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?
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