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

Geek chic

I discussed the burden of glasses in my last entry and it's fair to say it stems from joining a community who's most prominent members at the time were Dennis Taylor and Deirdre Barlow. They were hardly synonymous with fashion but nevertheless not far removed from the style of glasses around in the early 90's. My first pair wouldn't have looked out of place attached to some string hung around an OAP’s neck. Worse yet my 2nd pair were the forerunners for Harry Potter's, only too narrow for my admittedly massive head so had to be tilted up to a 45 degree angle to avoid leaving ridges in the side of my head that people mistook for white marks where the sun hadn't tanned me.

The trend for cool kids to imitate those brave celebrities who increasingly chose to look like a poindexter never quite took off. Or at least that was the case where I grew up. Anyone who copied the first that I knew about, Chris Evans, was met a reaction similar to Jim Royle’s "Aye, and he's still got ginger bollocks!" I once turned up to a Christmas party in an expensive new designer cord jacket and - together with my rebelliously long hair at the time - got laughed at (rather than admired) for the similarities to Jarvis Cocker.

The term geek chic came annoyingly after my adolesence but I like to think I'd have qualified. Half my life seems to be spent working on spreadsheets. From organising the house bills to making a note of present ideas throughout the year to make Christmas easier, if there's a way to monitor and improve a process you can guarantee I can show you how on Excel!

I did say at the start of all this I'd try to inform as well as entertain. And since I'm struggling to do the latter I thought I'd have a crack at the other!

The ability to measure how my training is progressing has made the task infinitely easier and so I’d encourage anyone going for even the occasional run to download an app for their phone. They vary in terms of reliability and nuances, but should as a minimum keep track of how far you’ve been and for how long. Most will link to their own website to allow you to monitor how your training has progressed and many will have some kind of community you can participate in to answer common questions or make it feel like you’re not in it alone!

I started with a free one called mapmyrun. As I’ve mentioned before I'm not sure what the difference is between this and mapmyfitness since most apps of this nature ask what type (cycling etc) of activity you're doing. The website seemed fairly straightforward and I liked finding several runs around my village (as small as mine) entered by other users, so was obviously popular. But ultimately I was frustrated at not being able to monitor how fast I was running, which looking at the message boards seemed a common request over a long period but hadn’t been incorporated. So I looked at the alternatives.

I'd downloaded the nike+ app a while back when it was temporarily free (usually £1.49). I'd never really looked at it but if like me you assume you get what you pay for I was surprised to see that this received fairly average feedback. That coupled with an initial look at the lay-out had me looking for another. I was, after all, looking for a clear improvement by consensus, all too aware how brittle my motivation was and therefore how likely I’d use a crap app as an excuse not to train!

My first tip of this (and any app) is to look at what the reviewers compare it to in it's criticism. One person mentioned 'Runmeter' which did indeed get universal approval. In particular the ability to run 'against yourself' seemed brilliant. However it was £2.99 and, like runner's nipple and as a Yorkshireman, it went against the grain.

I remembered a couple of friends having posted their runs onto facebook and quickly saw they'd both used the same one, a free app called Runkeeper. Like most of the others it seemed to suffer some criticism for its potential to have problems with its GPS tracking (providing the various data) but on the basis that 1. Most of those who criticised it pointed to how brilliantly it had previously performed and 2. I assume most people are like me and will generally only leave feedback if they'd a negative experience thus skewing the results, I downloaded it and explored further. Immediately I saw a function I'd not seen on the others. I'm following a training plan which mixes up the duration and severity of exercise you do each week, so the ability to enter my own simple workout of 'Run 2 mins, Walk 2 mins, Repeat x 4' and amend it each week was perfect. It also very easily asks what music you'd like to listen to (e.g. shuffle, specific mix) from the same interface which again made it simple.

A few months on and I can’t really fault it. I registered a problem I was having viewing my results online, which a few others also had, and a month later they updated the app to fix it. There’s a ‘Street team’ feature which as well as allowing you to view runs others had done locally means you can keep updated on how others are doing who you know use the app.

A common complaint across most apps is that the GPS is faulty and in my experience this is helped by turning the app on a few minutes (rather than shortly before) you go for a run to allow it to get a good ‘trace’ on you.

You can get a feel for how it works by clicking on the Runkeeper link on the right of this page. Above all my main tip would be to download an app and use it the next time you go out for a walk, even if it’s just a shopping trip. You never know you might end up analysing how far you’ve walked so much that you decide to take your new-found interest one step further.

Don’t worry though, I’m not imploring you to become a glasses-wearing nerd like me, just a runner.

MM

Glasses

Glasses wearers get a rough deal. Every time I walk into the warmth of a pub in winter from the bitter cold outside it's like a recreation of the scene in An American Werewolf In London where everyone turns around in surprise to see two Americans walking into the Yorkshire pub (for local people!), only this time thinking what a prat I look with steamed up lenses. I've tried temporarily taking them off until they've adjusted to the new temperature and formed tiny circular look-outs but that doesn't work either. Blind as a bat I find myself having to choose between either ignoring what could be friendly smiles from regulars that I might well know, or smiling inanely at everyone in the hope I haven't offended anyone.

Being short-sighted I'm amazed at the number of people over the years to whom I've had to explain that it doesn't mean I can see perfectly up to a point before a sudden deterioration. It is in fact fairly similar to (my ability at) running - all's fine for a very short distance before a gradual worsening that ultimately leads to a blur. I don't run a total of 3.5 miles because that's as far as my ability stretches but because that's the point at which my tolerance has finally ebbed away, having started to worsen not far from my front door.

I've still been religiously following the beginners training schedule but last week got to the point at which I'd normally turn round and realised I still felt good (compared to usual, not compared to being sat on the sofa) so carried on a bit further. "I can manage 4 miles!" I thought, then getting to the 2 mile mark at which point I should have turned round only to tell myself "Sod 4 miles, I can make it round this long circuit I hoped to do one day!"

It all seems so predictable now, but suffice to say a mile on from my first moment of inspiration I was in considerably more pain only now even further from home. All of a sudden running a first stint of 2.5 miles had gone from impressive to a dawning realisation that I still had that far left to run home. "I wonder if Emma would be happy to come and pick me up?"

That's the thing about an exercise/sport/recurring hell that is so individual, so completely dependant on you. You need a bit of intuition, of getting to know your body and your limitations. I'm not advocating hippy love and exploring yourself but of getting a better understanding of yourself. Much like my Mum who has somehow over the years come to know which foods "don't agree with her". Nor it seems do some shopkeepers given that one of them called the Police in to resolve a complaint she had last week.....

Having somehow survived the rest of that run I'm then left with the dilemna. Do I go back to the old distances on the schedule or, having shown I can do it once, should I do it again? Don't want to look like a southern jessie after all.

So on the face of it I've had a really good week. Having first added 1.5 miles to my previous best I then reluctantly did the same run again but in a better time before yesterday running a bit further to get me over the 5 mile barrier.

There is a reason for this seemingly sudden improvement. It's not come from any exercising I've done or steroid abuse (now there's a thought for a future blog) but because when I first had those ambitious thoughts my 'id' took over. I won't pretend to know any more about psychology than what I pick up watching Frasier but quite simply your 'id' is the part of your psyche that is most instinctive and impulsive. The bit that takes over when you wave your balls around. That makes you choose a 7 iron because 5 years ago you a hit a 7 iron 200 yards and damn it that means you're macho enough to do it again.

I suspect if you look it up in the dictionary id will be defined as an abbreviation, meaning idiotic. Because that's the psyche of someone who runs further than they really ought but who hasn't yet realised how much more pain is involved when they still have to run 2.5 times further.

MM

P.S. A couple of weeks I got challenged to fit a chosen made-up word into my blog in return for sharing my blog on their facebook / twitter status. I hopefully managed to do it without you all noticing but just to say I thought it was a great idea. If any of you have any requests (ignoring the father-in-law's repeated requests for me to "fuck off") then please let me know. All I ask in return is that you help me increase my loyal fanbase!

Puddles

What's the feeling you find most unbearable? I'm not talking fingers down a chalkboard or a balloon being rubbed (*shudder*) but that sensation you just can't stand.

For me it always used to be the feeling you get the morning after the night before, when you realise you've said or done something idiotic, something you'd never do sober. I once woke up to find myself surrounded by chair legs and a room that had literally been turned upside down, all done by some disgruntled friends I'd annoyed the night before. Which was genius as my sore head couldn't make sense of how or why I was sleeping on the ceiling and trapped in a cage. Of course the logical solution would be to become less of a tit when you've had a few to drink. Or, in my case, a dwindling social life will take care of the problem at source.

Every so often that cringeing sensation would come when I wasn't recovering from the effects of the Wine Appreciation Society or '20p a pint night' (God bless University) but instead watching my local news. You can guarantee every year Calendar (Yorkshire news programme for those lucky enough not to have seen it) will run a story showcasing a fat kid (ironically what they'd call a 'filler') performing a lousy version of a song to his school/the cameras. What was meant to be a touching story will instead have you wincing and in my case reaching for the remote, unable to watch any more.

As I've entered my 30's however all of this has taken a back seat to a much stronger feeling. That of unbridled anger you're left with when you encounter inept, danger to themselves, chromosome-challenged morons who - and this is the worst bit - have no idea what impact their actions have.

I sense you're not quite with me so let me give you some examples. When was the last time you followed someone in the supermarket only for them to stop, blocking the whole aisle with their thoughtlessly placed trolley, oblivious to you until you have to ask if they wouldn't mind getting out of your way? Or the Customer Advisor on a premium rate helpline that took 5mins and 3 attempts to navigate the right automated options followed by 10mins on hold listening to pan pipe music, who can't grasp the simple thing you're explaining or fix the mistake they've inexplicably billed you for? Or the coffin-dodger who pulls out from a junction in front of you, forcing you to brake sharply but who hasn't checked his rear view mirror in 20 years so can't see you flashing/mouthing/gesturing?

To a greater or lesser extent, you're left with that blood-boiling anger and frustration, not that they have inconvenienced you, but that they haven't acknowledged or apologised for what they've done and so in all likelihood will go on to infuriate someone else.

And it's in that spirit I'd like to tell you a little bit about what I've encountered in my last few runs. Just yesterday I went out, in between the showers, and had only been gone a few minutes when an oncoming vehicle decided my presence didn't merit her changing the line she was driving, thus forcing me to stand and wait for her to pass with my feet in one of the large puddles. I can only thank God I was out in the open country and that it was windy, because I turned the air so blue that Batfink would have been proud of how far my 'F bombs' could otherwise be heard.

Not long after, a woman in a red golf (note how the details stay with you) flew past me so close that some rubble bounced up and hit me.

Now don't get me wrong these people are the minority, and no matter how knackered I am I'll always put my hand out to say thank you to those who haven't scared the crap out of me. But as a rule of thumb I'd encourage you all not only to give runners and cyclists plenty of room but also to pull out early. Not only does it say "Don't worry I've seen you" but leaving it until the last minute can cause problems too.

Twice in the last few days vehicles have waited until they're nearly upon me to pull out. In the case of the stereotypical neanderthal driving the HGV that I suspect did so deliberately, it meant that the 2 cars that were (naturally) tucked up behind him waiting to overtake didn't see me or know why the HGV had pulled out, leaving them to swerve at the last second.

Again I don't want to come across all Victor Meldrew. There's been plenty of times I've cut things a little close in a car or no doubt pissed off others. But I like to think the difference is that I'm aware I've done it and will always put my hand up to say sorry if not apologise.

It was announced recently that the world population has passed the 7 billion milestone giving further food for thought as to, well, how we'll feed them. You'd be right in thinking it doesn't really have too much of an impact in a quiet little
village in North Yorkshire however I'm not one to shirk a challenge (unless it's asking me if I'll do another run after this one I'm planning) so I've come up with a plan. Why don't we do away with all those people who during the course of our day do something that leaves us feeling so angry? Maybe a 3 strikes and you're out rule so that we get the serial offenders and not the accidental incompetents?

Of course if your answer to the very first question was 'meeting people who are intolerant of others', the chances are it's me that you'd have away with!

Meaning

The impact and meaning of certain words can change - take songs for example. Cover versions can give songs a whole new lease of life and even improve it. Have you ever heard Bowie’s version of All The Young Dudes? It’s crap – and he wrote it!

Ralph Fiennes was asked in an interview how he tackled the role of Hamlet, for which he’s the only actor to have won a Tony Award for playing the part. Whether you’ve watched the play, studied it in school or just somehow know it, you’ll likely be able to recite the "To be or not to be, that is the question" dialogue. He answered that he treated it like an inner monologue, as though thinking it for the first time and not simply reciting it, and all of a sudden new life was breathed into it.

Recently the word whose meaning has completely changed for me is ‘endurance’. Without ever paying much attention to it I used to pigeon-hole endurance as sitting alongside stamina, simply meaning long-lasting. But over the last 7 weeks of training I now realise it literally means how much you can endure - how much punishment you can withstand. Much like watching Everybody Loves Raymond.

That might sound obvious but because it’s an ability I’ve never been tested on it’s one I’ve never had a real appreciation of. I’m pushing myself each week to run further and for longer (and am currently at only a quarter of the distance I’ll need to run) so with each run I’m always hoping it gets a bit easier, hurts a bit less. But it never happens. Running an extra quarter of a mile one day compared to the last doesn’t come from an improvement in ability, as it would with most skills but simply from prolonging the pain that little bit more each time. Of course you could argue that you gain the ability to endure more but it doesn’t feel like it whilst you’re out there. Certainly not this morning when I struggled to over-take an OAP doing his best impression of a power-walking Harold Bishop.

There’s been a few times over the years where I’ve made a concerted effort to get fit and joined a gym. Sadly paying more to move from the dingy dissanitary ones to the all-singing all-dancing doesn’t help you get fit sooner (my definition for that always being able to run for 20mins without stopping).  But whilst I always got myself beyond that level I’ve always been disappointed that running has never transformed from something that you can endure to something that you can enjoy.

It must happen to some people. Like those 70yr old lycra-clad cyclists with saggy bums on show who hold you up on country lanes. We’ve all met (usually worked with) the types that are one step removed from being an adrenaline junkie, always exercising and getting a buzz from pushing their body to the limits. But whilst I can look forward to going for a run it takes no time for it to become a will of resistance. Of mind over matter. The only buzz I get usually comes just before dehydration takes hold.

I don’t know whether I’m unique in feeling this way or just haven’t quite got to the level where it does transcend, but the prospect of another 10 months’ training is pretty disheartening at times because of it.

I’m as guilty as anyone for underestimating how difficult challenges can be. An ex-colleague of mine would pass the sponsorship form round for the Great North Run every year and if I’m honest I subconsciously belittled the effort it took (even to do it just once) despite always admiring it. Matt Baker is currently pedalling a rickshaw from Edinburgh to London for Children in Need and I can’t begin to imagine how tough that is.

I’m not saying all this to blow my own trumpet (if only) but to try and convey what the experience (for me at least) is like of training to do a half-marathon. Even this blog takes a lot of time and effort.

Having enjoyed/managed/coped with 37wks of pregnancy, Emma is now officially "full term". In other words our baby can now drop at any point in the next 5weeks, no later. Sadly of course the baby doesn't drop out at all (even if she pinches her nose and blows which she hopes will work) but in fact needs a hell of a lot of effort.

It's amazing how often having a child is likened to running a marathon. Apparently both take “time, knowledge, training and endurance". Yet as much as I might have a new-found appreciation of endurance, somehow I really don't fancy my chances of being taken seriously in the delivery room if I claim to understand what Emma's going through!

Nipples

There are certain things that you just don't do. Things that are just wrong. Like choosing ITV's news/sports coverage if there's a BBC option; standing next to another man at the urinals if there's a spare one further away; allowing yourself to be served before the man next to you at the bar if he was there first; feeling comfortable whilst watching 'adult' scenes with your parents; responding to your wife's admiration of a male celebrity with a list of who you quite fancy yourself; ordering half a pint if it's a pub you plan to show your face in again; or clasping your hands under the table at a sales meeting, accidentally making a farting sound.

Well you can now add getting jogger's nipple to that list. Like all those listed before, this is one of those lessons I've had to learn through painful experience.

So how did it happen? Because on the next run after last writing (typing?), I decided that a bit of rain wasn't an excuse to cancel but would in fact be an important part of my training, readying myself for all weather conditions I might face on the big day.

Within no time I was soaked from head to toe and by the mile point I'd reached saturation point. The football shirt that I thought would be an ideal cheap alternative to expensive running gear had got soaking wet and well, not to pull any punches, with it being so cold my tiny man nipples got cold, giving the sodden material something to rub against.

The same thing happened with my shorts rubbing against my inner thighs, though of course in this cold November temperature things weren't protruding quite as much from that region.

All of which brings me onto the subject of what equipment you need to become a runner.

First and foremost, if you're planning on running even occasionally, do a little research and get the right footwear. It's the most common tip I've heard and for a good reason - not having it caused my knee injury. Don't make the mistake I did of thinking your 10yr old, still in decent nick trainers are up to the job. Even the best purpose-built trainers are said to have a useful life-span of about 700 miles.

Second when it comes to clothing think about what it will feel and (just as importantly) look like when you're running. Feel because you don't want nipples as tender as mine have been and look because you don't want to be self-conscious. I don't necessarily mean about looking unfashionable but more your bits being on show. Personally I've found for example that tight/unfeasibly-small-for-everyday-use boxers are the way to go. I don't like the prospect of spectators waving at me only to see parts of me inadvertently waving back, however combined with the cold this solution doesn't help with Obi-Wan's cape.

Lastly, if you think encouragement will help consider getting the right earphones. Regardless of whether you've downloaded an app for your phone or are listening to an MP3 player you don't want the diversion of putting them back in place all the time, which happens with most that aren't purpose-built. I've tried several (including expensive ones) and am currently using some I found with good reviews on Amazon costing just £6. Sure for that price I've compromised on sound quality, but that's not my priority.

And that's it. There's more I can and will talk about another time but they're considerations that are either not important for the beginner looking to give it a go or only come into play when you run further.

I was going to add to that list at the start not wearing a snood or pair of gloves if you want to be taken seriously as a professional sportsman. But on Sunday morning I set my alarm early and took on the English winter again, only this time the frosty cold.

Every stride I took felt like I was punching ice and I haven't had brain freeze like that since I last ate a Mr Freeze. The low lying sun was giving off unbearable glare that gave me eyeache.

And because of that you might find that in a few months I've become the runners' equivalent of the middle aged blazer-wearing man with the hood down on his convertible, wearing sunglasses in winter i.e. adorned in all the derisible fashion accessories.

A trip to the sports shop today confirmed my worst fears. Not only can I get the snood and gloves but there's also an array of other gear you'd never thought of, including 'skull' hats, luminous headbands and wallets you can fit into your shoes.

My only consolation is that hopefully underneath all that gear you won't be able to recognise me. And that, fingers crossed, my poor nipples never have to go through that ordeal again.

MM

Targets

I'm never going to hit the 5 a day fruit 'n' veg target that the Government says we all ought to be aiming for. Somewhere amongst all the nicknames I go by, the term 'salad dodger' sits firmly and fairly. Whilst as a toddler I'm told I couldn't get enough fruit cake, only one of those two ingredients ever had a starring role in my upbringing from then on.

By similar decree we should also (apparently) all be striving towards another target of at least 30 mins exercise, 5 times a week. This I would argue is implausible, if not impossible, for a different reason. Namely that half an hour's run actually takes 2 hours.

Now I know it's human nature to react by thinking that one doesn't equal the other, but in the same way our subconscious can see £9.99 as a bargain and £10 as too dear, we are being misled. Let me explain.

Up until last week (ignoring my injury) my progress has been pretty good. Times have been tumbling week by week, I've begun to resemble someone that knows what they're doing and I'd become much more efficient in getting from A to B. I am of course talking about how long it takes me to get to the start line.

I once asked a very successful colleague what one piece of advice he could offer that had set him apart from his peers and his reply was simple. "Fail to prepare and prepare to fail."

Now preparation is key in all kinds of ways but perhaps none more notable than in sports, where the 'pre-match routine' has become crucial. Linford Christie for example would mentally "get into the zone", focussing solely on the piece of track in front of him and blocking out all exterior distractions. More recently you'll see the prevalence of athletes listening to their iPod for the same effect, which I remember caused a big stir in the commentary box when Barry Cowan did so in between games at Wimbledon as he tried (and failed, after all he was English) to topple Pete Sampras.

I mentioned that the Doctor recently recommended 30 mins of stretching exercises each day to strengthen my knees. The truth is I shouldn't have needed telling. I quit playing junior football for my local team because of the pain in my legs after each match. A specialist diagnosed me as having particularly tight hamstring and calf muscles, but that it could be fixed by doing certain stretches. Suffice to say I didn't do as I was told and so my new routine is agony albeit should get easier as I become more supple and stretch the muscles more and more. (Why not have a go and see how easy/difficult you find them?) Nevertheless having quickly learnt the lesson of the importance of injury prevention, this now forms part of my own pre-match routine.

Add to that getting changed, making sure all the equipment is fitted correctly and spending the time leading up to my run making sure I'm hydrated and fuelled to the correct levels and all of a sudden my preparation is pretty lengthy.

After my first run back from injury last week the pain in my knees was replaced with pain in each calf muscle from the warm-up. By the time I'd realised it had become too painful to stretch them again, as I should have done in a warm-down which again has now taken on new importance.

So throw in the time to warm down, cool down and get a shower and all of a sudden my half an hour spent running forms just part of a total 2 hours. Suddenly that 5 a week target looks more challenging.

Last week I had a meeting with the regional head of a multi-national bank that sets their staff no targets. Their hierarchy decided a long time ago that for a variety of valid reasons they were proving counter-productive. The result? Higher staff retention borne from enjoyment of working in a non target-orientated workplace. Remuneration based on overall contribution and not short-term success in achieving pre-defined (and commonly based on quickly outdated so therefore easily achievable/impossible to achieve) results. And therefore no pressure to lend money for the sake of it, thus leading to them currently being one of the strongest and safest banks in the world.

I guess ultimately it comes down to whether you're a carrot or a stick person. At University, for example, I'd always leave my coursework until the very last minute and it couldn't be put off any longer. Hence my only obscure claim to fame being that Zoe Ball read out my email on her Radio 1 breakfast show, telling me to go to sleep and that she loves my surname!

On the other hand the Great North Run represents (if you'll pardon the Carry On imagery it conjures) a huge carrot being dangled in front of me, with loads of positive reasons for me to do it.

In amongst the helpful advice that I've had, one or two people have suggested different targets for me to aim for in completing the Great North Run, most commonly beating the 2 hour mark. And there's nothing wrong with that. But for me my only target is to complete it, preferably without collapsing, getting fit in the process and raising some money for a very worthy cause.

MM

Cycling

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.

Put simply, cycling is for masochists. And they generally talk like this http://youtu.be/DciHPmkNOgE

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.

MM