget.
Phew that’s that – although it’s often best to have a spare pound or two in case you need a bottle of water on your run – maybe a credit card in case you get lost or stuck – yes I know it’s only eight miles in a circle of 4 but you can never be too careful. And for the same reason don’t for goodness sake forget your phone.... still haven’t worked out why but just in case.

Now the ipod – forget it – it’s dead remember and for your own mental health don’t start getting attached to a particular running top or pair of shorts – yes I have waited for my fave black adidas top to dry but I think I’m over that now – I always make sure it’s dry the night before.

So there you have it – ready to burn up the streets - yesterday I happily ticked everything off and relaxed into my run when after 3 minutes I stopped suddenly – f*ck it – Monday 8am – I’ve got physio at 8.30am! Now that’s another story but I not sure I’m brave enough to share all my neuroses in one day.

Happy running and remember preparation is everything unless your memory is basically pickled – like mine.

Fatboys love to run too

I used to listen to an ipod non- stop when I ran and in fact did so for my one and only half marathon, in Vegas, but then some dickhead ran through a red light in his jag on Valentine’s Day at Hyde Park corner and the ipod died. So I decided to see if I could run ‘silent’ and I can. Is it better? – I don’t know; I keep thinking I’ll try music again but then again I quite like the solitude and don’t get the “Final Countdown” in the second mile or Dolly and Jolene when I need some “Eye of the Tiger”.

Let’s get one thing straight – I love to run but I am definitely NOT a runner. In fact I think that most people who see me waddling round the parks of London probably look on and think “What a wassock, he might as well just walk” – in other words they think what I used to think when I saw the wobbly ones struggling before I was born again - in a strictly jogging sense.
As I endured a particularly difficult eight miles yesterday morning through Hyde, Green and then St. James’ park I started to wonder what I loved about running and what kept me going. In short the easy answer to those two questions are “I bloody well don’t” and “I have no idea” but at the same time I know I‘ll be back tomorrow trying it all over again.

When I say love maybe I mean hate – I hate that first fifteen minutes which 12 months into my running career never seem to get any easier – I still feel like a beginner huffing and puffing with creaking knees, aching calves and a heaving chest - but then it turns into a effortless glide – emm – No – it just gets more bearable but the gliders – yes I see them circling with light feet barely touching the ground and covering their distance like birds dancing in the wind. Perhaps I stick at it because I dream that one day I’ll look like them – probably not, I know my physical make-up and the best I can hope for is that I start to look less like a constipated foal.
Getting faster – that’s it – that’s what I love except that doesn’t seem to happen anyway. I am about to reveal the limits of my running ability so proper runners please look away now. Well I remember doing four miles at an average of 7 minutes and 45 seconds in February but yesterday the first 4 came out in an average of 9 minutes and 12 seconds and they were bloody hard and yet in December I ran a half marathon at an average of 8:18 but on the upside yesterday I ran the last of eight in around 8 minutes; my watch gizmo satellite, tell me what I had for breakfast thingy told me that at one stage my pace was 6 minutes and 47 seconds. All this adds up to what my pace is? Could I run a mile in less than 7 minutes? Or could I run 26.2 in less than a 9 minutes average (a 4 hr marathon)? Or maybe 8 minutes which would be less that 3hr 30m for that godly distance. What should I run for 10k or 5k? And how far could I keep running for – the 100k ultras or the 24hr races?

The fact is I just don’t know any of those answers and I’m learning all the time. Ah..Learning and suffering and enjoying it... I think that’s it.
38 years old and I know nothing, nothing about running and maybe nothing about life... but it feels good to be like that expectant eight year old with a hunger to know and to know NOW! I really want to know if running is like life and it just gets harder because if it does I promise I’m going to stop except I know I can’t – I think I’m a wee bit addicted but then again I want to know if it teaches me anything about life – I think maybe it already has – not being able to run probably now matters more to me than..... well certainly more than not having the best hotel suite – that’s a significant revelation – believe me I was a hoteliers worst nightmare – nothing was ever good enough and on every holiday I changed rooms within 24hours – often I changed hotels – that was the case in 2 of the last 3 holidays and the one when I didn’t - well I changed rooms to the best one and I was already in the best hotel within 50 miles.... yep a complete pain in the arse, stuck up disaster! (I’ve read this again and realise I come across like a fickle materialistic wanker but hey them’s the facts)... but now it’s my running shoes and learning and thinking – thinking eh? What do I think about when I’m running (nearly the title of a great book by Haruki Murakami’s, What I Think About When I Think About Running).
At the end of every run I ask myself that question and I never know – I can never remember – as if I was in a trance or in another movie – maybe it’s what drug addicts are looking for – escapism or nothingness - it’s like those dreams – you know you’ve been having them and think you enjoyed them but what were they all about? Maybe that’s the good thing because I’ll have been on my feet for an hour or more and thought about not very much or else a lot but resolved nothing
A thousand more questions that I can’t answer and anyway I fancy a run now but I’ll think and try as always. All I know is that I love the hardship, the solitude, the equality, the room for improvement and the frustration that come with this the most basic and purest of sports.

And to the dickhead in the jag – thanks – now I can hear my screwed up thoughts.