More butter, please

Four weeks to go (24 March)

It is going to be hard to get through this week’s blog without using the phrases “bloody weather”, “crushing depression” and “how the fuck do people live in this stupid shitty country when it’s so fucking bleak all the time and everything conspires against you, all the time, relentlessly dragging you lower and lower until you struggle to get out of bed in the morning because you know from the sound of the rain on the windows from the moment you wake up that it’s going to be impossible to salvage any kind of enjoyment from the day?”

I’m starting to think I should be running for a mental health charity, rather than Diabetes UK.

With four weeks to go until the marathon I’m feeling reasonably confident, physically.  I’ve followed my training plan closely and have managed to tick off every day’s run as instructed, and now with 18- and 19-mile outings under my belt I’m confident that I can cross the line come race day.  I’ll be slow, mind, and I’m sure that I’ll be reduced to walking at some stage, but that’s not the point for me.  This was always about the daily distraction, not the event: The butter on the cat’s paws to stop it noticing its new surroundings.

So with one week to go before my training starts to wind down in anticipation of the day of the race, my thoughts are turning a little prematurely to the post-marathon era.  Will I cope, am I ready for England?  My plan was to emerge from marathon training blinking into the onset of summer but as Bing Crosby races to the recording studios to cash in on the increasingly likely white Easter, I’m starting to feel a little naive.  Of course May won’t be heralded by the onset of cloudless skies and the smell of barbecues, the last recorded summer’s day in this country was July 27^th, 2011.  It’ll piss it down non-stop until I go on holiday to Croatia at the end of August, whereupon there’ll be a four-day heatwave in the UK before the clouds hunker down anew in preparation for winter.

The marathon has been an undeniable distraction and whilst I’m looking forward to relaxing a bit, having a pint and a pack of Haribo whenever I want one, I’m worried about needing something to take its place.  Seb Coe is offering to reimburse flights and hotels to anyone running the New York marathon who raises over £2k and I’m thinking, yep, that’s not a bad deal, maybe I could do that?  I want to see the city and as long as Seb Coe promises not to engage me in any conversation at any stage of the journey I’d only have to raise a few hundred quid to make back the money I’d have spent anyway.  But then is that really who I want to become?  The sort of person who fills their life with marathons and triathalons and iron mans (iron men?) and other pointless endeavours to distract themselves from the fact that, well, they’re not actually very happy?  I think I’d rather be happy and stationary, but that’s going to be a struggle whilst England resembles a monochrome paddy field.

Anyway, to the training.  Via the fundraising.

I’m up to £1,200 which is a fantastic amount, and I’m incredibly grateful for the generosity of a huge number of people.  I’m slightly surprised, too, by who has donated – the majority of donors aren’t my closest friends or family, but either people who are familiar with the trials of fundraising or have been affected by diabetes in some way.  The stories that people send in about their experiences with long-term conditions are personal, moving, inspiring; and what amazes me most is how people just seem to get on with life, in spite of the hardships and challenges.  I hear time and again how Diabetes UK and other health charities have helped people get back on their feet, often just in small ways, and often just by their very presence in the background reminding people that there’s always someone they can turn to who understands. 

So £1,200 to help that.  Very good, but my target is £2,000.  I’ve stalled and am struggling for ideas for the final push.  My girlfriend is keen that I hold a pub quiz but I rule that out on the grounds that I’ve not got enough friends nearby.  My idea to hold a breakfast club at work gets put on ice when I announce a restructure and am assaulted with enough personal abuse to suggest that my team are less than predisposed to give me a quid or two at the moment, even for charity.  And the corporate football tournament receives its final kiss of death when the cheapest quote I receive for pitch hire in central London is £2,900.  The London Soccerdome (http://thelondonsoccerdome.com/) at least puts a smile on my face when it informs me that the charity rate for hiring pitches for 4 hours is £10,000, plus VAT and overheads. 

I was planning on doing a lot of overheads.

I’m back to the drawing board and time is running out, but the nearer I get to the marathon the more useless my fundraising ideas seem.  Katie Melua plays a gig where I work and casually raises a little shy of £200,000 for a two-hour set, and here’s me struggling to get people to cough up a tenner.  I’m not great with money and my ideas for fundraising schemes usually involve viral marketing online, with no thought to the practicalities of collecting donations.  Two people with diabetes, one cup is a great concept, but how to cash in...?

And so to jogging.

It’s pretty crap this week, not the distance or the motivation but the absence of pretty things to look at.  This driving rain is the backdrop to my Saturday run. 

This snow the backdrop on Sunday.

And this swamp is formerly the Thames Path, now flooded.

I’m not overjoyed to find myself in England again as I think you might be able to tell, but I do love London and like living in Wandsworth.  It’s a few minutes’ walk to the river, Clapham, Putney, Richmond Park, Earlsfield, Fulham.  You never have to complain about public transport letting you down because there isn’t any.  And obviously it’s got the cheapest Council Tax in the country: The subsequent system of using rats to clean up rubbish works quite well, as do the pothole channels you can follow on the roads to avoid ever having to wear the tarmac surface.  Wandsworth's my sort of place.

But when I step out of the house on Sunday morning, and start jogging, and travel six metres, with another 30,517 to go, and step onto a broken paving slab, that gives way, so my foot sinks through, into a puddle a few inches deep; and when I lift my foot out, soaked to the bone, sodden shoe, drenched sock; it’s hard to feel too smug about my neighbourhood. 

There’s not any point in stopping - short of drying my shoe out with a hairdryer I can’t see the situation getting any better, it is raining heavily after all.  So I slog on, mildly worried about trenchfoot.  It’s all fairly tedious and when I reach my destination, the National Trust’s Osterly Park and House, it hardly seems worth it.  It’s just grey, bleak, a far cry from the website.  Horses in the sun are glossy things, magnificent, impressive.  Here they’re just silly wet beasts.  There’s a sea of cagoules.  The park is boggy and the house is mundane.  In the rain it’s not exactly the Helen of Troy of architecture, is it?  Probably not worth the three-hour round trip.

Yes.

No.

So I jog slowly home, my foot squelching with every step.  And right at the end, just when I think it can’t get any worse, I almost step on this:

Wandsworth Borough Council regrets to inform you that there will be no refuse collection this week owing to a bereavement.

Pride and Privilege

Five weeks to go (17 March)

I’m going to take a different angle this week, to try to relieve the monotony of this blog as well as the monotony of training.  I’m going to focus on privilege.

See, I’ve taken a few days off midweek to go to Oxford with my mother.  I know what you’re thinking and sure, I’m a nice son.  And devilishly handsome too, if you say so.  Now stop talking about my charity work, you’re making me blush.

The morning of the trip I take a long jog round south London, covering the full socioeconomic strata from Peckham slums to Dulwich mansions.  It’s an eye-opener, particularly the transition from the council estates of Tulse Hill to the rolling acreage of homes in SE21 a few minutes away.  And having spent the last weekend jogging round my former northern Comprehensive it’s hard not to feel a mild pang of jealousy as I have to stop to catch my breath trying to circumnavigate the east wing of Dulwich College. 

Poor, poor Chris Humne.

The next day I go round Oxford and wow.  It’s the first time I’ve ever been and in the frosty sun it looks stunning, all opulence and grandeur.  Jogging round the impenetrable walls of Magdelene College, trying to get a glimpse of the promised deer park within, one of those unassailable truths comes into my mind: I’d be doing the marathon in under four hours if I’d studied here.  I’d be used to success and achievement.  Accustomed to winning and beating all expectations.  Rather than the ambition given to me by my actual childhood and education, which finds me hoping I don’t finish the marathon in under 4hrs 48 minutes so that I can get to the end of the audiobook I’ve downloaded for the occasion.  The Great Gatsby, since you ask.  Very on trend.

Shaking off pangs of a life that could have been and feeling ever so slightly Shakespearian given the surroundings, I put a girdle round the city in forty minutes.  I didn’t realise Oxford was so small: I’m forced to put a girdle round the park a few times to take me up to 15k.

Back in London by the weekend I set off for an 18-mile jog without any clue as to where to go.  I head towards the river via King George’s Park and a few wrong turns later I stumble across Wimbledon Park.  It is bloody enormous, with a free running track, crazy golf, tennis courts, a bowling green... all in a space the size of Nuneaton.  I’ve never even heard of it before.  That’s what I love about London, it covers a space so big that you half expect to find confused Aztecs wandering around SW5 looking for the temple.  And (here’s the link) unlike our celebrated university cities, you don’t have to be rich or intelligent to enjoy it.

I plod on for a bit then change tack and head north, jogging essentially my commute to work then up to the Waitrose on Finchley Road before retracing my steps home.  It’s a dreary trip, partly down to my lack of end goal but mainly due to the weather.  It’s hammering it down relentlessly and the wind blows the rain hard into my face.  I go through puddles, slip on mud, get splashed by taxis.   

I'm having a good time.

Sigh.

It’s grim but I stick it out and when I return home I’m surprised to discover I had a bit more in the tank.  I’m tired, yes, but I’m not doubling over in agony or stumbling my way round the house.  This is a marked improvement over recent runs but I can’t kid myself, my enthusiasm for this running lark is waning.  No one should be out running on a day like today, they should be asleep then in the pub.  I’ve only got two more big runs to go after this and I couldn’t be more glad, it’s wearing me down.  It's only pride keeping me going.

And I’ve not yet started fundraising.

Endless Shades of Grey

Six weeks to go (10 March)

Shit the bed, there’s six weeks to go.

Hard week this one, and even more dull to read about than usual I’m afraid.  Not even any pretty pictures.

I’m tired, see.  Monday’s yoga, Tuesday’s late night football, early start Wednesday, late night, early start Thursday, late night, early start Friday, late night, early start Saturday, late night.

Fortunately it’s a lighter week than usual on the training plan, ramping down in anticipation of Saturday’s 10k competitive run.  That 10k takes me over an hour, incidentally, my slowest pace to date, confirming what I already know: I’m as competitive as milk.

I’m shattered, I’m irritable, I’m gloomy.  After 17 degrees last week it flips down to minus 3 and I remember why I hate English weather so much: It’s not how bad it is, it’s how badly it crushes your expectations time and time again.  It’s the addict injecting himself with smack whilst swearing he’s clean; it’s one last bet for the compulsive gambler.  You think you’ve turned a corner then bang, you’re ringing your mum to find out where you can buy a cagoule.

Having done sex and alcohol, this week it’s food that’s occupying my thoughts.  At Cargo to see Homeboy Sandman [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pP7VeA_r2Jg] Tommy Lujo asks me if marathon training means that I can eat whatever I want.  Yes, I confidently answer, then take a moment to reflect on my calorific intake over the last two days.  It’s not pretty: In the space of 48 hours I’ve eaten a pack of Milky Way Stars, half a bag of Starmix, two McFlurries, a milkshake and burger from Ed’s Diner, a grab bag of Fruit Pastilles, Tiffin, shortbread, a family bag of Kettles Crisps, Jelly Babies, two muffins and a cupcake, on top of my carb-loading three square meals a day.  And I consider myself healthy.  Seems a little pointless staving off the beer when I’ve clearly fallen off the culinary wagon.  You gonna eat those chips?

This would be a better picture but the school gates were locked in case I paedophiled everywhere

There’s a bit of nostalgia as I spend my practice 'race' jogging round the local park and my old school reminiscing about the good times.  Like when Goresy just fell backwards off that white wall (barely visible, to the right) during playtime, unprompted.  Not his fault, I guess: One of the downsides of attending Northern state schools is that they don’t teach you balance until Year 6.  I grind out the requisite 10k, making it far harder for myself than I need to by ending with the climb up Dobcroft Road, but it’s done, tick.

Mini pitches for the obese generation

Zero satisfaction, the next day’s not much better.  It’s 12k, shorter than usual to reflect the fatigue most other marathon trainees are suffering after a blistering pace in the previous day’s competitive run.  I should be feeling bright and chipper but I’m not, I’m fed up.  I haven’t really got a destination in mind so I amble to Battersea Park, round the petting zoo and the racetrack, then back via Putney to stretch it out far enough.  It’s non-pluss-ing.  I’m bored with my music, the scenery, the drizzle.

I’ve got the rest of Sunday free and there’s so much to do in London, in spite of the rain, so I spend the day on the sofa moping about and scratching my metaphorical balls.

Glum.  This marathon can sod right off.

Tomorrow is a Latter Day

7 weeks to go (3 March)

Like most of the week’s runs, this is going to be a short one.

I’ve tried to reclaim my social life this week and though I’ve still gone out running with the same frequency, I can’t pretend my distance hasn’t suffered somewhat.  It’s tiring, this, and trying to survive in a busy job whilst maintaining contact with friends and family can be hard enough without having to dedicate considerable amount of time to aimlessly pounding the streets.

First up is the preview showing of the Book of Mormon, currently London’s ‘hottest ticket in town’ [quotation mine].  It’s amazing, if you like that sort of thing, though probably not to your taste if you don’t.  Which can admittedly be applied to quite a broad spectrum.  Lows of cheap AIDS and Africa gags are overcome by some riotously clever comedy and the infectious (and apt) ‘You and Me (But Mainly Me)’ runs happily through my head for the rest of the week.  It’s how I’ve always lived my life, though I’m disconcerted when my girlfriend archly suggests I adopt it as our relationship motto.

Next up is the screening of the BANFF film festival in Angel, not quite as good as the year before but still pretty inspiring stuff.  I run to the venue from work and as I’m not 100% sure of the way, and don’t have time to get lost, I rely on my phone’s GPS to get me there. 

Mistake.

It takes me to the Hammersmith Apollo, past Earl’s Court, along Gloucester Road, through Kensington, past Harrods, along Hyde Park, past St James’ Park, over Marble Arch, along Piccadilly, past Fortnum and Mason, through Leicester Square, up into Soho, on to Tottenham Court Road, along Oxford Street and through Bank to Angel.

In short: Every single place in London where there are tourists.  It takes fucking hours.  I’d love to see Mo Farah notch up world records in these conditions.  In fact, I’d like to see how Oscar Pistorius would handle it more… with Tarantino filming.

Mo never had this fella to contend with, window shopping for vintage teapots at the 5 mile mark

I finally arrive, apologise to my girlfriend and spend ten minutes moaning about the blister on my toe.  It’s hideous, right?  Agony.  I’m still moaning about it as the lights go down and the films start for the BANFF film festival.  Then we watch the short film ‘Crossing the Ice’, about two Australians who decide to attempt the first solo walk to the South Pole and back, and the ordeals they go through [http://casandjonesy.com.au/].  They run out of food and have to endure solid weeks of snowstorms through which they drag their equipment hundreds of miles.  Incredible.   

I’ll probably not mention my blisters again.

Being in Leicester for work curtails my intended run the next day, followed by an evening of not drinking in Waterloo whilst my mates get happily hammered.  It’s not hard not to drink but you do sort of wonder what the point of it is, and it unsettles them much more than me.  I’m glad of it the next morning though as I get out and about and head to Kew Gardens, the sun catching London at its shimmering best.  Beautiful.

There’s a bit less love for the city the next day when I realise that in order to meet friends as planned at Columbia Road Flower Market for 11, and complete my week’s training schedule, I’m getting up at 6 to run 18 miles.  It’s bloody freezing and though my choice of destinations – Bushy Park – is a good one, getting there’s not too pretty as I eschew the river and park routes in favour of A roads so that I’ve still got some spare miles left when I arrive to explore.  It’s massive, 445 hectares, and when I arrive at a semi-respectable 8am there is not another soul about.  I spend half an hour there and eerily don’t see a single other person, which is just as well as I embarrass myself slightly by raising my hand in cheery morning greeting to a passer-by that turns out to be a deer.  But seriously, London’s second biggest Royal park and no one there enjoying it: Where are you, London?

I head home and as I turn onto my road, not overly tired physically, my Nike+ twists the knife and warns me that I’ve still got two kilometres to go.  This is my second introduction to the world of psychological pain, something I know is going to be a massive problem during the marathon.  It is hard, hard work to carry on past your front door and loop round the block a few times just to build up your mileage and the mental powers required to stop myself from just calling it a day leave me drained when I finally halt. 

I could end this chapter so neatly, tying it back to 'Crossing the Ice' and bringing in Diabetes UK by referencing Sir Ranulph Fiennes' decision to pull out of the Antarctic expedition over concerns of the onset of Type II diabetes this week.  "Drawing inspiration from the Aussies' triumph in the face of adversity and with the thoughts of people with diabetes on my mind, I found the strength to continue to the end" etc etc.  Sadly the truth is more like You and Me (But Mainly Me): I’m the person that inspires me the most and so thoughts of me motivated me to continue.  And well proud of me I was after, too. 

But an important lesson learned: I dread hitting the infamous ‘wall’ come the day of the marathon and if this is anything like a taster of things to come, I’m going to have to do some training of my mind as well as my body.

Now to end the chapter neatly: Leicester is clearly trying to attract rappers to the city by the opening of a new niche department store...