Making the beast with sore buttocks

8 weeks to go (24 February)

Inspired by the success of Time Out’s recent feature special, this is the sex issue.

My girlfriend has made me promise not to discuss, mention or allude to our sex life in any way during this blog and I am determined to respect that wish.  Even though it’s killing me, because there’s a photo from Marrakech that I am absolutely dying to share with the Facebook all-for-show-and-no-remaining-taboos generation.

But prompted by an article in The Times this weekend I feel like I should address the issue of sex and exercise in broad brushes.  The article talks about new research demonstrating the link between regular exercise and reduced rates of impotence: Staying fit keeps you virile. 

This is bollocks, clearly.

You can Randomised Controlled Trial me this and Proves the Theory me the other but I will tell you for nothing that in the real world, out of the lab, the exact opposite is true. 

See, after a few weeks of training for the marathon I’m tired.  Really, really tired.  My knees hurt, my back aches, my buttocks are in continuous agony.  My thighs chafe relentlessly.  I struggle to drag my calves up doorsteps and my hamstrings threaten to snap every time I bend over: Drop my keys on the floor and I’m like Lee Evans in There’s Something About Mary. 

So how much sex do you think is going on right now?  After a 20-mile run I’m too tired to take her to the kitchen and back, let alone heaven.  Sure, I still switch the TV off at 8 and lead her slowly to the bedroom: But that’s because every step hurts my foot and I’m hoping for ten hours’ kip.  On Saturday morning I arrive home, tired and sweaty, to find my beautiful girlfriend lying on the sofa like a Roman Goddess.  Inspite of my exhaustion I can feel something stirring below: But it's just my bowels, a problem I've still not fully sorted despite my regular emails to Sally Gunnell for advice.

Exercise could not be less sexy.  It’s Fifty Shades of You Must Be Bloody Kidding, Love.

But anyway, from the grind to the grind.

This week I had a few routine runs to and from work, nothing really noteworthy other than becoming one of those SatNav dickheads you read about on the internet.  On a long trip out before work I followed the Thames out to Barnes and unthinkingly turned left when my iPod told me to, barely skidding to a halt in time to avoid running straight into the river.  The slip lived up to its name, sadly, and though I managed to avoid a dunking in the water I ended up on my back on the stones of the boat ramp.  A present to the fat schoolkid in the group walking past me at the time, I suppose, as I’ll have absorbed most of his daily quota of piss-taking that day.

The weekend heralded another trip back to Sunny Sheff and two reasonably enjoyable outings, one around the city centre and one out to the countryside.  I hate to say it but it’s a bit depressing up North, isn’t it?  I tried to capture some of the city’s good points but it’s miles and miles of slums and boarded up shops interspersed by the odd boutique cafe that you know won’t have survived by your next visit.  The mosque looked quite pretty, at least, and Bramall Lane’s always good for a picture or two, but as places go it’s not massively photogenic.  

Little wonder that the sixth best place to take visitors to the city was recently voted as being ‘Leeds’.

Sheffield's football club

Whilst we leave the town planners to wrestle with their vision for the future let’s turn to the countryside.  That’s the real Northern bonus and even through the cloud and the cold it was a beautiful trip of a Sunday morning.  Through the Peak District to Hathersage, stopping to scramble up rock and over brook.  Invigorating and challenging in equal measures, with the return trip up an almost vertical path at the 12-mile mark nearly finishing me off.  The rhythmic tones of the Hip Hop Inquisition’s podcast keeps me moving on up and as I pause at the summit, staring off a cliff to the valley below, I let out a Ewan-Macgregor-in-Shallow-Grave whoop of delight and rued the absence of a car that I could push off the edge.  Instead I turn chastely back to the track and relish every step on the path down home: Leaning gently forwards, after some advice from Lucy and a painful false start earlier in the week.  That won’t mean anything to you but it explains the blood on my pillow.

Finally, lots of donations have been coming in over the last week or two and I wanted to say a massive thank you to each and every one of you who has been able to donate.  I know we’re in dark economic climes and there’s plenty of other good causes in which to indulge your philanthropic side but I really appreciate all the support, and I know Diabetes UK does too.  Special thanks to Rus and Kat for their generous donation: You could have got ten traditional breakfasts for that price, and I didn’t even throw in half a tomato.

Make me nice price offer ok?

9 weeks to go (17 February)

This week’s installment of Like Butter on a Cat’s Paws is brought to you on location. 

As a birthday present my girlfriend arranged a surprise holiday for me and so when the week starts off with a few days of running by the Thames in torrential rain, my enthusiasm remains considerably less damp than my socks.  The location is kept a mystery though there have been heavy hints about winter sun.  Obese hints, really.  Along the lines of, “I have just checked the weather forecast and it’s 28 degrees where we’re going.”

So it’s not too taxing staying positive Monday to Wednesday and I fit in a nice run through the swamps of Hyde Park and a quick explore of Wandsworth Common before work each day.  By the time the holiday comes round my girlfriend is so sick of my puppy-like enthusiasm for seeing the sun again that I can’t tell whether or not she’s joking that I should run off some energy and meet her at the airport.  She’s joking, it transpires, because she would sooner die than have me in a PE kit sweating onto her for three hours at 20,000 feet.  Some people are such fussy flyers.

Bus, train, check-in, passport control and I’m still none the wiser where we’re going.  There’s a mild moment of panic at the bag drop when the air hostess looks like she’s about to reveal where we’re going but fortunately it’s averted: “Never heard of it”, she sniffs, looking at the luggage label.  Which rules out Politeville and Charmtown, perhaps, but otherwise leaves the world as my oyster.

Anyway... it’s Marrakech.  Sorry if I ruined the surprise.

I visited Morocco for the day when I was living in Malaga and have always assumed that I went to Marrakech (Geography nor long-term memory being strengths of mine); however, a quick consult of a map and a guidebook suggests that it was probably Tangiers instead and so I step off the plane the picture of Brits Abroad ignorance.  My girlfriend delicately corrects me when I point out that this is only the third time I have been to Asia and I wrack my brains to think of relevant Moroccan stereotypes.  Hash and thieves, forty of them, spring to mind, promising something of a mixed bag to come.

I’m surprised at how much I like the city and within an hour or two it feels like we’ve been there weeks.  The sunset over the city is beautiful and I look forward to a chance to explore properly out jogging the next morning.  There’s a slight issue with the heat – 26 degrees by 8am – and it takes me a moment or two to accept that on holiday I’m choosing to set my alarm for 6.15.  For exercise.

My first run takes me through the souks and the main square, before heading out through the olive gardens and round the city walls.  It’s stunning and changes colour with the light, hazy pinks building to vibrant reds with the rising of the sun.  I’m struck by the friendliness of the locals as they all greet me with thumbs up and smiles; and though it’s been a while since I was at school and my mockery scanner is a little rusty, I think they’re sincere.  There’s a football game underway by the time I get to the park (imagine that in Clapham: “Right then lads, kick off for our next match is 6.45am, Saturday”) and the atmosphere is overwhelmingly friendly.  And when I get lost, a cheery Jawa obligingly shows me the way*.

I get a really good instinct about the city.  It’s not the Morocco of threats and hostility that the guidebook warns of, and I think back to how suspicious I was of everyone and everything when we first touched down.  I didn’t have enough hands to simultaneously clutch my passport, wallet, phone and girlfriend, who I was convinced was going to get kidnapped the second my back was turned.  Not that I’d have protested, given that I wasn’t speaking to her at the time because she’d refused to try to hide my suitcase from criminals in her womb.

The next day I go for my long run of the week and it’s my favourite run since starting the marathon training.  In order to avoid the sun I have to set my alarm for half five and I’m relieved when my alarm goes off that there’s little chance of disturbing the other hotel guests: It coincides with the far louder call to prayer that resonates throughout the city at appointed times of the day. 

I have mapped out a vague route but quickly realise that I’ve overestimated the distance and so I loop endlessly round and through the city walls.  I run in one direction until the road ends at the airport, then run in the other direction until my path is blocked by the Atlas Mountains.  Marrakech is teeny.  I don’t care, it’s a magical sensation just being out and about somewhere new and unknown.  There’s a strange moment when I jog past the Beach Garden Club just as it closes: Being a Muslim country the clubs are all dry, and so far from stumbling onto the streets drunk the locals just sort of mill about.  Clearly high.  And drunk too, obviously; but who am I to judge another’s interpretation of religion?

Nice price for this kebab and Doritoes?  I give you best price.

“Stoned like Yeshu of Nazarene”, I joke smugly to the imaginary running buddy I have recently taken to conjuring up on long outings.  He rolls his eyes at me and mutters “Dick” under his breath, so I go it alone for the next few kilometres.  It’s so nice being somewhere hot and dry again and I have to force myself to stop after 18 miles, partly to avoid getting ahead of my training plan and partly because the sun is now out and I’m sweating buckets.  Very happy with life and the marathon this morning: I’ve seen far more of the city than I ever would have without doing this and I can gorge myself on couscous and tagines with impunity for the rest of the day.

The last day of the holiday comes round and I rise once more for a gentle five mile-r to close off the week’s distance.  I retrace the same route as before until I get to the football pitch, where I am stopped by one of the guys in a red bib and asked if I fancy a game.  Turns out I do, and I leave the pitch a couple of hours later having had one of the most enjoyable games of football in my life.  The acceptance and instant camaraderie knocks me back; and my contributing to a 3-0 win for the plucky underdogs makes victory all the more sweet.  There’s a slightly hairy moment when I score and peel off to the corner flag for a ‘praying to Mecca’ celebration that could be deemed in poor taste... Words will not do justice to the sense of relief I feel when it’s greeted by laughter and a few of my team mates join in, fortunately.  It’s a lovely way to end an amazing holiday and I jog back to the hotel filled with love for the marathon for bringing me experiences and perspectives that would otherwise have passed me by.

*I have re-read this and am slightly concerned that it has racist undertones.  Being a Star Wars fan I could justify it on the grounds that the market traders actually were George Lucas’ inspiration for the Jawas; however, my intention is towards playful not bigotry and so I will remove this line if anyone is offended.

Commercial break: The benefits of Vaseline

10 weeks to go (9 February)

Did you notice that it chucked it down this week?  That was fun.

Fortunately something else is pouring in this week: Donations.  Did you like that metaphor?  I can ride the meteorological trip as long as you want: I’ve been flooded by donations, there's... er... I probably could if I put my mind to it.

I’ve been amazed by the influx of donations to Diabetes UK: People I’ve not spoken to in a few years have cheerily stumped up on my Virgin Money Giving page and with ten weeks to go I’m almost a quarter of the way to my target.  Each donation gives me a massive lift and the messages of encouragement really do make a difference as I continue to clock up the miles on the road.  It’s great catching up with people and hearing about all the weddings, babies and houses that I’ve half-seen on Facebook but never really taken in.

Everyone shares their experiences doing similar things, too.  The two recurring themes people bring up are a) how hard it was going without alcohol and b) the aches, pains and chafing that they had to endure.  Whilst I’m responding in light-hearted agreement this all puzzles me a bit – I’ve had an unbelievably smooth ride so far (touch wood).  I was led to believe that by this point I’d be needing knee replacements, my toes would be a crumpled mess and my nipples would be bloody stumps.  As it is, I’m feeling pretty chipper.  Is this tempting fate?

The not drinking thing is admittedly a bit hard.  I don’t drink much anyway these days but until you try to cut it out completely, you don’t realise how many of your social engagements involve a drink or two.  Watching the football with an orange and lemonade is tolerable, a swift pint (of Coke) after work escapes with only minor abuse but the real killer is a visit from my parents.  My mother spends the whole evening trying desperately to get me to drink, pushing wine and beer and rum on me whenever I let my guard down.  There’s parental responsibility for you: If I get short of my fundraising target I’m going to ask her to stand outside Threshers and flog booze to underage kids. 

Not drinking on a day-to-day basis isn’t that hard, but psychologically knowing that I’m not going to get rat-arsed before May is a killer.  I don’t crave a beer or two, I crave a skinful.  One over the eight.  Friends’ birthdays and massive Saturday nights come and go and I dread the inevitable total recall in the morning as a sign of how dull my social life is at the moment.  Drinking isn’t big or clever but it is something to do to cheer you up when it’s dark, wet and cold in England.  I seem to pass breweries every time I step out the house which doesn’t help, either.  The first few kilometres of a weekend jog are now spent plotting my future binge in minute detail: I’ll start with a Desperado or two, switch to the rum and lemonade then let my hair down. 

And be in bed by tea-time, obviously, because by then I’ll be pissed on two pints.

My long outing this week is greeted by beautiful sun for the first few minutes, fading away to pounding rain and sleet by the time I’m out of Battersea.  I stick to what I know and follow the river out West, grinding out the miles and counting down the distance until I hit the halfway point to turn round.  I’ve got to cover 25km and, irritatingly, 12.5km takes me to the front gate of Kew Gardens but no further.  I debate stopping and popping in to see what the fuss is about but I can tell even as the thought crosses my mind that it’s a classic stall: I couldn’t give a toss what the gardens are like, I just like the idea of stopping to walk round for half an hour.  Maybe get an ice cream or some fudge. 

This is the crux of my problem, and probably explains why I’m not suffering the aches and pains that others complain of.  I’m not the motivated, driven, well-Vaselined running machine that the marathon posters depict.  I’m lazy, albeit lazy and 8 miles from home.

A photo of my inner thigh

The journey back feels much longer than the way out for some reason and by the time I get to Craven Cottage, exactly 5km from home, I’m shattered.  Snow starts to fall and I tread in a puddle right up to my middle: My feet are soaked for the rest of the journey, squelching unhappily with every stride.  Then my iPod dies.  And my knee starts to give way.  And the top of my foot begins to ache.  And I’m late to get home.  And I break my water bottle. 

And my inner thigh starts to chafe unbelievably.  That is bloody uncomfortable.  It’s a wonder I don’t get arrested as I run by Southside Shopping Centre desperately trying to stop my groin from rubbing, primarily through the mediums of cupping and fondling.

As I drag myself through the Wandsworth B&Q car park, the final landmark that indicates I’m basically home and dry, I realise that as hard as I’m finding it today it could be a lot worse.  At least I am able to operate a trolley without guidance.

If you need this sign maybe DIY’s not for you, yeah?

Speed equals distance over nonsense

11 weeks to go (2 February)

This seems to be fundraising week for people entered into the marathon: No sooner have I sent the link round to my charity page than a flood of similar emails land in my inbox.  I have a scan through, jealously assessing the competition – it’s all “my personal battle” this and “in memory of that”.  Adam Shorey’s running for little wheelchair fellows, for God’s sake.  I can’t really compete: As passionate as I am about improving care for people with diabetes, there is no heart-wrenching tale of triumph over adversity from my own life. 

I need to enlist some support.

As I set about finding people with diabetes and more charisma than me to share their story (shouldn’t be hard, there’s approximately 2.7 million of both in the UK) my thoughts turn to my progress on the road. 

See, as per my training plan this week I run 5km in race conditions.  It’s hard going – it’s a marathon not a sprint I’m doing, after all, I’ve been working on increasing my distance not my speed – but I’m still reasonably happy to have done it in a little under 25 minutes.  I click the ‘end run’ button on my Nike+ and await confirmation that I’ve just completed my fastest 5km. 

Nothing.

No Rafa Nadal, No Sanya Richards Ross.  Not even Ellie Goulding.  Nike+ doesn’t feel like I deserve rewarding. 

I’m puzzled by the lack of ceremony: This is a system that usually cheers if I climb any incline higher than a speed bump.  I go back through my records and there’s the reason: On 14 November, halfway through an uninspiring run around Tooting, I logged a 5km stretch at 23 minutes 50 seconds.

WTF?  So cutting out alcohol, eating meals of carbohydrates laced with carbohydrates, in a carbohydrate-based sauce, and getting up at 6am five times a week to run manically round South West London is actually making me slower?

I start to wonder what I’m doing with my time.  I try to think back to the specifics of any of my recent runs and I can’t really remember what I was doing whilst on them.  Was I visualising myself crossing the finishing line, motivating myself to run faster and harder, driving myself on to meet a determined goal?  Was I fuck: I use my time jogging to sort of dawdle mentally, mulling over issues at work whilst being distracted by squirrels and boats and unusually-shaped leaves on the floor.  That and listening to Alan Davies moan about the Arsenal on The Tuesday Club podcast.

The next day I set off on a 20km run to Kingston-Upon-Thames and I try to keep a kilometre-by-kilometre log of my principle thoughts, to see if there’s anything worthwhile happening upstairs or if it’s all cerebral fluff.  You decide:

0-1km – This is going to be a slow kilometre because I had to wait at red lights to cross two main roads.  So I shouldn’t bother pushing myself to go fast because I’m already slow.

1-2kms – I’m listening to the Kendrick Lamar album and it gets better with each listen, though ‘Martin got a dream’ is really annoying.

2-3kms – That café does yoga.  I’ve been meaning to tell my girlfriend that for a few weeks now.  And look, they have toasters on each table!

3-4kms – [No record]

4-5kms – [No record]

5-6kms – Was that five kilometres?  I bet that’s even slower than yesterday’s, what an embarrassment.  I’ll be the laughing stock of the charity fun-runners, maybe I should do the marathon dressed as a goat or something to save face.  Although that guy did it dribbling a football in five hours, maybe I should do that and wear a silly costume.  Then I can go whatever speed I want.

6-7kms – What happened to those cups of coffee that came in cans that were for sale a few years ago?  You pulled them and they heated up, but I never had one.  Nor know anyone who did.  It seems an unlikely invention really.  Have I made it up?

7-8kms – What’s a relevant costume for Diabetes UK?  A giant insulin pump?

8-9kms – The thing about jogging along the Thames is that it gets kind of, well, samey.  They shouldn’t have clumped all the buildings and stuff together in the centre, poor town planning.

9-10kms – Could I go dressed as an enormous bag of sugar?  Is that nearer the side of tasteless or just dumb?

10-11kms – So this is Kingston-Upon-Thames!   

11-12kms – Kingston-Upon-Thames is exactly the same as everywhere else in England.  Points to note: Their John Lewis is slightly bigger than usual and there are two Whittards.  Well worth the trip.

12-13kms – I should probably just turn round and retrace my route but that’s boring, I’m going to turn left here instead.  And then right up ahead, then I’ll just go through those fields and we’ll see where we come to.

13-14kms – Rather than wasting time thinking about costumes I should be thinking about ways to raise money for the charity.  Maybe I could do a video with people with diabetes, or pop along to the Diabetes UK headquarters and interview people about the work that they do.  I should really hold an event or something but it’s already February and I’m quite tired at the moment, so...

14-15kms – Jessie and Killi want me to do it dressed as a terrorist.  They’ll up their donations if I do.  Maybe I could still tie that to diabetes, like “everyone can get diabetes, even terrorists”.  It’s quite a subtle point to be trying to get across though when jogging along in an Osama Bin Laden face mask carrying a toy machine gun.

15-16kms – I guess I could carry a sign explaining it.  Or write into the Guardian beforehand and claim it’s performance art with a serious message.  But then Tracey Emin might come over and shit on my bed.

16-17kms – Where the fuck am I?  I am completely lost.

17-18kms – Never even heard of Ham before, I assume this is a joke.  I know of West Ham, obviously, but just Ham?  Wait until I tell my girlfriend this, she’ll love it even more than Eggham.

18-19kms – I am actually lost.

19-20kms – Thanks to my ipod’s GPS I am now back on track, quite far away though and I’m getting tired.  At least it’s all nice from here – back along the Thames then up through Richmond Park and home.

20-21kms – Sweet Jesus, why did my GPS not warn me about Richmond Hill?  It’s steeper than the entrance fee to the marathon.  Basically vertical.  I’m going to have a right sit down if I make it to the top.

A right sit down.

21-22kms – It’s quite pretty up here.  I’m pooped.  I’ve done as far as I’m meant to at least, no shame if I get the bus back now.  May as well have a snoop round Richmond Park whilst we’re here, see how the other half live.

22-23kms – They live amongst deer.  That’s weird.

23-24kms – Homeward stretch now, my mind’s stuck in a loop of I’m-so-tired-stop-thinking-about-how-tired-you-are-but-I’m-so-tired...

24-25kms – I knew we should have moved into that abandoned slum, I’d be home by now.   

25-26kms – Not only am I almost home, I made After Eight ice cream last night!  Absolute result.

Inspiring stuff.  I imagine Sally Gunnel’s thoughts are quite similar.  Maybe interspersed with worries about where the next loos are.