I am by no means the epitome of fitness. In fact I am nowhere near that. I’d say I’m not as good as Usain Bolt but I am a little better than Eamon Holmes. It’s fair to say I’m closer to a This Morning presenter than the fastest man on the planet but hey, I’m trying.
I’ve been running for a few years now, so you’d think I’d be pretty decent at it wouldn’t you. You’d be wrong. I’m fairly sure most people’s mums could be better at running than I am at the moment. But it wasn’t always like this. I used to be good, honest I did.
Whilst living in Australia I got back into running pretty well. I used to go all the time, a nice jog by the lake or down the coastline. Obviously I did this before noon as if I did so after that I would just end up curled up inside the refrigerator of a petrol station’s convenience store clutching onto a bottle of overpriced lemonade. Yeah that happened more than once.
Coming back to England didn’t exactly help my running aspirations though. My scenic lake had been replaced by a slushy field full of gnats, nettles and syringes and my beautiful coastline is now a grim grey road that goes on as far as the eye can see. You won’t hear the lapping of waves here, only the distant shout of a chav in a Citroen Saxo who just threw an empty can of Stella at you. I love the UK.
But I’ve been defiant. For some unknown reason I continued to run. Simply for the love of it. I enjoy running for many reasons, yes it keeps me fit and healthy but I like the social side of it too. Whether I’m with my mates or nodding in acknowledgement at a fellow jogger, like two bus drivers on a grim grey road going in opposite directions, we have the runner camaraderie. I have to say though, running alone can become pretty boring. It’s just so easy to stop and have a breather or two, or three, or four, or seventeen. After about two miles I’m desperately holding onto a street sign for dear life, red-faced, praying that I wouldn’t collapse into a pile of human failure.
Yep, it’s fair to say I’m at my best when running with a partner or a group. It keeps me motivated so is therefore good for my fitness. Yet for some reason, when all I want to do is stop and cry like a little girl, my running buddies morph into terminators, turn to me and tell me they’re thinking of running further and faster. Of course my brain agrees with this suggestion, and my mouth passes on the message. My legs on the other hand aren’t best pleased with this act of treason and they make this painfully clear to me, sending wave after wave of hurt and torment until the horrible ordeal is finally over.
Usually we would start at a meeting spot and then run a route until we got to a landmark that we’d designated the finish line (usually the meeting spot). Of course by the end of these crazed run-fests I’d be found with a shiny beaming face, hunched over like Quasimodo and throwing as much water over myself and down my throat as possible in a desperate bid to appear fit. It’s not a good look. In fact it’s a terrible look. I’ve given up on trying to look good whilst on a run. I’m very jealous of these Herculean specimens who run around parks in their all-in-one lycra suits and stopwatches. Yeah we may be part of the runners guild but I hate you. I need help, I’ve applied to go on Gok Wan’s new show ‘How to look good knackered‘. Hopefully he can help.
After running for a while me and my terminator mates decided to make a go of it and enter the Manchester 10K. It all sounded like a great idea at the time, sat around a pub table telling ourselves how fit we are and how we could be running marathons by the winter months. Brilliant we thought, 10km is going to be a breeze. The very next morning we got training. It wasn’t a breeze. The alcohol that was so kind to me the night before had now turned on me faster than a Lib-Dem in a cul-de-sac. My self-set target of 10km in less than an hour wasn’t looking so simple after all.
So I upped my game. I needed to if I was ever going to complete this mammoth task. It was often too hard, but I carried on. Through all weather conditions. Rain, hail, harsh winds and snow. Nothing could stop me. It was a long hard slog and everyone had written me off. But the naysayers only made me stronger. More determined. As the finish line grew closer I would be up earlier and earlier, so as to stay ahead of my competitors. They wouldn’t catch me, nobody could. My eyes were on the prize. I had created a bond with my running shoes so great that they would take me to the ends of the earth if needs be.
On the day of the race we all went down together. We’d been put in the pink band, meaning we were deemed not only awful but not fit for television. By the time we even left the starting line the TV crews had all packed up and left, leaving only Bez and Clint Boon to look upon you in utter despair as they realise that this is what it’s come to in order to pay the bills.
I was ready for action: limbered up, race number pinned to my shirt, timing chip laced to my right shoe. Bring it on! We were positioned at the back, alongside most people’s mums, a smurf and a Chinese dragon. This alone wasn’t exactly a massive morale boost and it wasn’t made any easier by having us queue up to get to the starting line on a road with more pubs and take-aways than inside the daily thoughts of Ricky Hatton.
We did eventually make the starting line and we were off. The first 3km were the best. All I did was sprint past the mothers and the Flintstone characters. The horrible anti-morale monkey on my back was wiped clean out by this mass overtake. I felt like a Ferrari in a unicycle garage. But it didn’t last long. Soon enough my Ferrari was running out of fuel and it seemed my only option was to change into a more efficient contender. Let’s say a Skoda. An Old Skoda. My sprinting days were over, this was going to be about enduring. Going the distance. I had myself all psyched up. Christ! Is that the 4km sign!?
The remaining kilometres are a bit of a blur. I vaguely recall running past the Theatre of Dreams, with my timing chip looking up at me taunting me with it’s relentless knowledge of my feeble speed, and I think I saw some weird walk-in shower, that might have been a mirage come to think of it. Even my running shoes had abandoned me by the 8km mark. It wasn’t a pretty sight. I’m glad the cameras had gone home. Heck, even Bez had buggered off by the time I’d got half way round. By the ninth kilometre mark I was contemplating quitting, I’d just take off my right shoe and somehow smuggle it onto a passing runner, no one would know.
Still, one way or another I fought against this evil temptation. Somehow from deep within I summoned a great iron will, restoring the trust I once had with my beloved running shoes. With just one kilometre to go I put my head down and went for it. The harshness of my training taking its toll on my body, a niggling stitch boring into my side like a flaming hot dagger. Surely this fool of a competitor won’t make it, he can’t, he mustn’t. But he did! And if Kevin Spacey or any other doubters were around he‘d have punched them in the mouth too!
Fireworks went off, many a champagne cork was popped, thousands of women flocked towards me just to take in the aura of success, one of them carrying a large novelty cheque with a six-figure sum on it. Of course that’s what happened in my head. In reality I just stopped running, my legs breathed the biggest sigh of relief they’d ever achieved, I was shepherded through some gateways, picked up a bag of free stuff and eventually found a street sign to grasp on to.
A fun day was had by all then and incase you‘re interested I was a minute and a half over my one hour target. Shameful I know but all the more reason to tackle it next year! However, since this momentous occasion my running ability seems to have gotten worse. I need a new goal. A half marathon perhaps? Ouch, my legs just sent me some express mail at the thought. Maybe I’ll just go to the pub, I always do better there.
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