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.