So, as the end draws to a close on another back fat wobbling week and whilst I have not been able to get to the keyboard as regularly as I would have liked, here is this week’s entry so far.
Today saw the absence of one notable participant. It was nearly the wife who had hoped that I had forgotten about the whole thing after the weekend break. No, it was my four legged poop machine, the dog.
After all the trials we have had with his bowel movements, we decided to leave him at home. OK it was my idea and it did meet with some complaining (not by the dog you understand) but I really felt that to concentrate on the running for a change was important.
So with eldest daughter in tow we set off to our jogging point. On exiting the car it started to rain, so we faced the real possibility of getting a good soaking.
“Come on, it’s only rain” I said. A comment that was just a little reminiscent of my old PE teachers, whose idea of a good laugh was to go running in a force 8 gale and do press-ups in the snow. Not that I’m scarred or anything, it’s just that some memories don’t fade that easily.
So with the usual stop to say hello to the pigs, we set off. The eldest was in I can only describe what was a “childish” mood and insisted on doing long stretches as he walked and skipping along backwards. When we got into the first run, it was aided by an over exaggerated mincing movement that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Ministry of Silly Walks.
This was so entertaining that it interfered with my breathing technique and my wife started filming the whole thing.
“If you put that on Facebook I will disown you” she cried. I did point out that at sixteen she had already done that on so many occasions that I had lost count. Irrespective of the filming she carried on mincing away.
The additional bags of sugar seemed to be less troublesome this time around and only hurt on one side. The feet were feeling fine and I after run 4 I was somewhat pleased with myself for actually doing this exercise thing.
By now the sky had turned various shades of deep grey and the threat of really heavy rain looked ominous. Along the track came a fellow runner, you couldn’t miss her due to the bright peach coloured top she was wearing, but it wasn’t the top that caught my attention, no…it was the enormous pair of….sunglasses!
Yes, sunglasses, on day when the world looked like it was on the brink of an apocalyptic storm, she was wearing a pair of shades. I’m amazed she didn’t crash into the nearest tree.
As he passed I pointed out that that was where we were going wrong. Despite having “Bargain of the week” running shoes with lime green “go faster stripes” we weren’t yet quite there in the accessories department.
The journey ended with a conversation about the different coloured items we were going to buy where I was pointedly told that I could not buy camouflage running gear no matter how manly it was.
Guess I’m going to be stuck with fluorescent orange.
Today was another one without the dog and sadly without the eldest daughter, who unlike the dog was having issues with her bowel movements. Having taken some off the shelf medication, she was worried that despite it giving her the reassurance of “predictable relief”, that was totally useless if you are 2 miles from the nearest toilet.
So tonight we were joined by youngest daughter (aged 11) who was is stick thin and is pretty much “full on” from the moment she wakes up until she hits the sheets at bedtime.
After saying hello to the pigs and remarking on how bad the smell was, we set off.
As we started on the 5 minute warm up I noticed that we were being stared at by the sheep in the opposite field. I suppose they were getting used to us turning up three times a week but it was the sort of stare that left you feeling somewhat uncomfortable. I shook my head and carried on only to sneak a peek over my shoulder as we turned the corner of the track. They were still staring!
My wife queried why I had suddenly speeded up and rather than admit to being mentally disturbed by a group of woolly tormentors, I simply said that it was better for us.
At this stage, I also noticed that youngest daughter (YD) hadn’t stopped talking the entire time. As we broke into our first run, she carried on talking whilst my wife and I started to concentrate on our breathing technique.
“You don’t talk much do you?” she remarked.
“That’s….because….we….find….it….hard….to….breathe….and….talk….at….the…..same….time” I replied between breathes which completely buggered up my breathing pattern.
Laura of course offered a great piece of advice on breathing at this stage explaining how to breathe in for four and out for four. “Oh good” I thought.
20 seconds later I was suffering from an oxygen deficit and once again my breathing was totally buggered.
The bags of sugar ne: back fat were behaving slightly better and I find if I relaxed a little they bounced up and down in a much more comfortable way.
We passed the halfway turning point and were on our way back when a voice form behind shouted
“Run on the right!”
We all jumped in different directions as a cyclist went hurtling past spraying grit up in all directions.
“Get a bell!” I sort of shouted back, nearly slipping back in to Mr Grumpy mode.
“What an arse” explained YD.
At which point I had to explain that it wasn’t acceptable to use that kind of language at her age. She did of course remind me that that was what I called the dog most of time.
At this point I felt it necessary to correct her, which is of course completely the right thing to do as a mature 50 year old, by stating that in fact I normally call him a “Complete and utter arse” or “Mr Arse” when I’m in a good mood.
"What a complete and utter arse" she shouted.
I was completely lost for words.
After YD ran through a stitch and with no altercations with overload hormonal dogs we approached the finishing walk feeling rather pleased.
We rounded the corner. There they were, staring at us from beyond the fence. Sheep. And that really is the worrying thing about sheep, they are expressionless. You wouldn’t know if they were laughing along at some private joke or were just about head-butt you in the nuts.
Just that steady emotionless stare.
Very disturbing things sheep.