So, as mentioned previously, this is my third time around this revolving door. Inside is warmly lit, the sound of an angelic choir is softly reverberating around the rafters, there is the promise of not having to have a little sit-down halfway up the stairs, there are no litter-pickers required to tie shoe laces, there are no internet searches for male Wonder Pants. On the outside is debauchery, it is fiery, the din of drunk karaoke is setting off car alarms, there is last night's kebab leftovers whirring in the microwave for breakfast, there is Me.
My first attempt saw me fall heroically during W6R3. Like a martyr, I smiled into the faces of my executioners and as my knee finally went thunnng. My conscience didn't flash so much as an instance of regret, as I knew that there was nothing in my vast reign of power that could've prevented it. Except for resting or going slower, but these are inconsequential details.
My second attempt saw me mercilessly gunned down during W6R1. Roses were thrown at my feet as I hobbled past the tearful masses as if in a three-legged race, strapped to an invisible corpse. You may remember the national day of mourning. My resolve held though and I knew I'd be back. I did not lose an iota of confidence as, again, that there was absolutely nothing I could've done to prevent it. Except for resting and / or going slower, but don't let me bore you with utter trivia.
I've since led a careful root-cause analysis of the failures with a team of world-leading experts in the field of Me (it was pretty much me and my wife, but my wife was pretty useless to be honest, so I overruled her) and we have irrefutably concluded that the key driver in each instance was: Not Enough Gadge.
The naïve amongst you may feel that it had something to do with the fact that I was zipping along at speeds only comprehensible in Einsteinian Physics, whilst being as well conditioned as a tramp's hair. Or caused by attempting to prance around like an elegantly skipping Gazelle, despite possessing all the coordination of a sausage dog running down stairs; but you will be wrong. The evidence clearly demonstrates, nay, dictates that it was the absence of Tech. It was the shortfall of meaningless, cross-eye inducing data. It was the distinct lack of money being spent.
I'd be a fool if I made that mistake again! Introducing my new Garmin. Ain't she a beaut? Don't worry, you can feel aroused. Don't be afraid of it.
What I've so far learned is that my resting heartrate is in the late 80's, and any form of strenuous activity (walking up the stairs, or putting a new child seat in the car) ramps it up into the 120's . Running peaked at 156bpm. What I so far haven't learned, is what on earth any of this means.
It probably means what I knew already, I am to Human what egg-and-chips is to fine dining.
Apparently, it measures my stress levels as well, which went stratospheric when changing a cot-bed back into a cot. Quite understandably so. I thought it was going to explode right there on my wrist at one point, It kept telling me things like "your stress levels are unusually high" to which I replied, "Well bloody get out here and help me then. Why the hell won't this line up? Poxy, cheap flatpack crap...Oh, it's upside down."
It keeps vibrating on my wrist and saying, "Time to take a break and get active". Clearly those two things are mutually exclusive. I think it might be faulty...
Actually, it's like having a second wife, but one that's been surgically attached at the wrist. Ironic really, seeing a the wrist is often the second wife.
I ordered it Monday night and it came Tuesday morning. I can't tell you how much I love that. You don't know the amount of self-restraint I had to have on Tuesday afternoon to honour my rest day and not go out galivanting. It was only the threat of doing a Misery on myself that made me hold off, but my over-zealousness held into Wednesday and ended up costing me dear. I made a mistake comparable to not lifting the top-flap of the toilet seat before a fit a explosive diarrhea.
I went out running during school kick-out time.
I'm sorry if that sentence made anyone drop their coffee in utter horror and disbelief. How could any sentient being who has somehow navigated their way to biological adulthood be so utterly bereft of intelligence? There are three rules in life: don't towel-whip a lion on the arse, don't wear suede shoes in a public toilet, and don't go running during school handovers.
They. Were. Everywhere.
The girls seem physically compelled to walk anywhere in some kind of a peaceful protest line, like a long chain of solidarity that blockades the entire street. The boys can't go five paces without spontaneously jettisoning one of their group into the middle of the road or the nearest bush. Their combined movement resembles the duality of light and behaves like particles and waves all at once. They are like hot smoke dissipating in cold air, with a thin laminar column that quickly collapses into turbulence and chaos, moving in every direction at the same time.
Honestly, I didn't realise that this many children existed! The last 16 years must've been a significantly fertile time around these parts, presumably caused by nothing good being on the telly. It started raining as well, I mean, of course it bloody did; and in complete unison, all of their coats came off and were held over their heads - particularly eyes - like makeshift canopies and put a sharp end to their already waned ability to take three f*cking steps in the same direction. Future historians will be writing for years about the great hood embargo of the 2020's, not a single one between them.
I ended up sprinting past localized outbreaks of childlings, weaving in and out of natural voids between groups, then walking during the intervals like I'm late for a death row pardon or something.
Garmin tells me my best pace was 4:10/km, which is frightening. In previous incarnations, I used Strava and the only non-stop running data were from each of the W5R3's, where I did 3.60km at 5:36/km and 3.63km at 5:32/km respectively. This seems to be my natural pace - although this has also proved naturally unsustainable (who knew?) given that in each of the subsequent weeks, I fell to bits with a muffled bang and a puff of smoke like a clown's car. So this means I was really giving it some yesterday.
Bloody kids.
So for my W1R2 I did 3.93km at 7:15/km (that's warm-ups, downs, runs and walking intervals combined). What's eyebrow raising about this is that, according to Strava, on my last little foray, I did 4.27km at 6:56/km on the same run. Without even having kids to blame. What the hell was I doing back then?
I was blowing at the end of some of these runs as well. If anyone were to have jabbed me with a pin, I would've flattened a 5-mile radius. Make room for me on that injury couch won't you? And pop the kettle on, I'll be with you shortly.
But at least my conscience will be clear that there was absolutely nothing that could've been done to prevent it.
Happy running, Fam. If you go running during school kick-out times, arm yourself with some cattle bars and plough the little bastards out of the way!
Warm enough for shorts!
Not getting near enough to 5k
Is there enough focus on form in C25k?
How slow is slow enough? 
Am I covering enough distance 
