Stereotypes

Many stereotypes stand up to closer inspection and as a result we make judgements, consciously or not, all the time. For example every time you’re driving behind an OAP in a Nissan Micra you’ll expect your journey to be delayed, though I’ll admit to being thrilled recently to see one racing round corners at speeds I thought they didn’t know existed. Equally if someone tells you they’re a Man Utd fan you can be pretty confident what to expect if you ask “Been to a game recently?”
 
Then there’s those that are half-truths. I’ve worked with as many man-hating women (generally single or bitter divorcees) in my career as I have ‘male chauvinist pigs’. Well, nearly – I am in banking after all.

And why is it ok to insinuate you’re a competitive Dad but not a competitive Mum? This phenomena seems to have passed everyone by but to me it sticks out like a sore thumb. It starts in pregnancy with comments like “you wait til you get to my stage, then you’ll know what morning sickness feels like!” We had a stranger come up to us in the car park and tell my wife her bump wasn’t anywhere near as big as hers was at the same stage. Were they suggesting we should be worried? Or was she proud that some of her gut was being mistaken for a baby?

More recently it’s become comparing their baby’s development. “You should have seen how little/much sleep mine was getting!” “Mine was crawling/walking/talking/flying by then!” Again, unless we’re suggesting that differing rates of development is a new thing, what are they trying to achieve? Will they be phoning other Mums on GCSE results day and comparing academic achievement too? Or keep it health-related and just boast about key milestones like puberty?

To be fair fatherhood does seem to trigger a similar gene. So far CDS (Competitive Dad Syndrome) hasn’t kicked in too noticeably just yet, but it is in evidence with my running. It’s not that long ago I would have struggled to walk 13 miles, let alone run it, but at some point in every run my mind starts racing ahead to how fast or far I can run that day. “God I’m feeling good, I reckon I’m on for a personal best!” Never mind that there’s never been a single run where I haven’t been in near/actual agony by the end of it, my brain has a remarkable way of forgetting that and assuming this will be the one when that doesn’t happen.

I downloaded a good app called Pace Calculator recently that tells you, based on the time and distance you’ve run, what that should equate to you being able to run other distances in, taking factors like fatigue into account. It also provides some useful advice on what types of training you should do and mentions that “top coaches and exercise physiologists” recommend that 80-90% of your training is done at a slower, more relaxed pace. It’s counter-intuitive but apparently it’s been proven to help you improve.

Clearly though they didn’t have Dads in mind when they came up with that advice. I’ve tried taking it slowly a few times but inevitably (generally no more than 5 minutes into my run) decide that, based on how I’m not in agony yet, I should up the pace and go for it.

All of which means I’ve gone from focussing on completing to being hell-bent on competing. Not with the other 55,000 runners – one look in the mirror is all the confirmation I need that I’m by no means an athlete - but with myself. Rather than being thrilled to make it to the finish line I’ll now be disappointed if I don’t break the 2 hour target I’ve set myself. Never mind that I haven’t got close to it yet or that conditions on the day might make it near impossible to run at my best, competitive Dad instinct tells me it can must be achieved!

You might be a little sceptical reading all this, doubting that CDS exists but for proof ask yourself how many times you’ve been out shopping and seen the Peter Kay impression of a ‘Dad run’? That running motion that gets him from A to B no quicker than his usual walk is borne from the same gene, where the mind is urging them to go faster but their body has long since passed it’s ability to perform. I’ve got that to look forward to one day, no doubt in the same way I’ll try impressing my children and their friends in later years by beating them at whatever sport or computer game they try to take me on at.

In applying for both the Great North Run and the York 10k I’m doing next week-end you’re asked what time you expect to finish it in so that you can be grouped with (and no doubt compete against) other runners of similar ability. Maybe they’re missing a trick by not having a section dedicated to those suffering from CDS. They may not win or appear to be running any faster than they walk, but it’d stop them embarrassing their kids for the day.

MM

* The Great North Run is just 7 weeks away and I’m doing it (and writing this blog) to raise money for the MS Society. It might be a cliché but it’s certainly true that whatever you’re able to sponsor me will be hugely appreciated – I’ve got a minimum amount I’m nowhere near raising and really need all the support I can get. Thanks for helping me do that. 

http://www.justgiving.com/mark-megginson

Monty Python

2012 is a patriotic Brit’s dream come true, what with the Olympics, European Championships and golden jubilee giving us another chance to buy some union jack merchandise from our local supermarket. It’s an opportunity for us to show the world what we’re all about, albeit so far the focus appears to have been on how long it takes Johnny Foreigner to get through customs.

Once they do make it through the gates I can’t help but think they’ll be a little underwhelmed by what they find, certainly if they’ve been shown the same celebrity-clad tourism adverts that we get encouraging us to have a pint with Ron Weasley.

The problem is that as a nation we aren’t accustomed to American-style razzmatazz. Great customer service delivered with a genuine smile is as far removed in practice as it is geographically when you see how it’s done over there. “Have a nice day” sounds hollow enough to be farcical in this country but our transatlantic cousins say it with sincerity.

So my solution would be to tell Johnny how it really is. Yes you’ll be met with queues, but if anyone tries to cut in that long line then good grief they’ll incur the wrath of some disapproving looks! Yes the Northern Lights look incredible, but Scotland never has clear skies through which to see them so why not discover the natural wonders that the local distillery can offer instead? And the chances are your hotel room will be showing the home-grown terrestrial delights of Antiques Roadshow in between adverts of the recently-extended DFS sale.

Granted it may not have the tourist board hitting their annual targets, but frankly I sighed this week at the news that Duran Duran are to play the opening ceremony of the Olympics. Isn’t there part of you that wishes we hadn’t asked Simon Le Bon to pull on his spanx outfit to belt out a 30 year old song but would rather, with tongue firmly in cheek, we simply had the athletes being marched in and introduced in Dad’s Army style? It would be so much more British.

Apparently the relatives of the Dad’s Army actors still get paid proceeds of all the royalties the BBC are obliged to pay every time they air a repeat. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a lot more than you’d guess either. I once contacted a local company who’s Company Accounts showed they held £millions in the hope those funds could be deposited with the bank I worked for. A bemused Accountant answered the phone and politely advised me that the owners of the business wouldn’t look to do that and that, in any case, it wasn’t a trading company but simply a means to which royalties could be paid and distributed each year. If I remember rightly the company name was Python Pictures Ltd.

The spirit of Monty Python also lives on in a little village called Church Fenton in North Yorkshire. For that’s where every so often you can see me in training, looking like what must appear to be an employee of the Ministry of Silly Runs.

I’ve mentioned before that my improvement in running has come about more from an ability to endure pain as anything else. The only comfort, if you can call it that, is that the onset of pain is generally a little later than the last time you went out.

For the first couple of months I’d always get a stitch that would painfully grind me to a halt, trying to slowly walk it off before becoming increasingly conscious that passers-by must think I get dressed up in running gear to only go out for a leisurely walk. So to overcome it I’d try and run it off. Which would result in me doing a cracking impersonation of an injured World War I soldier staggering across a battlefield in a bad Saturday afternoon movie. Only I’d be clutching my stitch and confusing passers-by even more.

Then came the onset of the cold winter. It takes a braver (and more sensibly-dressed) man to hide their discomfort at those temperatures and so within no time my facial expression would develop into a permanent grimace that only altered when back in the warmth of my own home. Think Han Solo frozen in carbonite and you’re on the right lines. Not an attractive look.

After the recent spell of heavy rain I took the opportunity yesterday to go out for a run in the balmy sunshine. And demonstrated yet another contender for the Phoebe Buffay Idiotic Running Style Of The Year.

You see, whilst I’m blessed with being surrounded by mile upon mile of open countryside and quiet lanes that are perfect for running, it brings with it an annual siege of bugs - most of which I don’t mind, but some of which I do. I was once prevented from going to bed for a good half hour by an enormous Tiger Moth whipped into a frenzy by the hall light – absolutely terrifying. And don’t get me started on the nuisance that is thunder bugs, which every summer get everywhere in their thousands if a window is left just slightly ajar to try and let heat escape in the summer.

Well yesterday I came face to face – literally – with a flying bug I’d not encountered before. I can only describe them as looking like mini dragon flies and resembling a gang of hoodies. Because in the same way you don’t want to have to walk past a group on a night out who’s only qualification between them is an ASBO, these bugs also knew they posed much more of a threat hanging around in packs than alone.

Not accustomed to this, I therefore spent a good couple of miles acting in the same girly manner I do when a wasp pays me a visit. Not in a calm, “leave it and they’ll leave you” manner but by flailing my arms everywhere should any of them decide it’s time for a kamikaze mission down my mouth. For anyone who’s watched Dodgeball I was performing the 5 D’s. In my growing frustration I even resorted to trying to kick them at one point.

Bear in mind throughout all this I’m running. If you happened to see someone running alone, seemingly bobbing in and out of the way of nothing, and occasionally kicking thin air, you’d think they weren’t quite right in the head.

So as if the prospect of having to run 13.1 miles wasn’t daunting enough already, I’ve now got a vision of me doing it in weather that conspires to make me perform one of my daft-looking runs. Whilst no doubt suffering from chaffage and in need of the loo. And with all the spectators changing their applause to a chorus of “aww bless him” when they see me karate-kicking at bugs.

I saw an interview with Michael Palin once where he described the pain that John Cleese put himself through performing that infamous Ministry of Funny Walks sketch whenever they went on tour.  Although I’d love to think he went through the pain barrier for the love of his art, the cynical part of me that winces at those awful AA adverts suspects he probably thought of the money. Hopefully the similarities will therefore stretch that little bit further, since what’s driving me on is the prospect of raising as much money as possible for the MS Society.

Maybe I should get on the blower to Python Pictures again and see if they’ll put their royalties to a good cause and sponsor me.

MM

Burger balls

*Spoiler alert – I talk about snot, wee, poo and willy trouble so this is best not read whilst enjoying a meal*

It’s been a little while since you last heard from me and as a result I’ve been literally inundated with a question about whether I’m still running. Well, yes I am and the quick explanation for having been so quiet is that I have a baby. The long explanation is broadly similar, but involves me discussing dirty nappies and explaining why only a glass of wine and putting my feet up appeals by the time I finally get her to sleep on a night.

I’d offer to bring you up to speed, except that speed looks as remarkably lethargic, pain-staking and in need of serious hydration as when I last blogged. At least I’m assuming that’s how it looks from the outside because that’s certainly how it feels!

Gary Neville, the pubescent-voiced ex-Man Utd footballer-turned-commentator who everyone has raved about this season, said in December when asked about what lies ahead that “these are what I like to call ‘the winter months’.”

If you’re like me then you’ll be open-mouthed in disbelief at just how insightful that highly paid expert analysis is. He was, no doubt (?), inferring that the cold British weather has an effect on the game of football - and footballers themselves - because it’s certainly taken its toll on my running/jogging/staggering exploits too. In my case however the effect has been on my personal hygiene – an area that I’m trusting (and hoping) you wouldn’t have given any thought to.

The chances are that, even when I haven’t had the sniffles these past few months, within 10 seconds of stepping out into freezing cold drizzle I soon would. And that presents a dilemma. Whereas footballers choose to press one finger against a nostril whilst blowing out the contents of the other one (generally waiting until the cameras are on them) in the real world we’re taught to be a little more dignified.

Except have you ever tried blowing your nose whilst running? I’ve done the legwork (ba-dum!) and discovered it simply isn’t possible. Reaching in and getting a tissue out of your pocket, though tricky, makes you temporarily choose between running with a one-handed motion, or more embarrassing yet, with neither if you’re having to rummage about. Then trying to blow your nose whilst exhaling and out of breath becomes as difficult and frustrating as circling your foot on the floor in one way and your hand on your tummy the other. (Bet you try it!)

So as unappetising as it is I had no choice but to try the footballers’ solution. Only afterwards, with evidence of my cold splattered across my running top, did I realise why they only do it when they’ve slowed down to walking pace.

Which leaves no alternative but to ‘hock’ and spit. Again, it’s only experience that teaches you to first think about the wind direction before doing so and avoid re-designing your outfit for the worse. What concerns me most however is that whereas in the isolation of the local countryside I’m free to break as many of these social taboos as I like, when it comes to race day not only am I going to be self-conscious in full view of thousands of spectators, but how bad would it be to accidentally spit on another competitor? Though at least you’d have the incentive of running faster because someone would no doubt be chasing after you….

And I’m afraid these unsavoury considerations don’t stop there. Paula Radcliffe got chastised for it but what happens when there’s other urgent matters to attend to? My whole preparation for a long run is governed by what I’ve consumed to ensure I’ve eaten and drunk the right amount, and left long enough for it to digest before going out. But when you’re busting you’re busting and again I’m not sure the Great North Run will provide many isolated trees to stop behind. On one occasion I downed a pint of water 5mins before leaving the house and got only 100 yards down my street before regretting it. A combination of waiting until the dehydration process kicked in together with other aches and pains taking my mind off it made for the most unpleasant half an hour I’ve had since being in the crowd when UB40 came on stage at Live 8.

Worse yet those who follow my progress on the Runkeeper app (to the right of this page) will have seen the noticeably shorter run I did at the end of last month when, having thrown in a few interval training sprints, I got to the mile point and realised I was in desperate need of a poo. I hoped it was just a fart but couldn’t risk it in case I was wrong and created some horrible Hansel and Gretel anecdote. So having turned round I was left in the unenviable position of either running home in extreme discomfort (and the style of an Olympic fast-walker – must be how they refine their technique) but reducing the length of time before that was resolved or walking home but having to wait twice as long.

(The expression on the man 20 seconds into this will help make things clear)

Even more embarrassing (you thought and hoped this wouldn’t be possible I know) is the readjustment process required when my expensive specialist running gear is rubbing me up the wrong way. Thank God I’ve still got time to iron out these problems before the big day because several times (when I hope I’ve literally been nowhere to be seen) I’ve run for a good 10 seconds in a frantic waddle action with both hands trying to pull down the hemline of the asphyxiating elastic in my underwear that’s threatened to squeeze the life out of my manhood. Or trying to ease the pain being inflicted by the excruciating chaffing caused by my lycra running shorts. I will quickly stress on the embarrassment front that I do wear something over the lycra, I’m not quite yet a walking episode of Modern Family.

But fear not reader for I’m here to go through all these moments of personal anguish, discomfort and red raw agony in the hope that if you ever choose to do similar you’ll learn from my mistakes. Or maybe decide it’s not worth the bother.

I realise today’s topics have been a little crude and graphic so hope I haven’t offended anyone. Writing this is a little glimpse into the world of being an author, all of whom must wonder what their readers’ reactions will be. I’m not ashamed to admit being a fan of Sex And The City in which the lead character Carrie, a newspaper columnist, precedes the title of her weekly column in each episode with an inner monologue that ends “…which got me wondering…”

Well I’m glad to say that the title of today’s blog wasn’t the result of any such inner turmoil and better yet not the name of a condition I’m suffering from as a result of the aforementioned chaffing. It was however a suggestion made to me at a recent dinner party at which I was able to share some of these troubles from the past few months, and so see first hand what the reaction might be.

And the reaction was that half the guests appeared to lose their appetite, hence why I took the trouble to recommend you finish what you were eating before reading.

MM

Room 101

There’s one TV show more than any other I’d like to appear on, and it made a return tonight. Better yet Frank Skinner has picked up the reins from Paul Merton and before him Nick Hancock. Two comic giants (in stature, but not a good way) who loved their own ‘wit’ so much they’ve hopefully both fallen into the abyss of the show they presented. I am, of course, talking about Room 101.

If nothing else it’s return should hopefully put an end to them making any more of those Grumpy Old Men shows (tip – if you want me to watch your show don’t sell it to me with Rick Wakeman looking even more miserable than usual) which as far as I can tell served the same purpose i.e. a chance to sound off at those everyday things that tick you off.

The only trouble I’d have would be deciding which of my long list I’d prioritise. Each has its merits though I’m sure you’ll disagree with some of them. And so here would be my contenders:

H from Steps (Are we still meant to believe H stands for ‘hyper’?!)

Writing greetings cards (None worse than a colleague’s card passed around requiring a witty entry, especially when it’s already been passed round most of the office and every conceivable way of saying happy birthday/congratulations/sorry you’re leaving has been written already)

Nickelback (No explanation needed)

T4 presenters (All nauseating, perhaps none moreso than Alex Zane)

The word ‘lush’ (Generally said by women who think that pouting at a camera will improve their appearance. I don’t care where it came from, if you’re post-puberty it sounds the equivalent of your parents saying groovy)

Tractors (Leaving trails of shit everywhere at a very slow pace)

Text speak (Fine in a text but otherwise makes you look like an illiterate tw@)

Window cleaners (For scaring the crap out of me when they suddenly appear at my window and making me so self-conscious I have to hide in my own house)

The Lighthouse Family (*Shudder*)

Supermarket till operators (Making you ask for carrier bags and then sneering when you tell them you need more than the derisory amount they’ve given you for your week’s shopping. You have too much power.)

The phrase “you smashed it!” (Like the phrase “Have a nice day”, sounds authentic coming from an American but over-used and ridiculous on The X Factor thanks to airheads Cheryl Cole and now Tulisa)

Northern Rail (Went from several unfortunate years of being a daily passenger to living next door to a track they constantly work on, apparently requiring a round-the-clock alarm)

Middle Lane drivers (It’s an overtaking lane! If there’s nothing on the left pull in!)

Facebook (Or specifically people who like their own status or write something vague hoping someone will ask, “what’s up hun?” If you tell the world every time you’re “feeling sad :-(” it’s probably because you’re the type of person who thinks the world needs to know))

UB40 (White man reggae – say no more)

Obnoxious drivers (Who pull out of junctions forcing you to slow down. And lazy fat bastards that park in disabled bays with no badge. And BMW drivers (Obnoxious without exception. I test drove one before buying my current one – the salesman refused to tell me the price of the car until I complained!)

Jamie Oliver (I shop at Sainsbury’s in spite of, not because of that overly-cockney prick)

Nicholas Cage (Does he only accept parts requiring a whiny voice?)

Automated phone systems (Why is there never an option to just speak to someone to point you in the right direction?)

ITV (I’ll take it back if you can name me a decent comedy they’ve ever made)

Good Enough by Dodgy (We’ve all heard it more than enough by now haven’t we?)

Singers (Specifically those that sing whilst looking straight at you, leading you to feel you have to react to them by smiling inanely throughout. Seeing them doing it to others is just as awkward)

Horse people (generally middle-aged toff housewives who spend their bored lives irritating other road users by either driving their husband’s land rover they can barely see out of or grinding traffic to a halt as they take their scarily large-eyed pets for a walk down a main road)

Or at least that would have been the contents of my list until I started training. Like the latest niggling injury that’s kept me sidelined for the past week, there are nuisances out there that runners suffer week in week out. That being the case my list would now be:

Wind

Hills

Dog turd

Drivers that don’t give you a wide berth

That Benny Hill runner who overtook me

....and Horse people

The explanations for each are self-explanatory and, as innocent as each might seem by itself, have collectively given me plenty of cause for wanting them banished to Room 101.

Chances are I’ve offended each person reading this with at least one of those items I’ve listed and so I apologise in advance. My saving grace would be that they limit you to accepting just 3 items, no doubt for moaners like me who could rattle on all night given half the chance!

On second thoughts I hope they don’t cancel Grumpy Old Men. It looks far more likely that I’m better suited to it.

MM

Parenthood

I’d like to start 2012’s blog by thanking the (to remain anonymous) person that sent word that my silence was making me “conspicuous by my absence”. I like to think that suggests some James Bond-like mission that has kept me out of contact for a few weeks. Or a coma-inducing festive social calendar that still has me scratching my head as to my recent drunken whereabouts.

The answer is sadly / happily quite the opposite. Now I realise most of my followers know what’s happened, but I’ve got to think of my future international subscribers and inexplicable current ones (who, according to Google, mainly live in Russia) that don’t. And besides I think there’s still some room for explanation.

A week after you last heard from me I was blessed with the arrival of a healthy baby girl. After all the ups and downs, food cravings and mood swings the 9 ½ month wait was over. It hadn’t been easy for Emma either.

So clearly my priorities have been elsewhere whilst I get to grips with becoming a parent. And how am I finding it so far? Well it feels like I’m doing it single-handedly. Not by myself, but literally. Ned Flanders might have found a career in selling left-handed utensils but what about those poor souls like (I presume all) new-born parents who have to manage with just the one hand whilst the other is left holding/comforting/jiggling/swaying the baby? Next time you open a tin first try doing it with just the one hand and you’ll soon discover what I mean.

It’s been the biggest shock to the system you can imagine (or will know about if you’ve been there) but wasn’t unexpected given the amount of time we’ve had to talk and read about it. I’d say prepare for it except the truth is you can’t. Unless of course you get your kicks by cutting your sleep by half (on a good day) and splitting it into random parts of the day while trying to go about everyday tasks. To date I’ve managed to pour orange juice onto my coffee and nearly burn the house down by trying to sterilise something in the microwave without adding any water. Don’t try this at home!

New parents would be better prepared if they had a much better understanding of it all from an early age. In the same way I’ve discussed how I would previously have downplayed what’s involved in running 13 miles I’ve also had the same dismissive macho attitude to parenting drummed into me. “If men did give birth love we’d be back at work that afternoon.” No you bloody wouldn’t is the short answer. If teenage pregnancy really is the problem that the Daily Mail would have us believe then I’d suggest that all kids are taken on a school field trip to a screaming labour ward rather than measuring the speed of a river or visiting a factory to see how coke is bottled like my own.

The last 3 ½ weeks have been a real eye-opener as to how being a housewife/husband really can be the most difficult job to do. I’ve only had a taster so far but already the simplest of tasks get put to one side day after day whilst I grasp any brief window of opportunity to seemingly prioritise alternating between doing the washing up and hoovering. Replying to a text is generally done in instalments that can take hours. (And I’d typed up to this point days ago!)

So you might guess how it’s affected my training. Today was the 4^th time I’d been out in that time because it’s suddenly become such a sporadic opportunity. And frankly when those moments come I’d much rather be taking a nap. Admittedly only now with good cause.

At the same time though I realise I’m one of the lucky ones. I’ve got a partner who can share the burden and take the strain for a couple of hours every now and again. God knows how single parents cope – their training schedule is constant 24/7.

Occasionally I drive past women in neighbouring villages who are out running with their pram or pushchair in front of them and at first I assumed they formed part of the same runners’ sect that like to be weighed down with a heavy rucksack or chase a dog on a lead. I can see now it’s out of necessity not insanity. You can even push a custom-built twin carrier around!

But for now I’m not quite in the Harold Bishop world of embarrassing exercise routines so will continue to scoff until the time comes that my sole trick of getting my daughter to sleep by walking up and down stairs turns into strapping her to my chest and taking her running with me.

Another 9 ½ month countdown starts now. For that’s when D Day arrives (not Darren Day…I hope) and, however awake I am, I run the half marathon. There’ll no doubt be similar challenges ahead to those that parenthood brings. A sense of wanting the process to be over as quickly as possible. Many days of discomfort and funny walks as my body gets into shape. Nearly passing out as the finish line approaches (thankfully I avoided it – just).

But ultimately something hugely rewarding and, with good fortune, something I manage to do again one day.

MM