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.