PE lessons during winter usually meant football or rugby. For someone like me, who enjoys playing football and rugby, those were good days. The bad days were when the pitches were frozen or waterlogged. That tended to indicate cross-country runs.
“What about dodgeball, sir?” someone would ask. Others agreed. The gym was a far more appealing option than the cold and/or wet outdoors.
“Yes. Sir, that way you can join in, it’s always better if you play too”. A PE teacher, pretty much by definition, is competitive. He would play to win, regardless of whether the opponent was a grown man in Sunday League football or a group of snot leaking 13 year olds, awkward in their barely pubescent bodies, running around the school gym as the teacher hurled day-glo fluffy footballs at their heads. A good lesson involved knocking the inch thick glasses of the nose of the least sporting child in the class.
Sometimes this schoolboy psychology worked. Sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t you would spend maybe thirty minutes of your school day splashing, slipping and tripping around muddy fields with number fingers and saturated trainers. You actually looked forward to communal school showers, poorly cut school uniform and, in several years time, leaving school, to never having to face a winter cross country run again.
Never.
Never?
150 people in Kings Wood, Churrock Hill, Kent had forgotten the teenage oath. Or maybe it had been worded wrongly because with heavy settling snow and gusting northerly winds it certainly felt like hell was freezing over. Paul (dongoling Paul, not 3 Men in a Boat Paul) and I had hidden in the car for as long as possible, watching the thermometer fluctuate around freezing, me ruing not having gloves, Paul ruing not having long sleeves (he didn’t seem to have an issue with shorts). But you can’t hide for ever and at 9 o’clock the rasce started.
The first running lap, of two miles, wasn’t too bad. The snow had just settled and was a bit slippery but you could maintain a grip. I started quickly in the hope I would warm up, most people had the same idea. I slowed down for fear of being too tired to cope with what was to come. Most people seemed to do the same. My time for this leg was 17:25, it placed me 57th.
Next came the cycle. Three laps to give a total distance of ten miles. I had been worrying about my knees but needn’t have wasted the energy. My body had gone so numb by the time half the first lap was complete I could not feel anything at all. My strategy was simple, hold onto the handlebars as tightly as possible and only when absolutely necessaryy pull the brake or change gear. The cycling was proper mountain biking, with some very technical parts. I’m not an experienced mountain biker. And by that I mean I have mountain biked once before in my life, going down a volcano in Guatemala about 8 years ago. My previous experience also involved riding a mountain bike and no snow. In this case I was on a cyclo-cross bike in the snow. The big advantage of cyclo-cross bikes generally is that they are light and skid over the surface. On steep hills you just get off and run up the hill with them over your shoulder. The disadvantage is that they are light and skid over the surface, so if you are technically incompetent and riding on snow it is kind of like ice-skating down hill, you spend most of your time trying to slow down and hoping you can maintain your balance next time you skid out of control. Also, if you are going mountain biking during a snow fall it is a good idea to wear untinted glasses, this will stop you being blinded by the flakes as you cycle into the wind.
With each lap the snow and mud got churned up a bit more, I had given up racing and focused solely on survival. I made no attempt to overtake anybody and let others go past me because the idea of manoeuvring with other cyclists close in front or behind was too unappealing. Finally, the third lap was over. What had been a very slow lap became even slower in transition, my fingers were so numb that I could not remove my helmet. I found a guy who had finished the race and asked him to help me, he kindly obliged, telling me he had kept his helmet on for the run because he had the same problem. Total time for the cycling leg was 1:06:25, my position for the leg was 88th.
Then started the second running lap, exactly the same two mile course as the first. It was initially a relief to be on legs rather than wheels. This was short lived as the running course had now been churned into a slippery bog. There was no chance of getting momentum because with each step your feet were sucked into the mud and all your energy was used pulling it out again. I had started quickly with the intention of making up ground on the cyclists but this was a reckless approach that resulted in me slipping, tripping and slipping again. The only reason I did not fall was because a well placed tree painfully helped me stay upright. Even with a more cautious approach after that I made up time on a lot of people. The last guy I overtook was a victim of his own pride when, in deciding he was not going to be overtaken so near the finish he sped up and took a tumble that allowed about 10 people past. My time for this leg was 18:07, I placed 47th for the leg. This gave an overall time of 1:41:57 and final position of 80th out of 124.
Back in Paul’s car we sat with the heater at full blast, waiting for the involuntary shivering to stop. This was a different cold to Tough Guy cold. That had been a suck the life out of you cold. This was an attack every sinew cold. I had been worried that a duathlon would be less challenging than this year's other components. Once again I was punished for underestimating. This had been as hard as any of them. The agonising conditions just capping an event that was, in any circumstances, difficult. It is nice to know my perspective has changed since being 13, it turns out that, whilst not as good as football or rugby, cross-country is actually good fun. More varied and interesting than road running. I'm certainly not going to say "never again". However, next time, if I am making my way to a duathlon and the thermometer is going down whilst the sun is coming up (albeit hidden by snow laden grey clouds) then, rather than race, I will remember what I learnt at school. I will find a group of stereotypical computer nerds, a sports hall and a football spend the morning sadistically knocking their glasses off.
Monday, 8 December 2008
Monday, 1 December 2008
And Pienally... My True Story.
I was famous once. Television, radio, and newspapers clamoured to tell my story. I was getting emails and Facebook messages from people I have never met. I was Londoner of the day on 20 November 2008. Everybody wanted a piece of me. I hadn’t courted fame, it was thrust upon me. My story is one of overnight success, an exciting mix of glorious highs and agonising lows. It is a story the world should hear but unlike these fly by night celebrities capitalising on their moment of fame with rushed autobiographies I have waited to publish. I want my story to be a fair and realistic representation of what really happens when a mortal is thrust into the spotlight.
[I have skipped the dull first 300 pages about my childhood for you]
The morning of 18 November offered no clues that it would be the day that changed my life. At first I followed my usual routine, get up, breakfast, shave, dress, gym, dress. I dressed the second time not in a suit but in jeans, a t-shirt promoting the Stroke Association and a coat. This marked the point my day stopped being a work day. Instead of going to the office I headed to Hammersmith to pick up a rental car. I drove to Wookey Hole, two and a half hours through sunshine, drizzle and downpours.
Wookey Hole is a village in North Somerset, near Wells. At Wookey Hole there is a tourist area, it has caves and a museum, a circus-themed theatre and a restaurant. It has a car park and that is where I parked my car. It has an entrance, and that is where I went in. It has tables and at one of these tables I confirmed my arrival and filled in a form. The form asked my name, my contact details and my eating specialty. I gave my name, my contact details and put “none” as my eating specialty. It was 11.40am.
There were a lot of people in the entrance area, sitting standing, chatting, laughing. I stood amongst them and waited to be called through. At 11.55am I was called through, along with about 26 other people who had also been waiting. We were taken to the start of the museum area and given t-shirts – we had a choice of size, extra large or extra extra large. We then stood around for a little longer.
A man came through and called the names of the competitors in the order we were to enter the eating arena. We lined up in order. A man from ITV, who was also taking part, interviewed the largest of the people in the queue – he had come from Birmingham for the competition. I used this time to chat with the people next to me. They recognised the event for what it was, a bit of fun. At the same time they wanted to win. I consider that to be a sensible attitude.
We were then taken into the theatre and called one by one down to the main show area. We stood behind trellis tables that had been set up in a U shape and laid with trays covered in mince pies and jugs of water. Below it were a lot of orange buckets. A man dressed as a ring master told us the rules. Eat as many mince pies as possible in ten minutes. If you’re sick you’re out. Photographers and cameramen stood amongst the tables, an audience sat in the viewing area.
The ring master counted us down to the start. We started eating. The man next to me with a turkey hat on his head (his nickname was “the Gobbler”) knelt down to eat. I stayed standing. I ate. My theory was to get into a rhythm of eating and, when necessary, drinking water to stop the pastry drying out my mouth. I concentrated on this so intently that I stopped being aware of what everybody else was doing and just focused on eating. I was in the zone, shutting out all internal and external distractions. The rhythm was everything.
The photographers and cameramen moved around the group, the ringmaster commentated and gave time readings. He said three people were doing very well. I was one of the people he was referring to. I ran out of water and signalled to a woman that I wanted more, she thought I meant more pies and put another tray in front of me. The pies on my first tray were disappearing fast but that seemed optimistic. I kept eating. We were told there were only a couple of minutes left. The photographers were suddenly all in front of me. I kept eating. The Countdown thirty second music started playing just as I was eating the last pie on my first tray. The ringmaster said 15 seconds and I decided to force down one more from the additional tray. Pie then water, I swallowed “dum dum, dum dum diddly dum” went the Countdown music. The competition ended. I looked around me, nobody else had an empty tray in front of them – not even close. The significance of this did not register. The bloated feeling in my stomach did.
A guy patted me on the back, “You know you just ate 40 pies” he said.
“That doesn’t sound right” I answered.
“It was definitely 40, there were 40 pies on each tray”.
“I ate one off that tray too”.
“You just ate 41 pies”.
“How long do I need to hold them down for?”
“Until the prize money is safely in your pocket”. More excellent advice.
The photographers kept taking pictures. People were coming up to me with notebooks, asking me my name, where was I from, how did I feel. I thought about how I felt. Uncomfortably full, almost painfully full, like eating far too much Christmas dinner. I also felt a bit dazed. I put that down to the sugar. Some people were going to each table counting how many pies were eaten.
The ringmaster announced the results but by then so many people had told me I had won that I was pretty sure I had won. The photographers were in front of me, waiting for the announcement. I knew I had to give some sort of reaction so when my name was called I raised my arms in victory. Cameras were flashing. I was given a cheque. I put it in my pocket. I smiled for the cameras, they told me to hold up pies, so I did. They told me to move to a table with a big pile of mince pies, so I did, I was asked to do all sorts of ridiculous poses. So I did. I was feeling a bit absent from my own body, just responding to the instruction. My only thoughts were, I really want a napkin and I’m going to have my picture in the press wearing a T-shirt 3 sizes too big and holding mince pies. Close ups on my mouth, open wide. I had to push my upper body through a banner for the competition and hold mince pies. Smile, head up, eyes down, left arm forward, mouth a bit wider. A woman interviewed me whilst holding a video camera. The guy from ITV interviewed me and I showed him my stomach. Then they left, they had deadlines. I left too, I had a deadline, I had to get the car back.
As I was walking back to my car the guy who organised the competition asked me if I was available for publicity. Graham Norton was interested, Eggheads were interested, Jonathan Ross was interested. That was when I started to doubt exactly how likely any of this was going to be. I didn’t think the Jonathan Ross Show was going to happen. He also told me that they were going to get in touch with the American Professional Speed Eater Organisation to see if they would let me take part. He asked if I was interested in doing that. I told him that if the logistics allowed it then why not.
The rain had blown over and the day was now glorious. I drove back, stopping at the services to be sick – a sort of syrup came out of me. No solids. I still felt full. As I drove I was taking phone calls from the press. Then I realised what I had done – shown my stomach on ITV – how embarrassing. Also 41 pies is a lot of pies. I had no idea it was that many and have no idea how I did it.
Car back, I went to the gym. After the gym I was sick. Syrup again. I was still full.
All afternoon and evening I was getting texts from people who had seen it on television or heard it on the radio. I was an ITN “and finally” piece. My story was all over the internet and also made it into a couple of the hard copies of the newspapers. Phone calls still came in. Real People wanted my story so I gave it. Radio Star for North Somerset wanted to interview me live on radio, as did BBC Radio Northampton, I spoke to them both. But my star was not going to shine forever. A new “and finally” story broke, maybe an escaped farm animal or a skateboarding squirrel.
It wasn’t completely finished though. George Lamb wanted to speak to me on his BBC 6 Music show on the Friday at 12.40. I agreed and waited to be called. 6Music never called but a member of The One Show on BBC1 production team did. They were planning to do a Christmas Food special with Gordon Ramsay the following Tuesday and wanted me to have a mince pie eating race with someone on the production team. I agreed and was told to expect full details after the weekend. Over the weekend the News of the World reported that Gordon Ramsay had been having an affair. In light of that he dropped out of the show and my race was scrapped. My reputation was safe but my fame was over.
I feel sorry for Gordon Ramsay, an unwitting victim of the News of the World’s ongoing revenge campaign against me. It is no coincidence that News Group are one of the only newspapers not to have told my story. Well they succeeded. My phone stopped ringing, the emails stopped arriving and my new friends abandoned me. Graham Norton never called, Eggheads never called and there is no news of America. The system that embraced me has spat me to the kerb like the gum from an irresponsible chewer. For one year I can call myself a pie eating champion but mince pies are seasonal. Who will care when Easter comes around?
So now I sit here, alone in my flat surrounded by empty packs of Mr Kipling Battenburgs and Fruit Fancies. All I have left to look forward to is my “true” story appearing in the 11 December issue of Real People and an invite to be on the next series of I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Actually my fame hasn’t fallen that far.
[I have skipped the dull first 300 pages about my childhood for you]
The morning of 18 November offered no clues that it would be the day that changed my life. At first I followed my usual routine, get up, breakfast, shave, dress, gym, dress. I dressed the second time not in a suit but in jeans, a t-shirt promoting the Stroke Association and a coat. This marked the point my day stopped being a work day. Instead of going to the office I headed to Hammersmith to pick up a rental car. I drove to Wookey Hole, two and a half hours through sunshine, drizzle and downpours.
Wookey Hole is a village in North Somerset, near Wells. At Wookey Hole there is a tourist area, it has caves and a museum, a circus-themed theatre and a restaurant. It has a car park and that is where I parked my car. It has an entrance, and that is where I went in. It has tables and at one of these tables I confirmed my arrival and filled in a form. The form asked my name, my contact details and my eating specialty. I gave my name, my contact details and put “none” as my eating specialty. It was 11.40am.
There were a lot of people in the entrance area, sitting standing, chatting, laughing. I stood amongst them and waited to be called through. At 11.55am I was called through, along with about 26 other people who had also been waiting. We were taken to the start of the museum area and given t-shirts – we had a choice of size, extra large or extra extra large. We then stood around for a little longer.
A man came through and called the names of the competitors in the order we were to enter the eating arena. We lined up in order. A man from ITV, who was also taking part, interviewed the largest of the people in the queue – he had come from Birmingham for the competition. I used this time to chat with the people next to me. They recognised the event for what it was, a bit of fun. At the same time they wanted to win. I consider that to be a sensible attitude.
We were then taken into the theatre and called one by one down to the main show area. We stood behind trellis tables that had been set up in a U shape and laid with trays covered in mince pies and jugs of water. Below it were a lot of orange buckets. A man dressed as a ring master told us the rules. Eat as many mince pies as possible in ten minutes. If you’re sick you’re out. Photographers and cameramen stood amongst the tables, an audience sat in the viewing area.
The ring master counted us down to the start. We started eating. The man next to me with a turkey hat on his head (his nickname was “the Gobbler”) knelt down to eat. I stayed standing. I ate. My theory was to get into a rhythm of eating and, when necessary, drinking water to stop the pastry drying out my mouth. I concentrated on this so intently that I stopped being aware of what everybody else was doing and just focused on eating. I was in the zone, shutting out all internal and external distractions. The rhythm was everything.
The photographers and cameramen moved around the group, the ringmaster commentated and gave time readings. He said three people were doing very well. I was one of the people he was referring to. I ran out of water and signalled to a woman that I wanted more, she thought I meant more pies and put another tray in front of me. The pies on my first tray were disappearing fast but that seemed optimistic. I kept eating. We were told there were only a couple of minutes left. The photographers were suddenly all in front of me. I kept eating. The Countdown thirty second music started playing just as I was eating the last pie on my first tray. The ringmaster said 15 seconds and I decided to force down one more from the additional tray. Pie then water, I swallowed “dum dum, dum dum diddly dum” went the Countdown music. The competition ended. I looked around me, nobody else had an empty tray in front of them – not even close. The significance of this did not register. The bloated feeling in my stomach did.
A guy patted me on the back, “You know you just ate 40 pies” he said.
“That doesn’t sound right” I answered.
“It was definitely 40, there were 40 pies on each tray”.
“I ate one off that tray too”.
“You just ate 41 pies”.
“How long do I need to hold them down for?”
“Until the prize money is safely in your pocket”. More excellent advice.
The photographers kept taking pictures. People were coming up to me with notebooks, asking me my name, where was I from, how did I feel. I thought about how I felt. Uncomfortably full, almost painfully full, like eating far too much Christmas dinner. I also felt a bit dazed. I put that down to the sugar. Some people were going to each table counting how many pies were eaten.
The ringmaster announced the results but by then so many people had told me I had won that I was pretty sure I had won. The photographers were in front of me, waiting for the announcement. I knew I had to give some sort of reaction so when my name was called I raised my arms in victory. Cameras were flashing. I was given a cheque. I put it in my pocket. I smiled for the cameras, they told me to hold up pies, so I did. They told me to move to a table with a big pile of mince pies, so I did, I was asked to do all sorts of ridiculous poses. So I did. I was feeling a bit absent from my own body, just responding to the instruction. My only thoughts were, I really want a napkin and I’m going to have my picture in the press wearing a T-shirt 3 sizes too big and holding mince pies. Close ups on my mouth, open wide. I had to push my upper body through a banner for the competition and hold mince pies. Smile, head up, eyes down, left arm forward, mouth a bit wider. A woman interviewed me whilst holding a video camera. The guy from ITV interviewed me and I showed him my stomach. Then they left, they had deadlines. I left too, I had a deadline, I had to get the car back.
As I was walking back to my car the guy who organised the competition asked me if I was available for publicity. Graham Norton was interested, Eggheads were interested, Jonathan Ross was interested. That was when I started to doubt exactly how likely any of this was going to be. I didn’t think the Jonathan Ross Show was going to happen. He also told me that they were going to get in touch with the American Professional Speed Eater Organisation to see if they would let me take part. He asked if I was interested in doing that. I told him that if the logistics allowed it then why not.
The rain had blown over and the day was now glorious. I drove back, stopping at the services to be sick – a sort of syrup came out of me. No solids. I still felt full. As I drove I was taking phone calls from the press. Then I realised what I had done – shown my stomach on ITV – how embarrassing. Also 41 pies is a lot of pies. I had no idea it was that many and have no idea how I did it.
Car back, I went to the gym. After the gym I was sick. Syrup again. I was still full.
All afternoon and evening I was getting texts from people who had seen it on television or heard it on the radio. I was an ITN “and finally” piece. My story was all over the internet and also made it into a couple of the hard copies of the newspapers. Phone calls still came in. Real People wanted my story so I gave it. Radio Star for North Somerset wanted to interview me live on radio, as did BBC Radio Northampton, I spoke to them both. But my star was not going to shine forever. A new “and finally” story broke, maybe an escaped farm animal or a skateboarding squirrel.
It wasn’t completely finished though. George Lamb wanted to speak to me on his BBC 6 Music show on the Friday at 12.40. I agreed and waited to be called. 6Music never called but a member of The One Show on BBC1 production team did. They were planning to do a Christmas Food special with Gordon Ramsay the following Tuesday and wanted me to have a mince pie eating race with someone on the production team. I agreed and was told to expect full details after the weekend. Over the weekend the News of the World reported that Gordon Ramsay had been having an affair. In light of that he dropped out of the show and my race was scrapped. My reputation was safe but my fame was over.
I feel sorry for Gordon Ramsay, an unwitting victim of the News of the World’s ongoing revenge campaign against me. It is no coincidence that News Group are one of the only newspapers not to have told my story. Well they succeeded. My phone stopped ringing, the emails stopped arriving and my new friends abandoned me. Graham Norton never called, Eggheads never called and there is no news of America. The system that embraced me has spat me to the kerb like the gum from an irresponsible chewer. For one year I can call myself a pie eating champion but mince pies are seasonal. Who will care when Easter comes around?
So now I sit here, alone in my flat surrounded by empty packs of Mr Kipling Battenburgs and Fruit Fancies. All I have left to look forward to is my “true” story appearing in the 11 December issue of Real People and an invite to be on the next series of I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Actually my fame hasn’t fallen that far.
Monday, 17 November 2008
was Weg zur Spitze?
Tower running has enthusiasts, elite athletes, worldwide contests and dedicated internet sites. In fact it has all of the trappings and paraphernalia that one would expect of a serious sport. I knew all of this before going to Vienna but still could not treat the concept with the respect it deserves. At its lowest point Grandstand would not have filled the void between the 4.15 from Haydock and Final Score with tower running. They would have chosen bowls or water polo or lumberjacking, if Eurosport had not got that first. In my mind it is something organised by a company based in Canary Wharf on a team building/charity fund raising day. Even the chairman joins in, donning the tennis shirt and shorts he was inspired to buy just after Bjorn Borg first won Wimbledon, each man made fibre of his t-shirt desperately clinging to its neighbour to avoid exposing a paunch born of his expense driven lifestyle. His face turns puce by the 5th floor but he makes it to the top and all the ambitious executives comment on what a good sport he is at the buffet, hoping he hears them and moves them down the sacking league table.
So curiosity, rather than trepidation was the emotion that encouraged me to be at Kaisermuhlen Ubahn station at 7.55am on a gloriously crisp Viennese winter’s morning. I had not actually worked out where to go next, it I expected to easily identify Austria’s tallest construction and then head in that general direction. The problem was that Kaisermuhlen is the gateway to a business area with several tall buildings. The one I suspected was my destination, based on it being the only one that looked to have a rotating restaurant at the top, did not look much taller than all of the others. I was underwhelmed just long enough to reach the start of the business park and realise perspective was playing a joke. To transmogrify a line from Father Ted* “Those towers are small, that tower is far away”.
As I walked through the business park, and then the normal park beyond it, the tower took on an increasingly intimidating loom. It's true I’ve seen bigger, the Donauturm is less than half the size of the Empire State Building and Eiffel Tower and about two-thirds of Canary Wharf. But I’ve not (yet) faced the prospect of running up any of those. I was disappointed to see that there were no windows in the concrete cylinder that separated the restaurant and the ground. I had quite liked the notion of seeing the world winding away from me like a cork separated from its bottle. Unsure whether I had helped the environment I was leaving to develop character or just tainted it.
I, like, I suspect most people, cannot help but assess the other competitors at the start of an event. It is reassuring to identify some people you are confident you will beat (and so not finish last). At the bottom of the tower there was not one person about whom I could confidently draw this conclusion. Not even the chain smokers huddled by the changing shed. I realised this was no charity event. The only people that happily give their Saturday morning to exhausting themselves in this manner take their fitness and/or tower running seriously. Or they are bumbling around finding pointless challenges in an attempt to give reason to an otherwise puerile existence.
The usual procedure followed: registration, pin number to top, timing chip around ankle, hang around until the start. My age group (30-39) was scheduled to run between 10.45 and 11.10 (competitors went up one at a time, 20 seconds between each). It was too cold to stand outside so I decided to watch the under 30s at the start.
Again I was caught out by the standard of the set up. The starters were all filmed, a commentator announced what was happening and a large flat screen television flicked between images of the start, half way up, the 135m landing and the finish. Two timer displays were set up, one repeatedly counting down 20 seconds, one showing the time of the most recent finisher. These tended to be 6 minutes or less, 6 seconds per flight of steps. That seemed very quick to me.
The queue of people waiting to climb did not reflect the under 30 demographic I had expected. Everybody in a running kit was jostling for position. I decided I wanted to get on with things so added my frame to the hubbub. Several minutes and some careful manoeuvres later I was watching my 20 seconds count down to zero. The man recording who had run jovially pointed out to me that I was the 100th competitor of the day. I watched the clock and smiled.
0 seconds, I went. My tactic was to go as quickly as possible the whole way, fully anticipating that my “as possible” would continuously decrease. Each landing was numbered, starting at 60 and counting down. I managed to “run” to 40 but with two thirds of the tower left my legs insisted that I walk. So I walked, and hauled myself up by the banister (a painful place to be hauled). The sound of heavy breathing echoed around me, it was my breathing. The man immediately behind me bounded past at 37, the man immediately behind him did the same at 17. I did not care particularly, I only cared about two things – getting enough oxygen in my lungs to stop me feinting and that I had just overtaken the guy starting immediately in front of me, I would not be last.
Finally level 1, out from a claustrophobic, artificially lit tube and into the bright sunshine of the observation deck with a view of Vienna. It meant nothing to me. 6:51:05 said the clock, I desperately gulped for air like a goldfish floundering on a carpet.
Challenge complete.
This was a painful challenge. For the rest of the day my throat felt as if I had woken up following a night of straight spirits in pre-smoking ban pubs and clubs of Bristol, shouting over music and finally eating the contents of an ashtray. I would imagine. But, even though it was agonising and I was relatively slow - finishing 176 out of 289 men – it was over quickly and it was fun. If I was in a city at a time that coincided with running up its tallest building I would try to get involved. Mind you, at €16 per person I may just organise one myself. There was nothing about the competitors, consisting of Austrians, Poles, Germans, Hungarians, Swiss and a Brit that indicated they were any more eccentric/crazy/foolish than any of the other people I have met this year. I think it would be embraced in this country, it would appeal to our sense of quirkiness with a purpose. It’s too late to save Grandstand but I believe lumberjacking season has just finished so Eurosport might have a gap to fill. I just need to find out where I filed the number of that chairman. He seemed like a good sport.
*Sorry Jen, I only plan on buying one glass of wine.
So curiosity, rather than trepidation was the emotion that encouraged me to be at Kaisermuhlen Ubahn station at 7.55am on a gloriously crisp Viennese winter’s morning. I had not actually worked out where to go next, it I expected to easily identify Austria’s tallest construction and then head in that general direction. The problem was that Kaisermuhlen is the gateway to a business area with several tall buildings. The one I suspected was my destination, based on it being the only one that looked to have a rotating restaurant at the top, did not look much taller than all of the others. I was underwhelmed just long enough to reach the start of the business park and realise perspective was playing a joke. To transmogrify a line from Father Ted* “Those towers are small, that tower is far away”.
As I walked through the business park, and then the normal park beyond it, the tower took on an increasingly intimidating loom. It's true I’ve seen bigger, the Donauturm is less than half the size of the Empire State Building and Eiffel Tower and about two-thirds of Canary Wharf. But I’ve not (yet) faced the prospect of running up any of those. I was disappointed to see that there were no windows in the concrete cylinder that separated the restaurant and the ground. I had quite liked the notion of seeing the world winding away from me like a cork separated from its bottle. Unsure whether I had helped the environment I was leaving to develop character or just tainted it.
I, like, I suspect most people, cannot help but assess the other competitors at the start of an event. It is reassuring to identify some people you are confident you will beat (and so not finish last). At the bottom of the tower there was not one person about whom I could confidently draw this conclusion. Not even the chain smokers huddled by the changing shed. I realised this was no charity event. The only people that happily give their Saturday morning to exhausting themselves in this manner take their fitness and/or tower running seriously. Or they are bumbling around finding pointless challenges in an attempt to give reason to an otherwise puerile existence.
The usual procedure followed: registration, pin number to top, timing chip around ankle, hang around until the start. My age group (30-39) was scheduled to run between 10.45 and 11.10 (competitors went up one at a time, 20 seconds between each). It was too cold to stand outside so I decided to watch the under 30s at the start.
Again I was caught out by the standard of the set up. The starters were all filmed, a commentator announced what was happening and a large flat screen television flicked between images of the start, half way up, the 135m landing and the finish. Two timer displays were set up, one repeatedly counting down 20 seconds, one showing the time of the most recent finisher. These tended to be 6 minutes or less, 6 seconds per flight of steps. That seemed very quick to me.
The queue of people waiting to climb did not reflect the under 30 demographic I had expected. Everybody in a running kit was jostling for position. I decided I wanted to get on with things so added my frame to the hubbub. Several minutes and some careful manoeuvres later I was watching my 20 seconds count down to zero. The man recording who had run jovially pointed out to me that I was the 100th competitor of the day. I watched the clock and smiled.
0 seconds, I went. My tactic was to go as quickly as possible the whole way, fully anticipating that my “as possible” would continuously decrease. Each landing was numbered, starting at 60 and counting down. I managed to “run” to 40 but with two thirds of the tower left my legs insisted that I walk. So I walked, and hauled myself up by the banister (a painful place to be hauled). The sound of heavy breathing echoed around me, it was my breathing. The man immediately behind me bounded past at 37, the man immediately behind him did the same at 17. I did not care particularly, I only cared about two things – getting enough oxygen in my lungs to stop me feinting and that I had just overtaken the guy starting immediately in front of me, I would not be last.
Finally level 1, out from a claustrophobic, artificially lit tube and into the bright sunshine of the observation deck with a view of Vienna. It meant nothing to me. 6:51:05 said the clock, I desperately gulped for air like a goldfish floundering on a carpet.
Challenge complete.
This was a painful challenge. For the rest of the day my throat felt as if I had woken up following a night of straight spirits in pre-smoking ban pubs and clubs of Bristol, shouting over music and finally eating the contents of an ashtray. I would imagine. But, even though it was agonising and I was relatively slow - finishing 176 out of 289 men – it was over quickly and it was fun. If I was in a city at a time that coincided with running up its tallest building I would try to get involved. Mind you, at €16 per person I may just organise one myself. There was nothing about the competitors, consisting of Austrians, Poles, Germans, Hungarians, Swiss and a Brit that indicated they were any more eccentric/crazy/foolish than any of the other people I have met this year. I think it would be embraced in this country, it would appeal to our sense of quirkiness with a purpose. It’s too late to save Grandstand but I believe lumberjacking season has just finished so Eurosport might have a gap to fill. I just need to find out where I filed the number of that chairman. He seemed like a good sport.
*Sorry Jen, I only plan on buying one glass of wine.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
My Marathon Career
It’s 6.20am and I have just made my contribution to the crowd of people jostling to board one of the 30 odd busses that lined Vas. Konstantinou in Athens. Deep Heat and liniment forms a fug around us. Behind us, lit up against the last remnants of night sky is Panthinaiko Stadium.
Historical note: The stadium was originally used in ancient times to host the athletic events in the ancient sporting games. It was rebuilt in 1896 for the Olympic Games and is constructed entirely of white marble.
My note: the stadium is now used as the end point of the Athens marathon. It looks nice, but only has three sides (well marble is expensive).
Having worked out that queuing is not a word of Greek derivation I elbowed my way onto a bus and took one last look at the stadium. Logic pointed out how ridiculous it is to travel 42.2km by bus only to be dropped off and run back to where I am now. Far easier just to disembark now. Sense of occasion told me that logic was being a dick. I agreed, told logic to shut up and tried to sleep. I did not want to see the course, whilst making my porridge that morning a Canadian couple had told me that it is all uphill after the first 10km. I decided that, as I could do nothing about that, ignorance of what was to come would be better than trepidation.
By the time we were dropped off in Marathon the sun was coyly peaking over the side of the mountain and the morning breeze made it feel a lot cooler than the 16 degrees Celsius indicated on the board by the start.
Historical Note: Marathon was the place where, in 490BC, the Greeks and Persians had a battle. The Greeks won.
My note: In 2008 AD Marathon is a scrubby village with a nice sports stadium. Every tourist who has ever visited it has, in their head at least, made a joke about calling it Snickers.
With over an hour until the start I decided to find some shelter from the wind. I chose a position that allowed me a good view of the meticulously prepared starting area. They had held an opening ceremony the day before with a flame being lit just like in the Olympics. There was also an old stone by the flame.
Historical Note: The old stone had been excavated when the stadium in Marathon had been rebuilt for the 2004 Olympics. Some writing on it indicated to the clever Greek archaeologists that it was the very stone that had been used as the start of the marathon in 1896.
My note: I am no geologist but it was a nice looking stone. The writing looked suspiciously recent.
The whole event had been very impressively planned. The registration process the day before had been quick and simple. Today had gone as smoothly as the marble that was about to chill the posteriors of the VIPs waiting at the finish line. It was clear that this event meant a lot to the Athenian authorities. They wanted a proper marathon, they wanted to reclaim their event. Not for the first challenge I found myself wondering how a chump like me had got into an event like this.
“Bet you wish you were wearing long sleeves”, an American accent brought me out of my self-deprecation. That was good, I had just decided to find somebody to talk to and he had saved me the much needed energy. However, it turned out this was not soi much a conversation as a soliloquy. Uninvited information I discovered (and I am sparing you his supercilious detail) included, this was his 20th marathon this year, he had done 50 in total because amrathons were his warm up runs because he is an ultra runner who preferred to travel 50 plus miles across deserts and other wilderness. Marathons did not exhaust him and his ex-girlfriend was even more into it than him (man, she had energy). He fitted his exercise around his job in television. He had just had a dump but there was no toilet paper and he hadn’t had breakfast, which did not worry him because he did not need the energy as amrathons are so easy. Also he had got laid last night.
“Do you travel as part of a team?” I asked him.
“No, man” he replied, making an exaggerated mime of tugging at his crotch, “I don’t want hangers on taking y glory”.
I nodded, but thought that it would at least give him someone to talk to. The announcer finished telling us about the stone for the third time and asked all those who had not yet dropped their excess clothes off to do so immediately. I didn’t need a second invitation to escape.
Bang on 9 o’clock a gun was fired, a load of balloons were set free and several thousand runners shuffled forwards. The bunching spread out surprisingly quickly and soon we were running. And it was hot. My tactic was to just plod on. I had not taken a watch, I though I would listen to my body, and take stock every 10km, hoping that by splitting the run up like that it would seem less daunting.
0-10km – hot, mostly flay and I felt quite comfortable. At about 6km there was a statue of Fidippides and several runners stopped to have a picture taken with it.
Historical note: After Greece won the battle Fiddipides was the soldier given the task of going to Athens to spread word of the victory. He ran all the way, passed on the information and died.
My note: The statue has been erected at a point where the route doubles back on itself, indicating that if we are following in his footsteps Fiddipides did not have a great sense of direction. Also, apparently there is a shorter flatter route to Athens – maybe if he had followed that he would not have died.
We passed through a village where the local school’s brass band was playing for us. I distracted myself by observing the different nationalities taking part. Just about every country in Europe seemed to be covered and USA and Canada had a lot of representatives. Clearly the majority were Greek, and in their singlets they revealed just how hirsute a nation they are. You could have knitted several jumpers from the hair on their backs and shoulders. And the men were even worse (boom tish). Official Time to 10km 55:03.
10-20km – Hotter, mostly uphill with one short, steep downhill. Feet hurting from the pounding but otherwise fine, I knew I was going well because the song that popped into my head was good – Painting and Kissing by Hefner. I spent much of this spell talking to a very pleasant guy from Essex/Andover/Middlesborough who was running with his army unit in aid of the Poppy Appeal. He told me that he had done the London Marathon a few times, almost always with a time of 3hours 30 to 3 hours 45 but this course was tougher and he would be delighted to beat 4 hours. I left him behind at about 17km, although I am not sure if he was fading or if he stopped for the toilet. Official Time to 21km 1:54:31
20-30km – Hotter still, all uphill, Out of Jail by They Might Be Giants. For the most part I was still feeling pretty good and was getting excited at the countdown for the last 10 that was approaching. I had been distracting myself by trying to work out what the Latin Alphabet equivalents of Greek letters were. I was still managing to smile at the old ladies shouting “bravo”. But then, at about 27km my left knee started to hurt and my right calf felt very tight. Both legs deciding to give me trouble together. I tried to change my gait to take pressure of the left knee and right calf but in reality I think this just meant slowing down a bit. I had no intention of stopping until the pain made it impossible to continue so just hoped I could run it off. Official Time to 30km 2:42:54.
30-40km – very hot, the downhill started at about 33km and did not stop. I was counting down to the end and whilst my legs were feeling the pounding, I was not out of breath. I was beginning to look out for the distance markers and the songs had stopped completely. By about 35km the aching passed in both knee and calf and I picked up the pace a bit, I was overtaking more people than were overtaking me.
40km – finish – I felt pretty good, no wall hit and the end very much in sight. I picked up the pace with the intention of accelerating significantly at 41km, but then did not see the 41km marker. By the time the stadium came into view I was travelling quicker than anybody else around me and put on as close as I could a sprint finish for the end. Grimacing and shouting at people to get out of the way. I went under the finish line as the clock ticked 3.48.59. I hoped there had been more than 4 minutes between the gun and me crossing the start line. As it turned out I had been 3minutes and 53 seconds crossing the start line – Official time to finish 3:45:06. Those 6 seconds do irritate me.
Challenge complete.
So what to make of marathons? I hate to sound like an American ultra runner but they are in my opinion* overrated. I certainly had an adrenalin rush after finishing and my legs ached for a couple of days but I was not out of breath and did not feel as bad as the media images make you think you will. In fact, as far as I can tell they are designed for one thing only, damaging your legs. I am very glad I have done it but unlike a lot of the other challenges, which were equally demanding, if not more so, I have not come out of this thinking I may do another one. Paula Radcliffe did not finish this course, Fidippides died at the end of it. I might as well quit while I'm ahead.
*Although I am not sure who else’s opinion you were expecting.
Historical note: The stadium was originally used in ancient times to host the athletic events in the ancient sporting games. It was rebuilt in 1896 for the Olympic Games and is constructed entirely of white marble.
My note: the stadium is now used as the end point of the Athens marathon. It looks nice, but only has three sides (well marble is expensive).
Having worked out that queuing is not a word of Greek derivation I elbowed my way onto a bus and took one last look at the stadium. Logic pointed out how ridiculous it is to travel 42.2km by bus only to be dropped off and run back to where I am now. Far easier just to disembark now. Sense of occasion told me that logic was being a dick. I agreed, told logic to shut up and tried to sleep. I did not want to see the course, whilst making my porridge that morning a Canadian couple had told me that it is all uphill after the first 10km. I decided that, as I could do nothing about that, ignorance of what was to come would be better than trepidation.
By the time we were dropped off in Marathon the sun was coyly peaking over the side of the mountain and the morning breeze made it feel a lot cooler than the 16 degrees Celsius indicated on the board by the start.
Historical Note: Marathon was the place where, in 490BC, the Greeks and Persians had a battle. The Greeks won.
My note: In 2008 AD Marathon is a scrubby village with a nice sports stadium. Every tourist who has ever visited it has, in their head at least, made a joke about calling it Snickers.
With over an hour until the start I decided to find some shelter from the wind. I chose a position that allowed me a good view of the meticulously prepared starting area. They had held an opening ceremony the day before with a flame being lit just like in the Olympics. There was also an old stone by the flame.
Historical Note: The old stone had been excavated when the stadium in Marathon had been rebuilt for the 2004 Olympics. Some writing on it indicated to the clever Greek archaeologists that it was the very stone that had been used as the start of the marathon in 1896.
My note: I am no geologist but it was a nice looking stone. The writing looked suspiciously recent.
The whole event had been very impressively planned. The registration process the day before had been quick and simple. Today had gone as smoothly as the marble that was about to chill the posteriors of the VIPs waiting at the finish line. It was clear that this event meant a lot to the Athenian authorities. They wanted a proper marathon, they wanted to reclaim their event. Not for the first challenge I found myself wondering how a chump like me had got into an event like this.
“Bet you wish you were wearing long sleeves”, an American accent brought me out of my self-deprecation. That was good, I had just decided to find somebody to talk to and he had saved me the much needed energy. However, it turned out this was not soi much a conversation as a soliloquy. Uninvited information I discovered (and I am sparing you his supercilious detail) included, this was his 20th marathon this year, he had done 50 in total because amrathons were his warm up runs because he is an ultra runner who preferred to travel 50 plus miles across deserts and other wilderness. Marathons did not exhaust him and his ex-girlfriend was even more into it than him (man, she had energy). He fitted his exercise around his job in television. He had just had a dump but there was no toilet paper and he hadn’t had breakfast, which did not worry him because he did not need the energy as amrathons are so easy. Also he had got laid last night.
“Do you travel as part of a team?” I asked him.
“No, man” he replied, making an exaggerated mime of tugging at his crotch, “I don’t want hangers on taking y glory”.
I nodded, but thought that it would at least give him someone to talk to. The announcer finished telling us about the stone for the third time and asked all those who had not yet dropped their excess clothes off to do so immediately. I didn’t need a second invitation to escape.
Bang on 9 o’clock a gun was fired, a load of balloons were set free and several thousand runners shuffled forwards. The bunching spread out surprisingly quickly and soon we were running. And it was hot. My tactic was to just plod on. I had not taken a watch, I though I would listen to my body, and take stock every 10km, hoping that by splitting the run up like that it would seem less daunting.
0-10km – hot, mostly flay and I felt quite comfortable. At about 6km there was a statue of Fidippides and several runners stopped to have a picture taken with it.
Historical note: After Greece won the battle Fiddipides was the soldier given the task of going to Athens to spread word of the victory. He ran all the way, passed on the information and died.
My note: The statue has been erected at a point where the route doubles back on itself, indicating that if we are following in his footsteps Fiddipides did not have a great sense of direction. Also, apparently there is a shorter flatter route to Athens – maybe if he had followed that he would not have died.
We passed through a village where the local school’s brass band was playing for us. I distracted myself by observing the different nationalities taking part. Just about every country in Europe seemed to be covered and USA and Canada had a lot of representatives. Clearly the majority were Greek, and in their singlets they revealed just how hirsute a nation they are. You could have knitted several jumpers from the hair on their backs and shoulders. And the men were even worse (boom tish). Official Time to 10km 55:03.
10-20km – Hotter, mostly uphill with one short, steep downhill. Feet hurting from the pounding but otherwise fine, I knew I was going well because the song that popped into my head was good – Painting and Kissing by Hefner. I spent much of this spell talking to a very pleasant guy from Essex/Andover/Middlesborough who was running with his army unit in aid of the Poppy Appeal. He told me that he had done the London Marathon a few times, almost always with a time of 3hours 30 to 3 hours 45 but this course was tougher and he would be delighted to beat 4 hours. I left him behind at about 17km, although I am not sure if he was fading or if he stopped for the toilet. Official Time to 21km 1:54:31
20-30km – Hotter still, all uphill, Out of Jail by They Might Be Giants. For the most part I was still feeling pretty good and was getting excited at the countdown for the last 10 that was approaching. I had been distracting myself by trying to work out what the Latin Alphabet equivalents of Greek letters were. I was still managing to smile at the old ladies shouting “bravo”. But then, at about 27km my left knee started to hurt and my right calf felt very tight. Both legs deciding to give me trouble together. I tried to change my gait to take pressure of the left knee and right calf but in reality I think this just meant slowing down a bit. I had no intention of stopping until the pain made it impossible to continue so just hoped I could run it off. Official Time to 30km 2:42:54.
30-40km – very hot, the downhill started at about 33km and did not stop. I was counting down to the end and whilst my legs were feeling the pounding, I was not out of breath. I was beginning to look out for the distance markers and the songs had stopped completely. By about 35km the aching passed in both knee and calf and I picked up the pace a bit, I was overtaking more people than were overtaking me.
40km – finish – I felt pretty good, no wall hit and the end very much in sight. I picked up the pace with the intention of accelerating significantly at 41km, but then did not see the 41km marker. By the time the stadium came into view I was travelling quicker than anybody else around me and put on as close as I could a sprint finish for the end. Grimacing and shouting at people to get out of the way. I went under the finish line as the clock ticked 3.48.59. I hoped there had been more than 4 minutes between the gun and me crossing the start line. As it turned out I had been 3minutes and 53 seconds crossing the start line – Official time to finish 3:45:06. Those 6 seconds do irritate me.
Challenge complete.
So what to make of marathons? I hate to sound like an American ultra runner but they are in my opinion* overrated. I certainly had an adrenalin rush after finishing and my legs ached for a couple of days but I was not out of breath and did not feel as bad as the media images make you think you will. In fact, as far as I can tell they are designed for one thing only, damaging your legs. I am very glad I have done it but unlike a lot of the other challenges, which were equally demanding, if not more so, I have not come out of this thinking I may do another one. Paula Radcliffe did not finish this course, Fidippides died at the end of it. I might as well quit while I'm ahead.
*Although I am not sure who else’s opinion you were expecting.
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Marathon I'd Like to Finish
And so to the anachronism of marathons. The bombshells from a bygone age. They defy metrification and continue to dine out all afternoon when everybody else wants to finish and get on with their busy lives. And yet each of them retain the glamour that has long departed contemporaries, the distance walking and 10,000 metres age gracefully in a home but the marathon is still forcing herself into the public eye. We all know it is wrong but there is something about her, people continue to be entranced by her mystique, drawn, powerless, into her clutches and then she devours them, mercilessly destroying joints, tendons, muscles and cartilage. And afterwards you are a member of a limited but not very exclusive club. People, however distasteful they find it still have a grudging respect that you did one.
For a very long time I have contemplated a marathon. I had a place in London twice but had to drop out both times through a knee injury picked up in training. The nature of this year meant I had to have one last attempt before accepting she is a conquest too far. But this year London didn’t want me. I needed to find somewhere else. Not any of the other big three. New York was out, I didn’t want to go back to the same place for more than one challenge. Boston and Berlin came at the wrong time. I had to look at the minor marathons. Nearly every city seems to have one so it was a case of finding the right one for me. I looked at Prague, I looked at Rome, I looked at Paris. None were quite right. I wanted something with a bit of kudos, somewhere that had a bit more meaning than shutting your eyes and doing it for the sake of doing it. Finally I decided where to search, the original, the inspiration, the mother of them all. A couple of clicks of a mouse and there she was, exposed before me. She retained all her legendary charms, maybe now a little tatty but the route and the finish were as they were in the beginning of it all. She still had the exotic allure of somewhere I had never been before. I could pay to enter her. I was snared.
But now the moment nears and I am not ready for her, not if I am going to do myself justice. The three weeks I have had to train since my knees got over cycling is the amount of time period they advise you to use for winding down and conserving strength. I will go slowly, I will pace myself and, injuries permitting, she will be mine. It has to be that way. I always said I would defy the bombshells. I would use Athens for my needs. I will only ever do one marathon in my life and this is it. I know they lure back others who make these claims but not me. I have seen what their power can do to people, turning them from cool DJs into peculiar old men.
PS. For anybody who is thinking of taking part in a marathon here is my top training tip. However stylish your snug fitting Chelsea boots may be avoid wearing them for the first time since Spring the weekend before the marathon. This is stupid and is just asking for the skin to be taken off your ankles. You will face the prospect of being in a lot of pain just walking to the start line. Go with the broken in, slightly tatty brogues.
For a very long time I have contemplated a marathon. I had a place in London twice but had to drop out both times through a knee injury picked up in training. The nature of this year meant I had to have one last attempt before accepting she is a conquest too far. But this year London didn’t want me. I needed to find somewhere else. Not any of the other big three. New York was out, I didn’t want to go back to the same place for more than one challenge. Boston and Berlin came at the wrong time. I had to look at the minor marathons. Nearly every city seems to have one so it was a case of finding the right one for me. I looked at Prague, I looked at Rome, I looked at Paris. None were quite right. I wanted something with a bit of kudos, somewhere that had a bit more meaning than shutting your eyes and doing it for the sake of doing it. Finally I decided where to search, the original, the inspiration, the mother of them all. A couple of clicks of a mouse and there she was, exposed before me. She retained all her legendary charms, maybe now a little tatty but the route and the finish were as they were in the beginning of it all. She still had the exotic allure of somewhere I had never been before. I could pay to enter her. I was snared.
But now the moment nears and I am not ready for her, not if I am going to do myself justice. The three weeks I have had to train since my knees got over cycling is the amount of time period they advise you to use for winding down and conserving strength. I will go slowly, I will pace myself and, injuries permitting, she will be mine. It has to be that way. I always said I would defy the bombshells. I would use Athens for my needs. I will only ever do one marathon in my life and this is it. I know they lure back others who make these claims but not me. I have seen what their power can do to people, turning them from cool DJs into peculiar old men.
PS. For anybody who is thinking of taking part in a marathon here is my top training tip. However stylish your snug fitting Chelsea boots may be avoid wearing them for the first time since Spring the weekend before the marathon. This is stupid and is just asking for the skin to be taken off your ankles. You will face the prospect of being in a lot of pain just walking to the start line. Go with the broken in, slightly tatty brogues.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
2 weeks, 4 Challenges
I have gone from wondering what comes next to facing the most intense challenge period of the year.
9 November
Athens Marathon - you all know what one of these is. A separate post about the background should be up next week.
18 November
They say that you can burn up to 2600 calories running a marathon. So with that and the Tower Run I will clearly need to get some food in me. Lucky then that the British Mince Pie Eating Championship takes place just a few days later. One mince pie contains 20% of the Government guideline for saturated fat (have you ever noticed how if it's good for you it is measured as RDA, if it's bad for you it's a Government Guideline?). The world record for mince pies eaten in 10 minutes is 48. I won't hit that marker but should down enough to give Gillian McKeith cause for concern.
For all the scoffers (do you see what I did there?) this is a proper competition. First prize gets £1000 and a place in American gastrogames (competing with professional eaters). I am taking this as seriously as any of the other challenges and so will be genuinely training for it - the best competitors treat it like a sport and are not just bloaters. Also the event will be about as spectator friendly as it gets this year so take the day off and watch me be very sick.
23 November
Back to the physical stuff. I have done a triathlon, I will have done a marathon so it would be rude not to go for the clean sweep and take on a duathlon. But not a nice clean road duathlon. I have done enough running and cycling on hard surfaces, that would not be a new challenge. This is cross country running and mountain biking. A nice twist and, judging by recent weather, it could be messy. So far arse and knees are not aware of their return to the saddle. I like to surprise my body parts.
I am hoping to have a bit of news on some other work in progress stuff fairly soon and, in the next few days will be confirming the grand finale. Exciting times so, don't miss out on reading all about me - subscribe.
9 November
Athens Marathon - you all know what one of these is. A separate post about the background should be up next week.
15 November
Now, I've heard a few theories about the best way to recover after a marathon. They include drinking about 2 litres of water immediately after finishing, light exercise (swimming is particularly good) the day after to break down lactic acid and getting a lot of rest. What no one seems to have suggested yet is running up the 60 storeys of the tallest structure in Austria 6 days later. I am putting that down to a lack of research in the area rather than it being a bloody stupid idea.
18 November
They say that you can burn up to 2600 calories running a marathon. So with that and the Tower Run I will clearly need to get some food in me. Lucky then that the British Mince Pie Eating Championship takes place just a few days later. One mince pie contains 20% of the Government guideline for saturated fat (have you ever noticed how if it's good for you it is measured as RDA, if it's bad for you it's a Government Guideline?). The world record for mince pies eaten in 10 minutes is 48. I won't hit that marker but should down enough to give Gillian McKeith cause for concern.
For all the scoffers (do you see what I did there?) this is a proper competition. First prize gets £1000 and a place in American gastrogames (competing with professional eaters). I am taking this as seriously as any of the other challenges and so will be genuinely training for it - the best competitors treat it like a sport and are not just bloaters. Also the event will be about as spectator friendly as it gets this year so take the day off and watch me be very sick.
23 November
Back to the physical stuff. I have done a triathlon, I will have done a marathon so it would be rude not to go for the clean sweep and take on a duathlon. But not a nice clean road duathlon. I have done enough running and cycling on hard surfaces, that would not be a new challenge. This is cross country running and mountain biking. A nice twist and, judging by recent weather, it could be messy. So far arse and knees are not aware of their return to the saddle. I like to surprise my body parts.
I am hoping to have a bit of news on some other work in progress stuff fairly soon and, in the next few days will be confirming the grand finale. Exciting times so, don't miss out on reading all about me - subscribe.
Monday, 20 October 2008
A short post at last
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