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An Idiot Abroad

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I have a thing about new clothes. I won’t buy any. I will buy bundles of boxers and party-packs of socks from time to time but that’s about it. I haven’t bought a t-shirt since I started running because I get all the tees I need from races. I have very occasionally bought a shirt in an emergency, usually after I’ve dribbled my lunchtime soup down the one I’m wearing or I’ve been caught in one of those rainstorms which soak me so completely that complete strangers are transfixed by the sight of my nipples and chest hair through the now-transparent fabric. Generally, however, I won’t buy new clothes.

I will buy second-hand clothes. My ex introduced me to the delights of the charity shop. (Hello Jane, if you’re lurking. Hope it’s all going well.) I thought it was weird at the time but she bought me what became my favourite blue shirt in a charity shop in Oxford. I’ve worn it so much that the collar is threadbare and becoming detached and yet I can’t bring myself to throw it out. It’s just such a beautiful colour and the fabric is softer than a kitten’s kiss. I have bought a few things from charity shops myself since then but now that I’m not a fat man any more, there is little on the rails my size.

That’s the basic problem I have now. I need skinny clothes but I don’t want to shell out for them. I’m stuck with shirts I bought five or six years ago because there is lots of wear left in them. It’s a waste for me. I could take them down to charity shops and make space in my wardrobes for clothes which fit but I never quite get round to doing it. Twice in the past week, I’ve gone into shops to buy a new pair of trousers and a couple of shirts, spent half an hour carefully selecting the items I want, taken them to the till and then bottled at the last minute and left the shop empty-handed. Partly it’s the cost. Clothes are expensive. Nice clothes are really expensive. The clothes I like are really very nice indeed. I tried again at Tesco. Tesco clothing is not particularly nice but it’s not that expensive. It’s like new charity shop stuff but even thirty quid for two shirts which don’t billow like spinnakers and a pair of decent trolleys which won’t fall down is too much for me to pay. I’m too tight to pay for snugly fitting clothes.

There is a proviso to that last statement. I’m not too tight to pay for snugly fitting clothes made from Lycra. If you can run wearing it, I’m more than happy to fork out for it. I wouldn’t buy those things for thirty quid on Friday but I paid £40 for my lovely new, too sexy for slow, track spikes yesterday. I didn’t even buy them from the interwebz. I went into a real shop and talked to real people and really bought a real pair or really quick shoes. Shame I’m too broken to use them right now.

Yup, I’m on the injury bench again. I broke at mile four of the Wimpole Half Marathon Hoohaah. In truth, I shouldn’t have even started but it’s my favourite race in my favourite place. Who wouldn’t want to run around Wimpole for a couple of hours and get a medal at the end? There was the additional delicious prospect of hugs from various marshals round the course but I never got as far as seeing any of my mates who were out there. They were perhaps a little relieved not to have to deal with a sweating, slobbery, wheezing mess of a man clinging onto them in an attempt not to fall over. Social runs can sometimes be so detrimental to social relationships.

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A Men’s Fitness Body in a Moment

I’ve given up reading Men’s Health and Men’s Fitness and the like. There are all sorts of reasons for this. I’m not keen on working out for the sake of working out for a start. I’d rather go for a run or a ride or even have a swim than spend even 10 minutes pushing weights in a gym. The sad fact is though that I need to be stronger to run faster for longer so I’ll have to spend some time over the winter doing just that.

One of the more annoying things about a lot of physical fitness mags is that there is always something along the lines of Lose Your Gut in 15 Minutes, seen on the current cover of Men’s Fitness. I know that when you read the piece, the writer will outline a 15 minute workout for you to do every couple of days or so but the premise of the cover is that you can go from flab to fab in fifteen minutes and you can’t.

You don’t only find this waffle in fitness mags. I’ve seen similar tosh in Runner’s World and Men’s Running. This time you only have to do this series of workouts and you’ll have instant PBs. Want to run a marathon? Here is your plan. I know that to a certain extent that’s true, it downplays all the hard work that has to go into setting your PB or running a marathon. I don’t want anyone to think that running is so hard that they needn’t even bother starting but I’d rather people prepared themselves for the work.

I spotted Shalane Flanagan’s picture of her doing a core workout on a Swiss Ball. You’ll find it on her Facebook page and here on her Instagram feed. She’s working in the gym to be stronger to be a better runner. It’s part of a never-ending process of improvement that elite runner like Shalane have to do to be ready for competition. It’s also inspiration for those of us who will never run a 2:30 marathon or pull on our national vest because if Shalane has to work this hard and she’s already very good, then we have to do similar things to achieve our goals too.

So, if you want a six pack instead of a barrel, train hard. Alternatively, do what I did this morning and have a coughing fit in front of a mirror. As well as having the veins on your neck pop out, your rock-hard abs will suddenly appear. Sadly, this appearance will be so brief that it would take the the next generation of detectors their building for CERN to capture an image but it’s true. In a moment, I had Men’s Fitness Abs.

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Wardrobe Errors

We all have them, all the time. More often than our partners and spouses will admit certainly, even when they are asked a direct question about it. I had a pair of blue suede Doc Marten’s boots which I sincerely believed were the dog’s bollocks, the horse’s dong and the aardvark’s fallopian tubes. Yellow cords? Yup, had them. Purple silk shirt? Two of those because the first one was so very… advisable.

Sports gear has even greater potential for ridicule and humiliation. I was thinking about this after last week’s post about how comfortable it is. I have a pair of Craft running tights which I absolutely love because they show off my manly calves. (Don’t laugh.) My new BRJ trisuit is brilliant because the black panels hide the unseemly bulges. That’s it below.

Photo credit: Nicetri Events, St Neots
Photo credit: Nicetri Events, St Neots

My other tri-suit is the one in the header. This one makes me look like a sperm whale’s sex toy. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Sperm whales are famously reluctant to use lube for a start. What’s more, they really like it rough. I mean, if you’re a sperm whale in search of a good time, it’s a good thing. If you’re a bearded Scotsman with poor swimming skills and limited breath capacity because of COPD then it’s not quite so brilliant.

While I’m on the subject of swimming, I have a pair of Zogg’s trunks which I call my Action Man Pants. I wish it were because I became even more manly and rugged when I pull them on. I’d be moderately pleased if it were because I suddenly had Eagle Eyes, gripping hands a little plastic six-pack. Sadly, it’s because my balls disappear everytime I wear them. That’s right, my little grey racing trunks render my tackle invisible. And no, you’re not getting that picture.

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I’m An Athlete In Training. Really.

I didn’t have any milk for my porridge this morning. To be out of milk early – well, early-ish if I’m honest – on a Sunday morning is not usually a disaster. You just toddle off to the nearest Emergency Tesco and hand over your quid for your couple of pints of semi-skimmed. The Emergency Tesco and its analogue, the Sudden-Death Sainsbury’s are to be found just about everywhere, next to Paddy Power and over the road from Cash Convertors and the charity shop.

I wanted to go out on my bike after breakfast so I pulled on a pair of trackie bottoms, an old cotton race t-shirt and a long-retired pair of road shoes and headed out the door. The ET or SDS is open from seven in the morning until ten at night every day the week, closed only for Christmas Day and refits. I didn’t see any tasteless ads, tinsel or pissed-up parties so I assumed it would be open right up until I saw the scaffolding round the front door.

Oh.

Back to Nisa. Good old Nisa. Always there, always forgotten. I used to to there to buy fags and lottery tickets. I’ve never bought anything else there so I haven’t been in for years. I didn’t know whether they even sold milk. In I went in my comfortable clothes and the first thing I saw was a short, fat bloke dressed more or less identically to me: sweats, t-shirt and trainers. He was wandering around with a packet of bacon in his hand. In the next aisle was another old man also wearing tracksuit trousers, a hoodie and trainers. He was carrying his breakfast pastie and orange juice in his basket. Over by the till, a very hungover couple in (you guessed it) the trinity of trackies, trainers and tees were buying fags and rolls.

I was horrified. I wanted to say “I’m an athlete in training! I run marathons! I’m not a slob! I just wanted to buy some milk before I go out on my bike for the rest of the morning.” The trouble is that only some of that is true. I like to think of myself as an athlete but training isn’t going well. I tell all my athletes to treat themselves like athletes and respect their bodies, get lots of rest and eat properly bit I don’t really do the same myself. I haven’t completed a marathon since London in 2012. I definitely have slobbish tendencies. The rest is true. More or less.

I don’t think anyone else in Nisa this morning was bothered about the way everyone else looked. I just wanted something comfy to wear while I had my breakfast and so did everyone else. The truth is that the Lycra Life is a comfortable one when you’re not actually coming to the end of a three minute effort. It’s what makes sports clothing so attractive to people who wouldn’t normally run unless they were being chased by a bear. Bears are few and far between on Cherry Hinton High Street.

Man at Sports Direct doesn’t really have to worry too much about. He’s relaxed, laid-back, in need only of a pint of milk, some rolls and a packet of bacon for complete happiness. He certainly doesn’t need to run a sodding marathon. Lesson learned.

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Community Spirit

I often see people talking about the running community, usually when something awful has happened and the running community pulls together. Or something. Is there such a thing as a community of runners, though? Let’s see. If you look at any ethnic community, they share a number of characteristics between themselves and others which differentiate them from an outgroup. Careful, there may be other misapplied sociological terms to follow. It doesn’t really matter though, because it’s only sociology. It’s not as if it’s anything important.

So, let’s begin with some things we share with one another as runners. We tend to have a shared set of values which boil down to how you answer the question “Are you a runner?” Runners tend to answer “Yes, of course I’m a bloody runner! Didn’t you see that last rep? It was fucking awesome! Now bugger off and get me a bucket, I need to be sick.” Non-runners say “No.” Runners run. That’s about it. If you run then you’re accepted into the sweaty, heaving, ill-smelling and slightly queasy bosom of the community, no questions asked. Well, not once everyone else has found out about your PBs and whether you’re in the ballot for London this year. We’re an accepting lot.

Any ethnic community worth its place on the Equalities Commission has its own food. Runners are no different. Cyclists may claim to share some of the bounty from our table and generally speaking we let them. Don’t forget however that cycling is basically cheating and you can’t trust a cyclist further than you can spit one. So, we allow them to share our gels, that beetroot juice stuff that makes your wee look like you have a urinary tract infection, and cake. However, you should note that cyclists will stop for tea and buns mid work-out and because cycling is basically cheating (see above) and they don’t feel as sick as dogs as soon as they get going again. It’s so unfair. We have protein shakes for after the run none of which contain anything remotely hookey and none of which work better than a glass of milk straight from the cow. It’s usually less effort to open the fridge and have a glass of semi-skimmed, pasteurised than to head off to the cow-shed and persuade Ermintrude to oblige so that’s what we do.

We have a common language of reps and efforts, fartleks and parlaufs, the Wall and the Half, the Ultra, spikes and tempos and it’s mutually intelligible with the language of other closely related sports. If you speak Spanish, you could probably understand some Portuguese. German speakers might be able to cope with Dutch. So, cyclists don’t hit the Wall – unless they don’t watch where they’re going – they bonk. Runners bonk too, of course, but we have the decency to bonk in the privacy of our own homes not outdoors like some filthy, tiring dogger. The further you go from running, the less intelligible the termimology. A runner would wear a tee, for example and not think about putting a ball on it. That, ladies and gentlemen is proof that golf isn’t really a sport and is more of a blight on society. And fashion.

Any community has splits and schisms and these can result in Holy Wars where the disagreements are serious enough. Some of us who run around in bare feet like our African ancestors feel all smug and self-righteous whenever anyone in a pair of Hoka One-Ones falls over or has a pain in the bollocks. We’re runners but we’re only human. That vague but meaningful feeling of spiritual connection with the earth is only slightly spoiled by thistles, sharp rocks and turds hidden in long grass. Meanwhile, some runners in shoes insist on pointing out the thistles, sharp rocks and turds hidden in the long grass. Then there’s Chi Runners, POSE runners, happy heel-strikers, joggers, plodders, Slow Runners (think Slow Foodies but sweatier), track queens, hard men of the road and those bloody weirdos up north who do fell running. Still we’re just one big, mostly happy and highly dysfunctional family.

Every minority community faces abuse of one kind or another from the majority, usually the drunk and stupid portions of the majority. Which runner hasn’t had some pissed-up twat fall out of a pub and shout “Run, Forrest, run!” after them? Or someone chase them down the street, heaving chips and yells at them between drags on their fags. That last one is probably only me. Some of my female friends have it much worse but that’s a whole other and much more serious post. This is Sunday night silliness, after all.

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Heavy Breath

I woke up one morning and couldn’t breathe so I decided I’d stop smoking. I mean, what sort of fucking idiot kippers his lungs so completely that he spends a good quarter of an hour every single morning choking and wheezing before he can even sit up straight? So, I woke up one morning and couldn’t breathe and that’s why I decided to stop smoking.

Except that’s not quite true. I woke up every morning with air squealing out of me as if I were a damp accordion. I don’t know why this particular morning my resolution not to buy a packet of fags held. I smoked my last cigarette that morning and haven’t lit up since. I’d tried almost every day not to smoke but the habit was so ingrained the words “And ten Superkings” would fall out of my mouth at the kiosk almost without me noticing. The ten little ciggies would disappear in several puffs of carcinogenic smoke quite quickly, sometimes one after another in a chain so I’d need to get more a couple of hours later.

This little ciggie was smoked in the car, this little ciggie was smoked alone. This little ciggie made me cough like a dog, but this little ciggie did not. And this little ciggie made me wheeze, wheeze, wheeze all the way home.

I must have smelled at times like a working man’s club on a Sunday morning: stale beer and mucky ashtrays with tangs of sweat and desperation. All the Trebor in the world couldn’t have fooled anyone into thinking I was living a minty-fresh life. I kidded myself that they would. Smoking gave me other health problems. Acid reflux ate my insides. I was downing antacids like Shane McGowan went through Martini. All the time I was telling myself that I could stop smoking any time but I was enjoying it so much.

Really.

Really?

Waking up in the night because stomach acid was wandering round my body getting into places it really shouldn’t. Getting my morning workout from a coughing fit. Spending money I couldn’t really afford on things I knew would kill me.

Really. I enjoyed it all.

The iconography of the cigarette is so strong and I bought into it all. Think about Bette Davis or Humphrey Bogart. Now, imagine Bette heaving her guts up every morning or Bogie downing a Gaviscon slammer. Doesn’t really work does it? What about the Marlboro cowboy searching his chaps for his inhaler?

I’ve been thinking about all of this today because I died on my arse last night. A pyramid session will do that do you. 1 x 6:00, 2 x 3:00, 3 x 1:00, 2 x 3:00, 1 x 6:00; it’s a bit of a killer. You need to bring your fast legs and your best lungs and I had neither. I had my usual kippered lungs and well-fucked legs. I raced twice last week, once over 5k and once over a half marathon and I am battered to bits.

So, I’m still abusing my body but nobody is telling me not to any more. That has to be progress.

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I’m Not A Nazi, I’m Temporarily Disabled

It’s been a sod of a week. I’ve done a lot less running than I should have done. I’ve done a lot more swearing than is strictly necessary, even for me. I’ve accidentally done a Nazi salute. Tony Benn and Bob Crow died. Not a good week at all.

On the other hand, I’ve spent time with lovely people, had the best heart attack on a plate I’d had in ages on Thursday morning only to have it beaten this afternoon, spent quality time with my beautiful wife, run on the Roman Road for the first time this year and made a start on clearing out the jungle in my back garden. Gytha the Chicken is pleased with me, at least.

This was supposed to be my peak week of mileage on my marathon plan. Rest on Monday, 9 miles on Tuesday with some strides slipped in, 13 miles on Wednesday, 5 miles recovery on Thursday, 14 on Friday, 6 on Saturday and 22 today.

I had a problem nearly all week with limited mobility in my right shoulder. I must have slept awkwardly on it on Sunday night because it was sore on Monday morning. There wasn’t a problem with my arms but moving the shoulder led to stabbing pains down the front or the back of the arm depending on whether I wanted to move it backwards or forwards. It became worse each day. Typing on Tuesday was particularly comedic. I couldn’t reach the Y key on the keyboard without moving my right arm with my left hand.

I was coaching on Monday. Mile reps. I still had Sunday’s half marathon PB in my legs so I wasn’t going to be nailing every rep myself. Instead, I ran with the quickest group and paced them round. My Monday group isn’t as quick as Tuesday’s club sessions so I can keep up easily with all of them nearly all the time. What was a brisk pace for me was quite a hard rep for them. It was a really good recovery session for me.

Tuesday was 4 x 6:00 with 3:00 recoveries. Go out in one direction for the first rep and back the way you’ve come on the second. Try to push a little faster so you go beyond your start point. Same again on each successive rep. I found running hard quite difficult because I couldn’t swing both arms freely. I was well off the pace of the quickest group. Only on the final rep did I give it a proper go. I paid for it afterwards.

I had to drive to Lancaster on Wednesday morning after two nights of very poor sleep. I had meetings all day with academics in the Management School. I had to suppress a little yelp of pain very time I shook someone’s hand. I didn’t always succeed. “Hi! I’m Richard from Compass. It’s nice to meet you. Thaaaaaaaaaaarghaaank you for seeing me.”

The drive from Lancaster to Leeds that evening was properly miserable. I couldn’t reach the top of the steering wheel with my right hand until I adjusted the steering column downwards. The wheel was almost between my knees. I still couldn’t use my right arm to turn the wheel but at least I could rest my hand easily on it. Occasionally, I’d forget and drop my right hand from the wheel and whimper or yell or call Christ a cunt.

The thing about an injury like this is that it’s easy to forget you have it. It was seldom painful when I kept the shoulder still or moved it gently so when I was just walking around it was fine. More or less. The problems came when I moved it quickly or further than it wanted to go. When a cheery wave to a friend across the street turns into a Nazi salute and a yell of “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” problems can arise. That’s all I’m saying.

Wednesday night was quite unpleasant. I struggled to eat dinner. I couldn’t quite raise my fork to my mouth. It got to just below my chin before I’d have to dip my head towards the delicious morsel of red snapper with a zesty lemon risotto. My glass of lime and soda was too heavy to lift. I had to leave it on the table and use a long straw.

Bob Crow died. I’m a supporter of strong trades unions playing a part in the running of successful enterprises. I’m really a 70s socialist. I remember learning about mixed economies and free collective bargaining. I don’t much like the class war but I have a soft spot for some class warriors. Bob Crow was one.

I don’t think Tony Benn would ever have taken part in anything so ungentle as class war. He was still an effective and passionate advocate for Labour without ever mounting a personal attack. I heard him speak on several occasions and had a taxi ride with him once. He spent almost the entire journey asking questions about me and what I did and who I was and where I came from and my parents and my family. I said at one point how moved I was by what he’d written when his wife had died and how much it had helped me when I was having some trouble with grieving. I wanted to hear him talk about challenging Roy Hattersley for the deputy leadership or about life in the Cabinet or Shadow Cabinet but he just wanted to hear about my life and interests. I’ll miss him but his family and his friends will miss him much, much more.

Good things started to happen on Thursday. Breakfast in the hotel was exceptional. Poached egg, bacon, sausage, black pudding, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, all very tasty. Piss-poor coffee as usual. I have yet to have a good cup of coffee in a hotel in Britain. Slightly odd orange juice. It made getting going after another night of poor sleep that much easier. I’d spent chunks of the awkward hours of Thursday morning really, really wanting to be at home in my own bed with my wife. My heart ached as much as my shoulder. I was using ibuprofen gel to relieve the pain and it didn’t really work. I was hoping for codeine gel. Or heroin gel. Fuck it, I’d have mugged a junkie for a fix at one point shortly after two on Thursday morning.

Thursday’s meetings passed with barely a whimper. “Hi, I’m Richard from Compass. Thank you for see – aargh – seeing me.” The drive home from Leeds took too long and I couldn’t go for my run when I got back but I had an early night without the ibuprofen gel smearing itself onto the bedsheets and pillow cases. I woke on Friday having slept for six uninterrupted hours. I had too much work to do to get out for a run that day.

Saturday marked Heidi and John’s leaving do from Cambridge parkrun. Not that they’re leaving. Heidi is stepping down as event director after four years. There were red wigs for her and fake mohicans and tattoos for John and it was fun. There was running and cake and a visit from PSH and the whole thing was simply marvellous. I had a nice run on heavy legs to log 22:36 for my first parkrun of the year.

In the afternoon, I did the Cambridge University Hare & Hounds’ Roman Road Run. Nine and a half miles from Horseheath to the Beechwoods at the end of Wort’s Causeway in Cambridge. I took it fairly steadily and logged 1:14:46. I was aiming for 1:16:30 so I was pleased. I was 8th home. It’s a handicap run. I was only overtaken by one guy who started 10 minutes behind me and he was flying. He came past on the final downhill stretch on the road once we left the Roman Road itself. I was beaten home by him, two people from my group and four from the group who set off five minutes ahead of me.

Saturday evening was spent at La Mimosa with Andy for his birthday. I’m not usually very sociable. I’m becoming a little more deaf and find it stressful to hear what people are saying in a crowded, noisy room. However, the company was lovely and nobody seemed to mind having to repeat what they were saying when we were trying to have a conversation. It was a late night though and I was very tired this morning. I haven’t run today but I have made a start on clearing out the back garden.

Good stuff and bad this week. It’ll all be over three weeks today. I just want to get it done now. I’m running well when I run. I don’t think missing my long run today is going to matter in the overall scheme of things. I’ve entered the Oakley 20 next Sunday. I’m not going to race it, especially as Becca says it’s a lumpy one which ruined her London Marathon a couple of years ago. I have some clubmates running and I can run around with them chatting all the way and pick up my hoodie to take to Manchester. Sounds like a good plan, doesn’t it?

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To Sleep, Fat Chance of Dreams

Can you sleep after a big race or a hard session? It ought to be easy, shouldn’t it? I mean, you’re completely wiped, nothing left in the tank at all. You’ve given it everything so staying awake should be more of a problem than not getting enough sleep.

So, why are Sunday nights and the small, pointless hours of Monday morning so much sodding trouble? I call them the pointless hours because they should pass with you being completely unaware of them. The only people who should be awake at 2:30am on a Monday are criminals and therefore police officers out catching them. At a pinch, I’ll allow new lovers to gaze longingly at one another’s unfamiliar nakedness by candlelight at that time of night too. Possibly,  truckers out making a living by getting my new running shoes to me might also be out through the night.

I bloody shouldn’t!

I fall asleep eventually but then I wake up and feel rotten and lie there wondering why I can’t sleep when I’m so tired and why do my legs hurt and what is the cat doing to my feet now and I hope I don’t wake Anne and I could do with a sip of water and the loo! Oh fuck, I need to go to the loo and it’s so far away and my feet hurt and… Where’s the lampswitch? Never mind. Don’t need a light on now.

Right. Loo. Where’s the loo again? Now, ow! Sore feet, sore feet, sore feet. Ow, ow, ow, fucking, fucking ow! Lightswitch, lightswitch. Where’s that bit of string gone? It’s on a bit of string, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Can’t remember. Got it. BRIGHT LIGHT! Shit. Dazzled. Don’t look in the mirror. You won’t like what you see. Lid. Ooof. Shouldn’t bend over so much or so quickly. Don’t look in the mir… Who the fuck is that grumpy old man?

Can’t go now. Arse. All that for nothing. Literally. Need to turn the light out now. IT’S SO DARK! Don’t let me stand on the cat. I don’t want to stand on the cat. That was the cat. Sorry, Maddie!

Bed. Pillow. Legs. What do I do with my legs again? Need to sleep. Sleep. Legs. Cat. Coming in? No? No. Legs. Pillow. Arms. Duvet. Cat. Make your mind up. Don’t want to wake up Anne. Sleep. Sleep. Ahhh…

And then it all starts again an hour later. Is anyone else too tired to sleep?

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Confessional

In the name of Mo Farah, and of Steve Cram, and of the Holy Ovett. Amen. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession.

Go ahead, my son. Say your piece. The Lord Coe almighty will understand.

Father, I have coveted my neighbour’s arse. We were out on our run today and stopped at Parkside Pool for a loo break. There is a bronze statue there of a diver entering the water and he has a very rounded bottom. So we started talking about cute bottoms. And I found myself thinking too much about runners’ derrieres.

That’s not so terrible, my son. It can be hard to follow the True Path.

But I don’t always follow the True Path, father. I sometimes follow a really nice arse. It makes things easier in a hard race if there is a nice bottom to follow.

I see. Anything else?

Yes, father. I find myself thinking unkind thoughts.

Unkind?

Yes, unkind. When I am tired and I’ve given everything to a training session or a race and I read that someone is very pleased because they’d run three miles in three-quarters of a mile. Or when people don’t push as hard as I think they can. Or when they don’t really do much of anything and seem really pleased with themselves.

That does seem unkind. What do you think then?

I think they should stop feeling so smug and self-satisfied. I think they should man the fuck up and push themselves even just a wee bit harder.

And that’s unkind?

It is when they’re already giving it their all. I forget that we all run for different reasons. I run because I have delusions of adequacy. I like to think I can be not completely terrible at it if I work hard and do things like 16 x 400m and mile reps and make my legs hurt lots. I forget that other people just want to go out and run with their friends at the same time as I go out and run with friends and really enjoy myself doing it.

Ah, my son. That is a terrible thing to admit.

Father, I have a question.

Yes, my son?

Is it a sin to think that Mo Farah’s Quorn advert is just a bit shit?

No, my son. It really is just a bit shit.

And why does nobody remember Peter Elliott when he was completely awesome and able to even the Lord Coe Almighty?

That’s easy, my son. It’s because he’s a bit of a ginger and who wants to remember that? You should say fifteen Hail Paulas and stop being unkind to people who are giving it their all. Run in peace and sin no more. Git.

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It’s Not About Sexy Cyclists, It’s About Giant Pasties

I was going to blog about sexy cyclists. Cyclists? They’re all Lycra and testosterone with worrying whiffs of inadvisable drug use, aren’t they? Nothing sexy here. The whole sorry Lance Armstrong story has completely ruined pro cycling for me. I’m sure that a knight of the realm like Sir Bradley is as clean as a new whistle that hasn’t been left lying around in a drug den so that’s okay.

The notion is that more successful athletes are more attractive. The study used official headshots from the 2012 Tour de France. Participants were asked to rate the attractiveness of the riders. It’s probably just as well that they used photographs taken at the start of the Tour. Photos taken at the end of sweaty, knackered and broken men may not have been attractive to anyone at all. The quickest 10% of riders were assessed as 25% more attractive than the slowest 10%. I read the original paper but I’m not very good at sums and science so it all went over my head a bit.

But I’m not going to blog about that. Well no more than I already have. I have a confession to make; a guilty, terrible, awful, shameful secret to share.

I like Ginster’s pasties.

I feel better for saying it. I certainly feel better for saying it than I do for eating them but there is something about them. They’re the ultimate sober drunk food. The ultimate drunk food is of course the doner kebab. They were almost a nightly staple in the bad old days. I suppose if you had a small one, ate all the salady stuff and left some of the meaty stuff (you can’t really call shredded cabbage and onion “salad” or the doner “meat” – it’s animal product, certainly), then it’s almost a balanced diet but the fat content has to be gigundous. (I’m a blogger. You don’t expect me to do real research, do you?) A sober drunk food is one that you eat when you’re sober but which would definitely taste much better when you’re a bit pissed.

Anyway, I like Ginster’s pasties. They provide me with an occasional, inadvisable treat when nuked in the microwave and eaten accompanied with some baked beans. One of life’s more unexpected taste sensations. Lunch, in fact, when you really can’t be arsed and the day can’t possibly get much worse anyway.

And now you can buy Large Ones. I’m horrified. The standard one is calorific enough. 566 kcal per pasty, over 20% of the recommended daily amount for a man. There is quite a lot of salt in there too and over a third of the RDA of fat for even a fat bloke. Especially for a fat bloke. I can’t imagine many women eating a Ginster’s pasty either. I suppose they might. It’s quite a gender-specific food, I think.

Their website claims that the larger one is no more calorific. I smell shenanigans. That might just be the seasoning or the neeps. It’s 25% larger so there has to be some difference between the two of them. Even as an occasional foodstuff it’s not brilliant.

Portion control is a tough thing to master. It’s even harder when manufacturers are increasing the sizes of all the bad – and fun – stuff. There are king-sized Mars bars. There are double Mars bars. There are grab bags of crisps “meant for sharing.” I’m certain that Penguin biscuits and Wagon Wheels have shrunk but nothing else has. Apples and bananas are still the same size and don’t have huge marketing campaigns behind them. Mars sponsors the Football Association. So does McDonalds. English Apples and Pears has an app. They probably run their entire operation on what Mars spends on corporate social responsibility.

I’d love to see ads for apples in the same slots as Mars and McDonalds. It won’t happen, sadly. And I’ve wandered off point again. I don’t think I really had one tonight. I just wanted to have a rant about crap food and big marketing budgets and great big fuck off pasties.

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