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.

Saturday, February 4
9.2 miles!
7 times around Finsbury Park! I even had a bit left in the tank – just a little bit, enough to shout at a dog owner on the final straight that I would kick his dog if it came up behind me again and poked me in the back of the knee with the twig in its mouth.
I thought he had bitten me! Last thing you flipping need after 9 miles.

Saturday, January 28
I haven’t done anything since my last run – partly by design, to help the body recover, and partly because I couldn’t be bothered.
But I went for a short one today – about 1.5 miles.
Thing is, it hurt more than my previous runs because I ran at faster pace than normal.
I normally do a steady 10-minute mile pace. This was more like 8 minutes.
I overtook quite a few people and, for once, no one overtook me.
I was knackered. It took me a while to stop huffing when I was done.
Still, it took my missus a lot longer to recover from her run! “I don’t feel well,” said this purple-headed creature brushing past me when I answered the door. I didn’t hear a peak from the bedroom for a good 10 minutes after her unexpected lap of the park.
“I’m very proud of you darling. Well done!” I shouted up. “Shows you how unfit you are, though,” I added, with a snigger.
“I’m not unfit!”
“Don’t worry, next time you do it, it’ll be a doddle.”
Secretly I was quite pleased with myself. I seem to be inspiring people I know to take up jogging.
In fact, it was only the other day that a mate, Snowy, said he was taking up jogging.
Better still, I’ve lost almost a stone. I’m threatening to break below 16 stone.

Thursday, January 19
I really went for it today: from Canary Wharf to the Tate Modern and back.
That’s at least 8 miles by my calculations, or about 20 tunes on my iPod.
And even though I had to pass a gaggle of schoolchildren chillin’ by the Globe Theatre, there wasn’t any pisstaking of my lycra attire. At least, I don’t think there was.
(Of course I’m self-conscious – a 16-stone plus man in lycra tights? What do you expect?)
Unfortunately, I forgot my towel and had to borrow a flannel from a petit female colleague. “It’s usually all I need,” she said, as she handed over a 10 by 10-inch piece of blue towelling. “Coor, that took a long time,” I said, as I returned to my desk. “I had to jump up and down to get dry.” “Euughh! We’re trying to have our lunch here.”

Thursday, January 12
I’ve been clocking up the miles nicely.
4.5 miles, 5.5, 4, 6, 6.5, 4 – I’ve done more 30 miles already so far this year,a nd been running twice a week.
I’ve lost weight too -- About half a stone.
Drinking camomile or jasmine tea all day at work is raising eyebrows though. I’m getting a little gentle ribbing. My manliness is even being called into question by some of the girls on my desk.
It’s almost a ritual whenever anyone offers to make a cuppa: “I’ll have a builders’, nothing fancy.”
Still, I’m hardly doing cold turkey.
I still get an Assam-heavy Yorkshire brew with milk first thing in the morning and when I return home in the evening.
I’m feeling good and I feel a biggy coming on.

Tuesday, January 10
After an agonising debate, I took the plunge this week: lycra running tights. “Does my bum look big in this?” You better believe it.
For a man who has at various times in his life been accused of being “unreconstructed”, it was a pretty big step.
My wife and kids assured me that I looked ok.
.
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