They think it’s all over…

….it isn’t now! It should be all over. I did what I set out to. I completed the London Marathon yesterday in 4.5 hours, and thanks to the huge generosity of the readers of this blog, and others, raised over £2000 for the RNIB in the process.

But to my huge surprise, I think I may have developed a thirst for this running thing. While I don’t enjoy the actual bit in trainers, running vest and shorts pounding the streets, the feeling you get when it is all over is fantastic. I found myself agreeing to enter both the Great North Run and next year’s London Marathon in the post event euphoria, although I may yet come to my senses.

Also this rash enthusiasm may have been purely the influence of Guinness at the post-event party as my self-imposed three month alcohol moratorium came to an end.

The marathon is much more than a run; it is a rich and vibrant experience, with great camaraderie, spirit, noise, colour and endurance in evidence. Although being overtaken by a Cornish pastie was a somewhat humbling experience.

It is the hundreds of thousands of spectators who line the streets of London that make this event that extra bit special. Their shouted encouragement, and enthusiasm, even when the hail was beating down, cannot be underestimated, and put a spring back into even the most weariest runner’s step. I thank you all.

I would also like to pay tribute to the lady handing out fruit cake to the runners around the 20 mile mark. This was truly the finest fruit cake I have ever eaten and it was only strong willpower, and of course intense fatigue, that prevented me from turning around and going back for a second slice. Mrs Beeton eat your heart out.

Thanks again to all who donated, and for those who didn’t, there is still time!

And afraid I’m going to be rattling the collecting tin again around September time in the lead up to the Great North Run.

Watch this space!

Paige has her say…

As I am running the Marathon on Sunday to raise money for the RNIB I thought my five year old daughter Paige, who has been blind from birth, should be allowed her say.

Actually Paige always has her say whether you want her to or not!

Over to Paige:

On the fundraising: “The money is to buy extra Braille books for children and extra help for blind adults and children. My favourite books are Rainbow Magic but I don’t want them in Braille because then I would have to read them and I don’t want to, I want Mummy to read them.”

On the Marathon: “I think the marathon is 26 miles which is in the north of England. I think the marathon is cool and I’m going to watch you on Sunday. I’m going to save my loudest voice for Sunday but I’m only going to shout for people called Daddy.”

On all the spectators: “I like pushing my way through a perilous crowd. I’m just going to go barge, barge barge.”

On her contribution to this post: She wrote: “fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjjfjjjffghjkdqbv1234567890.”

On what she would like YOU to do: “Pay all your money you have in the world to the RNIB. Everyone should give £120.”

Over to you…

The (very slow) time is nigh

In only a few more days this madness will be over. Quite why I decided to enter the Marathon has been completely lost in the mists of early morning jogs, but the torment is nearly done. Just the 26.2 miles to go.

I’m in the taper down period at the moment. This means that with one week left until the Marathon, activity is scaled down by 75%. For me this has basically meant lying back in the sofa doing some heavy lifting with the TV remote control.

Sunday can’t come quickly enough now, even though I am going to spend a large proportion of it pounding the streets of London. It will be very strange to be surrounded (or rather) following 50,000 fellow joggers, having spent the past three months running alone in the deserted Oxfordshire countryside.

The nearest I have come to a crowd was a couple of weeks ago when I stayed in London. I surprised myself by going for a 6.00 a.m. jog in Hyde Park. I had assumed I would pretty much have the place to myself but in the event was trying to keep my head above a sea of Lycra being worn by at least three genders of jogger.

The were runners of all ages, shapes and sizes, in bright reds, purples, greens, blues and yellows. The only thing they had in common was that they all were moving really fast.

I have immense respect for everyone who has ever completed the Marathon, and for those who will complete it on Sunday. Everyone understands the Marathon is difficult, but until you attempt to run it yourself you don’t realise just how bloody difficult, difficult can be

I would like to say a big thank you to all the very generous people, many anonymous, who have donated over the past three months, and a huge thank you to my unofficial but scarily efficient fundraising team, Claire and Nic.

Another big thank you to all of you who donate after reading this post.

Runners should take things easy too

You can’t drive far without passing signs telling you that you will be a danger to others if you don’t take a break after two hours, despite the fact you are cocooned in a warm car, listening to music, and generally taking things easy.

Long plane journeys, which involve nothing but sitting, and watching second-rate films, give us DVT. We are instructed to take frequent breaks from looking at computer monitors to save our eyesight.

And yet when it comes to the London Marathon, we are expected to run 4-5 hours without stopping. And not only do we do the one thing for a long period of time without a break, but it is an unpleasant experience for most of that time.

I think I’ll have a nice cup of tea, a sandwich and sit down halfway round, just to make sure I don’t lose concentration and become a danger to my fellow runners. If I can find a lay-by I might have a quick nap.

Running out of excuses

I put my lack of updates down to a 20 mile run I completed on Sunday. I have only just got my breath back. Actually it was a huge psychological barrier to break, and I think could have run another six miles if I absolutely had to, so feeling a lot more confident that I will manage the big event on April 13th.

The last time I posted I was enveloped in a cloud of self-doubt. The furthest I had run then was 15 miles, which sounds a lot until you realise there are another 11 to go to complete a marathon.

The last time I attempted the big one was more than 20 years ago, I didn’t train at all, and crawled out of a nightclub at 4am on the morning of the run. Not surprisingly I didn’t make it, but very surprisingly I did get 20 miles round, firstly on the alcoholic excess that remained and then on my knees. But I had a good excuse for failure - I was pissed.

This time I have prepared. My last alcoholic drink was on January 2nd.  I have eaten healthily and I have pounded the arse out of my trainers but that means I don’t have a ready made excuse if I fail. Claiming that I have just crawled out of a late night salad just won’t have the ring of authenticity about it.

The more of you that sponsor me, the more compelled I feel to keep running. So to make me suffer please click on the text under the ‘Sponsor me’ tab to the right, and buy me pain with your credit card.

I don’t have a leg to stand on

I am carrying two injuries at the moment. The first is a ligament injury in my left knee, brought on by playing football, and the only cure is to run regularly and often, which seems to alleviate the pain.

The other is shin splints in my right leg which is a pretty painful muscle condition and the only cure is complete rest.

My legs are in a Catch 22 situation.

The obvious solution would be to go out for a long distance hop, leaving my right leg tucked up in bed, but the practicalities have proved too challenging to overcome. Instead I am letting them take turns at being the injured party.

When I first set out, my left knee feels like it has a knife inside it and is going to collapse but after about three miles or so the pain wears off. I enjoy the next half mile or so and then the shin splints on my right leg become more intrusive. It feels like I am wearing a shinpad inside my leg.

The curious outcome of this is that I lurch to the left for the first three miles, then run normally for half a mile, and then start lurching to the right. Before my weight loss I would have put this down to movement of the onboard ballast, but that is no longer an excuse.

But the good news is that after ten miles or so I get terrible back ache and I forget all about my legs.

The doubt creeps in

Actually doubt isn’t so much creeping in as galloping in on a thoroughbred stallion with steaming nostrils and straining sinews. Just over two weeks to go and I definitely don’t feel ready.

My training runs have been too infrequent in recent weeks and too short in distance. And to compound my lack of preparation I have developed shin splints.

But on the positive side, all the advice is that it is better to be under prepared than over prepared so on that score I couldn’t be more ready.

I am planning a 20 mile run this weekend, the furthest I have gone to date, and I think that will give me a good indication of whether I am going to make 26 miles or not.

I can’t imagine not completing the course, but I also can’t imagine completing it either, so come what may I am in for a surprise on April 13th.

The pies have it

The day of London Marathon reckoning is ever closer but the ‘what happens next?’ phase that begins immediately afterwards is posing more of a dilemma.

Turning myself from a 15 stone lardy lump into someone who looks like they might be remotely capable of running a marathon has generally not been a lot of fun, involving loads of healthy unpleasant stuff like fish, fruit and vegetables, and of course, hundreds of miles of running.

But the one saving grace has been the kind things people have said: ‘I can’t believe you’ve lost so much weight’, ‘you look so different’, ‘I hardly recognise you’ (although the latter was said by someone I barely know so doesn’t really count) and this has nearly made it all worthwhile but then they all ask ‘what happens next?’. What they mean is are you going to to revert to your fat git on a sofa ways or is this the dawning of a new you.

Now while I can’t deny I feel full of vitality and life, and that hangovers are but a distant memory, the truth is that the actual healthy living bit ain’t a huge amount of fun. For God’s sake I don’t even like running. And of course, there is only so much weight one can lose. Once people are used to me being human shaped and relatively fit the only comments they will pass will be about me looking older or fatter. Not a comforting thought. And even to stay in this health hinterland I will still have to forgo beer and chips, and it will undoubtedly require more bloody running.

So there has been reward in getting into shape, but staying in shape sounds like purgatory in trainers.

On balance I think I’ll let myself happily go to seed. After 30 years of sedentary living it has taken me three months to get fit for a marathon, so I plan on another 30 years of pies, pints and chocolate, and then I’ll think about doing it again.

Gym-nasties

Yesterday I was staying in London and on a whim decided to undertake my training run in the hotel gym rather than pound the streets.

After an hour of the most profoundly depressing experience of my life I could only ask: why? Why does anyone subject themselves to this horrendous activity?

I spent an hour opposite another fat man, an excessively sweaty fat man, and despite running for an hour neither of us moved, and consequently never got further away from each other. The room stank of bodies, the noise was horrendous and the atmosphere grim.

When I jog outdoors, I travel. I hear the birds in the trees, I splash through puddles, the wind blows on my face and I feel alive. In the gym I just ran and ran in the same place with my eyes focused on the seconds very slowly ticking away on the LED display in front of me. The only puddles were caused by other people’s sweat on the floor. The only wind… well you get the idea.

And we spend millions between us for the privilege of enduring this torture?

Show me another gym and I will run a mile - or maybe 26.

The trainers of Damocles are hanging over me

Just four weeks today until we come under starter’s orders at the London Marathon and I’m in a race against time - a race to be ready to race - or at least a race to be ready to run.

The good news is that I’ve just undertaken two back to back 15 mile training runs, but the bad being that due to various other time constraints, I did nothing in the week between the two.

In the next four weeks, I have to run at least one 20 mile run, and preferably two, and train nearly every day, if I’m going to stand a reasonable chance of completing the course come April 13th.

Today I faced a new challenge. I got out of bed and set off without paying much attention to the weather. During my slumbers, there had been very heavy rainfall, which had flooded the course I take along country lanes. I turned a corner some 10 miles into the run to find the whole road covered in 18 inches of water.

Too late to go back I splashed on and over the next five miles, the water got steadily deeper and for one 200 metre stretch was actually above my knees.

I suppose it was all good training for the Marathon. Running through deep water takes considerable effort, and will no doubt come in useful should I take a wrong turn in April, and find myself jogging down the Thames.