10K Run - Training Report #1

Training for my London 10K in aid of the Cystic Fibrosis Trust is going well.

Or it was; a mixture of extended work commitments and Man Flu prevented me from doing anything at all last week – for a whole week! I am a little gutted about this because it almost feels like I will be starting all over again when I get back into the gym this week.

Never mind.

Mentally I am committed – or I certainly should be.

I found my way down to the gym to start training for my challenge two weeks ago. Rob the Gym Man was beside himself with joy when he first spotted me back in his life. I thought he was going to cry, I’m certain that he whooped.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so happy at the sight of me in shorts before, it was quite flattering really. We just sort of stood and man-hugged for about a minute too long, saying something on the lines of “Love you man” before moving on and leaving me standing there.

On a treadmill.

I looked at the buttons, they looked at me. Kilometres, I noticed, not miles. Usually this annoys me. In previous visits to the gym it has really vexed me that all of the machines work in metric. I’m a miles and yards person – is it really too much to expect my country to be the same? And if being metric is so damned important, why are all the roads marked in Miles? Answer me that Mr Cameron!

On this day though, and on this mission, the quirk of British measurement systems was on my side. I need to know about Kilometres, I need to know when I can run 10 of the buggers.

So, after about 5 minutes  reminding myself how to make the machine start, and pinning the little emergency cut-off wire to my shirt (I have first-hand experience of why these things are worth doing), I was ready.

The treadmill started to move.

At speeds that would terrify a tortoise, I heaved, puffed, sweated, coughed, grunted and gasped my way along until the distance display read 1.0.

Oh yes! 1.0!

With oxygen depleted blood pumping hard through your veins, salty sweat dripping over your eyes to blur your vision and the knowledge that you have been ponding along virtual streets for hours, it is amazing how much 1.0 Kilometres looks like 10.

I fist pumped the air like a crazed Tennis champion and shouted a triumphant, room stopping “YES!” Then I wobbled scarily, because it turned out the machine didn’t know that I had finished and was still actually moving. I franticly jabbed at the dials to make the damned thing stop, but nothing seemed to have an effect. That was when I remembered about the little clip attached to my shirt.

One quick tug and it was all over. (story of my life).

The machine came to a halt and I flopped down ecstatic at my achievement. Darren, my friend and nominated “fitness type” who will be running with me on the 12^th, saw me and popped over to see how I’d done.

“I’ve bloody done it!” I shouted over the sounds of ‘Spear Of Destiny’ still doing their thing in my ears, “Day bloody one and I’ve done 10K! – This run is so on – You lot all laughed but look at me now!  I can do it - I can bloody do it already!”

Darren looked at the screen and scrunched up his face. He coughed first of all, and then spluttered a bit. 

Finally he just sort of walked away, shoulders bouncing uncontrollably as he walked.

I turned around and read the distance again.

The aches and pains in my stupidly stiff legs did absolutely nothing to alleviate the dark mood that occupied the rest of my day. Nor did the way that people all around me giggled whenever I hobbled by them. Darren is a true and proper friend, but about as discrete as the love bites on a 16 year old supermarket till-girl’s neck.

So that was day one. I managed to go a few more times and after such a depressingly discouraging start, progress is going excitingly well until last week’s absence. But I am back now and the challenge continues.  Meanwhile there should now be a page up above that you can TAB to and follow the action. Route details and times will be on there so feel free to turn up. If you want to run you can, if you don’t then you can certainly turn up at the pub (though there is at least a small chance I’ll be trying to sponge a drink out of you if you do!).

The most important thing is that somehow – I raise some cash for Cystic Fibrosis.

Training report 2 – where I finally give in to pressure and sleep with Rob the Gym Man coming soon. Actually I might not write that one…

Michael Morpurgo

I’ve just realised that I never actually told you about Michael Morpurgo.

I assume you’ve heard of this particular writer? How about if I say “War Horse”? War Horse is just one of his many brilliant books. Michael writes very grown up books in a manner that makes them ideal for young readers. My 10 year old absolutely loves his work and has a somewhat impressive collection.

To say that Daniel is a little miffed that Spielberg’s War Horse has come out as a 12A has upset him, is a bit of an understatement.

Anyway.

Just before Christmas (yes it has taken me this long to write about it) we went to see a play.

Not a play – a reading.

On Angel Wings – if you haven’t read it – is a lovely little story, based on the birth of Christ. Essentially it’s written from one of the Shepherd’s viewpoints, or more accurately one of their children’s. It is a very ‘nice’ Christmas story.

The reading was at Britain’s ‘National Theatre’ on the Southbank in London, which is an impressive setting for a start. The story was read by Michael Morpurgo himself alongside Virginia McKenna, who, with an impressive long acting career, you might just about remember from Born Free. They would read snippets then sit as a four strong ‘A Capella’ group sang Carols.

It was really lovely.

Daniel was absolutely transfixed as his hero did his thing.

I was fairly miffed because the realisation of just how big the gap is between my own writing skills and an actual genuinely skilled author looks, when you actually open your eyes and read.

It’s one of the reasons why I’ve been so slow to get back into it this year. I certainly haven’t written any fiction for ages and I love writing fiction. I just haven’t got the blind confidence back yet which deludes me into thinking that I’m on a par with these people who write proper stories.

Michael really looked the part of a writer, from his loafers to his scraggy burgundy suit. He joked about at the end to the delight of his audience, and we all left happy and set up for Christmas.

Daniel will never ever forget that evening. I think Jamie may have forgotten it already…

As we walked from the theatre I pointed out that the reading was great but that the Alfresco singers went on a bit. I waited – nothing. So I said it again, this time noting the slightly bored raise of an eyebrow from my wife – so she HAD got it, but was just refusing to laugh for some reason. I tell you this, coming up with ‘Dad jokes’ is a tricky business, some you get right and some just completely fall into thin air.

After the show, we went for a curry before getting a train home. If I have done one thing right with my life it is that I’ve trained my sons to go Indian Restaurants. The Bangalore Express by London Waterloo train station is a fantastic place. It is designed to have a feel of being on a train in India which really makes it different. There are normal tables, but down one side – where we were sat – is a bunk bed style section. You have a table, but next to you is a ladder which goes up to another table above you. Waiters have to climb this ladder to serve the table on top. It’s a gimmick but it works. The feel of the place is vibrant and exotic while the food is beautiful. It certainly is not your standard Indian menu.

The Bangalore Express is certainly not set up as a ‘kids’ restaurant but none the less they were more than welcome and catered for.

It was the perfect end to a fantastic evening. I was so impressed with the show and how my children are the kind of kids who appreciate this kind of thing that I could have cried. I didn’t because I’m not a girl. 

But I could have.

So now I have to get back to writing fiction again, simply because I enjoy it. Also I have to catch up with where I am because it’s nearly February and I’m still talking about Christmas.

Happy New Year.

Fishing for Girls

fishing for girls

Now, you are probably wondering why I am posting up photos of utter filth, like the one above.

This picture depicts the horrendous objectification of men that women in our society seem to think is acceptable these days, so why on Earth would I share it with you?

I’ll explain.

My wife showed me this photograph after sitting for some time studying it. In fact, the only reason she showed me it at all, was because she had decided that she couldn’t study it carefully enough on her mobile phone’s small screen and wanted to borrow my laptop instead. Apparently this would make it easier for her to examine it and decide for herself how utterly disgraceful this degrading image truly is.

It still took ten minutes for her to decide.

The source of the photo is unclear, so I can’t credit it – but it has come to my attention via shares of shares of shares on Facebook. The specific group of ladies enjoying this so called sportsman were getting somewhat over excited. Quite a few of them seemed to be wondering what the front would be like. It troubles me to note just how sordid and base women can be when presented with images of this nature. I don’t think men would ever act in this manner. If we saw a photograph of some sportswoman with her bottom out while playing tennis, for a random example, we would shun it immediately in disgust - I should imagine.

The full package appeared to be a hot topic. If the back looks this hot (If you call those tiny, muscly, hairless buttocks hot – which I certainly don’t) just how fantastic would he look if he turned around?

Well.

I like to help.

And after about an hour’s Internet based research I think I’ve found the answer.

Ladies – Try not to get too carried away! 

Enjoy 

Check out the size of my codpiece