I'm without question a man of routine. Of predictability and careful consideration. You might have seen it in action but never thought anything of it. Like if I'm shopping, you can guarantee no matter how much I like something I can't muster the spontaneity to buy it there and then. Instead I make a note of how much it is then go and research it at home. Can I get it cheaper? Does it get good reviews? Or you might have seen me at work, eating the same lunch every day until eventually my taste buds are beaten to submission and I'm forced to change. Nothing too controversial mind, maybe just the sandwich filling. Wouldn't want to push the boat!
Every time I return to the area I grew up in I'll act in horror at any changes - "There's an HMV in Harrogate!", "What happened to The Shoe Tree?!" In fact I'm so averse to it that Emma recently concluded that I'll never leave her for another woman "because you don't like change do you?"
So I've found the last 11 days since I last went for a run pretty tough. Regardless of how much you avoid a big change in your life the prospect of getting fit is really difficult if you're not accustomed to it. Take my sister for example. Me doing this has inspired her to step up her start a fitness regime and in the past couple of weeks she told me she'd even got as far one day as putting her trainers on.
I don't say this to mock but because I know what a leap of faith it is to throw yourself into and stay committed to going running. Having created a new habit of going out several times a week my injury came at just the wrong time. Being sidelined I quickly rediscovered old bad habits, eating comfort food on a comfortable sofa. I've heard it said (from the types of people who go to the gym on their foreign holiday, so possibly not to be fully trusted) that exercise is addictive. Certainly anyone who's been a regular at the gym will recognise the feel-good buzz you get after a work-out. Although admittedly in my case that was mostly derived from the knowledge that I wouldn't have to go back for another few days.
It's felt frustrating that my body has let me down so soon, so I trudged into the Doctors on Monday for some help, half fearing the need for physio for several months. Instead the final year medical student (called Dr Ben Jamin I swear!) looked petrified at the prospect of diagnosing anything more serious than a cold so was relieved when his mentor, one of the resident Doctors, entered the room. She in turn looked fearful when I mentioned I knew where she lived and hadn't quite yet run as far as her house, being on my route. In hindsight maybe the unshaven look and sweats did make me look more festive burglar than athlete-in-training....
She recommended I do half an hour's stretching every day (!!) and strengthen the knees by doing some cycling until it feels better.
To minimise the rambling for now I'll only focus on why the 2nd part of that prescription was terrifying.
There's a number of things I dislike about cyclists: - Cyclists who ride in clubs and form pelotons - Cyclists in pairs who arrogantly think they can ride side-by-side to force the cars behind them to slow down to their pace - The outfits. I was once playing at my local golf club when a pair came cycling past on the near-by road, shouting at me and my mate for playing a "gay sport". By the time we thought to point out their head-to-toe lycra they were annoyingly out of earshot.
In spite of that I tried taking it up a couple of years ago, using the brilliant 'Cycle To Work' Scheme (though living 20 miles away I'd no intention of doing anything but drive to work) and persevered with a twice-weekly ride on an evening throughout the summer. It only served to add more reasons to that list, namely: - No matter what time of year you always end up spitting out bugs - In wet and muddy conditions you end up with a line of it down your back. If only it worked as a 'go faster' stripe - Riding over poor road surfaces and speed bumps is a genuine torture method
But most of all, what never used to happen when you were a young (and lightweight) kid is the pain in your arse. It's agony and the only people who argue otherwise have a) been into it for so many years they forgot what it was like before they lost all feeling in their rear and/or b) they've spent a fortune on an outfit that includes a padded bum, thus managing to make their attire look even more ludicrous.
Nevertheless lots of people had recommended it to me as part of my training schedule, and the doctor's advice did make sense. So after stewing on it for a few days, again not wanting to change my routine, I decided to give it a go today.
It didn't start well. The last time I went out on my bike was a few months ago to post a letter less than half a mile away and I couldn't believe how much hard work it was. Today I discovered why - having not used it for 2yrs before that the tyres were flatter than Katie Price's record sales.
Plus I forgot how much of a berk I look in a helmet...
I soon regretted wearing the football shirt I generally go running in, the cold drizzle going right through me. But this was soon forgotten with the onset of numb bum that only worsened throughout the rest of the 7.5mile journey.
The one bright spot was getting a toot of the horn from Keith, God bless his optimistic soul.
I clambered off my bike and walked back to my house looking like John Wayne with a serious bout of haemorrhoids. Fortunately for my sore bum though I had a comfortable sofa to look forward to, which at this point I am certain would again be just what the Doctor ordered.
Most men dream about playing for the football side they support, scoring a goal and hearing their fellow fans chant their name. That's why it rankles when you sense those lucky few that do get that chance take it for granted. Or when Ashley Cole describes being offered "just £55k a week" as being "treated like a slave".
I always thought though that the footballers that live the real life of luxury weren't the stars you read about every day, or even the likes of 'Cashley' Cole. No, if I wanted to earn the most amount of money for doing as little as possible, I'd be the reserve goalie. The perennial bench-warmer who knows all they need to do is keep fit during a week to get the best view of the match on a week-end.
But even so, they risk being called upon to play when the 1st choice goalie gets injured or in meaningless cup ties when the manager might want to give you a bit of a run-out. So what could trump being someone like Carlo Cudicini, who as reserve Chelsea goalie 'earned' £40k a week for doing just that? Well how about being a star player... who is injury prone?
Steven Gerrard this week returned to the team after 6 months out, mostly spent resting an injured groin. I won't suggest how a footballer might strain that particular area, but what is known is that, from basic wages alone, he received £140k each week for putting his feet up. Or about £3.5m. Not bad! You'd think he'd be grateful wouldn't you? Of course not. This week he claimed "the last six months have been the hardest of my career."
You know what Steven? I'm struggling to find it in my heart to be sympathetic. You might also suspect that I'm struggling to find much about running to talk about either. And you'd be right.
That's because the last time I updated you all I was carrying what footballers would call a "niggling injury" in my knees. However I don't like to think of myself as a 'fancy Dan' so went out the next day to 'run it off'.
It was a full 50 yards before I realised it might not have been the brightest idea. I persevered and managed to stick it out, in the same stubborn way that I look at a car boot full of shopping as a challenge to see if I can carry all the bags, close the boot, lock the car and open my house in just the one trip.
The next morning as I walked downstairs from my bedroom my knees almost buckled beneath me. I'd exacerbated the pain on the bottom/inside of both my knees and so reluctantly listened to the nurse in the household who recommended rest.
That was 5 days ago and although I could still feel my ligaments behind my knees feeling weak I hoped to go out for a run today. My opportunity inadvertently came when an hour or so ago I heard my cat squeal in pain outside as her bully attacked her*. I quickly put on my trainers and went running after her tormentor but just 50 yards later my knees are as bad now as that morning after the last run, hurting every time I extend them, especially as I go up or down stairs.
You'd think therefore that this week would be a setback in my training. Not so. Because I haven't had to look far for inspiration. It hasn't come from 'inspirational' Steven Gerrard returning to full fitness but from someone as far removed from that as possible.
Every day at 4pm a local ice cream van comes down our street sounding his chime (for kids reading this the chime means he's run out of ice cream). It's been much colder this week and it will get much colder in the weeks ahead but that doesn't stop him. It must be a combination of determination ("those kids are relying on me!") and optimism ("today's the day Keith, you'll find a pregnant woman with an ice cream craving!") that helps him overcome the obstacles, the adversity and worst of all our weather.
So when I am fit enough to get back training again I won't be dreaming about being a footballer, rather worryingly I'll be dreaming about Keith. My hero.
MM
* We now believe she was being attacked in an 'I want to be really good friends with you' way by a male.
As I polished the lounge ahead of the arrival of our guests yesterday I wondered if everybody who's been to our house thinks that it always looks clean and smells of polish? When I was young all my friends' houses used to have their own distinctive smell however I doubt that's because all their parents used to frantically tidy up to make it look presentable like we do.
It's funny what memories your senses can conjour up. Popular opinion is that smell is the sense that is most 'tied' to your memory (or at least that's the result of my full 30 seconds research on google) but I'm not sure that's necessarily true. There's an album by a folk singer that was the soundtrack to every car journey - long or short - my parents took for a couple of years when I was a young boy. About 20 years later I heard it again and it freaked me out how strong the sensation was of being a kid again, and still does every time I hear it. Not as freaked out however as the man himself was when I spotted him in Debenhams in Leeds a couple of weeks ago and acted like a dumbstruck stargazed fan, talking gibberish.
Marketing boffins know that what you're listening to whilst they advertise is fundamental to product placement. It doesn't matter if it's a great tune (Lenny Kravitz's Get Away for Peugeot) or an annoying one (Snap, Crackle, Pop!, Comparethemarket.com!) the chances are it'll help you form an impression.
Of course it can work the other way too. I met my wife's ex a couple of years ago who thought it was both original and witty that my profession (a banker) rhymed with ... you know what. He was the spitting image of and sounded exactly like the lead singer of Snow Patrol, and since that day I can no longer listen to what was a favourite band of mine because I associate one with the other and so have to change the radio station whenever they come on.
Equally last week l found myself skipping the odd song that was playing on my iPod in the car. I realised that they were some of the 10 or so songs that are on my playlist that I listen to when I go out running. Within the space of 2 weeks I was associating certain songs with that mindset of being out on the road, toiling away.
So for my latest run I therefore experimented by asking Emma to come up with a new playlist and determine what the soundtrack to my training would be. I'm told that changes in routine and familiarity are going to be important but as yet I don't run far enough to enable me to do a different route. But the new playlist, which I didn't look at beforehand, worked a treat.
Traditionally I try to look nonchalant at the start, closing my mouth so people think "wow he's not even out of breath!" before reverting to grimacing as I go up hills, down hills, get to the end of intervals....pretty much at all other times in fact. If you happened to be one of the cars that drove past me this time (if you were the bint in the 4x4 we need words!) then you'll have likely seen me go through any one of a number of emotions.
A couple of times I actually laughed as a particular song started that was put on for comedy effect or, in the case of Du Hast by German Metal band Rammstein (http://grooveshark.com/#/search?q=rammstein+-+du+hast), you simply can't help to find a little ridiculous.
In my final stint as I struggled to make it home and desperately needed fresh impetus the perfect song came on, Chop Suey by System of a Down (http://grooveshark.com/#/search?q=system+of+a+down-chopsuey). Again not what I'd listen to every day, but an aggressive rock song that helped me to run rather than stagger over the finishing line.
So my words of wisdom for this week are to have a think about what soundtrack you choose for your work-out. I can't tell you what music works better than others, but changing it about might help avoid it feeling like the same old routine. It might be that you can set it so specific songs or genres kick in at about the right time to give you that little push or lighten the mood. If it helps you forget the aches and pains it's got to be worth a shot, right?
Alternatively if you're the type of person that wants their head filled with negative thoughts and wants to associate their work-out with being a prat, I can recommend Snow Patrol.
Yesterday I had a welcome day off (from running, before those that know me jump straight to the comment box) and went to my youngest nephew's christening at the church I was married at last year.
I'm not sure whether it's a sign of old age but I really enjoyed everything about the service, from the deep and meaningful elements of it's significance to the sight of a group (there must be an apt collective term) of babies each able to melt the congregation's hearts with a well-timed smile.
At one point during a sermon I noticed a couple of people on my row chatting away and it struck me that there were plenty of people amongst the friends and relatives for whom, rightly or wrongly, religion plays no part but that sadly nor too does good manners.
I wasn't brought up as a devout Christian and can only recall going to Sunday School from the colouring in ("this week, Noah!") and excitement at choosing how best to spend my 10p in the sweet shop on the way home. Perhaps unsurprisingly confused about it's purpose at this point, I always remember a friend's answer to my question of whether he believed in God. He gave it a few seconds' consideration and replied, "I'd like to." Which to this day I still think sums up most people's feelings.
Fast forward 20 years and it wasn't until I had to attend church as part of marriage preparation that I was able to form a more reasoned opinion. Without trying to even scratch the surface of the subject, all I'll say is that it's now 3 years later and I still go about once a month.
I'll quickly add at this point that I'm by no means a born-again or happy clappy Christian but am in fact still unsure of how important, if at all, a role it plays in my life. There are a few reasons I enjoy going however. There's a sense of community in always seeing the same friendly faces, which before Emma's pregnancy we'd get from spending every Friday night in the 'old man' section of our village pub.
Two of the vicars, in particular, are fantastic. One is the most engaging person I've ever known who you'd spend an hour listening to anything about given the opportunity. Once again yesterday all I could hear on leaving the church was a chorus of amazement and approval. The other speaks with such passion and conviction that I'm always a little in awe that anyone can convey that sense of belief, or in this case faith.
Every now and again I give my full attention to the lessons learnt from the bible readings, which I know is where I fall down. The last one that I did fully pay attention to the recurring theme was "So what? Who cares?" And it's stuck with me.
You see, in the past 12 days I've encountered the full spectrum of reactions to my running attempts. From the gob-smacked to the mickey taking everyone seems to have something to say (unless their jaw is planted to the floor). There's been plenty of encouragement too, and thankfully some nice reaction to the blog.
Today marked a big milestone in my efforts to run next year's Great North Run. In 12 days and 8 runs I've finally covered the 13.1miles that I'll have to do in *checking countdown on the right* 341 days' time...... only in one go and hopefully without stopping to walk.
That's a really long time, I get that. Pointing out that I'm unfit isn't news to me, but a reflection of how far (in every sense) I have to go. You might be wondering why I'm doing it. The answer is because "I'd like to." And you might be thinking I'm not doing particularly well. My answer at this point?
It had to happen sooner or later. In amongst all the running forums I've been half-heartedly reading (hoping to stumble on a secret shortcut to being able to run 13.1 miles without stopping) I've seen a few words of wisdom on how to take care of yourself. It makes sense, after all. Much as I might look like a neanderthal when I first get out of bed, the similarities to an athletic hunter-gatherer end there, and that's effectively what I'm training my body to become.
Amongst the injury-averting considerations I've read about to date are the warm-up routine, the warm-down routine, stitch prevention, limb/joint/ligament pain, getting the right trainers, when/where/how to take on fluid, the right diet and perhaps most fearful of all, runner's nipple. Most of those I hope to cover more in the future as I become more experienced and knowledgeable. With the exception I hope of the last one.
And it all happened so soon and yet (literally) in slow motion.
I finished my first run that this time had taken me that little bit further, onto the straightest mile-long stretch of road I know, when the voice in my ear (from my app, not dual personality disorder) told me to slow down for my 3 minute walk. Half way through that a man going on twice my age came....well, let's call it running for now, past me and I could only watch in despair knowing that he'd be feeling smug satisfaction at having overtaken me.
It's man's natural instinct you see - most evident at a golf driving range where fathers take their sons for a bit of practice, only to immediately pull out their driver and try to hit it further than every other man there. Or what my wife calls "waving your balls around", when a man (generally me) overtakes someone deemed to be driving too slowly, thus parading both his masculinity and hopelessness at the same time.
I watched this 'mature' man very slowly edge away from me, putting me to shame with his running motion that I can only describe as Benny Hill doing a cockney walk.
For the first time that voice in my head couldn't tell me to start running soon enough. When it finally did 'Benny' was now 200 yards ahead of me and surely because of my own competitive instincts about to be re-overtaken.
Only it never happened. I knew his frantic comedy action wasn't trail-blazing and yet I was unable to close the gap. I strained every sinew (what is a sinew??) and dug as deep as I could but just didn't have it in me. At the next interval I'd reached my half-way point and so had to turn back around, leaving him waddling into the distance and me dejected. The damage was irreparable - I couldn't complete my next (3rd) running interval and in my increasingly desperate efforts to salvage some pride and make it home in a decent time my own action ironically began to imitate Benny's.
You might have seen my Runkeeper report (if not there's a link on the right of this page), seen that I'd managed to improve my average speed again and thought I'd done well. But now you know different. Today my ego took a hell of a beating and I'm not sure yet what the recovery time is.
But I think I know the cause. It's simply being a man and being subject to a man's worst traits, and you won't find it listed on any of the running forums.
I tend to only read autobiographies, mainly sports-related and of celebrities I've taken an interest in. A bit like running, it's a hobby I'd like to say that I enjoyed but the time (or rather lack of time) I've dedicated to it over the years means that they'll both only ever be on the 'Other interests' section of my CV to impress in the absence of anything noteworthy.
Maybe it's because, whilst I love to learn little known trivia (for which www.songfacts.com is fantastic, but you can click on that later) about subjects I'm interested in, I'm flawed by having a notoriously crap memory for that type of thing. Equally, if ever you hear me start a sentence with "Oh it's like that joke..." don't ever expect to hear the original punch line recited to good effect.
But there are a few bits I've retained from my reading. Like the struggle Tony Adams (former Arsenal footballer for my international followers*) went through with alcoholism. You'd never have known the extent of his drinking from his performances on the pitch because he'd get to training early, cut holes in a bin bag and wear it to sweat off the hangover. Incredible really that he was able to achieve so much in spite of the condition. Of course he's done sterling work since, setting up a charity and refuge for sportsmen who also suffer from addiction.
I'd intended to go out for my 3rd run in a week this evening but was having doubts this afternoon when I realised how much I'd indulged from my own form of addiction this weekend. Bacon sarnie, barbecue, lager, dessert, crisps, chocolate and my old nemesis cookies (about which I could write a whole other blog) were all on the menu at some point. But as I sat watching my 2nd game of football this afternoon I decided to put the effects to the test. What would it be like if I went out running feeling full, having been drinking Coke (zero, the guilt-free version) and without stretching or warming up. After all my father in law (formerly a very good marathon runner) had told me just last night that chocolate was good for training and that I wouldn't need to diet if I was running regularly. So off I went....
By way of quick background and to underline that I really am starting from scratch, I'm in week 2 of a training schedule, helpfully provided by the MS Society as part of their assistance to people who volunteer for them. That is, week 2 of two separate 12 week programmes, one for beginners (which I'm on) and one for intermediates. So this week I'm running for 2mins, walking for 2mins and repeating that 4 times i.e. a total of 10mins running, 10mins walking.
By the middle of my 2nd running interval, I was regularly burping from all the coke. Despite my running top feeling a little more streamline from being bloated I was running at a slightly improved pace. Ok it was slightly uncomfortable, but maybe the carbs & sugar were working?
If that was the case my performance dipped as quickly as it improved. Whereas in my last run I got a stitch just a few yards from the end of my 5th and final running stint, this time it came at the end of my 3rd, making the final two sets much tougher and consequently slower.
So lesson learned. I'll spare you the body being an engine/temple metaphors but simply conclude that I may have used the advice as an excuse to try and get away with old bad habits, only taking it too far.
I did run long enough to have another realisation. The autobiographies that I look back on and rate so highly are the ones where, cliché as it is, triumph overcomes adversity. I vividly admired and still recall Richard Branson's struggles to build an empire and Lance Armstrong's gruelling description of each stage of testicular cancer. Nick Faldo on the other hand shot 82 in his first game of golf at the age of 14. Just as impressive in it's own way, but not awe-inspiring.
If I can apply anything I've learnt from Tony Adams to my own life it's that I don't want to have to do all that running dressed in a bin bag. Not least because if I carry on indulging like I have this weekend it might in time be the only thing that fits me!
MM
* note the naive confidence/expectation levels of how widely this will, in time, be read
