diary of a fat jogger

Monday, April 16

2 hours, 13 minutes, 38 seconds.
That is my official time after I completed the Reading Half-Marathoin last week. I'm pretty chuffed.
Not only was my time faster on a pro rata basis than the 10 mile race I did late last year, it's also the furthest I have ever run -- a little before my 40th too.
Again I surprised myself by sprinting at the end, although the pressure of a fellow runner also sprinting to my side pushed me to the very edge of my competitive boundaries.
I felt like I was going to vomit, having been pretty comfortable past the 13 mile mark.
The pain you put yourself through in order to finish 5 thousandth and 94th -- or whatever it was -- rather than 5 thousandth and 95th!
Next on the agenda, or course, is the big one; double the longest distance I've done to date.
I hope you don't mind if I sleep on it for a bit.

Wednesday, October 19

I've been eating pizza, curry and burgers of late. I think I deserve it.

Maybe I'll try and run again next week. But for now I'm living the life of Homer.

I've laid off the beer and wine though. Aside that is from last Saturday, when we me and the Mrs went to a birthday do, got smashed and had a drunkard spat.

We've both been rather sheepish since then, inevitably -- a bit embarassed.

It's a sad British ritual I think.

But one thing struck me before we got on the tube, at the start of the evening, that we both found amusing. It involved a drunk, a hard core floozy, and a cross one at that, cursing and slurring  about how he should have done something to someone who had bothered him for no reason, or some-other.

I tuned in and figured that some unruly yoofs had roughed him up, although his addled pride was the only thing that seemed hurt.

"Bloody weekend drinkers!!" he spat.

How we both laughed. I mean that's well funny!

The irony isn't lost on me.

Sunday, October 9

You’re supposed to warm up for a race not freeze your knackers on the back of a motorbike racing through the Surrey and Hampshire countryside at more than 100mph.

But then the Fat Jogger isn’t your typical jogger. And nor for that matter is the all-smoking all-drinking doctor, who was giving me a lift to Portsmouth on his 1200cc BMW.

Still we got there in good time and after a short walk the blood was soon flowing again and the frozen stumps at the end of my legs reverted to being feet.

A couple of hours later I was sitting on the grass contemplating a minor miracle: my sprint finish over the line.

For I had just run 10 miles in just under 1 hour and 45 minutes.

“He looks like he’s going to faint,” I heard one tattooed Pompey teenager say to her mother at the half-way stage, before catching their eyes and realising they were talking about me.

Me? I felt better than I obviously looked.

Motivating myself over the last few miles was inevitably tricky. My legs were straining, my hamstrings were tightening and my knees were creaking.

“Imagine your wife shagging someone else on the finishing line,” a work colleague and marathon veteran had proffered. But it was no incentive at all. Because in reality I would have saved my energy for the fisticuffs ahead and got a taxi.

So instead I went with the beat.

Michael Jackson’s Billy Jean kicked in at 6 miles – a seminal tune, like Afrika Bambatta’s Planet Rock or Ghost Town by The Specials. It was plain sailing while that was on.

And then I noticed my i-Pod played a couple of tunes every a mile.

So I did the math; I had 8 tunes to go, then 7, 6, 5 and so on. It helped me no end from 6 to 9 miles.

After that I was on automatic pilot.

By that stage I was running so slow I was thinking I’d be lucky to finish in less than 2 hours.

How wrong I was.

My official time was 1 hour 44 minutes 53 seconds. Not bad for a 16-and-a-half-stone man.

I was upgraded to four wheels on my return, hitching a lift back to Brixton with Suggsy and Lyla, who also came down.

When I finally knocked on the Doc’s door to get my keys, the stiffness was setting in.

“Swift pint and fag?”

“Um”

“It’s who we are man!”

“Yeah alright, c’mon a quickie.”

Saturday, October 8

We grow older from the day we are born.
But growing old also creeps up on you and can catch you unawares.  And now my wife is 40, the big 4-0 also looms for me in six months time.
I remember noticing Wayne Rooney was less than half my age; that was a couple of years ago.
I remember realising that some of the music I liked was now in the Easy Listening section, notably 1970s soul and jazzfunk; that was maybe five or six years ago.
I also remember noticing that everyone I knew under the age of 35 was nonplussed when I joked that my youngest looked like Charlie Drake; that was six months ago.
It’s the same when I playfully cringe about TV programmes like ‘On The Buses’ or ‘Mind your Language’ or reminisce about the Harlem Globe Trotters, a Knickerbockerglory from Wimpey, R.Whites Lemonade, Stan Bowles, The Warriors, or Earth Wind & Fire.
It’s the same with the Post Office Tower.
For a long time it was the daddy of the London skyline. But then the NatWest Tower came and then Canary Wharf and finally the Gherkin, which has blown everything else away.
Can you believe the Post Office Tower is 40 this weekend?
Tomorrow is my big run and I’m beginning to feel it.

October 2, 2005

October 2, 2005
I’m wracked with doubt again.
I really went for it on Friday, or thought I did. I ran from Canary Wharf to Tower Bridge, crossed the bridge, passed the mayor’s landmark offices and HMS Belfast, coming back north over London Bridge and then east again to Singapore-by-Bow.
Sounds a lot, and it is. I was cream crackered.
But 7 miles at this stage is a little disappointing. I had hoped for 8, but the ruler of truth when I measured it out at work on my computer screen said 6.9.
I sought solace by breaking my 4-day fag boycott.
Naturally, I got the justification I needed by first calling my running buddy, the Doctor, and satisfying myself that he was still puffing.
I need to find another 3 miles from somewhere in just one week. I need to find another 45-50 percent.
Talking to the Doc and others, I get the sense that I will still probably finish the 10 mile course next Sunday, helped along by the crowd. 1 hour 45 mins is my aim.
But I’m under no illusion that it is going to be anything other than a mare. “Just do it,” as the advert says.
As for running the London Marathon next April – that’s just flipping ridiculous.
I keep putting it off but for how much longer?
There are pressing lifestyle issues that I keep meaning to confront, not least the cigarettes.
I learnt today that Uncle Manolo had become the third of mum’s siblings to be diagnosed with cancer. It’s of the sarcophagus, so we’re hopeful that it will be successfully cut out. Still.
My attitude to fags is similar to my attitude to drink and food. I’m a refined glutton.
It’s who I am.
This time last week I was living the life of a bon viveur, in gastronomic heaven, ordering £50 wines in a 2-Michelin star restaurant in a shabby chic 5-star Spanish hotel. I still haven’t got round to writing about my 4 nights in Andalucia – Mrs. Spanish Bill’s 40^th birthday present. But I will do. In the meantime here are some photos.
This time next week I could be running easily my longest distance yet --  10 straight miles.
So many contradictions, so little time.

Monday, September 19

Monday, September 19
Four people died as a result of heart attacks at yesterday’s Great North Run -- a half-marathon. Faaaaaaaaaaack!
Still, "Get fit or die trying" as Fiddy Cent once said.
"Like that Will," Monty texted me when I told him. "88 Cent and the W Crew" .

Sunday, September 18

Sunday, September 18
Mrs Spanish Bill hit the big 4-0 on Friday and threw a party to celebrate the fact.
As her toy boy -- they say life begins at 40, but I'm not ready to write off the 7 months I've still got in my 30s -- I'm taking the old lady to a mystery destination next week (**taps nose knowingly**).
That's still to come.
On the actual day of her birthday I treated her to a lobster and dressed crab breakfast, with a tropical fruit salad and a Virgin Mary on the side, having sent her to bed slightly pickled in champers with a Peking duck dinner and a rich chocolate and orange ice cream in her belly.
You gotta admit: the boy done well.
I mean, c'mon! Lobster breakfast?
As MC Hammer once said; Can't touch this, daan-de-da-dun. Never thought I'd say this, but ain't the Waitrose in Canary Wharf good?
Anyway, I managed 7 miles on Thursday, with the help of a very electic mix of Tears for Fears, Freddie Hubbard, Strings of Life, Edwin Starr, and Lord Tanamo, among others.
I just love the random play function on my MP3 player.
I ran to work again, altering my route slightly.
This time I ran all the way down Kingsland High Road to Shoreditch, then veered on to Commercial Street between the City and Banglatown, heading east on the Commercial Road and turning right on Cannon Street towards the home of The Sun and The Times newspapers -- and cutting across Cable Street, where the fascist Black Shirts got a good kicking in the 1930s -- before heading east again and catching the Thames Path to Canary Wharf at Limehouse.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed.
It felt like 8 miles physically. That's what I had hoped for.
But it was 7 miles in 1 hour and 12 mins.
What this means is that I'm going to have to scrap for every extra single mile.
It's a year since I began this running quest.
But I've clearly only just begun.

Monday, September 5

Monday, September 5
There's nothing a bloke like me likes doing more on his day off than pottering around doing very little.
And updating this diary at a leisurely pace clearly fits the bill. But before I lose you with more inane rambling, here comes a bombshell: I had my back waxed this morning.
That’s right: BACK WAXED.
It’s a male taboo (that’s male as in NOT GAY). So I expect a lot of pisstaking. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I even sneaked out of my depilator’s house ninja-style in case her youngest daughter saw me. That’s because her son and my eldest are in the same class at school. And you know what kids are like – let alone those in Hackney and Islington.
My boy would no doubt end up laying into someone in defence of my honour.
But he needn’t bother, for I really don't give a toss. It’s the second time I’ve had it done.
I’m happy for my woman to wax her legs or even have a Brazilian (come to think of it, I’d be more than happy about that).
So what’s the big deal.
Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought it was £14 well spent.
Anyway, why do I bring this up?
It’s because I sense a trend. I bought eye gel last time I was at an airport and something called Face Rejuvenator, something I've never done before. I’ve also taken to buying shampoo that accentuates my natural highlights (I have different shades of fair hair — the sort that makes people think Sun-In).
In short, I’m becoming increasingly vain.
Maybe as we get older we all need to run faster just to stand still.
Or maybe that’s what the marketing people want us to think and we’re now following an increasingly female agenda (cue Michael Buerk).
Thankfully, my fitness drive isn’t about that. It’s more about feeling good and achievement rather than looking good.
That’s why I’ve entered the London Marathon. Yep, I’m going for the big one.
There’s a few of us in the team planning to do it, I found out yesterday.
When I say “team” I mean Inter – Internazionale of London, a now defunct but once glorious amateur football team.
We played a one-off friendly against Brixton Town F.C. on Clapham Common.
They were younger, fitter, made us play on a hard surface that suited them more and arranged a Sunday K.O. of 10:30 am even though some of us had to venture down from North London and beyond.
But we still won – 3-0. Click here for a match report.
In the pub afterwards, Big Jenks said he was also planning to run the marathon, joining Suggsy, Doctor Dave and me (Tiemoko, First Officer Brown, Chris S and Marky H are other potential candidates).
But there the similarities between Jenks and me end; while he had Gordon Ramsey’s marathon time in his sights and was targeting 3 ½ hours, there was me looking to beat Lorraine Kelly in less than 6.

Friday, September 2

A much better day today.

The commute was certainly more pleasant even if it meant waking up at 4:30 am to catch a taxi for the early shift.  But it was worth it.

I also tried a new jogging strategy.

Influenced by expert advice from a running magazine and various jogger forums on the Net, I thought it might be a good idea to shift some of my running to the afternoon.

The body, you see, is not in peak running condition first thing in the morning. Anyway, it's probably a good idea to mix it up a bit, for motivational reasons.

You don't seriously think I was going to continue solely with my crack-den-canal route over the dark and dangerous winter months do you?

You're 'aving a laugh mate.

I still remember the way that guy eyed my Bang & Olufsen earphones on the Kingsland High Road the last time I ran in.

The fact I'm from these parts only compounds my fears.

I've also bought a new pair of trainers.

My left knee has been aching ever since I ran the six as-the-crow-flies miles from home to work for a second time.

It's a common jogger's injury, particularly in fat bastards.

I've also, again, been influenced by what I've read; it seems you simply cannot underestimate the importance of wearing the right footwear.

So off I went to one of them big fancy sportswear stores to have my running action expertly analysed and to buy a pair of trainers to suit my gait.

Apparently I overpronate. I won't explain it. If you really want to find out more click here. But in a nutshell it means I run funny.

So to minimise the risk of injury I got these trainers.

And after an unforeseen delay I ran today from Canary Wharf to Tower Bridge and back -- a much nicer route through Shadwell and Wapping.

It took me about an hour.

I'm yet to run much beyond 6 miles, but that's my fifth 10k in the bank, which is just as well seeing as there's only just over a month to go before my 10 miler.

The next fortnight is critical -- it's time to move up to 7 or 8 miles.

Thursday, September 1

Aaaaargh! I can't stand this place.

What a souless pin-striped chrome-plated motherfucking dive.

The delays, the sweat stains, the sea of people, the odour that once on your clothes sticks with you all day -- it's an unpleasant commute.

It's been pretty muggy these days too, which hasn't helped.

I've taken to drastic measures -- trimming my armpit hair to reduce the risk of jam-packed-tube-induced body odour.

This is what I have been reduced to.

Don't look me at like that man!