Marathon Men

Pounding the streets of Paris

2007-04-27T19:24:00.000+01:00

It was like one of those Vietnam veteran films, you know the ones where an engine or something backfires and it all comes flooding back to the old soldier: the heat, the privations, the horror of it all.

It happened just last Sunday, coming out of the foot tunnel at Greenwich after a couple of hours rowing around the Isle of Dogs, when I was greeted by a scene of confusion. There were people, hundreds of them, and cheers and laughter and yells of encouragement. Cutting these hoards off from the road was a barrier, and behind the barrier were runners – thousands of them, pounding the streets of South East London, struggling through the heat to mile seven of the 2007 London Marathon.

It was at this point that I knew what it was to suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder.

Only a week earlier that I too had been running a marathon, not in my adopted city of London, of course, but around Paris. I went into it without an abiding motivation. I was neither doing it for charity, nor simply to run it (I’d already done a marathon 18 months earlier); I had some hazy idea that I’d do it in 4hrs 30mins, but I knew that my long training runs had been far from perfect and the weather was going to be far from ideal. It was going to be hot. The night before the marathon I ate al fresco for the first time this year. I went to sleep with fear in my heart and slept badly.

The next morning the streets were quiet and cool, but the sky was cloudless. It was going to be a scorcher. I ate a single, miserable croissant from the hotel buffet, sipped Lucozade, peed as if I was an 80-something with a dodgy prostate, fixed my number onto my shirt and lumbered the short walk past the Arc de Triomphe to the start line at the Champs Elysess. Catherine took a photo of the reluctant runner, my face looked desolate, silently despairing, saying ‘What am I doing here?’ I imagined the photograph published in the following day’s newspapers under the headline ‘Tragedy of Marathon Runner, 28’.

And so to the start. None of the fannying around, waiting for TV crews, as in Italy. The theme to ‘Chariots of Fire’ was on loop and as the start was sounded a roar emerged from the runners and the crowds. The hairs stood up on my neck and we were under way. From fear to elation in seconds; It was incredible.

For those first miles, down the Champs Elysess, through Place d’Concorde and down the endless expanse of Rue de Rivoli it was great. I settled into my rhythm, ran swiftly, but without over exertion and enjoyed myself. Every 500 metres a band was set up, playing African drums, samba, oompa lumpa music, you name it. Parisians were out in force, shouting ‘Allez! Allez!’ The cheers of the crowd were a clarion call to the legs. To the south, however, the sun rose ominously in the clear blue sky.

In fact, the only thing that was missing were my own supporters. I had a notion of where people were, and they had an idea where I would be and when they would see me. But I passed Rue de Rivoli (circa 5km) without seeing Catherine or my friends, Claire and Patrick, and Place de Bastille (10km) and no sign of my parents and siblings. (Later I learned that I’d been too fast for them). Shortly after, a boy’s voice shouted ‘Go on James!’ and I turned to see a young urchin in a Liverpool FC shirt. The indignity of it all!

For the second 10km we ran through a park to the east of the city centre. It was here that things rapidly disintegrated. The organisers had promised extra water would be laid on in extreme heat – it was forecast to be 27C, but it was actually warmer than that (at 6.30pm that evening it was still 29C) – but there was no sign of this. I had water with me, but that soon went. Worst still, when we came to 15km they had run out of water altogether. It was shattering to go on with a dry mouth. Dangerous too.

In fact, things were so bad, so ridiculously awful, as the temperature soared that I, and thousands others, were left to pick up discarded bottles on the roadside, like tramps, and drink other’s leftovers. It was a shocking state of affairs and an appalling symptom of the organiser’s incompetence. At 18km there was a standpipe and I fought my way to the front of a crowd and filled my bottle up. But the damage had already been done: I had started to dehydrate.

When you dehydrate, nothing you can drink can sate your thirst. No matter how bloated you feel, you always want to drink more. Worse, your muscles start cramping in the most incredibly painful spasms. By 19km I’d had my first cramp; as I came to the 20km mark I was seriously thinking of giving up. When I first caught site of Catherine shortly after I was a mess.

‘Go on, you can do it!’ she ordered.

‘It’s too hot! I’m not even halfway through!’

‘Think of all the training, think of all the people who’ve come to see you!’

She had water, that wondrous, elusive elixir, and my calves, which had moments earlier been spasming into brutal looking concaves were suddenly reinvigorated. At the halfway mark were my Mum and sister; my Dad and brothers and brother’s fiancée shortly after; at 25km were Claire and Patrick (with more, much needed water as the idiot organisers had again run out) and I kept running. At the underpasses along the side of the Seine it was a dream-like sequence as you’d leave the glare of the unrelenting sun into near darkness, thousands of bobbing heads in front of you, and a roar of ‘allez’ would fill the air. It was amazing stuff.

But the damage had been done earlier. The legs started cramping again and I’d run a bit, stop in agonising pain, start again, then stop. In the sun it was unbearable. Gone midday it was like running on a sunny beach. I hung in there. At 30km – with 3hr 30ish on the clock I knew I was going to do it; even if I walked the rest I wouldn’t disgrace myself.

And that, pretty much, is what happened. The heat, with dehydration, had made it utterly impossible to run continuously. I’d start off and 400m down the road, almost fall over as my legs seized up. This wasn’t the mythical ‘wall’, this wasn’t a lack of training, this was unbearable.

Things took on a more epicedian complexion towards the end. Another park preceded the final kilometres; skirting around the edge, 50 metres ahead of me was a chap perhaps ten years older than me. I saw his legs go first, slaloming together like a prize fighter with a knockout blow. He teetered over and I and ten or so others ran to his aid. An ambulance was there moments later. I like to think it was just the heat, but they had heart pumps at the ready.

I carried on. Another 500m away was a second ambulance, but no crowd. Just two paramedics, a stretcher, a tin foil blanket pulled over a corpse’s face.

At that point I didn’t care any more. I had enough water, finally. But the heat was relentless and I had nothing left physically. So I walked the rest of the way. Mentally I skipped the last few kilometres, and there, suddenly, was Avenue Foch and the finish line. I started running again, but the legs seized up, and I staggered the final metres like Dorando Pietri (the infamous winner of the Olympic marathon a century ago, who staggered into the White City stadium and took ten minutes making his way to the line, such was his exhaustion). The muscles spasmed up again, and some French guy tried to help me along, but the legs wouldn’t move.

Anyway, I did it. I did it in a time to make my face red with embarrassment (15 mins longer than last time), but I don’t care, I have a medal to show for it.

My family, who had beer and smiles for me, joined me. And to them I announced my retirement from my marathon career. Never again. Ever.

…Unless, maybe, just maybe, London comes calling one year.

WHAT AM I SAYING?????

Never. Finito.

Afterwards, I ate well, drank more beer and had an earlyish night. My legs throbbed when I walked up and down stairs, and the three seventysomethings who shared a room at our hotel and also ran the marathon swanned lithely around, waltzing past me as if it was I that was the crazed old man. I think seeing them made me realise that this probably isn’t the sport for me. If I was a racehorse I’d have been put down by now. I was never ahead, but I should end it all before I slip so far behind the rest of the field that they forget about me.

And so, I shall bid you adieu – until the next crazed urge to run 26.2 miles enters my head. And you can refer me back to this blog and tell me to stop being so stupid…

2007-04-27T19:15:00.000+01:00

The Chasing Pack! (I'm 200 metres ahead)

2007-04-27T19:10:00.000+01:00

April in Paris

2007-04-27T18:55:00.000+01:00

More Marathon Madness

2007-04-10T18:34:00.000+01:00

As many of you will know I will be running the Paris Marathon this weekend in an attempt to obliterate my alarmingly slow record, set in Florence 18 months ago.

Beyond wanting to overcome the bowel exploding hell of that day I’m not exactly sure why I’m doing it. As one of my more blunt friends put it the other week: I’m not doing it with my brother, I’m not doing it for charity, I’m not doing it in my home city… so I must have finally gone insane...

Besides that, several members of my family can also come to Paris on the pretext of supporting me ;-)

Anyhow, marathons are all about reflected glory, and I’m fully expecting to bathe in the pathos of the morning/ early afternoon jaunt around the French capital in a suitably fine bar and restaurant afterwards; and for several months after regale you all with stories about the blister-bursting brilliance of it all.

But until then it’s something which I’m approaching with mild dread. As I’ve not really been blogging about my training regime this time I’ll quickly fill you in on the details.

Essentially my first marathon in Italy in November 2005 went slightly wrong: I got sick; the Italians were indifferent; it rained, then hailed and the temperature dropped. The nadir came in a portaloo –what can only be described as ‘the worst toilet in western Europe’ - after 17 miles. Eventually I staggered home across the line in 5hr 18mins – 48 minutes slower than I’d planned and without a patch of skin left on my inner thighs.

So, wanting to do another marathon afterwards was obviously the most natural thing in the world…

London turned me down, twice; but Paris, the nearest big city, came calling and so I sent off my application, dusted down my Sauconys and hit the road again.

This time, training through the rain and grime of an English winter made it less fun. Not doing it for charity or with a running partner gave me less of an incentive. And then there were the long runs; those limb-achingly, mind-numbingly three and four hour traipses through the wastelands of South East London. My God, they were boring. And also more problematic this time. I ran 16 miles and it took me more than a week to recover. I ran 18 miles and limped around for four days as if I had a club foot. I did 21 miles in my last major run, dehydrated, cramped up, staggered for the last 6 miles, but still did it in less than 4 hrs. So there’s hope, even if everything goes utterly wrong again, that I’ll beat the previous, fairly pathetic time.

As it happens I’m fitter than I was 18 months ago, even if the training regime on those long runs has been less smooth. I’ve also got the experience of last time behind me. However, although I initially set out aiming for a 4hr 30 time; I think it’s probably going to be closer to 5 hrs. If I beat 5hrs I’ll be happy – though perhaps not happy enough to retire from my marathon running career…

For those of you who will be in Paris and are planning on coming out, some practicalities:

The Marathon starts at 8.45am on the Champs Elyse and finishes on Avenue Foch, which is nearby. I expect to be finished between 1.30pm-2.15pm, depending on how long it takes to actually cross the starting line. There’s maps and everything at http://www.parismarathon.com/marathon/2007/us/r1_parcours_01.html

You can also register your mobile number with the organisers and they will text you my progress as I go along. It’s free, but you’ll need my bib number (46418) and year of birth (1978). The link is here: http://marathondeparis.jetmultimedia.fr/index_ang.php4

Afterwards, come and check out my blisters over a pint or seven. I’m not sure where, but we are staying at http://www.hotel-paris-dubois.com/ (it is also near the finish line) and it will be near there – so gravitate in that direction. Hope to see some of you there and to live to tell the tale to the rest of you soon.

The Worst Five Hours Of My Life -- And Some of the Best Memories...

2005-12-04T18:20:00.000Z

It's a week since we did it now -- the aches have gone, the blisters healed, even if the skin on my thighs might take a few months to grow back. It seems like a blur now, though at the time the run seemed as if it would never end. After all the training I put in over a period of nine months nothing -- and I mean nothing -- could have prepared me for what happened. Ludicrous heart palpitations; stomach cramps; rain; sleet; driving wind all hit me in a run that spiraled out of control in its second half.

But I did it.

Oh yes, I DID IT!

Or rather, WE DID IT!!!

What a day, what a day...

Where to begin though? I left you 48 hours before the big off, beset by a cold and with Andrew suffering from a dodgy knee. For me the cold had cleared up by the Sunday morning; Andrew, however, was complaining about intermittent "twinges" in his knee. We'd registered with the marathon people almost immediately on arrival in Florence the night before, the officials taking all the interest in our carefully acquired medical certificates one would expect from our Italian hosts...

Oh well...

As for the start, this was slightly shambolic. Warmed up, we were shepherded into starting pens for a 9am start. 9am passed. Then 9:10. Then 9.20. At this point we realised what the problem was -- the TV people weren't ready. Finally a helicopter swooped overhead, 6000 people looked up and waved, we were treated to the bizarre sight of hundreds of Italians started throwing off their tracksuits over the fence, then the starting pistol sounded, we trotted to the front, then limbered up into a jog, and three minutes later we were beyond the starting line and away.

Yet straight away we both realised that all was not quite right. The delay had seen both our bladders fill up, and after a mile I was in the bushes relieving myself (note bushes-- toilets aren't exactly the specialty of Italians, but more of this later) -- Andrew followed a mile later. Not an ideal start, but things were soon to get worse. By mile two Andrew's knee was playing up in a big way and he was talking about dropping out. He vowed to keep going until the 10km mark where Catherine and our sister Anna were waiting, but we somehow contrived to lose each other.
When I saw the two girls at that point I was sure he'd pulled out, but was delighted and surprised to hear that he was still going and a few minutes ahead.

Things, however, were not right with me. I couldn't seem to relax into my usual pace; couldn't get my head down and enjoy the run. At this stage the weather was still fair, we were running around the beautiful south of Florence, with the adrenaline, the buzz of the occasion, it should have been a great couple of hours ahead of the final slog, but I just couldn't relax.

A look at my fancy-dan heart rate monitor gave an indication as to what was wrong: my heart rate should have been a steady 162-165bpm (or about 85% of my maximum heart rate) - instead it was in the low 180s (or 95%). The only time I ever previously got near that sort of rate was running up the side of Shooters Hill -- but here I was on the flat, going no faster than I normally would, but my body going flat out. This wasn't good, this wasn't conducive to such a piece of endurance. By eight miles, I was having to slow down to walking pace every 10 minutes so that my heart could go down and I could at least run -- no matter how briefly -- at a rate that was comfortable.

Obviously none of this was ideal. I'd lost Andy -- who was somehow ploughing a lonely furrow ahead of me, his knee feeling as if it would fall off at any minute; I was as knackered at 10 miles as I'd ever been at 18 or 20 miles on a training run; at mile 11, I hit the mythical "wall" for the first time -- which was horrible until it passed; and my carefully conceived race plans were in tatters. That said, the weather was holding out, and I reached the halfway stage in 2 hours 18 minutes -- a respectable time and in keeping with my plans to run the marathon in about 4:30.

Things, however, were about to take a turn for the worse. Catherine and Anna were waiting at mile 16, shouting encouragement. My heart rate was still all over the show, but worse still my stomach was starting to cramp up. At first this took a pattern: I'd run for maybe five minutes, then this creeping monster inside me would start plug away at my guts, causing me to slow to a stop. I'd double over with pain, take a drink, and it would go for another five minutes.

By mile 17, however, the cramping had got unbearable and I was looking for a pizzeria, a bar, a restauarant, anywhere that might have had a toilet. Unfortunately, the Italians -- as I mentioned earlier -- pay rather less attention to excreting food, than they do to making it. Thoughts of completing the marathon started to dissipate as my focus started to centre on finding a way to avoid disgracing myself in a way that I haven't disgraced myself since I was two years old...

Given that there weren't even toilet facilities at all the refreshment points (every 5km), it seemed quite incongruous that there should be a portaloo in the middle of nowhere at the 17 mile mark, but for me it was a small miracle... until I stepped inside...

Anyone who's seen the film Trainspotting swill surely remember "The Worst Toilet in Scotland" scene -- well this was infinitely worse. There was shit on the floor, shit on the seat, shit smeared all over the walls, and shit -- somehow -- on the door. For a second I didn't care: I did what I had to do, and was out.

For the next three miles or so I was just about okay, but they say that a marathon's last six miles are like a half marathon in themselves. I reckon this is a cliché, but when the stomach cramps started to come back, the cliché began to be realized. At this stage I'd bypassed central Florence -- where I saw hundreds of lucky runners heading for the finish -- and entered a long narrow park on the city's far side. The park was perhaps 500 metres wide, and 4km long and I had to run up one side and down the other. Having been so close to the end of the course, I was now heading away from it. There were no crowds at all here. Just me, fellow sufferers and intermittent marshals.

Then it started to rain. By the time I was heading back down the far side of the park, the River Arno to my right, raging away, it was lashing down a mix of rain, sleet and hail. I was at the point where I could only manage 200 metres running before I'd double up with another cramp. I was freezing, no, fucking freezing actually, there was nobody around, and the marathon felt as if it would never ever end. Then, suddenly, in the midst of this piece of Florentine emptiness stood a solitary marshal, every bit as wet and cold as me, despite the protection of a golf umbrella. Picture this apocalyptic scene: an empty park, a fat Italian and a fat, knackered Englishman nearing him. Suddenly this guy starts clapping and shouting "Bravisimo! Bravisimo! Vai! Vai! Forza! Bravissimo!" as I go past and until I was out of hearing. I don't know much Italian, but I know enough to have understood him. I was so moved I felt like crying -- and I never cry (except over Everton…).

I picked up pace and soon the park was out of sight.

Catherine was at mile 24. My sister, Anna, at mile 25. The stomach cramps weren't going, but slowly, surely, the miles were. Anna was at mile 26, and running with me.

"Where's the end?" I shouted, forgetting the 0.2 of a mile still to go.

"Just around the corner!"

I rounded the corner, still no end in sight.

"Where's the fucking end?!?" I yelled like a madman.

"Around the next corner!"

And it was. I even sprinted to the end, tears, this time, in my eyes. Andy was there -- barely able to stand; Catherine was there; my sister, St Anna of Great Crosby, handed me a cup of milky coffee. I couldn't talk, I couldn't think, I was dead to the world -- and dead happy too.

It had taken me 5 hrs 18 minutes -- pushing on for an hour longer than I'd hoped. The stomach cramp packed second half of the marathon had taken me exactly 3 hours; 40 minutes longer than the first half.

For his part, Andrew had tapped into a supply of emergency painkillers at the 10km mark and miraculously -- given that he could barely stand up at the end, and even a week on is struggling to walk -- finished in a time of 4 hours 26 minutes.

All the way back to the hotel we were greeted by the smiling faces of fellow runners, but few others. Although the marshals and spectators had all been friendly and encouraging, non-running Florentines had been impervious to the day's events and regarded the two knackered, smiling runners with a bemusement that often passed for indifference. Which is a shame. Some twat of a taxi driver even refused to give us two wet and cold semi-cripples a lift.

At the hotel, a long awaited bath, and the removal of shorts that were caked in blood, sweat, and God knows what else. Oblivious to anything other than running, I'd rubbed off all the skin on my thighs. Ouch. St Anna went to a bar and got me a sandwich and the best-tasting beer ever; friends texted to find out how I was; Sky News told me that Everton had beaten Newcastle -- does life get any better? That evening I went out to a good restaurant with my cortege of fans, and good friend Hannes, and ate the biggest Florentine bistecca in Tuscany, drank great wine and vowed never again.

And yet...

And yet I still feel as if there's unfinished business. After some great training runs, I look back with disappointment at the time in which I finished and lack of enjoyment during the actual run. Yeah, it's great to have done it, but I could probably have walked it in 7 or 8 hours. It feels as if I hadn't done it properly, as if the diligently followed training programme was almost a waste of time. And Florence's indifference to the exploits of 6,000 lunatics running its streets was palpable. During the hellish period in the park I got talking to some English lads (also injured) who'd done London and who said there was no comparison. At that point you need support, you need more of the excitable marshals, you need some cheering crowds. Not plagues of bemused Italians.

When I arrived home yesterday a rejection letter from the London marathon organizers was awaiting me, and although my initial reaction was relief, that relief is now tinged with a touch of disappointment. Flicking through the enclosed magazine were adverts from some of the world's other great marathons: Berlin, New York, Chicago... a year's a long time (my chapped thighs might have even healed by then), so we'll see -- I'll certainly let you know if I do take the plunge.

A final word on the fundraising. At the start this was an incidental part of the marathon effort and the £1000 mark was plucked from the sky. Thanks to your generosity we've actually raised in excess of £1500 and have a few more pledges still to come in. I shall drop Bobby Moore's widow, Stephanie, a line during the week and I'm sure she will be delighted; I'll also thank everyone who has donated individually, but in the meantime, thank you all.

And if anyone still wants to donate you can do so by clicking here.

And thanks also to everyone who has emailed me -- again, I'll be in touch during the week.

Cheers

James

Can We Go Home Yet?

2005-12-04T18:17:00.000Z

Relief

2005-12-04T18:16:00.000Z

Brothers in Victory (i)

2005-12-04T18:12:00.000Z

... Done In...

2005-12-04T18:11:00.000Z

Done!

2005-12-04T18:10:00.000Z

On The Red Carpet

2005-12-04T18:08:00.000Z

By Firenze's Duomo

2005-12-04T18:07:00.000Z

Back On Track

2005-12-04T18:05:00.000Z

2005-12-04T18:03:00.000Z

An Emergency Painkiller Stop

One Last Hug

2005-12-04T18:02:00.000Z

Taking The Plunge

2005-12-04T17:36:00.000Z

Waiting For The Big Off -- and bedecked in one of Asics less glamorous lines...!

The Final Hours

2005-11-25T15:41:00.000Z

Only another forty hours to the big off and nerves are starting to jangle. Although we're both physically up for it, our final preparations have been upset by (i) me being struck down by a cold (ii) Andy having a knee that creaks like his grandfather's (iii) Italy being beset by a national strike (which will hopefully have abated by tommorrow). But besides these minor woes, we're packed, ready and all set to go.

How we got on, photographs and all that stuff will follow when we get back at the end of next week. However, if anyone has a satellite TV system posh enough, the race is being shown on the Italian channel RAI 3. They've got a website too and while they don't seem to do live streaming, you can download news broadcasts -- tune in at 1pm on Sunday and watch us being carted away in an Italian ambulance!

A big thank you to everyone who has sponsored our efforts. We're nearing the £1000 mark, but if anyone else still wants to support our efforts for the Bobby Moore Fund you can do so by clicking here.

That's all for now -- we'll let you know how it all goes.

Ciao a tutti

James and Andy
Florence Marathon Men

Twentysomething

2005-11-13T21:26:00.000Z

I was 27 yesterday, but the big day was interspersed with two bits of purgatory.

First Mrs C decided it would be a good idea for (much less Britain's drivers and pedestrians) to get me driving lessons for my birthday present. Okay, I'm only a decade older than the minimum driving age, but ME, behind a wheel? That's ridiculous.

Next was a bit of self imposed masochism. Forget the lazy lie in and long read of the paper in bed. Nope, I was up before 7.30am (this being a Saturday, as well as my birthday), in my kit and downing lucozade sport ahead of my last long training run. Following the advice of my Uncle Pete and not my marathon guidebook, I decided to celebrate my big day with another landmark. My first twenty miler.

So down into Blackheath I went, and back. Then down to the Woolwich Arsenal, and along the front, nearly retching as I went past the sewage works, on through the docks and down as far as Erith. And back. This time I was helped along the way by Catherine, who accompanied me on my bike and hovered around cheering encouragement and passing out lucozade. By the time I stepped onto the 161 bus in Woolwich I'd done 19.99 miles according to my running computer. As far as I'm concerned that's as twentysomething as you can get.

Now just two weeks to go until the marathon, and I plan to start to taper off a bit. The short runs that I've omitted will return, but no more long slogs, no more three hour plus crusades. It'll mostly be rest and relaxation from hereon in. But I feel ready.

Strange Things You See While Running (part 3 in an occasional series)

2005-11-07T14:33:00.000Z

Seals In The Thames!

Running on Saturday I saw this brown thing turn over in the water. Too large to be a bird I thought as I looked ovber the side. And then it stuck its head up out of the water and revaled itself to be... A BABY SEAL!

I didn't know there were seals that far up, maybe it had got lost, but what an unusual thing to see...

Another Big Training Session Down... One To Go

2005-11-06T14:13:00.000Z

Hit the road again yesterday for another long sesh. This one was aimed at the 18 mile mark, and I hit that with something (though not much) to spare. Just one more big run left next week -- I'll be aiming at 20 miles -- and then I'll only have the marathon ahead of me. Certainly yesterday I benefitted from six days of respite. The niggling injuries that have been plaguing me had had a chance to settle and although I could feel the burning of a monumental blister swelling on my left foot, there was no twisted knee this time, and mercifully no bleeding tits. In fact today, although I'm beset by a cold and a headache, all that aches are my ankles (no sore calves or thighs), which seem unsure whether they're able to take this collosus pver long distances.

Thank you to everyone who has donated money to the Bobby Moore Fund -- we're more than halfway towards our target of £1000. Remember, it's not too late to donate and you can do so here through the excellent Justgiving website.

Against the wind

2005-11-03T23:08:00.000Z

Yep, singing a bit of Bob Seagar in my head as I run against the wind and rain the last few days. Its litterally been none stop and the track on my normal route has either been flooded or liquidised into mud - thus becoming a skate and a swim rather than a run. Anyway no time for excuses - cant stop the routine because of a bit of bad weather. Ive been quite disciplined in the last week - ive even stayed off the booze after last weekend. Its getting a little more serious now - only a few weeks left. Im on the Pasta Diet aswell - I cant get enough of it. Ive also got constant cravings for sweet things which Im not normally that fussed about. My whole lifestyle is changing slightly - for the better I guess.

Monday's Good News

2005-10-31T09:25:00.000Z

I just checked, and the marathon course is flat (and even downhill a little bit of the way!).

Unfortunately it's still 26.2 miles.... ;-(

Breaking Down The Wall -- Is it Possible?

2005-10-30T14:50:00.000Z

Finally, at the third time of asking, I hit the 16 mile mark this morning, having embarked on my longest run yet -- a shade under 3 hours long. Having struggled on Thursday and limped out last Sunday it was something I went into with slight trepidation. At times my dodgy knee ached, I could feel the blisters swelling up on my feet, and, as my water bottle emptied and my energy bar was gobbled down, I wondered whether I'd have enough sustenance to carry me home. As it happened I was alright. I'd considered the prospect of running the last mile and three quarters back to my place (making it about 18 miles), an uphill grind if ever there was one, but as I trotted past the bus stop, a 122 emerged and I hopped on and took the easy route home.

Four weeks to go, and according to my guidebook I'm just about on schedule, although in my own perfectionist's mind there are still some reservations. For instance, I'm meant to run four times a week: one long (like today); two medium (4-5 miles); and one slightly long (8 miles), but unless I fit the two medium runs into the same day, I don't think such a routine is feasible. I just don't have the time or -- more to the point -- energy to do four runs a week when one of them is a meant to be longer than two and a half hours long. It takes a couple of days to prime yourself for such a run and a couple of days to recover.

I'm also increasingly aware of the strains I'm putting my body under. After loads of niggling injuries in early summer I thought I was past them, but I've had a swollen ankle for three weeks following big runs now; I've lost a toenail; I twisted my knee last week, which has threatened to come back; and, possibly most painful of all, my nipples are cracked and bleed when I jog. Yeuk! I have new found admiartion for breastfeeding mothers all of a sudden.

I've also been fairly lucky with the weather; and I'm running on mostly flat, mostly congestion free terrain. What will Florence bring?

And then there's the fact that while I have just run 16 miles; and five post half marathon distances in total, it's still at least 10 miles off the final distance. I've made seismic leaps in training distances before, but 10 miles? I've hit the "wall" once, and neared it again today -- is it possible to break it down?

Fortunately I still have four weeks and at least two big training runs to go. My book reckons I should have at least two 18 milers before the Florence; my Uncle Pete reckons I should do at least one twenty mile run, if only for psychological reasons. Having come through today and the twin ordeals of the preceding week, I'm inclined to agree with him. 18 miles next week and 20 on my birthday? Let's go for that.

Hitting The Wall

2005-10-27T17:01:00.000+01:00

<<<<< Heading into the abyss

On reflection, maybe last night's burst of energy was a mistake ahead of a planned "big" run today. The intention had been to do 16 miles, the longest of our regime and the necessary leap forward ahead of the big one -- which looms just 1 month in the horizon. We did 14 miles and walked another half mile, before wisely getting on the 122 bus which dropped us almost at my front door.

It was hard today, so hard. The knee problem which flared up horribly on Sunday was constantly at the back of my mind and started to impact from before the halfway point. The instep of my right foot is now just a blister (think of those freeze dry packs you get Parmesan cheese -- that's almost exactly what it looks like, it runs about 9 cms by 2cms long) and the big toe on the same foot (which lost a nail the other week thanks to my endeavors) nearly broke when I stumbled on the remnants of a pole protruding two inches from the sidewalk and hidden by undergrowth.

What else did the run take out of me? As an experiment I weighed myself before I went and after I got back. I'm now 5lbs lighter, although this is almost certainly just water loss (5lbs is what? 2 and a bit liters? big deal)

And last night took a toll too. There was never any freshness in our legs and for the most part it was just slog. My Uncle Peter -- the family marathon veteran -- reckons that a lot of it is in the head; that your mind plays tricks on you, and completing the race with your head is almost as important as doing it with your legs and heart. He's right too. Today was about mastering my physical imperfections and getting the job done. With niggling injuries worrying me, I went pretty much into autopilot from about mile 4, digging my left thumb into my wedding ring as a way of distracting my brain from the other extremes the rest of my body was experiencing. And I focused on nothing but getting one leg in from of the other and repeating again, and again, and again. Sometimes as a diversion I'd think about the bacon sandwich I was going to gobble down when I got back, even down to the stupidest details (what sort of mustard should I have? Should I have it on white or brown?); or my next run, my next bout of insanity.

Back at Woolwich Arsenal, Andrew was strolling back towards town. He'd raced on ahead, but like me his legs had gone and he'd assumed a little of the hobble his stuttering big brother had gone into.

It's disappointing missing a target like the 16 mile benchmark, but, put it another way, in the last 24 hours we've still run nearly 20 miles.

But today wasn't really about the legs (which, notwithstanding the odd hitch here and there, I'm confident will get me through); or the lungs and heart (which I know will get me there); but the mind, and, having endured and survived the occasional hellishness of this morning, I'm sure that's nearly strong enough too.

14 mile struggle - Consequence - Stiff upper lip, arms, legs, entire body..

2005-10-27T15:29:00.000+01:00

Well from doing 14 miles with Jimmy a couple of weeks ago along the Themes and feeling as fit as a fiddle - we did the same course and it was a bit of a struggle. Ive been in London for the last two weeks and there has been little training and alot of boozing and I think Im feeling the effects of it. Between todays run and the last 14 miler we have had a gap of 11 days within which Ive been to the gym once - a 5 mile sprint in 31 minutes - yet I think the old fitness levels have dropped slightly. I think todays run was a wakeup call - a month to the marathon - must be more sensible - cut out the ale and get back to my daily runs. I think when I return to Liverpool next week I will get back into the routine and aim for a 20 miler a fortnight prior to Italy - Thats the plan. From next week there will be some intensive training - no more slacking!!!

2005-10-26T23:29:00.000+01:00

It's been a couple of weeks since I last checked in with news and since then progress has been good but never quite as good as I'd have liked. Was it ever any different?

Andy came down to London about ten days ago and we celebrated his arrival with a 13 mile run the following morning. We're pictured (left) by the slightly less than glamorous backdrop of Thamesmead sewage works -- and yes, it does smell so badly that you want to retch as you're running past...

For Andy this was his longest run so far -- But hang on a minute, haven't I done all that before? Where's the progress? After a couple of midweek slogs on in the gym, I set out again last Sunday morning (on my own, I hasten to add, my errant brother had opted to go out boozing the night before -- probably the right choice as it would emerge) aiming to go for 16 miles. Barely a quarter of the way in, however, disaster. Okay, maybe, that's an overstatement, but I twisted my knee and, as I limped back into Woolwich town centre suddenly that straight curve of progress stretching back since the end of August was skewed.

Ibuprofen and several pints of Guinness did help, however, as did a few days rest.

And so tonight we set out again, struggling out of our collective inertia and seeking to test my balsa wood ligaments. Not wanting to go to far we headed down to Blackheath, turned back on ourselves after a mile and a half and decided to bypass my appartment and head up to the summit of Shooters Hill.

To the uninitiated, this probably constitutes a bump in some parts of the world, but it is actually one of the highest points in London (it's about 360 feet high) and boasts a sharp incline on the final rise. According to the altometer on my posh new watch we rose about 230 feet in five minutes; and my heart rate correspondingly increased to 186 beats per minute -- something I'd never attained before, even running flat out on a treadmill . My lungs heaved, my feet dug into the pavement, but never was there a realisation that this would ever be a test beyond my fragile body. It was quite a wonderful feeling. By the top I'd lost Andy, who'd sauntered on ahead, but -- to use my umpteenth cliche of this blog -- I felt on top of the world.

As I crossed the road and turned back on myself, London stretched out ahead: The Swiss Re Tower, St Pauls, The Eye, even Battersea Power came into view as I soared back home. A month we run in Florence. I can't wait.

Things You See When Running: Part 2 In An Occasional Series

2005-10-23T09:42:00.000+01:00

Antony Gormley's Stunning Iron Men (At Crosby Beach, Liverpool)

Things You See When Running: Part 1 in an occasional series

2005-10-21T09:39:00.000+01:00

Gigantic Space-Age Sewage Farms (at Thamesmead)

Keep on runnin - I can't help myself

2005-10-13T19:20:00.000+01:00

I did my first 10 miler today pretty much by accident. I reckon I ran at a pace of 13km per hour for about an hour and 20 mins - that works out at about 17km - a bit more than 10 miles I suppose. Ive been doing about 7 or 8 miles in the past week per day but I took yesterday off training and drank alot of beer infront of the footy so I thought I should make amends. I also stuck to the same course towards the north. Now my town Crosby in the furthest suburb from Liverpool and it ends with a boundry of endless farms - so thats where I go - when the road runs out - I turn west - gotta keep on running - until I reach the Irish sea. Here I have no choice but to turn south along the coast. This is where I battle with nature - strong winds and sand blowing in my face for about 2 miles (Now I know what Bob Seagar is talking about). To add an extra handy cap I run up and down the sand dunes for the 2 miles until my thighs are almost popping out. By the time the coastal path finishes I come to a marina where I think all the ducks and Geese go to take there "Brad Pitts" if you know what I mean - I think they were marking their territory. Rather than run through the bird crap I am forced to turn back the way I came back North up the coastal path though this time I have the wind on my back and I purposly opt for the steady horizontal path rather than the dunes. There was a side path about half a mile up and so I headed east home - It was when I arrived I calculated my distance. Hooorraaaahhh I've past the 10 mile point at a pretty good pace too. Horraaahhhh for the bird shit - It pushed me or rather diverted me to my furthest run. Tomorrow I play two games of 5 a side Soccer (I mean Football) after one another - Saturday I go to London to reunite with my side kick Jimbo and we go for our long run on Sunday - will give an update when recovered from that.

Posh bits

2005-10-09T13:44:00.000+01:00

I've been promising myself for a long time now to get a Heart rate Monitor/ Distance Monitor thingymajig and as an early birthday present Mrs C agreed to the purchase of one such device -- a Suunto T6. This is absolute top of the range gear, in a market where nothing is cheap, but I have to say that the initial experience is wholly underwhelming.

I went off on another long run down by the Thames, aiming to figure out just how far I'd run last week, to keep up the momentum that has been building up for a few weeks now, and to try out the new toy. First mile and a half, it seemed to work fine, telling me that I was crusing along nicely at 6.5 mph, telling me that my heart rate was at a constant 170 beats per minute and so on. Sometime around Woolwich it lost contact with the footpod and heart monitor. I reconnected and for reasons known only to itself, the distance leapt forward by 2 miles (later I would learn that it calculated my speed at the not inconsiderable rate of 407 miles per hour!).

Notwithstanding this, all seemed to be going well. I went as far as I had done last week, which turned out to be almost exactly five miles, and turned for home. Then I noticed a weight on my foot. The foot pod, which was meant to be keeping the distance had snapped off. That's right! Snapped off like a crappy plastic toy. I then had to take my shoe off, unlace it, take off the footpod, lace that up, and get going again.

Still, the heart rate monitor was working okay. Right? Wrong, actually. When I got home after 14.5 miles, feeling great, after huge problems getting the monitor to log on to my computer, I learned that not a single heart beat had been recorded. In effect I'd been running for 2 1/2 hours as a dead man.

Teething problems, or technological flaws? It seems to me like quite a bit of both came into play, but after such an effort, I'd have hoped that some of it would have been recorded for posterity. I'm disappointed and irked. Let's hope things sort themselves out.

Demon Drink

2005-10-06T22:34:00.000+01:00

My (previous) Idea of Excercise

I've had a stressful few weeks workwise, with lots on my plate. Yesterday marked the end of a busy period, that great time when you can send off the last bit of outstanding work with an invoice, mark the it done in your diary and kick up your heels. I had intended to celebrate with a run, but time ran away and it was gone six o'clock before I was done. Tired and needing to unwind, I kicked off my shoes, turned on my PlayStation2, and uncorked a bottle of wine.

A genial enough evening was largely spent this way and by the end of the night I'd probably finished off a bottle of red on my own. Nothing unusual there... but with all this training, for the first time in my life I feel uniquely unequipped to deal with even slightly more than moderate boozing. I knew almost the minute I went to bed that I was going to wake with a hangover, and that I did. I mean, in terms of hangovers, it was only 1 or 2 on 10 on the headache scale, but I've kind of dragged it around with me all day.

When gym time came, however, I was adament that it wasn't going to beat me, although by God did it try. Six minutes into a work out I can do these days with my eyes shut, my body was telling me to stop, although my head kept me going. What an utterly unenjoyable way to spend an hour. Your body packing up on you, you head trying to conectrate, but wrecked by that TWAT Richard Bacon on the radio (he also played six back to back R&B songs: I HATE R&B -- it's mindless, tuneless, irritating, drivel) and all you want to do is get the hell out of there.

Anyway, I just about made it to the end, and legged up the stairs out of the gym and back home to the comfort of a hot shower.

The uncomfortable moral of this story is no booze before runs. Not only does it diminish my performance, but it ruins my concentration and enjoyment.

I'm currently reading a book about white collar boxing, called The Wrecking Machine, by Alex Wade. It's a bit overblown and not very well edited, but it's quite good. Wade is a kind of former alocholic who finds discipline and purpose in his life through boxing; now I'm not saying that I'm in the same boat, but what he says about the demon drink diminishing discipline certainly rings true.

Abstinence I can't quite face, but I've not touched a drop tonight (despite an offer of a drink) and now this temperate young man is going to rest before a six miler tommorrow morning. Goodnight!

Easing my way back in...

2005-10-05T10:50:00.000+01:00

Well since my last post I've been easing my way back into the routine. It started as a series of 25 minute Jogs for around 3.5 miles, gradually I'm doing the same course but extending it to maybe 5 miles at the moment. I could however do more, though at the moment I havn't the time so Im going more for pace. The decorators have been around for the last 3 days so I have to stay around the house during the day - at night time I have to find a course with street lamps which I struggle to find more than five or six miles. Still its keeping my fitness levels up - I think Im ready to do about 8 miles tomorrow when the decorators are out my way. Fridays my 5 a side day and I hope to play two 1 hr games so I will leave my next big run until Saturday - I will go for 10 miles - thats the plan anyway!

The Truth About England's Slump

2005-10-04T18:09:00.000+01:00

The New Top >>>>>

Forget about Beckham's dodgy central midfield role, it's not Rio's laxness, or Rooney's temper. It's not even our passionless Swedish boss behind the national team's recent decline.

No, it's Umbro's fault.

Let me explain. As you know, Andy and myself are doing the marathon for the Bobby Moore fund. Cancer Research kindly sent us a couple of Bobby Moore polo shirts in bright red, just as the great man once wore when leading our country to World Cup Glory.

To be honest, they're not really the sort of thing you want to be wearing for 26 miles. You need something light and breathable, not a cheap cotton polo. So in order to look and feel the part, we invested in a couple of the England away tops. They're red, they're lightweight, and according to Umbro, they provide everything a top athlete could possibly want -- much less a pair of out of shape sloggers -- with their Xstatic materiel. According to Umbro:

"Made from 95.4% Polyester, 4.3% Nylon and 0.3% Xstatic - The Silver Fiber, which is a high performance fiber system made with pure silver.

This element has optimum thermodynamic properties, so it counter-reacts to body temperature. This means that if the jersey is cool you will stay warm, and if it is warm you will remain cool.

The Xstatic factor allows water to break free from the jersey, due to the metal surface in the silver fibre as any moisture held evaporates quickly, allowing for the jersey to stay cool and not gain weight.

The Xstatic fabric also has anti-microbial properties which stop bacteria growing, which helps the jersey remain smell-free and protect against microbia spreading.

The most important element of the Xstatic feature, is that it is safe, natural, and lasts for the entire life of the product!"

Frankly that's bollocks.

I'm just back from the gym now having tested their new top out, and it's nasty. Badly made, horribly cut and when I left after 40 minutes it was sodden with sweat. Xstatic is marketing blurb for polyester, pure and simple. It offers none of the wicking qualities of other gear I've bought in the last year, and is just cheap materiel that allows Umbro to maximize their profits. I defy anybody from the firm to contradict me.

God knows how our footballers cope in this piece of crap, lord knows how we'll manage over five hours of relentless exercise. So, people, you read it here first. England's decline is down to dodgy shirts. And with poseurs like Becks and Rio -- who could argue?

ps. As you can see from above, I've found an alternative top -- I shall let you know how we get on...

How To Accidentally Run Half a Marathon

2005-10-02T19:50:00.000+01:00

Well, well, well... Don't I surprise myself sometimes....

I knew that today was going to be my first ten miler, and I knew that the usual route (up through Woolwich Common and Charlton, then Greenwich Park and back) had kind of served its course, that it's a good 5-8 miler, but any further and you're doubling back on yourself again and again. Moreover, who the hell wants to be tripping over Charlton chavs and have to be constantly vigilant for souped up Vauxhall Astras cutting in when you're crossing roads and onto mile 8?

Last night I plotted a route down to Woolwich Arsenal and down the Thames Path towards Dartford. I've cycled it before, and it's weirdly beautiful in a post industrialist way: disused factories, mud flats, and even a glimpse over the River Thames to Dagenham carworks where my much missed Grandpa once worked. I marked my point where I'd turn back, which would allow me to do ten miles back into Woolwich and maybe walk the rest back if I'd had enough. However I got a bit carried away... I missed the turning point (although didn't realise it until later) and so ran on for an extra mile before heading home (so, 10 +2 miles, although I didn't realise this until later).

At Woolwich I thought I'd see how far I could keep going on the homeward before I stopped to walk, but I kept going... and going... resisted the urge to jump on a 122 bus to my front door, dug in on the last uphill bit to my flat and raised my arms aloft as I walked in. It was then that I realised I'd been out for 2 1/2 hours -- about an hour longer than my previous effort!

I'm chuffed I did it, and it was great to run in such early Autumnal sunshine. But the elation was shortlived, purely on account of fatigue and now stiffness. My right ankle is sore, although the back has held up -- so far. I rewarded myself by gorging on Dim Sum at New World off Shaftsbury Avenue. Probably the wrong post run lunch, but what the hell!

I'm back - back again - Andy's back Andy's back Andy's back

2005-09-28T19:40:00.000+01:00

That's right. Im back in training. It was a little difficult to train in Korea during the summer months in heat reaching the mid 30's and the Gym had crap air conditioning - so basically I was able to run for 30 mins at most before all the water had drained out of my body. Thus I often went for pace rather than distance during training. However the hard training in the humidy came to an end in September. A week of no sleep and alot of drinking in Thailand put my body on holt, then I had relationship troubles and stress at work drove me to the bottles of whiskey I had collected as gifts off parents etc for many months and sleeping patterns where everywhere. A return to England was very much needed - it was my time - I had to get out of Korea - my new focus the marathon. I must confess though in the few days prior to me leaving I had no sleep and was drinking every night to give my goodbyes to certain friends - then on the other side of the world I said my hello's to my hometown friends and family - hence the drinking binge continued - I reckon 10 days consectutively - I bow my head in shame.

Being back in England has allowed me to train with certain advatages:
1: The weather is cool and the air is clear - hence breathable.
2. Carbohydrates is something lacking in Korea - you cant get away from them here.
3. Infact my diet is balancing out in all areas which I think will improve my stregth and stamina.
4. I have bags of time and no Job - thus no stress. Plenty of time to train.
5. In Korea I was often attacked by wild stray dogs during a light Jog which would mean a 300 yard sprint to avoid getting bitten - therefore it was difficult to keep pace. I haven't come across that problem here yet.

Consequently I had my first run today - maybe 3.5 miles in about 25 mins - I had bags of energy and I could have extended my run a long way, though I want to slowly ease my way back into it. Its been a bit of a set back - but as my title states - Andy's back!!!!!!!!!!!

Odd Numbers

2005-09-27T17:04:00.000+01:00

6 = Days Since Andy Returned From South Korea
4 = All the Pints He Could Manage In The Pub on Saturday
16.5 = Number of Miles His Big Brother Has Run In That Time
0 = Number of miles Andy Has Run Since Returning from the Far East

As the crowd boo their disapproval, they ask themselves "Whatever Happened to the Other Marathon Man?"

The Homecoming

2005-09-26T22:56:00.000+01:00

Andy returned last Wednesday following his year in Korea -- what I didn't know was that he was back and I returned to Liverpool on Thursday evening expecting a 10pm homecoming. Who then should step into the car at Lime Street to give me the shock of the year? You guessed it! (El-Dopey had got the days muddled up, but hadn't want to ruin my illusion that I'd be greeting his arrival...)

Of course, going out for a run together would be too much. I'd planned on a short run on Friday and a long one on Saturday, but the two of us headed for Liverpool for lunch on Friday and ended up imbibing a couple of pints over lunch at BabyCream thus ending any hopes for a late afternoon jog (the weather was bloody horrible too). Then, while I was having another few bevies later on, Andy was playing five aside and managed to clash heads and split his eye open. Luckily the intervention of Mum and Dad's next door neighbour, Helen, and her set of butterfly stitches prevented a trip to A&E, but Andy was out for the count for a Saturday jog. Meantime, I glided around Little Crosby -- despite a slight hangover -- and sprinted the last mile home. Really, I should have gone for longer; I certainly could have.

Saturday night was party time, and our Uncle Pete -- the family marathon veteran (of three London marathons) -- was busy geeing us up and demanding a Sunday morning run from us. Fat chance. My Sunday exercise was vomiting the previous night's excesses into my mother's geranium patch. She wasn't impressed.... (while retching, I could hear my grandfather in the background saying "you'll feel much better after that!" -- experience obviously spoke, as he was true).

And so to today. I've been really pumped up all week: excited about Scouser's homecoming, busy with work and other matters. I needed a long run, and that's what I produced, running for 95 minutes and around 8.5 miles. And you know what? All the way through I felt terrific, I had real momentum and span through voluntary diversions around my long-standing course. Double up around Woolwich Barracks? No problem. Run a figure 8 around Greenwich Park? Bring it on! I ached a little in the final stretch, but not once did I stop for breath. On Sunday I plan my first ten miler. I can't wait.

As for Andy, await his updates...

Firenze

2005-09-20T15:37:00.000+01:00

Partly because it gives another two weeks to train, partly because we can't face any hills, partly because its cheap and easy to get to, and partly because we love Italy an executive decision has been reached and me and our kid will now be running the Florence marathon on November 27th. The plane tickets and hotels were booked last Thursday, the entry form emailed on Friday, watch out Italy, here we come!

Good James, Bad James, Good James, Bad?

2005-09-20T15:27:00.000+01:00

The defining theme of this little crusade of mine seems to be inconsistency. Great one week, missing the next; running like Red Rum one minute, hobbling around like my Grandfather the next. Maybe its an exposition of my soul, as if my efforts reflect a wider malaise in my life, I don't quite know.

So anyway, back to today. I ran five miles (good), which is the longest I've done on a weekday (good), however it was my first run in ten days (bad), my back hurts (very bad, particularly if it still hurts tommorrow) and my inertia was prompted by a massive drinking binge in Liverpool the weekend before last (bad), which was replicated by another big session last Friday (very bad) that culminated in myself and my friend being ejected from Rules restaurant (very, very, very bad), althouigh that was largely for his misbehaviour (not so bad).

I hope that this is the last of my little breaks before the big day, because frankly I can't afford anymore. Not only do they break the training routine, but my efforts in the next few runs are stymied by aching limbs and tiredness. Today I felt far more tired than I should have done, but my mid-sized run is now out the way and I've got two three milers (which I should do at a canter, all being well) AND, so long as jet lag doesn't get in the way, a long run on Saturday morning with my much missed brother Andrew who returns in 55 hours!

7 Up

2005-09-04T11:25:00.000+01:00

And so I countinue to move out of the comfort zone - if it ever really existed - of 3 mile jogs around the block, and get that mileage rising on an upward trajectory.

Today was a seven miler - or thereabouts (in the absence of a working pedometer I'm forced to use the edge of a piece of paper on my A-Z to mark out my distance, so it's all approximations -- as it stood my time was 77 minutes, so given that I do my miles in just under ten minutes I probably did slightly more) - that took me around the back end of Woolwich Barracks then up on my normal route through Charlton and Westcombe Park, which I then prolonged by taking a detour through Maze Hill and the ever lovely Greenwich Park, before heading back up Shooters Hill Rd.

After feeling dejection just days ago, I've got that post-work out glow of elation about me now. It was good, really good, particularly the homeward leg when I was cooled by a light breeze rippling through the Indian Summer.

This was the furthest I've been yet, the furthest I've run - in fact - for about six or seven years. What was different from the other day when I couldn't get going was that I'd fuelled myself with proper Lucazade Sport (not some generic crap), plus mueseli, plus a joggers greatest friend - a banana. Despite feeling last night's booze in the early stages (although I'd only had two beers, and two glasses of wine it's probably a habit I should cut right out on the eve of a run) and getting a mouthful of sick (a la Andy Murray, I'd blame it on the isotonic) it was straight forward all the way around, save for a little walk on the upward bit of an underpass a mile or so away from home. The only ailment I've seemingly got now, is the rather unpleasant sensation of 'jogger's nipple', but so long as my knees and back remain okay, I think I can live with that!

ps. James fans -- see your 'hero' praised by a reader in today's Observer by clicking here (at the bottom- and alas it's not about my renewed efforts for the Marathon)

Rising Up

2005-09-01T18:10:00.000+01:00

Forget the wind and rain. Forget unseasonal heat waves. Forget bad backs, sore knees, or gangreenous toes (my latest ailment). I've found the biggest distraction and disincentive to train.

Yep, step forward Richard Bacon, irritating voice of Capital Radio's afternoon show, to which I'm subjected any time I visit the gym.

How is it that someone can be allowed to control the airwaves and be such a relentlessly irritating moron at the same time? How can anyone think it's interesting to jabber on for five minutes about how under-rated the McDonalds quarter pounder is when I'm into my 21st and most agonising minute on the ski machine? The man is a cretin, but then, I guess, so is the person who decided to subject me and my fellow gym members to him.

Anyway, not withstanding mr Bacon Buttie I did 40 minutes on the ski machine, akin to a 4 mile run in terms of cardiovascular work out, and from feeling dejected 48 hours ago, I now feel mildly euphoric.

As I was packing up to go, the friendly Mr Bacon saw fit to partially redeem himself by putting on 'The Eye of The Tiger' ... and this ordinarily lazy lump had a second wind and did a round of weights...

'Rising up, back on the street, took my time took my chances...'

Dejection

2005-08-30T17:59:00.000+01:00

Maybe it's the weather (it touched the high twenties today), maybe its the sore back that continues to plague me, or perhaps its the generic isotonic that's replaced my regular bottle of Lucazade Sport. Perhaps it's not as complicated as all that, maybe it's just a symptom of losing my fitness following injury. But whatever it is, when I went running today, I was rubbish, and rather than the post exercise wave of euphoria that normally washes over following a run, I feel absolutely fed up.

It was only a three miler too, but just past the halfway point I felt as if I couldn't go on. It wasn't the empty feeling that gnawed away at the bottom of my stomach last week, just a lack of drive in my legs and in my mind. I started again for 400 metres, stopped, willed myself on for the final mile, building up small targets, but 300 metres from home, even that proved too much. I know now how Austin Powers felt when he lost his Mojo.

After all those months hammering away at the pavements to build up a decent level of fitness ahead of a properly formulated fitness programme this: the inability to keep going for 30 minutes. It's as if I've wasted the last half year.

So what is to be done? Right now I feel like a beer, but that's probably the worst thing I can do. The only thing I can think of is some hard work in the gym, to get my chin up and look forward to Scouser's return three weeks on Thursday.

Fingers crossed that by then, big brother won't be showing himself up.

Back... But on track?

2005-08-28T13:00:00.000+01:00

For the first time in almost 2 months I did the long Sunday morning run - in all just under 6 miles, but I feel as if I'm lacking the basic fitness I had back in May or June. Then, I was doing these runs at a canter; now, it feels like a struggle, as if every extra step is burning a hole in the sole of my foot. I guess it's just a symptom of being injured and coming back, but it feels as if all those runs throughout the spring months were for nothing. Certainly I don't look any different, and I don't feel it either

At least I didn't fizzle out after 3 miles this time. That was horrible.

Andy is back in 25 days, I can't wait to see him again, but I hope that he's greeted by an older brother in somewhat better shape than the one that sits here now.

Burnt Out

2005-08-24T17:41:00.000+01:00

Returned from holiday on Sunday refreshed and tanned, but depressingly unfit and overweight. The back injury nearly seven weeks ago was a real blow, and although it's still stiff, a visit to my rather uncharming doctor yesterday confirmed what I'd already been told: that it's not serious. She's given me three weeks worth of anti-inflammatory drugs that will hopefully remove the last vestiges of pain. Lose weight too, she told me, you fat twat.

Well, kind of...

Being injured is a vicious circle: you can't excercise, so you get depressed and more unfit. To counter the boredom and misery of it all, you eat more and drink more, thus getting even more unfit...

Anyway, I've hopefully broken the cycle, or am about to, but in half a year of blogging I'm scarecly much fitter than when I started, which is profoundly depressing.

Yesterday I hit the comeback trail with a three mile run, completed with no great trouble. Today, I plumped for around 4 miles. August in South London has got the complexion of November: it's pissing rain, and howling wind. Normally great conditions for a run in my opinion, but today I got to three miles, and I had nothing left. Not a modicum of energy to take me home running. How I could have done with the burst of energy usually provided by a banana or a piece of bread and butter...

The wind and rain lashed me, through me supposed dry-fit top -- which offered no protection :-( -- and I walked, ran for a bit, stumbled on, before summoning the resolve to run the last 500 metres at a good canter. This wouldn't have happened before the back problem, when I was still in the swing of things.

Andy's back in four weeks time. Hopefully by then we'll both be back on track.

Bobby Moore Fund For Cancer Research

2005-08-02T10:31:00.000+01:00

England's World Cup Winning Captain, Bobby Moore had always been more than just a great player, more even than England's World Cup winning captain. He was English football's answer to baseball's Joe DiMaggio, symbolising not only the game's great generation, but its dignity, elegance and decorum. In America,DiMaggio became the icon of icons because, as the baseball Writer David Halberstam put it, he 'transcended the barriers of sports in terms of the breadth of his fame'. Though it was never quite realised in his own lifetime, the same was as true for Bobby Moore.

Moore died in 1993 of bowel cancer. He was aged just 51. It was a tragic loss of life and one that genuinely shook the country. In the twelve years that have passed, Moore's widow, Stephanie, has campaigned tirelessly to raise money for bowel cancer. The charity set up in her late husband's name has raised £4 million for vital research into the illness.

While writing a piece about Bobby for the Observer (which will be published this Sunday) Stephanie was kind enough to give up some of her time to talk about Bobby and about the work of the charity. She has been incredibly energetic in her efforts, combining her fundraising with a full time job. I left lunch inspired by her work and of the mind that if she can do so much, then I can do just a little thing.

Andy and I have pledged to raise a thousand pounds for the Bobby Moore Fund for Cancer Research. It's probably small fry, but it's something -- and I'm confident that we can raise it. It also gives us an incentive to motivate our lazy arses! We have set up a justgiving website on which you can pledge money or make a donation to the fund straight away.

We also have personal reasons for wanting to do it for the Bobby Moore Fund. Ten years ago, almost to the day, our grandfather, Tony Corbett was diagnosed with bowel cancer. He was an inveterate old nark and he drove us all mad, but we all loved him very much. He was 68 when he was diagnosed, but made a full recovery, and was so strong that he also survived a triple heart bypass three years later! He died in 2003, just before I got married, of a brain hemorrhagee, but we know that were it not for the ground-breaking work of charities like the Bobby Moore Fund we wouldn't have got an additional eight years of his moaning, right-wing politics and long nights shared sipping malt whisky.

Please give what you can - it's a great and very important cause .

Back Problems

2005-08-02T05:00:00.000+01:00

At last, seem to be over...

*touches wood, says a prayer, touches wood again*

Went for a swim earlier on - my first excercise in four frustrating weeks - and felt good after it - if not still a bit flacid and so on. I can understand now, in a way, why proper athletes so often don't come back after injuries. Its not so much the physical recovery, rather the breaking of a routine, the loss of mental sharpness, the sapping of desire.

The last few weeks have been so immensely frustrating and I know that I'm going to have to work my sorry butt off when I get back from holidays, if not do some work during them, to be ready on time. Already we're contemplating doing Florence on 30 November as an alternative, but we'll have to see what happens when Andy gets back on Sepetember 22.

It's been a long time

2005-07-18T06:10:00.000+01:00

Far too long in fact. Sometimes the marathon pursuit seems as far away as it ever was.

So what the hell have I been doing for the last two months, I hear you ask in a collective roar. Not enough, is the truth. Much of this has been beyond my control. The knee injury required a three week break, as it got to the stage where it was flaring up even when I walked a mile, never mind ran. Bit by bit over June I picked up my fitness again, and had something approaching a routine when disaster struck two weeks ago.

A slightly sore back flared up monstrously while I was cycling. It was so bad a mile down the road that I couldn't even get out the saddle, and when I did I was incapable of walking. Somehow I made it back home and had to be helped around the flat by my wife whenever I wanted to move. Dosed up on ibuprofen and paracemetemal, the pain was alleviated slightly (a sharp dosage of whisky helped, also), but after a night's sleep far from being better I was left in agony. I couldn't roll over in bed without my back spasming in agonsing pain and it took me 15 minutes to get out of bed. So bad was the back pain that I couldn't even take a shit for five hours.

For a week I was housebound; and for the last week I've been fairly normal, but not felt able to excercise. I go on holiday in three weeks and to be in with an iota of a chance of doing this marathon I need to use that time to get firmly back on track. If I don't, I don't quite know what I'll do...

Dodgy Knees

2005-05-25T13:37:00.000+01:00

After a gap of a fortnight, I hit the road again last night with some trepidation. My knees have been the cause of all manner of problems since ascending Hellvellyn a month ago. After a six mile jog the week before last, my left knee swelled up again and I was hobbling around for days. Even a brisk walk to the train station last Sunday stiffened it up again. Anyway, I did three miles last night, and will do so again again later, I hope. At present there's no pain, and I hope I'm over my problem.

Had an email from 'the lazier one' in South Korea yesterday morning. Here's his update:

Hows the training going? I've been to the gym the last few days and quit my brief habbit of smoking several weeks ago and I feel really freshened up... I think I'm eating a lot more protiens and carbs as well, which helps the running... At the mo I'm going for pace - I can do 3km in 12 mins which is about 14klm p/h - I can run a steady 12km for a much longer period of time tho - about 5km I get knacked - but like I said im just getting started - Its only a few days into the new routine.. Anyhow whats the news on this charity thing - thats kind of the new motivator for me and I feel good about making the money for charity too. Let me know the score with you - gotta teach now.. Later

Sore Knee Me

2005-05-11T15:33:00.000+01:00

It's been a few days since I last updated the site, but those days haven't been wasted. On my return last , I managed three consecutive days worth of runs and while a couple of stinking hangovers conspired against me over the weekend, I did a further five-and-a-half miles yesterday, and felt as if I could have managed another five after that.

A problem though. Since my mountaineering exploits a couple of weeks ago, I've been plagued by a stabbing pain to my left knee after any sort of vigorous excercise. It feels as if I could have a cartilage problem; I'm hoping not, and that it will go away.

2005-05-03T19:34:00.000+01:00

On Top of The World... Or England Anyway... April has been the laziest of months. I've done almost nothing for more than a fortnight (despite being away, I brought my trainers - never used...) except this... climb to the peak of Hellvellyn, which was... well... amazing. Alright, so it's not Everest, but it's still peaking more than 3000 feet, and you amble across mountain top after mountain top, looking down at the rest of England. And my knee hurt for days after. Still great though... Did a short run today - I need to lose that extra chin double quick!

Week 12

2005-04-27T19:35:00.000+01:00

I excercised this morning and I pulled my groin, and you know what? It felt so good so I did it again!!! ha ha ha...

London Marathon Weekend

2005-04-18T03:53:00.000+01:00

My little part of London has been marathon crazy for the last weekend. We had the big one setting off down at the bottom of our road this morning, but for the last 48 hours thousands upon thousands of finely honed men and women (and some not so too) have been milling around South East London.

Yesterday we went along to the Marathon Expo in the Docklands. Last year, when I went, I was on a mission to buy a pair of posh trainers; this year, I had no such plans (although I looked enviously at the GPS Distance Monitors - still too pricey for me, alas), but it was good to go for the ride, there was a nice atmosphere there, and Mrs C nicked (for the second year running) one of the promotional bags being dished out for the runners. Tut tut tut, terrible. I also spotted a hero of one of my friends, Luke, no ther than Mr Haile Gabresellaisse. (sic., of course)

This morning, it was an early start (for a Sunday, anyway) and me and Mrs C trooped out down to Woolwich Common, making it to the 2 mile mark about five minutes before the elite women dashed past. Then we went down to Woolwich town to the confluence of both routes (the Marathon takes two different routes at the start, I guess to move people along more quickly), where, after a 40 minute wait the elite men, the wheel chairs, and then everyone else came trotting out past us. It was all quite a sight and very inspiring.

One weird thing we noticed, that when the two routes of runners met, they jeered each other! They were joking, I guess; but it was quite funny.

Didn't see too many famous people, except Adrien Chiles dressed up as the West Brom mascot. Apparently he got round in 4 1/2 hours. Now if that heffalump can do a marathon dressed up IN THAT TIME, I certainly can.

The best fancy dress we saw though, was unquestionably the guy dressed up as a Storm Trooper from Star Wars, in the FULL PLASTIC SUIT. Ask yourself, could you do 26 miles dressed like THIS? (He was setting quite a pace too)

Anyway, I'm going to upload some images now. Hope you enjoy...

2005-04-17T20:20:00.001+01:00

The Marathon in Woolwich

2005-04-17T20:20:00.000+01:00

In Woolwich

2005-04-17T20:19:00.000+01:00

At the confluence of the two routes, in Woolwich.

2005-04-17T20:18:00.000+01:00

London Marathon: The Movie.
Andy

2005-04-17T20:17:00.000+01:00

Here she comes, on her way to the second fastest marathon time in history, Mrs Paula Radcliffe...
Andy

2005-04-17T20:16:00.000+01:00

.... THERE SHE IS... OH MY GOD, LOOK, IT'S PAULA RAD... (she's gone)
Andy

2005-04-17T20:15:00.000+01:00

She's gone... the fastest woman in the West...
Andy

2005-04-17T19:53:00.000+01:00

I got shot of the whole lot,
What im I talking about again,
I forgot!!!!

Andy

2005-04-17T19:52:00.000+01:00

The growing had to stop ,
and the mop top had its chop

Andy

A Close Shave

2005-04-12T19:45:00.000+01:00

As you know I'm a 21 yr old pretending to be a 28yr old for professional purposes. Thus I have maintained a long mop of hair on my head for several reasons: first it makes me look slighly more like my phoney age (28), secondly with the stress etc. of the job and bearing in mind the family trend I have had a slight fear of going bald and long hair can, of course, always be combed over ( a la Bobby Charlton). I've also always been a bit of a 60's wannabe.

Anyway, with the marathon training gradually intensifying I thought its time too say goodbye to the Ringo look. Furthermore, its getting a little too hot here now, the insects are coming out, and the flop mop was in danger of becoming a breeding ground! More than anything, however, I think maybe the mop top was creating air resistance and slowing me down on my mid day jogging and I'm sure I've lost a few pounds since its been chopped off. Man, was it that thick?Judge for yourself in the before and after photo's!!!

2005-04-05T17:57:00.000+01:00

Being ill is simply rubbish. For some unearthly reason I seem to have predisposition to get lots of colds, and, lo and behold, today I've been struck down by one. I feel fairly crap to be honest, and have done increasingly all afternoon. I thought a run might help clear my tubes, but, about 2 1/2 miles in my legs started to feel like jelly and I walked the rest home, lest I pass out or something. From feeling too light for comfort, my calfs have now stiffened up. Oh woe...
Andy

The Routine

2005-04-05T17:21:00.000+01:00

Good news for the fitness regime - I have a new job in an elementary school starting at 8.30am every weekday. Due to this new teaching schedule, I can now see the light of day because I am working in the morning for the first time in the 6 months I have been in Korea. Prior to now I worked late (sometimes midnight) and woke late (sometimes noon). Having also finished with some adult classes around noon twice a week I have a free period between 9.30am and 2.20pm (start of institute), hence more time for the fitness regime.

Prior to this I had to squeeze Gym time in here and there. Sometimes I would take the kids outside and play soccer just for a run around. Now I have the time for the proper stuff - no excuses for any slacking now. The weather has also become much warmer in the past week or so - in excess of 20 degrees more often than not - so its really good weather for a jog outside.

My schedule so far has become a little infrequent, however this is the turning point - things are about to change.

Hot in The City

2005-04-04T02:20:00.000+01:00

A glorious sunny day here in South East London with temperatures hitting 20 degrees earlier on in the day. I set out at lunch time on my new 'long' run - that which takes me through Charlton, Westcombe Park and onto Blackheath, then back around up Shooters Hill Road (around 5.8 miles) - and, inspired by the lovely weather (and possibly more mundane things, like favourable traffic conditions), managed to knock a whole two minutes off the 57 minute time I did on the same route a fortnight ago. I might be fatter than I thought, but it seems as if I'm getting faster and fitter too.

Lazy arse of South Korea hasn't provided me with any more updates beyond an essay-length email yesterday telling me how he's been getting hassled by locals mistaking him for Tom Cruise. It would seem as if he could take a few lessons from Cruise's charcter Jerry Maguire who knew a thing or two about bullshiting about sporting prowess - or maybe he's done nothing to blag about?

Weighing Things Up

2005-04-03T03:02:00.000+01:00

An unpleasant surprise yesterday. I invested in a new set of scales to replace the crappy Â£2.99 Asda ones that had my weight veering between 12 (if only...) and 18 (yikes!) stone. Anyway, I'm not telling you the full extent of my corpulence, but put it this way, I weigh more than three stone than what I'd like.

On the positive side, muscle weighs more than fat...

The missus is away this weekend, so I'm looking after myself. Good intentions of a morning run, an afternoon lazing in the sun and an evening swim dissipated and I spent the afternoon lounged in front of Sky Sports News. But when the devil incarnate scored (Igor Biscan - twat), I had to make good my escape and surged around the Common for an invigorating run.

Alas, it was my first outing in four days, but if I make good my promise for along run tommorrow it'll be four this week, which is good. Need to do better to chase off those three rogue stone, mind you...

2005-04-02T18:16:00.000+01:00

My trusty friends... the saucony trigon have sustained me for a year of intermittant gym sessions and occasional runs, but only in the last few weeks have I managed to get some mud and crud on them. They beautifully cushioned - perhaps slightly too much so. Beacuse I walk like a veritable penguin I sometimes get aches across parts of my feet where they correct the imbalance. Hopefully they'll still be protecting my feet when I cross the finishing line in Monaco.
Andy

Running For The Bathroom

2005-03-30T03:15:00.000+01:00

Is there such a thing as a bad run? I guess there's two ways of looking at this. On the one hand you can go through your paces as if it's an excrutiating ordeal, eternally telling yourself that for every step that pounds the pavement there's still a thousand paces to go; your lungs burn; your legs ache; you'd pay a thousand pounds if some mystical black cab plucked you from the street and drove you home. On the other, all excercise is good for you: you burn some calaries, lose a few grams of fat, your heart beats a bit better.

I've just had a bad run. I was doing the usual route, around the back of the barracks and up across the common. Things were going fine, when suddenly, as if I were a two year old, my bladder felt as if it was about to burst. Within a few more hundred metres it consumed my every thought, getting home without disgracing myself became my main thought. As my mind strayed I stopped enjoying myself, my run became an ordeal.

(Don't worry folks, I got home okay - if not in record time)

The paucity of entries over the last week is all too indicative of too much laziness, too many easter eggs (*takes chocolate out of box and puts it into mouth*), and too little execrise. I was at my folks in Liverpool over the break, which invariably meant much excess, although in fairness to myself I did manage a 3 1/2 - 4 mile jog around my old neck of the woods in Little Crosby yesterday morning. That, and this evening's efforts have probably been waylaid already, however. Whilst writing this I've managed to get through half a dozen chocolates. Gawd, I'm bad...

2005-03-29T11:34:00.000+01:00

Back on track... allegedly... (you'll have to do more than a few press ups to get around a marathon course Andy... and note the Glenlivet bottle in the top left corner... tut tut...)
Andy

Back on Track (part 126)

2005-03-22T18:26:00.000Z

Three busy teaching weeks has starved me of any excercise. Moreover, all the hard work I put in in the first week has deteriorated as a result of too much alcohol and too many late nights. I had the flu last week and my diet has been a little screwed up. But I'm back "stickin it to the man".

I played football for the first time in a while the other day, I've rejoined the gym, and I'm back in training. Got some new fake Nike Air the other day to help me along the way too - they're awesome! Coming across them was a sign to wise up my ideas! I have done so my friends...! I have done so!!!

A long enjoyable run

2005-03-20T21:37:00.000Z

It had been without a run or a swim or a gym sesh before today. A variety of factors combined against excercise in the latter part of the week: a hellish Wednesday and a late return home; a busy Thursday and then an early exit to go and celebrate St Patricks; Friday post-St Patricks blues; a lazy Saturday...

Anyway, I'd factored in a longish run to make good my inertia, and once the old creaks had been overcome I was flying along. Rather than a lap around the common, I headed West at its south point and run up through Charlton (up, being the operative, as a lot of it is hilly), through to Westcombe Park and Blackheath and back up along Shooters Hill Road. I was out for 57 minutes and calculated my run to be around 6 miles - a look at the road map and another rough calculation set it at closer to 5 1/2.

Still, it was my longest run yet; and rounded off an okay week's excercise. Sure, I could do better still (three workouts is the minimum; four would be good; five optimum) but it was my longest jog on this odyssey and I did it without too much trouble. Ideally I'd like to be running closer to 7 miles an hour (as I do on the treadmill) than 6, but I can work on that.

Spoke to Lazy of South Korea earlier. He assured me he'd done a 'fast' 3 km run yesterday and is joining a gym on Tuesday (heard that one before).

A Smile To Help Me Along The Way

2005-03-16T03:56:00.000Z

Out again this afternoon for another run around the 'long' course. I was creaking a bit at the start, but persisted and was soon ambling along at a nice old pace. I clocked in at just under 34 minutes, which is pretty much 10 minute pace per mile and what I'm ultimately aiming for come the big day. Ultimately, I'm just happy to have gotten out two afternoons on the bounce. Now for Wednesday...

It's hard all this training on your own, particularly when my cyber buddy seems to spending most of his time excercising his drinking threshold. Jogging across the common, there was only two other people on the way out: a woman and her daughter walking their dog. Solitude rocks after a busy day in the thick of things, but sometimes it'd be nice to have a training partner.

Midway through the jog, around the back of Woolwich Barracks, there's a drop in the road of maybe 20 metres, then a run up a fairly steep upwards gradient. It's not particularly hard going, but at that point it can take your breath away and give you a stitch for the latter part of the run. Today, while marching up the incline coming the other way was a fellow jogger: a nod, a smile, a surepticious but momentery acknowldgement from my fellow traveller that she knew what it was all about - why someone would want to go charging around South East London instead of putting their feet up - was enough to set me along the way back home in a happy frame of mind.

Finally, a question: How do you eat you greens in a healthy (i.e. not smothered in fat) but delicious way? By reading the Guardian, stupid. I've just tried Matthew Fort's excellent recipe for Cabbage Stuffed with Lentils and Ginger (I substituted the lentils with glass noodles) with a piece of grilled chicken. Superb. Try it. (Admittedly I also skipped the tomato sauce, but it's heartily recomended)

Rock Around The Block

2005-03-15T02:32:00.000Z

Suddenly, seemingly with wondorous spontanaiety, Spring is upon us. Just six day ago when I came out of work it was dark, it was wet, it was windy and it was cold. All I wanted to do was get home, crack open a bottle of wine and crash in front of the TV. Running around the common before was a delight: dodging in and out of long shadows, cutting past tulips and daffodils, my ears filled with birdsong - this is more like it I thought.

I did my 'long run' today, which is 3.6 miles by my reckoning. My piece-of-shit pedometer calculated that I'd run 1.7 km. This useless lump of plastic will be going back to JJB sports methinks.

It was my first bit of excercise since my miserable efforts last Wednesday. The head cold which pretty much stifled my efforts then and in the days before, didn't quite go away; it still hasn't, but unlike late last week and over the weekend, when I felt myself wheezing even walking up the stairs and my energy levels were sapped, there was a readiness and a need to go out and about and get going again.

Anyway, the run was good, and I feel better for it. More tommorrow? Let's hope so.

It's been four weeks now since I started this blog, and, taking stock, the problems of old - inertia, inconsistency - still haven't quite gone away. In total I've done 4 runs (two at three-and-a-half miles; two at around two-ish miles); two or three swims (at 500 metres a time); four or five gym sessions - but it's not enough, and while I felt myself getting better when I did 4 sessions in a week, I just feel as flabby and slow now. Realistically I need to redouble those efforts.

In mitigation, I was off my feet for five days with tendonitous and pretty much a week with a cold. Nevertheless, I think it's time to concentrate my efforts for the next ten days (leading up to Easter) and then maybe try a 6 or 7 mile run; maybe then I'll break into my stride and feel fit. Until I do, the marathon remains but a distant dream.

Pedantic Pedometer

2005-03-10T02:10:00.000Z

Maybe I'm deluded, maybe I'm in a bad mood, or maybe I've just bought a piece of bad technology. I was out running just now on the Common, doing the 'short' route that I'd estimated at about 3km. It was getting dark, and I've not done anything since last Friday (God, I'm bad) on account of my cold. Anyhow, I spent Â£12 on a pedometer in JJB sports last weekend as a way of trying to gauge just how far I was going. Not a big investment, but not insignificant either. Anyway, I checked it midway through. How far had I 'gone'? 350 metres apparently. And there's me out of breath, my foot hurts, my tendon is tightening, I've been out for more than ten minutes, and this sodding piece of junk says I've run 350 LOUSY METRES.

I am not a happy James. I keep running to the next junction, check the pedantimeter. Only another 200 metres (I've just checked the AA map online and it says that that part is roughly 750 metres). Keep going, my foot really hurting, lost my breath again, stop, 200 more metres. Get back home, after being out for about 28 minutes, and apparently my tally for the afternoon is a mere 1.21 kilometres. Now call me daft, but if I didn't have a pair of legs (God forbid) I could do that bloody distance in the same time, much less when I'm running.

I feel heartily fed up, my calf is really sore, I know I didn't perform well - but that badly? I wanted the pedometer as vindication of my efforts, not chastisement, even if I'm 90% sure that the damn thing is wrong.

If you don't believe me here is a rough map of my route done to 1/2500 metre scale. The homeward leg alone, I reckon, is about 1 km (roughly from the corner of Barrack Field on the A205 until the junction with the A207, Shooters Hill Rd). What do you think?

One step forward, one step back

2005-03-06T17:33:00.000Z

Just as everything seems to be going according to plan, so I stumble backwards. A week of two good gym sessions, a run and a long swim has been rounded off with a stinking head cold. I started sneezing a bit on Friday morning but was okay, then it hit me with a vengence last night and I was in bed by 9pm. I feel lousy today, just yuck. I'd planned on trying a five mile plus run, but walking to the newsagents on the hill I was almost out of breath.

'You're not going anywhere,' ordered the missus, when I came back.

That's my escape card from mass, but I wanna run and, moreover, I want to go to the pub to watch the Everton match this afternoon. Maybe I'll try a sauna in the hope of unblocking some pipes...

2005-03-06T09:47:00.000Z

As for my own faltering get-fit efforts, they're nothing on Andy's lame attempts to get fit. Out in the East, our own Marathon hopeful has been celebrating South Korea's independence in a little too much style. Here, he's being questioned by a Korean TV crew about his forthcoming marathon attempt.
Andy

2005-03-04T02:37:00.000Z

After admiring the indestructabillity of Dixie Dean the other day, what do I go and do the following morning? Turn on my ankle running for a bus...

It's alright to be honest, but as a precaution I stayed off the treadmill when I headed down to the gym before. I did 40 minutes on the ski and step machines, plus a full set of weights - a decent 70 minute sesh; I'll do another tommorrow - I'm working from home again (hurrah!).

Workwise today, I've thus far spoken to a former Olympic-rower and Minister for Sport and am currently trying to get an interview with the greatest middle distance runner in the world, Kenenisa Bekele. Mate, if you're taking some peverse inspiration from my ramblings and want a chat - drop us an email!

Through the wind and the rain

2005-03-02T02:49:00.000Z

Witching hour struck again at 5pm. I'd been hoping to get down to the gym more than half an hour earlier, but an overlong phonecall to a colleague dragged me past the cut off point. Filled with the dread of sharing a too small gym with too many people I opted for a road run - my first in ten days. It's a horrible grey, early spring day with the slate grey sky indistinguishable from the ugly damp of the road. The Common was strewn with mud and grey-filled puddles and a rain-filled mist brought visibillity down to a few hundred yards. But there was no snow, and the wind had lost it's biting chill. In short, it was perfect for running; the ideal antidote to a couple of stressful days stuck toiling away on the same old stuff.

I charged off, and as the rain soaked over me and I could hear myself panting away, I felt relief to get away from it all and happy to be on the move again.

I did a lap of the common, extended by more than a mile by my doing a loop around the Royal Artillery Barracks, and then heading south but uphill on my march home. It meant the uphill bit was extended and I had to stop to get my breath back 500 metres from home, but I did just under 4 miles and felt bloody good at the end of it. This is what it's all about, I thought, as I hosed down all the mud and cold rain in the shower, this is why I'm doing this crazy challenge.

2005-03-01T18:55:00.000Z

In case I ever moan about sore hamstrings and tired legs, this is THE man who could tell you a thing or two about endurance: William Ralph 'Dixie' Dean. In a long an illustrious career Dixie lost a testicle in one horrific challenge; was nearly killed in a motorcycle accident and had a metal plate inserted in his head and had numerous bits of cartilege removed from his knees, but still went onto score a record 60 league goals in a season, win two League Championships, a second division title and an FA Cup. He passed away at Goodison Park 25 years ago today. Rest in Peace.
Andy

Swimming like a trout in an inch of water

2005-03-01T02:19:00.000Z

So there I was working from home, sorting the mess in my study out, then lunchtime came. Great, I says, just need to rework a few things on this book review I've done for the paper then I'll head down for a long sesh at the gym.

Five fraught hours later... well, I got the book review done, after much re-editing and re-writing. The problem with writing a thousnad words is that you honestly need another two or three hundred on top of that to get things right. But then I'm paid to say 1,300 words in the space of a thousand - that's my job, otherwise anyone could be a journalist. BUT it can be so hard, and so frustrating sometimes. Anyway, I got it done to my satisfaction (although I'll probably change my mind about it tommorrow), but the witching hour of 5.30pm had passed.

For the unitiated, 5.30pm is when all the 'normal' people (yes, those of you who work EVERY DAY in offices and schools and hospital) rock up at the gym, and given that it's Monday when good intentions are at their best it promised to be busier than normal. We only have a smallish gym, and I very much like the idea of having it to myself; others distract me and clog up the machines I want to use.

On the off chance it might be nearly empty I packed my kit and swimming gear and headed down. Six hangers were taken in the changing rooms - a very bad sign - but the pool was empty, so I skipped the gym and went for a long swim.

Long for me, anyway, is 500 metres, which takes me about 25 minutes with stops and so on. The pool was gloriously warm, like a bath, but the effects of five nights of heavy-ish drinking (a bottle of wine a night or more) had taken their toll, so rather than doing four lengths on my front, two on my back, my routine was the other way around. I enjoyed an invigorating 350 metres worth of swimming, whenI was joined by a fellow swimmer - solitude over.

Next thing I know my gob's full of water and coming out my nose. The cheeky bint was flapping around the pool like a trout in an inch of water! I got my breath back, turned on my front and swam the last 150 metres like Adrian Moorhouse on speed - hopefully my not so friendly neighbour's gills soon filled up!

Relapse part 2

2005-02-28T17:33:00.000Z

In fairness to our kid, he's not the only one who has returned to old, bad habits. It's been a week now since I last made a visitation to the gym/ attempted a run around the common. In between there's been a bit too much drinking/ eating too much chocolate or simply the wrong things. Nothing particularly important has got in the way - just life (and my redocrating the bloody bathroom, which consumed every second of my weekend). I've got one hell of a week ahead of me coming up, so don't know whether I'll be able to turn it around - but I'll do my best.

Pledges for the week: pennance in the gym today and tommorrow, followed by a run on Wednesday morning.

And if I don't? A tenner goes to CAFOD for each one I miss out on.

Watch out for updates...

2005-02-28T09:26:00.000Z

Caught Red Handed
Andy

Minor Setback

2005-02-28T09:02:00.000Z

Guilty as charged!!! I'm not gonna hide the fact that I got wasted the other night and piled on the calories.. I'm gonna be honest.. I played Soccer on Sunday, I suck even more now - fitness levels dropping.. Haven't been to the gym for a week.. Gotta take it easy on the alcohol consumption.. But don't lose faith people... A minor setback... Don't worry: "I'll be back - hasta la vista - baby"

I'm turning Japanease you know I'm turning Japanease I really think so!!!

2005-02-23T13:15:00.000Z

Week 1: A minor setback. After getting cosmetic surgery to enhance my dashing looks (In other words: several ugly moles removed from my neck) the doc told me I couldnt shave or shower for a week.. I looked like a tramp after a few days, and I didnt want to worsen things by smelling bad. Therefore my target for the week was to excercise without breaking sweat. "Must stay strong, keep my routine going, keep the discipline, keep the faith!!!" Thus I decided to adopt the more orthodox far eastern method of mind stimulation over body stimulation. That's right!! Yoga and Tekundo... Im back on track my friends, back on track..

2005-02-23T09:11:00.000Z

Andy's turning Japanese.... right...

Monday, Bloody Monday

2005-02-22T00:25:00.000Z

Another week, another bag of good intentions. It's yukky weather outside: cold and damp, snowing one minute, sunny the next, sleeting before you know it. I hadn't planned going out on the roads today - I've been working from home, so have used the opportunity to go for a mid-afternoon sesh at the gym.

I've just done nearly an hour and a half: 55 minutes of which were cardiovascular. But oh, how dull it all is! I've been building up my stamina since the New Year and been aiming at an hour cardio work - which I'm nearly at - and then building up the effort levels on the machines from thereon. I'll probably do the hour's worth without too much extra effort the next time I go, but it's a case of keeping mentally switched on. After 20 minutes on the treadmill, I just get so bored that it's an effort not to fall off. I'm doing 7 miles per hour, which is roughly my road pace, (but with no gradient yet) for three miles. It takes about 25 minutes and I want to whack that up to 30, and then get some gradient involved. Any faster - at the moment anyway - and I'll knacker myself out for the rest of the workout.

That said, I quite like the ski machine - I did 18 minutes on that; and the step machine is a good one to finish off on (12 brisk minutes on that). I intersperse it all with a round of weights, though nothing too strenuous...

I was reading Runners World over the weekend, and there was a feature on some nutter who has just beaten the World 24 hour record for a treadmill and managed 153 miles! Physically, how you would do that is inconcievable to me; but keeping himself sane would just be as hard. I guess I have some way to go.

Good intentions for the week: a pre-work jog or swim both tommorrow and Wednesday,a nd then the gym again on Thursday. Will I do it? Tune in next time...

Getting Out and About

2005-02-19T19:05:00.000Z

I was going to head down to the gym to try out my legs for the first time since I tweaked my achilles tendon a week ago. But a look outside at the cloudless blue sky and a fresh winter's day convinced me that slogging my guts out in the basement of one of our adjoining buildings wasn't the best way for me to go, so I left my towel and water bottle and hit the road.

Where I live I'm lucky enough to be wedged in between two commons - Woolwich and Eltham - plus Oxleas Woods. To get to the latter two however, I've got to head up Shooter's Hill - London's highest peak no less, which is enough to take the air out your lungs and make you feel like doing nothing. Woolwich Common is flat and a nice circuit of around three kilometres. There's a few gentle hills and a slowly undulating rise as you head back to my flat. The wind sweeps across it from Woolwich Reach on the Thames, which makes it mildly dramatic when you're soaring across its flat expanse. Moreover, its directly opposite my flat: you cross the road and you're away. No killing yourself getting up some huge hill for this one.

Anyway, it was good. I was only out for about 25 minutes, but I kept a steady pace, didn't stop once, never felt nauseus, and the leg held up. At one point I was going to keep going and head over to Plumstead Common, but that would have made a two and a bit mile run into six or seven miles, and I'd have had to tackle Shooter's Hill at some point on the way back or at least have circumnavigated its base, which would have totted up the miles. Given that it's my first run not on a treadmill for about three months and besides a swim on Wednesday my only real exertion in a week, I wanted to merely make it a test run, and I came through it okay.

On the plus side, a dozen or so of those laps doesn't seem too bad a prospect - and that's equivelent to a marathon. I'm sure the reality of doing it would be rather more difficult.

Will I do it again tommorrow? I'd like to say yay, but I'm meeting my mate Patrick to watch the Everton V Man Utd match in a Covent Garden boozer later on. Patrick is one of these species known as the 'Irish male' who, no sooner are you midway through a pint than he's at the bar getting another round in. A good time is always guarenteed in his company, but on waking up the next morning I always feel as if death is about to approach. Given that it's Wayne Rooney's return to Goodison I'm either likely to be drowning my sorrows or toasting a wonderful victory over the disloyal little shitbag, so more beer than normal (if that's possible) is likely to be quaffed. A hangover, is therefore 2/5 on; a repeat of today's jaunt around the Common 3/1...

2005-02-17T22:27:00.000Z

Andy preparing for his audition for Rocky 7...

2005-02-17T22:26:00.000Z

...Risin' up, back on the street
Did my time, took my chances
Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet
Just a man and his will to survive

So many times, it happens too fast
You trade your passion for glory
Don't lose your grip on the dreams of the past
You must fight just to keep them alive

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all with the eye of the tiger

Face to face, out in the heat
Hangin' tough, stayin' hungry
They stack the odds, till we take to the street
For the kill with the skill to survive

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all with the eye of the tiger

Risin' up, straight to the top
Had the guts, got the glory
Went the distance, now I'm not gonna stop
Just a man and his will to survive

It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight
Risin' up to the challenge of our rival
And the last known survivor stalks his prey in the night
And he's watchin' us all with the eye of the tiger

The eye of the tiger
The eye of the tiger
The eye of the tiger

2005-02-17T22:25:00.000Z

... on second thoughts, he looks more like Rocky Robin than Marciano...!

Motivational Idols

2005-02-17T21:51:00.000Z

1: Marathon man (Dustin Hofman) "Vot did ze say?"
2: Forest Gump (Tommy boy Hanks) "Life is like a box of Chocolates, you never know what your gonna get" - "One day I just felt like running"
4: Speedy Gonzalaz (U know the cartoon coyote)/ Road Runner "Mi Mi zooooom"/ and Sonic the Hedgehog (when the speed up music comes on)
3: My Dad for keeping in tip top shape by walking everywhere and riding a bike to school for 20 yrs. Of course after the age of 40ish he discovered modern technology and learned how to drive - enough Said!!!!

Starting out (reprise)

2005-02-17T21:48:00.000Z

My New Years resolution was to actually think of a New Years Resolution. Come Lunar New Year (which means something my side of the pond) I joined a Gym and returned to training sessions for my Soccer team. At the same time my senior brother Jim put forward the marathon idea - a perfect excuse to give up the heavy drinking and Lazing around in my spare time. Also I suck at Soccer at the moment cause of the old fitness levels: But I know I'm gonna return to my "Georgie" Best form with my new Marathon Man fitness regime I have lined up. This is the project I have been destined for, I know it. An aim and objective to make me into a fit, healthy, agile, athletic, not to mention Aryan person!!!! Yes Yes I see the light, my God I see the light!!!!!!

Tendonitus

2005-02-17T18:09:00.000Z

I guess its just a symptom of not being particularly fit - although apparently it's what has kept Ruud Van Nistelrooy out of the Man Utd team since before Christmas - but last Saturday I was struck down with an aching tendon that literally had me hobbling around for a couple of days, and even now is a bit stiff. What's strange about it is that I'd not done any running on the Friday or Saturday, but was watching the footy round at my brother David's when it just seized up. At first I thought I could walk it off, but the harder I tried the sorer it became. Sunday was spent with it rested up and I've gone easy on it this week, just walking and a bit of swimming yesterday. I might go for a dip later on today, but I won't get a chance to go to the gym until Saturday - a gap of nine days since my last workout. This time, for once, it's not laziness that has intervened...

Andy is having a few problems accessing the site in South Korea but is hoping to get something up in the next day or so. More then...

Destiny Monte Carlo

2005-02-17T14:33:00.000Z

Look at the hills on it!!! - Still it's not often you get to see two countries and a principallity in one day - never mind by foot!

2005-02-13T13:36:00.000Z

Jimmy and Andy contemplate the horrors of runing 26 miles...

Starting out

2005-02-13T12:21:00.000Z

This is the first post in my journey towards well-being, redemption, weighing 13 stone again (!) and running my first marathon with my little brother Andy later on this year.

A little bit about myself. Well, I'm a 26 year old sports mad lad, whose love of various beautiful games these days sadly extends merely to watching it played rather than actually partaking. I'm lucky enough to be able to do so for a living (I'm a sports writer on a national newspaper), but not since I was at school have I played football or tennis regularly or been submitted to any sort of physical rigor on a daily basis.

True, I'm a gym member and put myself through the grind every now and then, but my problem is consistency: I'll happily do three sessions in one week; do nothing for ten days; do a single 'guilt session' followed by another week of nothingness; then start out afresh with the active week, followed by more inconsistency. My other problem is a passion for good food and drink. Combined, my lifestyle is not good for anything except the gradually increasing size of my girth.

I love working myself into a sweat, I like going to the gym - even using some of its more hideous contraptions- and the feeling I get at the end of a good hard exercise. I like nothing more than hitting a ball around a tennis court or having a kick about with my mates. The problem is actually being arsed doing it. At the end of a long day, the prospect of a gin and tonic and read of the paper usually seems more preferable to my tired mind than doing five miles on the treadmill and a set of weights. If I've psyched myself up to do it, I'll go - and I'll normally enjoy myself to boot. It's the pysching up bit that I struggle with.

To get back into shape and overcome the old 'consistency problem', what I need is a challenge, something to keep me disciplined and on track and give me an overwhelming sense of achievement at the end. An obsession in other words.

I've always fancied doing the London marathon, more so since I've lived in South London. My flat is just down the road from Greenwich Park where it all starts off and every April, for a weekend at least, my little part of the capital goes marathon mad. Thousands stay in the hotels and guest houses round here; there's a massive exhibition near Canary Wharf; and the night before, runners can be seen gorging themselves on pasta in every Italian restaurant right the way across the city. Then on the Sunday I head down to the 2 mile mark to cheer everyone on for an hour, head home and watch the rest on the TV. Every year I vow to myself 'next year that'll be me'.

Last year, I actually felt inspired enough by what I saw to enter the race itself. I found out I was unsuccessful in December, was going to run it for a children's charity but that fell through, and by late January all my good intentions seemed to go to pot for another year. Then, after another of my 'bad weeks' (not going to the gym; buying too many KitKat classics from my newsagent; too much wine, again) - I thought 'sod it - why London?' Looking into it further I figured that I could have my pick from virtually anywhere in the world - New York, Paris, Dublin..., Greenland (seriously...). I quite fancied Chicago and Berlin and mentioned it to my l'il bro Andy - who's currently living out in South Korea. He's back for the Autumn and liked the idea himself - and having someone join me is more fun than doing it alone: right?

Anyway, we put our heads together and arrived on Monte Carlo. It's glamorous, it's easy to get to, it's got a couple of bastard hills that'll probably make us regret doing it - but hey, we've got until November haven't we?

The idea of doing a blog is to gee each other up and to cover our journey from beer-guzzling layabouts to finely tuned (!) athletes for friends, family and anyone else who's interested. Also, as he's in South Korea until September and I'm in London - being cyber training buddies is the only way we can do this for now.

Please feel free to post you encouragement/ insults - we hope you enjoy!