My mindset going into these posts is to, of course, make them about running, but you know how they turn out...
I do like to think they’re about running though, but it’s probably fairer to say they flirt with running. They catch running’s eye from across the crowded bar and cock a seductive, come-get-me eyebrow. They do a shoulder-wiggling half-dance as they cut through the hubbub, without breaking gaze, they pull up a stool and say, “Hey, bebby”. They usually get a drink thrown in their face.
It feels like it's been a while since I've been on here, injecting a syringe of utter drivel into your busy lives and, given the blockage, this is a long one. Even by my standards.
I think I'm borderline mid-life crisis at the moment and my brain seems to keep tapping into strange, quasi-intellectual ore veins that lead like Alice's rabbithole to some pretty dark, abstract places. You should actually be eternally gratefuI for my absence as I bashed out a fifty-thousand worder during the week but showed some rare self-restraint and spared you.
Honestly, in it I was likening our little journey through C25K to core principals of Chaos Maths. I was banging on about sensitivity to initial conditions like it meant something poignant yet inspirational. It stemmed from beating myself up over a recent smoking relapse and I projected my momentary succumbent of will-power to a dour inability to achieve anything in the second half of my peculiar little existence. I honestly thought it would be light and entertaining, read it back and found that it nosedived sharply and without warning from whimsicality into something ominous, like the boat ride scene in the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It went from edible cups and saucers and orange dwarves attempting cartwheels to a montage of snakes and feasting tarantulas in the blink of an eye. It was an unnecessary and nightmarish whistle stop tour through my inner psyche with no gift shop at the end.
After reading that paragraph, you may feel like you've just been subjected to it anyway and haven't truly been spared but believe me, you have. You're most welcome.
One good thing that happened last week though was that the wife accidentally left the gate open and I managed to wander out unchaperoned, confused and blinking into the sun. I had a whole day’s leave from husbandry and fatherhood so I hopped merrily on the bus, tipped my hat to driver and ordered, “To town!” Off the bus and en route to the train station, I decided that I was in such a charming mood that I thoroughly deserved to get f*cked-up drunk.
Apologies, but sometimes there just aren't any adequate synonyms for a good ol’ swear. It perfectly encapsulates the classlessness of the day.
Anyway, I detoured to the nearest newsagents, pointed at the man behind the counter and said, “You, sir! Tell me my good man, which of these alcoholic beverages is least fit for human consumption?” And bought two.
I’ll tell you what, Zywiec lager doesn’t half knock you down a few rungs on the social ladder. Everyone claims to be all left wing and cosmopolitan, but when you’re sat drinking eastern European lager with the only empty seat on the whole damned train next to you and people are instead choosing to stand near chemical toilets that are more hazardous to health than the surface of Venus, then you know you’re an undesirable. I bought them because they were all I could get as a couple of singles, rather than a bladder bursting four-pack for my short journey, but I’ll be buying them again though for the perk of public avoidance. And it’s strong! Phwah! It was the kind of stuff that tramps use as central heating during a long night on a cold park bench. I was already half-cut when I got to where I was going and spent the rest of the day gently sinking through various levels of intoxication until I found enlightenment. The irony is though that when you reach the point where suddenly the universe makes complete sense, you’re too battered to communicate it (despite many, many attempts) and in the morning, it’s gone.
The Friday evening before that lovely day was my W5R1. I did a lot of walking (stumbling) when out on the Saturday, the big shop on Sunday and then woke up with inexplicable calf strain on Monday, which laid me up until Thursday, when it vanished as quick and mysteriously as it arrived. It may've been caused by getting stung on the heel by a full shopping trolley. Christ, I didn't realise my vocal chords could reach those higher octaves. Every head in the supermarket jolted up and sunk an inch into their shoulders as my sub-masculine yelp reverberated around the HVAC. My wife swears she didn't mean to, but I did accidentally whip her backside with a wet tea towel that morning. A good'un too; it landed crisp and sweet with a satisfying snap. I think there may've been some revenge being enacted.
W5R1, I distinctly remember blowing on the last five-minute run. I sidestep the whole "conversational pace" rule as I'm not a conversationalist, so I assume it doesn't apply to me, which leaves me free to gun it to the point that my heart is pumping so hard that I could, upon severance of a major artery, happily blood-squirt unsuspecting pedestrians on the Champs-Elysées from here. When MJ told me that the grim affair was over for the day, I locked my elbow around the nearest lamppost for support and proceeded to slide downwards.
So after that, and a six day, niggly-calfy, smoky-relapsy lay off, I didn't hold much hope for R2. Eight minutes is a pretty short amount of time for anything in life bar running and having sex where, in both exceptions, it's actually a pretty miraculous achievement. High-five worthy. But on Thursday I got myself out and it was just easy. It must've been one of the days when all of life's undefinable jigsaw pieces meshed together perfectly without conscious intervention. I still felt like I had a bit sloshing around in the tank after each of the runs which was handy considering the brute that is W5R3 lurking around the corner like a school bully.
It's in stark contrast to my first little go around this track. I went back and read what I wrote at this point last time and it seemed I struggled with my eight minute run and lost a bit of confidence in the face of R3. I actually wrote:
W5R3. Everyone's on about it. I'm one of those people who, right at the start, clicked on every run to see what's in store. When I saw this one, I was naively excited and thought, "Well, by then all of those other runs would've turned my into a nimble, lithe Adonis and I'd be able to do it with a dwarf strapped to my back". It's only when you get right up against it and you're staring into its yellowing, bloodshot eyes that you realise you're in all sorts of mischief. I'm typing 'you', but I mean me.
I'm not ready for this. Not even close. This programme has led me up to the precipice and all the way there has been telling me I would grow wings. And I haven't. Not even nubs.
But as it was, a couple of days later I slung that run over my knee, whipped its pants and trousers down and paddled it pink. This time I went through some strange reverse-psychology process with myself and ended up losing confidence again.
The logic went:
Last time, W5R2 - bad, W5R3 - good. A bad R2 gave me the humility I needed to go in with respect. This time, W5R2 - good, W5R3 - must be bad. Go in cocky, end up losing all internal organs through anus due to over exertion.
But actually BOOM! The sphincter held and I didn't just rosy the run's arse with a couple of happy slaps again, I brought out The Gimp.
Whatever happens next, whatever is going through your mind is a function of your own imagination, not mine. I wouldn't subject you to mine. I couldn't afford the lawsuit.
Bring Out The Gimp isn't me airing my penchants. It's bloody good track off of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack and has just started creeping on at the end of my warm-up walks now that the sessions are getting slightly longer. I tend to have the same playlist in the same order for every run so I can use the song transitions, measured against where I am on my route, as a benchmark for pace, but I think this one could do with bumping up the list. That debauched trumpet will help scrape the barrel of my energy levels when I feel on empty. I reckon there's an extra kilometre for me in that song.
I've linked it below - have a listen. Don't worry, other than the word Gimp being used in the intro, it's safe for work.
I'm veering off course again...
I had to fight tooth and claw to get myself through the last five minutes of R3 though and could've straightaway collapsed onto my haunches at the final whistle. I've long given up trying to run at anything but my (what feels) natural pace, particularly going slower. I'm hoping that, counterintuitively, I can run slower as I get fitter due to having more rhythm selection and more bodily control...in motion terms that is. I know I'm often somewhere in the long grey between sour and abominable, but I can hand-on-heart swear that I've never left an oil slick in my wake.
Touch wood.
I've now got two runs until I'm neck-and-neck with my last effort, and three runs to find another twenty-five percent within myself. Eek. I feel I'm well into my overdraft as it is. W6R3 was my failed run last time so is my now Nemesis. Yes, my knee handed in its notice mid-run and made off with the stationary, but, being honest with myself, there is more than a hint of masking going on there. I was about as well conditioned as a tramp's hair.
Happy running you bunch of diehards. Bring out that Gimp.
-4C. Chilly out, eh?
Run out of energy... and willpower
Naked for 20 minutes.....The Thing!
Drying out trainers?
W4 in the bag
