The Bristol half marathon is upon me, a competitive chance to continue my training, and to practice the careful art of drinking whilst running and not wetting yourself in concentration.
I arrive late on Saturday night and don't get much sleep when I get there. I blame the foam pillows that heat up my face and make it impossible for me to sleep. Lying next to an attractive girl doesn't help either, and with high levels of testosterone barging its way through me, it all adds up to me getting about 3 hours sleep. Not even a expertly executed blow job from the girl helps me sleep.
Sunday morning and the adrenaline kick starts my day and before I know it we're making our way to the start. There's an awful lot of club runners here, with their amusing names and club vests. Everyone's super friendly though, and it's a nice mix of old school runners (8 year old trainers and a casio) and tech head wannabes (multi coloured spanking new trainers with computers on their wrists, an IPhone on the arm, and headphones that look like they're singing backing vocals at a Madonna concert) and I sort of sit in between the two, I've got a Casio and a nano.
The race starts and disaster strikes, my headphones don't work, I can only get sound out of one ear very quietly. This shouldn't really matter but it does, because I set my breathing and pace to the beat and use the breaks in the mixing to judge how fast I'm going. Now I wish I had one of those computer things on my wrist now, but no matter. I turn up the volume as loud as I can and decide to use the mile markers to work out how I'm doing.
There's no mile markers. I don't know how fast I'm going and as we climb over a fly over and out of the city I can see that the first part of the race is just a straight line on a dual carriage way. Now I don't know how fast I'm going, or for how long I've gone that fast for. The pack eventually spreads and my pace plateaus and I start to enjoy the run.
We run directly under the suspension bridge and I can't help remembering that this is a notorious suicide spot, where lots of people throw themselves off. I instinctively run faster as I go under, just in case somebody lands on me. I think about how brave people can be to be able to end their lives like that, or any other way in fact. My mind wanders to the people who jumped out of the world trade centre, seeing as though I am running on the day of the tenth anniversary.
Death. whether it be self inflicted or otherwise is life's great leveller. Everything that you do will not stop it. A fact that can either free you or haunt you. This would play on my mind even more later in the day when my friend Carl tells me that he saw a runner being chest compressed on the route (he died at that very spot).
Then a girl throws a jelly baby at me.
Not one, about 4. And they bounce off my chest and one hits me on the cheek. It feels like I'm being given a pearl necklace by a gummy bear.
I try to remember from the route guide what mile the first isotonic drinks station is, I think it's mile 7, so when I pass it I calculate that by the time I pass the bridge again and head back into the town I'll be at around mile 10 and on the home stretch. This inescapably bad maths and guesswork would come back and bite me on the arse.
I pass the bridge, go round the underpass and see a mile marker that says '8' on it. Not 10. And I realize that I've fucked myself, I'd gone too hard pushing in for the last 3 miles, when in fact there was double that to go. Then instead of the route retracing its steps back into town, it takes us out and round the houses, where the crowds are actually little families not really cheering you on, more staring at you in the West Country way. Like Deliverance.
I am now wishing the miles away and running on empty, and every mile is harder and harder to run but I drop down to a pace and stare at the floor and just get through it.
Around mile 11 you head back into town, the crowds are bigger and the cheering and name calling begins to raise your spirits. I keep seeing the finish line balloon and think we're nearly done but the route turns right and I'm off again round a lap of a park, through some narrow streets, skipping past women and prams as the try to get to the shops. Finally a left turn and it's the home stretch, I try a sprint finish but my legs are made of wood, and I know that if I push any harder I could do some serious damage, I get there and look up, 1.31, I look at my Casio 1.28, and I'm happy with that.
Afterwards there's collecting bags, handing in pins, hearing rugby results, and chatting to seasoned runners. It's nice. I go to the preplanned meeting point and wait for Carl, which just happens to be a pub, I sit down and enjoy the first pint of lager I've had in 12 weeks.
From the official results I came in 322 out of 10,000, in a time of 1.29. And I managed to achieve a personal goal that I'd set myself for 2011,
I beat a wheelchair competitor.
It's not all about times you know? Sometimes you have to beat a disabled.
Thursday 15 September 2011
Friday 9 September 2011
Charity begins at home, how to live in old age, and some questions that don't need answering
My housemate has bought me 3 months on a dating website as a birthday present,
"You've got to do something else apart from run, eat salmon, and stay home"
This unwanted and unnecessary pity and concern has been put on me not because Elliot actually cares about my rapidly dying social life, more that Elliot is just sick of me being at home. All the time. And I think that it's fair enough to expect that your housemate might actually go out once in a while, so that you can have some fucking peace, and not have to listen to him go on and on and on about running and not eating carbs after 8pm. So I understand where he's coming from, and it's a wonderful gesture by him to do this for me, and so I allow the madness to start.
So it's been arranged, the monthly costs have been covered, some almost normal looking photos of me have been uploaded, and a short, punchy, funny profile has been written, and re-written, and updated onto my page.
And then the slow death of my own self respect begins.
Now I don't really mind the fact that I have to sell myself to strangers like some common prostitute in a neon lit doorway in Holland. This is just a different way for people to have an understanding of you, your interests, and what you look like. I get it, but I hate it. I've never had to sell myself to a girl before. My success rate with women has usually come about through following these quick stages: I befriend them, make them laugh, try to say something nice about poor people, or try to sound like I care about something they care about, make them laugh again, and before they've really noticed what's happening I put my hand up their skirt and they sort of don't mind and let me. Then for the first two weeks they're a bit confused as to why the sort of funny, sort of caring, sort of nice, bloke is now having just above average sex with them. Then eventually they find something* about me that they like and they let me stick around for a while. But now this? telling abject strangers about what I believe in, how I like to live my life, what food I like to cook, and all sorts of other crap, it's just not me. And I come across like a friendly special needs kid who just 'wants someone to go running in the park with' I am better in person, writing it down is just creepy.
And then comes the ignoring. Now, there's some really good looking girls on this site who are single, I can't understand why they are but they are. And as you sit trawling through the photos you eventually find one that's good looking, doesn't sound like she's got her head up her own arse, and might have hobbies and interests that you can just about bare to pretend to like, so you Email them. And they don't reply. Not even a 'thanks, but have you seen yourself? Have you seen me? Have you done the maths?' reply. nothing. A wall of silence. And I get it, i am not every one's cup of tea looks wise. I have been around long enough to know that my looks are very good in a certain light............darkness, and that in photos I do not look my best. But I'm not hideous, and their are small pockets of women around the GLOBE! who will attest that I am quite good looking but not every one's going to think I'm smoking hot, but to not even reply? You sort of understand why they're single if they're going to act this way.
The only part of this festival of self hatred that really grates me is the Emails I get from girls asking me out. A collection of uglier looking women you could not find in a Russian labour camp. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all about a girls looks, I can't be, people in glass houses and all that, but my god, we are talking some of the most offensive looking women since the dark ages. And they are Emailing me! Me! and I find that horribly painful because they must be looking at me and thinking 'he'll do' Like I'm in their league, as if I am really a possible, attainable man that would agree to go out with them! It's an absolute car crash. But I reply to each one, politely explaining that I have moved to Mongolia, and that I'm just waiting out the rest of my contract on the dating site.
After my slow 20 miler a couple of weeks ago I scaled back and decided to run a 12 miler as fast as I could. So I set off on my normal run, just incorporating another lap around Victoria park. On the west side of the park there's a stretch of park benches all the way down the right hand side as you run anti clockwise around. On these benches you start to see familiar faces, the lesbian sun worshiper who's skin looks like a battered, old, brown leather couch. She sits there reading a tabloid but sometimes dog walkers will sit with her and shoot the breeze. She'll always be wearing a wife beater, which I always find amusing, because she looks like she does beat her own wife, or life partner. This particular morning the weather was dreary so she wasn't on her usual bench, taking her place was an old man, coal face features, dressed in a suit and rain coat, at 8am. He was ogling the lady runners with the steely determination of a man who was just waiting for the pub to open. As I passed him he looked up, hopeful that I might be another pair a breasts, and when he saw that I wasn't he did not disguise his disgust that a man should be out running, when he knows full well that he should be dressed smartly, waiting for the pub to open, and staring at some tits if the chance presents itself. I passed his growling face and started around the park for a 2nd time. This time he saw me coming and coolly watched me glide passed, this time he sat back in his chair and said,
"Go on boy, you'll catch her" and he smiled a gap toothed smile that I returned with a grin.
His comment made no sense to me, in fact, it freaked me out a little, but then I crossed the little road that runs through the park and saw a tall, long haired girl jogging in front of me, and as I passed her I knew exactly what he meant. If she hadn't turned right out of the park, I might have followed her all the way home. I get home in 1 hour and 19 minutes. I think about the Bristol half and start to hope that I can make a personal best over there, and push through to Chicago injury free.
The last few weeks I've had some really unexpected praise from people about my writing, so much in fact that I now think that I'm the Welsh Irvine..erm..Welsh. Luckily I am blessed with the famous Potter 'you're not as good as you think you are' chip in my brain, it immediately counter acts anything positive that you think about yourself, and turns it round so that you actually end up thinking that you're worse than you already thought you were. A fantastic invention that has kept my feet on the ground for years, and possibly cost me a few jobs, some girlfriends, and a stable mental health.
Questions have been pinging around my head this week, things like, How fast will I run Bristol? How fast am I running now? How big is Liam Neeson's cock?** Why can't I act with a little more grace sometimes? When will I stop dreaming dreams that are so vivid that I wake up thinking they've happened, when they actually will never happen? What is the probability of me actually having sex again this year? How fast will I run Chicago? Why does my back hurt when I stretch my legs? When will I stop feeling like this? Do people really like reading my blog? Why do I still write a blog? Which way shall I run home? Where's that tall girl gone? What is the probability of me having sex next year?
* - I have no idea what women see in me, and I am consistently shocked when it happens. And suspicious.
** - http://liamneesonscock.tumblr.com
"You've got to do something else apart from run, eat salmon, and stay home"
This unwanted and unnecessary pity and concern has been put on me not because Elliot actually cares about my rapidly dying social life, more that Elliot is just sick of me being at home. All the time. And I think that it's fair enough to expect that your housemate might actually go out once in a while, so that you can have some fucking peace, and not have to listen to him go on and on and on about running and not eating carbs after 8pm. So I understand where he's coming from, and it's a wonderful gesture by him to do this for me, and so I allow the madness to start.
So it's been arranged, the monthly costs have been covered, some almost normal looking photos of me have been uploaded, and a short, punchy, funny profile has been written, and re-written, and updated onto my page.
And then the slow death of my own self respect begins.
Now I don't really mind the fact that I have to sell myself to strangers like some common prostitute in a neon lit doorway in Holland. This is just a different way for people to have an understanding of you, your interests, and what you look like. I get it, but I hate it. I've never had to sell myself to a girl before. My success rate with women has usually come about through following these quick stages: I befriend them, make them laugh, try to say something nice about poor people, or try to sound like I care about something they care about, make them laugh again, and before they've really noticed what's happening I put my hand up their skirt and they sort of don't mind and let me. Then for the first two weeks they're a bit confused as to why the sort of funny, sort of caring, sort of nice, bloke is now having just above average sex with them. Then eventually they find something* about me that they like and they let me stick around for a while. But now this? telling abject strangers about what I believe in, how I like to live my life, what food I like to cook, and all sorts of other crap, it's just not me. And I come across like a friendly special needs kid who just 'wants someone to go running in the park with' I am better in person, writing it down is just creepy.
And then comes the ignoring. Now, there's some really good looking girls on this site who are single, I can't understand why they are but they are. And as you sit trawling through the photos you eventually find one that's good looking, doesn't sound like she's got her head up her own arse, and might have hobbies and interests that you can just about bare to pretend to like, so you Email them. And they don't reply. Not even a 'thanks, but have you seen yourself? Have you seen me? Have you done the maths?' reply. nothing. A wall of silence. And I get it, i am not every one's cup of tea looks wise. I have been around long enough to know that my looks are very good in a certain light............darkness, and that in photos I do not look my best. But I'm not hideous, and their are small pockets of women around the GLOBE! who will attest that I am quite good looking but not every one's going to think I'm smoking hot, but to not even reply? You sort of understand why they're single if they're going to act this way.
The only part of this festival of self hatred that really grates me is the Emails I get from girls asking me out. A collection of uglier looking women you could not find in a Russian labour camp. Don't get me wrong, I'm not all about a girls looks, I can't be, people in glass houses and all that, but my god, we are talking some of the most offensive looking women since the dark ages. And they are Emailing me! Me! and I find that horribly painful because they must be looking at me and thinking 'he'll do' Like I'm in their league, as if I am really a possible, attainable man that would agree to go out with them! It's an absolute car crash. But I reply to each one, politely explaining that I have moved to Mongolia, and that I'm just waiting out the rest of my contract on the dating site.
After my slow 20 miler a couple of weeks ago I scaled back and decided to run a 12 miler as fast as I could. So I set off on my normal run, just incorporating another lap around Victoria park. On the west side of the park there's a stretch of park benches all the way down the right hand side as you run anti clockwise around. On these benches you start to see familiar faces, the lesbian sun worshiper who's skin looks like a battered, old, brown leather couch. She sits there reading a tabloid but sometimes dog walkers will sit with her and shoot the breeze. She'll always be wearing a wife beater, which I always find amusing, because she looks like she does beat her own wife, or life partner. This particular morning the weather was dreary so she wasn't on her usual bench, taking her place was an old man, coal face features, dressed in a suit and rain coat, at 8am. He was ogling the lady runners with the steely determination of a man who was just waiting for the pub to open. As I passed him he looked up, hopeful that I might be another pair a breasts, and when he saw that I wasn't he did not disguise his disgust that a man should be out running, when he knows full well that he should be dressed smartly, waiting for the pub to open, and staring at some tits if the chance presents itself. I passed his growling face and started around the park for a 2nd time. This time he saw me coming and coolly watched me glide passed, this time he sat back in his chair and said,
"Go on boy, you'll catch her" and he smiled a gap toothed smile that I returned with a grin.
His comment made no sense to me, in fact, it freaked me out a little, but then I crossed the little road that runs through the park and saw a tall, long haired girl jogging in front of me, and as I passed her I knew exactly what he meant. If she hadn't turned right out of the park, I might have followed her all the way home. I get home in 1 hour and 19 minutes. I think about the Bristol half and start to hope that I can make a personal best over there, and push through to Chicago injury free.
The last few weeks I've had some really unexpected praise from people about my writing, so much in fact that I now think that I'm the Welsh Irvine..erm..Welsh. Luckily I am blessed with the famous Potter 'you're not as good as you think you are' chip in my brain, it immediately counter acts anything positive that you think about yourself, and turns it round so that you actually end up thinking that you're worse than you already thought you were. A fantastic invention that has kept my feet on the ground for years, and possibly cost me a few jobs, some girlfriends, and a stable mental health.
Questions have been pinging around my head this week, things like, How fast will I run Bristol? How fast am I running now? How big is Liam Neeson's cock?** Why can't I act with a little more grace sometimes? When will I stop dreaming dreams that are so vivid that I wake up thinking they've happened, when they actually will never happen? What is the probability of me actually having sex again this year? How fast will I run Chicago? Why does my back hurt when I stretch my legs? When will I stop feeling like this? Do people really like reading my blog? Why do I still write a blog? Which way shall I run home? Where's that tall girl gone? What is the probability of me having sex next year?
* - I have no idea what women see in me, and I am consistently shocked when it happens. And suspicious.
** - http://liamneesonscock.tumblr.com
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