Now, I've always loved America. On the few occasions that I've visited this great, oil stealing, nation I have loved every second of it. Everything is bigger here, the buildings, the food, the welcome, the people! Everything is bigger and I love it, it suits me. I feel that being overly nice, friendly, and stupidly upbeat about everything really fits in to the way that I am as a person.
Chicago is no different. The last time I was in Chicago' Grant Park it was the 'Taste of Chicago' food festival. Which was basically a lot of large, sweaty people eating large, sweaty food. It was more a festival of obesity than food, but it was still amazing and I reveled in it.
This time around I am sitting in Grant Park surrounded by the opposite, lots of thin, athletic people eating athletic, thin fruit. I am also putting on sun tan lotion in the dark, knowing that when the sun does come up at 7:40am it will already be 60 degrees.
The last time I was here was in 2001, and I was clinging onto the desperate notion of true love, believing that true love could conquer time, distance, and circumstance. In 1998 I met an American girl called Amy, she was doing a term studying at my University. We met fairly simply because she was living in halls next door but one to a soon to be close friend. Our first meeting was hugely uneventful, I asked her if she knew where my friend was, she said she didn't know. I then questioned if she was the 'American girl' that had moved in, she replied,
"Yes, that's me, I'm Amy"
I would be lying if I said there were fireworks, or that it was love at first sight. In fact I just ran out of things to say and wandered back to my room. A week later we, when I say 'we' I mean our little group of friends, ended up at a pub where a lock in was afoot. The bar manager had taken a shining to Amy, and in the noble tradition of bar managers was trying to get her so drunk that she would sleep with him. The plan backfired splendidly when Amy' ability for drinking ended up with her needing to puke violently somewhere. I just remember holding her hair. The next day she called to thank me and we arranged to meet for lunch so she could thank me for my Welsh gallantry in person. We had lunch, and after that we fell horribly, inexplicably, frighteningly, in love with each other...
Fuck me, I can see straight to the start line, and I can see the elite runners. I'm looking for the pacemaker for a 3:00 hour time, the plan is I'll drop behind them, sit in until the last 2 miles, and push forward. I feel like 5 months of training is going to fall right into place and I'm going to smash this marathon to pieces. I have sacrificed time, energy, friendships, and basic happiness to get to this point, and I'm comfortable. I feel as ready as I can be. My music goes on, my adrenaline rises, and I'm ready. Except I'm not...
Being in love, or feeling love towards another person is a ridiculous, ultimately pointless exercise, but when you are in the middle of it, the feeling that you have is unlike anything else. It's unbelievable, and the eight weeks after Amy and I fell in love were the most outrageously amazing time of my life.
As I wander around her hometown with my Dad I remember when I had to go home to pack the family house up because we were moving. My Dad came to pick me up from halls and Amy came back to Wales with me. My Dad, being the incredible man that he is, decided to pretend that the traffic was too bad for us to make the journey home in one night, and put us up in a hotel, so that Amy and I could spend some time on our own. This would have been foolproof, except that the receptionist decided to put our rooms next to each other so I was too scared to have sex in case he heard. The time passed very quickly and Amy went home, and with her went promises of visits, long term plans, and a future together...
The siren goes and I'm away, the pacer is in the corral in front of me and I need to catch up with him to fall into place. The crowds ache along the street, and even above the music in my ears I can hear the noise. I have a pace sticker on my arm that outlines the minutes per mile I need to finish where I want to be, I hit the first mile running fairly easy and I'm bang on time. 'This is the pace you know and like, you can do this' I speed up a little to catch the pacer and my legs feel good, my breathing is steady, and the view is amazing. The only problem comes with the water stops. It's all in cups, trying to drink out of a bottle cap is tough enough, but out of a paper cup it's a farce. A drop back a little while I snort water out of my nose but eventually I catch the pacer, drop in behind, and settle in, and I'm ready. Except I'm not...
Amy returns to Chicago and I am gutted. Heartbroken. Ruined. A broken man. We exchange phone calls weekly but things inevitably fall apart. I break my promise to visit her and she realizes that she needs to walk away from me to stop herself from failing University and the breakup is complete. It would be eight years until I felt that level of emotion and love again, and even then it would be different...
Before I know it I've hit the fifth mile, the pacer is opening a gap between us but I don't think I can keep to it, and I don't know why. We run through a park and someone is smoking a cigar. The fumes invade my lungs and my breathing shortens, the pacer stretches out again and now I feel doubt. 'This is mile six, I'm not sure if I want to do this for another twenty miles' I have a habit of looking at the ground straight in front of me when I run, it comes from having damaged ankles and needing to always know where my feet are landing, so I just focus on the ground and follow the yellow lines around the route. At around eight miles a guy taps my shoulder,
"Yo! you running a three hour time?" He's obviously seen the 'three hour pace' bib on my back,
"I don't think so, he's ahead and I don't think I can catch him"
"Fuck him, his time' are all off, you're running exactly right. check at the next mile marker"
The next mile comes up and he's right, I'm still bang on time, and at a pace I know I've run hundreds of miles at, and I'm ready. Except I'm not...
On the morning of the race I get a text from a friend telling me that he has done ecstasy for the first time, and he tells me that he loves me, and then he wishes me good luck, and then he thanks me for all the things I've done for him. It's a beautiful, heart warming text. I wonder about how amazing it would be to experience your first pill again, the rush, the unmitigated joy, the innocence, and I think it's a lot like love. You chase the same feeling and wish it could be as strong and purposeful as the first time. And then sometimes it happens again. But different. The next time I fell in love it wasn't like the first, it was more substantial, more rounded, as if it wasn't just about the immediate power of it. More that I knew that this was the person I wanted to spend the rest of my entire life with...
I keep snorting Gatorade by mistake and it's fucking me up. I can't drink and run this fast at the same time. I'm rounding into 'boystown' and the sun is getting up but if I stay in the shade the breeze is just enough to get me by. Mile ten swings by and I feel an indifference, a disinterest , in fact, a general malaise. I don't think I want to run anymore. And this emotion dumbfounds me, but it's there. I check myself, and I'm ready. Except I'm not...
I round the corner at mile 11 and head over a bridge, there's people everywhere and the runners are thin enough for you to believe that you're the person they a shouting for. As I cross the bridge I look to my left, then to my right, and when I can tell there's nobody behind me I stop. I stop, look around, and walk to the emergency tent, walk passed the first aid team and sit down,
"Sir, Sir, are you OK?"
"Yes, I'm fine thank you"
"Do you have any heart or breathing difficulties?"
"No, No, I just don't want to run anymore. I've had enough"
"OK, that's fine, do you have any muscle or stomach pain?"
"No, not at all. I just don't want to run anymore"
"Oh"
And that's where this story ends. I try very hard to be as honest as I can in this journal that I keep, and I'll carry on with that honesty until the end. The truth is that I don't love running anymore. I really wanted to but I don't. And one thing that I've learnt recently is that if you don't love something you'll never be able to do it properly. And that could be in the work that you do, the friends that you keep, or relationships that you have. If you don't love them, you'll never do them right.
I thought that determination, anger, frustration, hatred, and spite could get me through this race but I was wrong. It CAN get you through the training, the late nights, the early mornings, the sacrifices, and about half way round, but to do anything, you have to love it. And I don't love running anymore. I don't love the training routes I run, I don't love the pains in my legs, and most of all, I don't love the memories that taint my running.
I was always a big believer in the solitary runner, out on the road with his thoughts and beliefs, I'm not anymore. The truth is that running just makes me sad and lonely, and there isn't a man, woman, or sheep that's going to change that except me, but I know that the answer is not in me running.
I get a big, yellow, school bus back to the finish line with a distraught elite runner, she's in tears because her chances of getting an Olympic place have gone.
I get to the finish, get my bag, text my Dad and tell him to meet me at his hotel bar. When I get there the bar's closed, I ask if I can sit and wait by the window. As I sit down I quietly begin to sob. The Mexican busboys don't really know what to do about the crying, ginger, gringo until a waitress comes and brings me a coke. I sit there for an hour drying my eyes, knowing that I've done the right thing, with not a single regret, but with a hollowness in my heart. I need to go away and be myself for a while, find out what's really important to me and fix up.
It goes without saying that this is the last blog I will ever write. I've never written a single word of this for anyone except me, but I am forever touched, confused, baffled, and shocked that anyone ever reads it.
Thank you.
Gareth x
Sunday, 9 October 2011
Tuesday, 4 October 2011
The last long run takes a strange, fateful twist.
I don't believe that I am the only runner in the world that starts to get paranoid in the last couple of weeks before a race, but I do think that I take it to a whole new level. As race day quietly tip toes towards you a runner treads the fine line between making sure that he/she is at the peak of their fitness, against the constant worry of picking up an injury if you train too hard, or if simple bad luck comes calling.
These last few weeks I have been running in the style of a man holding a bomb in his hands, with no safe place to set it down. Every step I take is a possible ankle sprainer, and every loose paving slab is a definite knee crusher. Everything in my path is an enemy now, divots, puddles, tree roots, gravel, mud, steps, curbs, leaves, other people. All of these things have the potential to do damage and ruin 6 months of training, sacrifice, and effort.
My assassin of fate did not come in these forms though, I was not felled by a a loose slab of concrete on the Regents canal, I did slip on the new gravel by Victoria Park, but it did not cause me harm. No, I was cruelly struck down by an agent of doom, a bringer of misfortune, lady lucks cruel joke did not throw me something so predictable.
I got done by a suicidal squirrel.
I was running my last long run and to bump the miles up I went twice round the park, which is about 6 miles give or take. It's a circle I have run many times and I know it well. As I came around the first lap, through the gates by the village I moved across onto the grass path, in between the bushes and the benches. I don't look at people anymore, I don't enjoy the early morning hue, I just stare at the space one meter in front of me, making sure that every step is a safe one, picking each landing foot to make sure I don't twist or pull anything. From the corner of my eye I don't see him, I just see a rustle, like a flash something is a foot and a half in front of me, maybe one step in front of my eyes the pace I'm going, it's a squirrel, with a conker stuffed in its little mouth.
Time slows while I try to work out why this normally nervous little animal has decided to get so close to me, did he see me? or was he too busy making sure the conker doesn't escape its jaw? Then I consider my options,
1. I could run straight over the little thing, who's eyes are now firmly locked into mine. He looks sad, as if he knows that the conker will be never be enjoyed, because death is upon him in the shape of a ginger, running blur.
2. I can swerve to my left and smash into a newly painted bench.
3. I can swerve right and into the bushes.
I go right, the squirrel doesn't even move, and I become acquainted with the bushes like two old fat friends embracing at the airport, arms out stretched, struggling to wrap their arms round each other. I go in one side of the bush and come out the other, I look back and the squirrel runs back in to where he come from, eyes front I straighten up and check for damage. nothing. I am in the clear so I round the corner and head back around.
By the time I get to Alexander McQueen's old house the squirrel is a forgotten memory, a brief moment of awkwardness, followed by confusion, then forgotten. Like a one night stand. I have completely forgotten about it by the time I head back through the gates at the village, and onto the grass verge.
This time I see the little bastard, his head is moving from side to side, poking out of the bush, like he's waiting to cross the road. and then he does it again, still with a conker in its mouth, he bounces in front of me and stops dead. Now I'm just confused, once is a strange little accident, a funny, early morning quirk, but twice? from the same bush? This is just weird.
so the ballet starts and a decide to leap over the squirrel and deny him what he so clearly wants, a way out. Death by runner, it's a bit like death by police but the park based, animal version. I jump over him and my right foot lands on a big stick, and the uneven surface does something to the underneath of my foot, I regain my balance, look back and the squirrel is waving a fist at me and shouting,
"come back and finish me off! I don't want to live anymore, come back and end this cruel nightmare for me!"
He doesn't, the little shit just sits there, then scampers across road and into another bush.
I exit the park and a shooting pain has started, I get home and stretch out and my foot feels OK. I go to work and walking to the bus stop, the pain starts again. I sit on the bus and ponder the possibility that a squirrel may have ruined me in 2011. I phone my physio and explain what's happened,
"A squirrel?"
"Yes, a squirrel Bob"
"Came at you twice?"
"Yes, out of the same bush"
"And now your foot hurts?"
"Yes, like a stabbing pain underneath my foot, going all the way to the ankle, you think I should go for another run?"
"No. you've done enough now, stay healthy, rest it, I'll see you Tuesday. Just try to stay off it"
"OK, will do."
"Oh, and Gareth?"
"Yes?"
"Don't go to the park again"
"OK"
Today is Tuesday, I fly tomorrow, and I have no idea what Bob is going to say. I run the 2011 Chicago marathon in 5 days from now and it's possible that I might be injured and unable to run the race that I want to run because of a squirrel.
Life is very strange.
These last few weeks I have been running in the style of a man holding a bomb in his hands, with no safe place to set it down. Every step I take is a possible ankle sprainer, and every loose paving slab is a definite knee crusher. Everything in my path is an enemy now, divots, puddles, tree roots, gravel, mud, steps, curbs, leaves, other people. All of these things have the potential to do damage and ruin 6 months of training, sacrifice, and effort.
My assassin of fate did not come in these forms though, I was not felled by a a loose slab of concrete on the Regents canal, I did slip on the new gravel by Victoria Park, but it did not cause me harm. No, I was cruelly struck down by an agent of doom, a bringer of misfortune, lady lucks cruel joke did not throw me something so predictable.
I got done by a suicidal squirrel.
I was running my last long run and to bump the miles up I went twice round the park, which is about 6 miles give or take. It's a circle I have run many times and I know it well. As I came around the first lap, through the gates by the village I moved across onto the grass path, in between the bushes and the benches. I don't look at people anymore, I don't enjoy the early morning hue, I just stare at the space one meter in front of me, making sure that every step is a safe one, picking each landing foot to make sure I don't twist or pull anything. From the corner of my eye I don't see him, I just see a rustle, like a flash something is a foot and a half in front of me, maybe one step in front of my eyes the pace I'm going, it's a squirrel, with a conker stuffed in its little mouth.
Time slows while I try to work out why this normally nervous little animal has decided to get so close to me, did he see me? or was he too busy making sure the conker doesn't escape its jaw? Then I consider my options,
1. I could run straight over the little thing, who's eyes are now firmly locked into mine. He looks sad, as if he knows that the conker will be never be enjoyed, because death is upon him in the shape of a ginger, running blur.
2. I can swerve to my left and smash into a newly painted bench.
3. I can swerve right and into the bushes.
I go right, the squirrel doesn't even move, and I become acquainted with the bushes like two old fat friends embracing at the airport, arms out stretched, struggling to wrap their arms round each other. I go in one side of the bush and come out the other, I look back and the squirrel runs back in to where he come from, eyes front I straighten up and check for damage. nothing. I am in the clear so I round the corner and head back around.
By the time I get to Alexander McQueen's old house the squirrel is a forgotten memory, a brief moment of awkwardness, followed by confusion, then forgotten. Like a one night stand. I have completely forgotten about it by the time I head back through the gates at the village, and onto the grass verge.
This time I see the little bastard, his head is moving from side to side, poking out of the bush, like he's waiting to cross the road. and then he does it again, still with a conker in its mouth, he bounces in front of me and stops dead. Now I'm just confused, once is a strange little accident, a funny, early morning quirk, but twice? from the same bush? This is just weird.
so the ballet starts and a decide to leap over the squirrel and deny him what he so clearly wants, a way out. Death by runner, it's a bit like death by police but the park based, animal version. I jump over him and my right foot lands on a big stick, and the uneven surface does something to the underneath of my foot, I regain my balance, look back and the squirrel is waving a fist at me and shouting,
"come back and finish me off! I don't want to live anymore, come back and end this cruel nightmare for me!"
He doesn't, the little shit just sits there, then scampers across road and into another bush.
I exit the park and a shooting pain has started, I get home and stretch out and my foot feels OK. I go to work and walking to the bus stop, the pain starts again. I sit on the bus and ponder the possibility that a squirrel may have ruined me in 2011. I phone my physio and explain what's happened,
"A squirrel?"
"Yes, a squirrel Bob"
"Came at you twice?"
"Yes, out of the same bush"
"And now your foot hurts?"
"Yes, like a stabbing pain underneath my foot, going all the way to the ankle, you think I should go for another run?"
"No. you've done enough now, stay healthy, rest it, I'll see you Tuesday. Just try to stay off it"
"OK, will do."
"Oh, and Gareth?"
"Yes?"
"Don't go to the park again"
"OK"
Today is Tuesday, I fly tomorrow, and I have no idea what Bob is going to say. I run the 2011 Chicago marathon in 5 days from now and it's possible that I might be injured and unable to run the race that I want to run because of a squirrel.
Life is very strange.
Thursday, 15 September 2011
I run a race, I handicap myself, and death cowers over me
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.
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.
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
Monday, 29 August 2011
What's love got to with it? Not much Tina, not much at all.
"You've got to stop reading into everything that she says"
This statement has been playing around in my head for most of this week, mostly while I've been running. It is fair to say that I am a master of the art of 'reading into things' or 'actually working out the truth' as I like to call it. A gift handed down to me by my father, with the express wish that I use this power only for doing my own head in, with Dad being the Overlord, Emperor, and King of being mortally offended by near enough anything that you happen to say to him, the uncanny ability to take real offence to a light hearted joke, and to not forget that joke for a number of years. Exactly like this paragraph basically*
I am my fathers son, so I have been blessed/cursed by this power too. Nothing gives me greater joy/pain than to listen to something someone says to me, convince myself that the statement hides what they REALLY mean, then letting what I think it means take over my rational head. It's not all my own doing though, we all do it. And it will only ever really take control when it involves affairs of the heart, when you want something so badly that you completely convince yourself of what you want to hear, rather than the glaringly obvious.
I fell in love with Lisa Davis on a school trip to Big Pit when I was 8 years old. I knew it was love because she'd sat next to me on the way there. I should have known it was over when she sat with Gareth McCarthy on the way back. I didn't want to believe what was happening in front of my very eyes, and I convinced myself that it was still me that she wanted. So I did the only thing any proud man could do in that situation, I sent her a note saying,
"Is it over between us?"
2 agonizing minutes I waited as the note was hurried up the bus,
"Yes" came the resounding reply.
You'd think that this would be the end of the matter, that a 'yes' in capital letters would make me understand that it was not destined to be. No, I'm afraid that I don't simply stop at the first sign of rejection, I like to have it hammered into to me time and time again, like being viciously beaten by a group of gypsy bare knuckle boxers. A few weeks went by and my family and I went on holiday to Holland, where I found a little craft fair selling traditional Dutch pottery. Looking back now it was clearly Chinese made tat being sold at a tourist trap market in Holland, but at the time the little china windmill was a beautiful ornament. I bought one for Lisa, convinced that she would finally understand the deep, never ending torch I held for her, and that she would realize that I was in fact the man she should spend the rest of her life with, or at least until we got to high school. On the first day back from holidays I walked up to her friend and asked her to give it to Lisa (bravery with the ladies has always been my strong point). During the next break Lisa's friend came back and gave me the windmill back,
"Lisa says thanks but she doesn't want it, she really likes it but she can't accept it"
The only part of this I even hear is 'she really likes it' and I was ecstatic, completely assured that my taste in shit pottery was the same as hers, and that in that case we'd eventually be together forever!
It was this bad when I was eight, 25 years later and I'm still having to deal with this madness!
I've become so adept at it now that I read into what people don't say, and how they don't say it. I can read into peoples actions or lack of actions, and make sure that it comes out on my side. I read into what my friends say about things, then I ignore it and believe what I think they said. I read Emails and change the words around so instead of it saying,
'we've decided that we'd rather you didn't come to Ibiza with us, what with you being bat shit crazy!'
I read it as
'it would be bat shit crazy if you didn't let us come to Ibiza with you!'
It's out of control, and a borderline mental health issue, but I've got the cure. You stop. you just stop trying to read into what people say and just hear what they said instead. Easy. You also completely stop speaking to anyone about anything important at all. Ever.
I go out to run 20 miles with my friend Tom. Tom's planned the route and we head off. The best thing about running somewhere you've never been before is that you don't know how far you've run, or how far you've got left. Unless you've got a fancy watch like Tom has, which bleeps every time you reach a mile, and then tells you how slow you did that mile. Otherwise you're just free to jog along and take in the sites. Brixton, Clapham Common, Putney, Richmond, Morden, and South Wimbledon all glide past. We start off pretty quick but the pace drops off after a while and I take the chance to just enjoy it a have the banter with Tom. It's a good 3 and a half hours or more before we hit the 20 mile mark and the slow pace has gifted me a burnt, red, face.
Even at a slow pace the body needs a few days to recover. The next day my legs feel good with no aches or pains but I can feel a slight heaviness. I take a 2 day break from running. During this two day break I fly to Germany and back in a day for a job interview and to give a presentation. After the interview I am sitting in the canteen waiting for my taxi when the woman who'd interviewed me walks in, sees me on the other side of the room and waves. I wave back and carry on reading my book**. I look up and she is walking towards my table,
"Are you waiting for your cab?"
"Yes" I squeak in reply, I am incredibly nervous, this job is a huge thing for me,
"That was really good. really, really, good. Thank you. It will be completely my decision, and you'll be hearing from me next week, have a safe journey home" then she kisses me on both cheeks and walks off.
Obviously I can't read into what she says so I've assumed that the interview went badly, she didn't think it was very good, and she is going to give the job to someone else. Because that's what she meant right?
* - caru ti yn fawr iawn Dad xx
** - Mr Briggs' Hat - the story of Britain's first railway murder. Amazing book
This statement has been playing around in my head for most of this week, mostly while I've been running. It is fair to say that I am a master of the art of 'reading into things' or 'actually working out the truth' as I like to call it. A gift handed down to me by my father, with the express wish that I use this power only for doing my own head in, with Dad being the Overlord, Emperor, and King of being mortally offended by near enough anything that you happen to say to him, the uncanny ability to take real offence to a light hearted joke, and to not forget that joke for a number of years. Exactly like this paragraph basically*
I am my fathers son, so I have been blessed/cursed by this power too. Nothing gives me greater joy/pain than to listen to something someone says to me, convince myself that the statement hides what they REALLY mean, then letting what I think it means take over my rational head. It's not all my own doing though, we all do it. And it will only ever really take control when it involves affairs of the heart, when you want something so badly that you completely convince yourself of what you want to hear, rather than the glaringly obvious.
I fell in love with Lisa Davis on a school trip to Big Pit when I was 8 years old. I knew it was love because she'd sat next to me on the way there. I should have known it was over when she sat with Gareth McCarthy on the way back. I didn't want to believe what was happening in front of my very eyes, and I convinced myself that it was still me that she wanted. So I did the only thing any proud man could do in that situation, I sent her a note saying,
"Is it over between us?"
2 agonizing minutes I waited as the note was hurried up the bus,
"Yes" came the resounding reply.
You'd think that this would be the end of the matter, that a 'yes' in capital letters would make me understand that it was not destined to be. No, I'm afraid that I don't simply stop at the first sign of rejection, I like to have it hammered into to me time and time again, like being viciously beaten by a group of gypsy bare knuckle boxers. A few weeks went by and my family and I went on holiday to Holland, where I found a little craft fair selling traditional Dutch pottery. Looking back now it was clearly Chinese made tat being sold at a tourist trap market in Holland, but at the time the little china windmill was a beautiful ornament. I bought one for Lisa, convinced that she would finally understand the deep, never ending torch I held for her, and that she would realize that I was in fact the man she should spend the rest of her life with, or at least until we got to high school. On the first day back from holidays I walked up to her friend and asked her to give it to Lisa (bravery with the ladies has always been my strong point). During the next break Lisa's friend came back and gave me the windmill back,
"Lisa says thanks but she doesn't want it, she really likes it but she can't accept it"
The only part of this I even hear is 'she really likes it' and I was ecstatic, completely assured that my taste in shit pottery was the same as hers, and that in that case we'd eventually be together forever!
It was this bad when I was eight, 25 years later and I'm still having to deal with this madness!
I've become so adept at it now that I read into what people don't say, and how they don't say it. I can read into peoples actions or lack of actions, and make sure that it comes out on my side. I read into what my friends say about things, then I ignore it and believe what I think they said. I read Emails and change the words around so instead of it saying,
'we've decided that we'd rather you didn't come to Ibiza with us, what with you being bat shit crazy!'
I read it as
'it would be bat shit crazy if you didn't let us come to Ibiza with you!'
It's out of control, and a borderline mental health issue, but I've got the cure. You stop. you just stop trying to read into what people say and just hear what they said instead. Easy. You also completely stop speaking to anyone about anything important at all. Ever.
I go out to run 20 miles with my friend Tom. Tom's planned the route and we head off. The best thing about running somewhere you've never been before is that you don't know how far you've run, or how far you've got left. Unless you've got a fancy watch like Tom has, which bleeps every time you reach a mile, and then tells you how slow you did that mile. Otherwise you're just free to jog along and take in the sites. Brixton, Clapham Common, Putney, Richmond, Morden, and South Wimbledon all glide past. We start off pretty quick but the pace drops off after a while and I take the chance to just enjoy it a have the banter with Tom. It's a good 3 and a half hours or more before we hit the 20 mile mark and the slow pace has gifted me a burnt, red, face.
Even at a slow pace the body needs a few days to recover. The next day my legs feel good with no aches or pains but I can feel a slight heaviness. I take a 2 day break from running. During this two day break I fly to Germany and back in a day for a job interview and to give a presentation. After the interview I am sitting in the canteen waiting for my taxi when the woman who'd interviewed me walks in, sees me on the other side of the room and waves. I wave back and carry on reading my book**. I look up and she is walking towards my table,
"Are you waiting for your cab?"
"Yes" I squeak in reply, I am incredibly nervous, this job is a huge thing for me,
"That was really good. really, really, good. Thank you. It will be completely my decision, and you'll be hearing from me next week, have a safe journey home" then she kisses me on both cheeks and walks off.
Obviously I can't read into what she says so I've assumed that the interview went badly, she didn't think it was very good, and she is going to give the job to someone else. Because that's what she meant right?
* - caru ti yn fawr iawn Dad xx
** - Mr Briggs' Hat - the story of Britain's first railway murder. Amazing book
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
The circle of life, my blisters, and the fact that we are just animals
Like most sports running is intertwined with your state of mind. If you are in a good mood your run will be one of enjoyment and ease. If you are unhappy, your run will become longer and fraught with errors or injury.
I have had my mum to stay with me for 5 nights, I would describe my runs during this period as frustrating, annoying, and fury inducing. This is not to say that I don't like my dear Mam, I love her with every fibre of my being, she gave me life, looked after me until I was able, and never judged me. She has just loved me unconditionally for 30 years. The other 3 years she wanted to kill me because I wouldn't sleep as a baby. My mother nearly threw me out of a bedroom window after 3 sleepless days and nights. Ask her, she'll admit it.
It is not my Mum that drives me mad, it is the fact that our roles have been reversed, time is playing its last cruel joke on us, turning the carer into the cared. We have swapped roles now mother and I, before she would tell me what to do, and how to do it, guiding me around and making sure I didn't fall flat on my face. Now I'm the one making sure she doesn't headbutt the floor. I find myself saying things to my mother that she used to say to me -
"No, No, come on, it's this way"
"Watch where you're going! You'll get run over!"
"Put it down! That's not yours"
"Right! time for bed for you then"
And I am furious that I have to look after her now, because it means that I must face up to the reality that one day, hopefully in 50 years from now, my Mam won't be here to look after me anymore. And the fury I feel when I have say these things to her just hides the indescribable sadness that engulfs me when I consider that fact. I cry about it sometimes, not in front of her, or anyone for that matter but I don't believe in holding emotion in anymore, why deny the inevitable? the inescapable? My parents won't be here one day and it sucks the life out of me.
I wasn't always this sad about my parents being dead though, at times in the 80's I recall shouting that I wished they WERE dead but I didn't mean it, I was a teenager, we all said things we never ever meant.
The relationship with the parents has three main periods -
Period 1
0 - 12
Your parents are super heroes who know everything, give you everything, protect you, make you laugh, teach you, shout at you. You fear them because they are the all knowing, the keepers of secrets, on first name terms with Santa AND the tooth fairy! They know the answer to every question you can think of, and still manage to make you feel like you are the most important person on the planet. They're indestructible and so very strong.
Period 2
13 - 24
This is the hardest period for all concerned, the period when you realize that your parents actually know very little about a lot of things, and that they actually hid, lied, and glossed over loads of things in life that you weren't expecting, like death, working for money, emotional heart ache, and life generally fucking you over once in a while. These caring idiots lied to you for years, telling you it was going to be OK, kissing it better, when in actual fact all that was going to happen was that life was going to get harder, and kissing it better would become really inappropriate and could get you arrested.
Period 3
25 - The rest of your life.
This is the period that is actually the most wonderful, when all the cats are out of the bags, when you can sit with your parents and talk about life without them having to lie to you anymore. Life shit? turns out that your Dad had a pretty tough time growing up too. Tough job? turns out your mum did that hardest job in the world in raising you, then went out and did a normal job on top. And then it slowly dawns on your stupid, selfish, arrogant, brain that your parents have lived a life very much like yours, they've felt what you've felt, seen what you've seen, and that they had to then protect you from all of it until you were old enough to cope! And it's this period when you love them so much more because they are you, and you are they.
And then they go and ruin it by getting old and forcing you start looking after them. The bastards!
I suspect Mum plays it up a bit, the selective hearing, the tiredness, the confusion at fancy kettles, and let's not even get started on the Internet.
My mum is the only person I know who owns Sky+ in her house, but doesn't know how to use it in mine! As if the location makes it impossible for her to understand.
I'd cry if I wasn't laughing.
I have left London to go for a run around Cardiff for a few days. This is a new run for me, new music, and new orthotics in my trainers. I am pronating heavily into my right foot, meaning that as I land I lean and push onto the inside left of my right foot. This causes annoyance for the first 5 miles, pain for the next 5 miles, then blood for any miles after, The orthotics should balance me out.
They don't. Half way round the outskirts of Cardiff Bay the pain is for more acute than running without them and I have to stop and take them out in Grangetown. I run the rest of the way back, and hit a good time, but the damage is done. I've got a hole in my foot.
I spend the rest of my time in Cardiff seeing a new born baby. This baby is 4 weeks old, and already has the makings of a beautiful human being, if you can get beyond the constant crying, shitting, crying, and sleeping that it does. Babies are to me the last great example of why we are simply animals. A baby comes along and everyone close to that baby wants to protect it, to care for it and keep it safe from harm. And this one is no exception. I held her in my arms and I was quietly confident that I would happily kill anyone or anything that came near it to cause her harm. The cat got a couple of nasty stares from me those few days let me tell you!
It is a primal feeling, it's not my baby, it's not even my blood but I felt a instinctive need to protect her and you see that a thousand times stronger in the parents. They've changed. They're still your friends but they don't care about you that much anymore, the only thing they care about is that little baby. It's amazing and beautiful. A simple joy to watch.
And it changes everything, the biggest game changer in life. Going to Cardiff would normally involve drinking beers all day, watching some sport, then drinking wine until the early hours whilst having loud, drunken, misunderstandings with all concerned. This time I was up at 8am, sitting around watching the baby, listening to the baby, holding the baby, playing with the baby, then a walk into town and back again, then putting the baby down, then going to bed. It was the best 3 days in Cardiff I've had in 4 years.
It takes 4 days for the foot to stop being a hole but it's sorted now. I'm now alternating between two sets of trainers. One pair a half size too small but don't hurt my problem foot, and the other pair that fit but make me pronate. Some thing's got to give, and it ain't going to be me.
I have had my mum to stay with me for 5 nights, I would describe my runs during this period as frustrating, annoying, and fury inducing. This is not to say that I don't like my dear Mam, I love her with every fibre of my being, she gave me life, looked after me until I was able, and never judged me. She has just loved me unconditionally for 30 years. The other 3 years she wanted to kill me because I wouldn't sleep as a baby. My mother nearly threw me out of a bedroom window after 3 sleepless days and nights. Ask her, she'll admit it.
It is not my Mum that drives me mad, it is the fact that our roles have been reversed, time is playing its last cruel joke on us, turning the carer into the cared. We have swapped roles now mother and I, before she would tell me what to do, and how to do it, guiding me around and making sure I didn't fall flat on my face. Now I'm the one making sure she doesn't headbutt the floor. I find myself saying things to my mother that she used to say to me -
"No, No, come on, it's this way"
"Watch where you're going! You'll get run over!"
"Put it down! That's not yours"
"Right! time for bed for you then"
And I am furious that I have to look after her now, because it means that I must face up to the reality that one day, hopefully in 50 years from now, my Mam won't be here to look after me anymore. And the fury I feel when I have say these things to her just hides the indescribable sadness that engulfs me when I consider that fact. I cry about it sometimes, not in front of her, or anyone for that matter but I don't believe in holding emotion in anymore, why deny the inevitable? the inescapable? My parents won't be here one day and it sucks the life out of me.
I wasn't always this sad about my parents being dead though, at times in the 80's I recall shouting that I wished they WERE dead but I didn't mean it, I was a teenager, we all said things we never ever meant.
The relationship with the parents has three main periods -
Period 1
0 - 12
Your parents are super heroes who know everything, give you everything, protect you, make you laugh, teach you, shout at you. You fear them because they are the all knowing, the keepers of secrets, on first name terms with Santa AND the tooth fairy! They know the answer to every question you can think of, and still manage to make you feel like you are the most important person on the planet. They're indestructible and so very strong.
Period 2
13 - 24
This is the hardest period for all concerned, the period when you realize that your parents actually know very little about a lot of things, and that they actually hid, lied, and glossed over loads of things in life that you weren't expecting, like death, working for money, emotional heart ache, and life generally fucking you over once in a while. These caring idiots lied to you for years, telling you it was going to be OK, kissing it better, when in actual fact all that was going to happen was that life was going to get harder, and kissing it better would become really inappropriate and could get you arrested.
Period 3
25 - The rest of your life.
This is the period that is actually the most wonderful, when all the cats are out of the bags, when you can sit with your parents and talk about life without them having to lie to you anymore. Life shit? turns out that your Dad had a pretty tough time growing up too. Tough job? turns out your mum did that hardest job in the world in raising you, then went out and did a normal job on top. And then it slowly dawns on your stupid, selfish, arrogant, brain that your parents have lived a life very much like yours, they've felt what you've felt, seen what you've seen, and that they had to then protect you from all of it until you were old enough to cope! And it's this period when you love them so much more because they are you, and you are they.
And then they go and ruin it by getting old and forcing you start looking after them. The bastards!
I suspect Mum plays it up a bit, the selective hearing, the tiredness, the confusion at fancy kettles, and let's not even get started on the Internet.
My mum is the only person I know who owns Sky+ in her house, but doesn't know how to use it in mine! As if the location makes it impossible for her to understand.
I'd cry if I wasn't laughing.
I have left London to go for a run around Cardiff for a few days. This is a new run for me, new music, and new orthotics in my trainers. I am pronating heavily into my right foot, meaning that as I land I lean and push onto the inside left of my right foot. This causes annoyance for the first 5 miles, pain for the next 5 miles, then blood for any miles after, The orthotics should balance me out.
They don't. Half way round the outskirts of Cardiff Bay the pain is for more acute than running without them and I have to stop and take them out in Grangetown. I run the rest of the way back, and hit a good time, but the damage is done. I've got a hole in my foot.
I spend the rest of my time in Cardiff seeing a new born baby. This baby is 4 weeks old, and already has the makings of a beautiful human being, if you can get beyond the constant crying, shitting, crying, and sleeping that it does. Babies are to me the last great example of why we are simply animals. A baby comes along and everyone close to that baby wants to protect it, to care for it and keep it safe from harm. And this one is no exception. I held her in my arms and I was quietly confident that I would happily kill anyone or anything that came near it to cause her harm. The cat got a couple of nasty stares from me those few days let me tell you!
It is a primal feeling, it's not my baby, it's not even my blood but I felt a instinctive need to protect her and you see that a thousand times stronger in the parents. They've changed. They're still your friends but they don't care about you that much anymore, the only thing they care about is that little baby. It's amazing and beautiful. A simple joy to watch.
And it changes everything, the biggest game changer in life. Going to Cardiff would normally involve drinking beers all day, watching some sport, then drinking wine until the early hours whilst having loud, drunken, misunderstandings with all concerned. This time I was up at 8am, sitting around watching the baby, listening to the baby, holding the baby, playing with the baby, then a walk into town and back again, then putting the baby down, then going to bed. It was the best 3 days in Cardiff I've had in 4 years.
It takes 4 days for the foot to stop being a hole but it's sorted now. I'm now alternating between two sets of trainers. One pair a half size too small but don't hurt my problem foot, and the other pair that fit but make me pronate. Some thing's got to give, and it ain't going to be me.
Monday, 1 August 2011
My head's empty, but my legs are full.
I am now running every day. 3-5 miles one day, 7-10 miles the next until Sunday when I run a bit further. I don't plan the runs anymore now, I just leave the house with enough time to be able to get back and prepare breakfast and lunch. And I LOVE it!
Then I just feel my body, how I'm landing, if my breathing is matching my steps, and I just go. The speeds vary now too, if I know it's going to be short one then I'll quicken as much as I can, longer runs I just pace it out. I don't wear a watch either, I'll match up the time I left with the time I get back, then g pedometer it as I greedily chow down my cereal. And I LOVE it!
But the strangest thing has started happening, I don't think about much anymore, the big things at least. I may have a happy memory pop into my head every now and then, especially if I run past a place of meaning or importance. Usually it's pubs I've fallen out of, or doorways where I've stolen kisses. There's lots of those places around where I live so these little pictures pop into my head, a short, punchy memory of days gone by, but nothing substantial, nothing that follows me through the whole run, and the same goes for bad thoughts, they seem to have fallen away. It seems that the more I run, the less I think.
I must confess that I think about the marathon a lot, and what it represents. I've wanted to run this marathon for such a long time, and now it's 9 weeks away. And the average finish time I posted in London this year adds a delicious tension to Chicago. It's not a question of beating my last time, I could beat that if I spent the morning at a Pizza Hut buffet, drank a couple of pints, had a snooze and set off, I'd still beat that time, it's by how much? how fast can I go? And I know it shouldn't matter, and that the achievement is the real joy but it isn't. It's the beating of something that you know can be beaten.
There a solitariness about running, a sense that it really is you against you, and you for you. The effort you put in, the early mornings and late nights. The weird sleeping patterns and boring diet, all of these things you do to yourself in the hope of bettering yourself. You deny yourself what you want, in order to get what you really want in the future, oh sweet irony!
By all accounts I should be lonely. I don't go out anymore, I'm in bed by 11pm, up at 6am, I don't eat anything that doesn't in some way benefit my running, and I don't drink like I use to. In fact, I may have a glass of wine with a meal but that is it.
And it's shit. I hate it! I hate the lack of fun, I hate not seeing my mates, I hate the constant thought that somewhere the best night ever is happening and I'm not there. I hate seeing the photos and hearing the stories, I hate the tweets and status' I hate not being in the middle of the road at 4am kissing a sweetheart and not caring about the next day.
But I don't hate it at much as I hated a couple of months ago, when I limped over the line four hours and thirteen minutes after I'd started, I hated the looks of pity and disappointment, I hated the realization that nobody else had done this to me except me, I hated that so much more.
And this hatred is driving me forward but I worry that I'm pushing too hard, letting hate and determination cloud my better judgement, and we all know that nothing good ever came from hatred. Which I think is something from Star Wars but I can't be sure.
So I have decided to put love back into my running, and I LOVE it!
Then I just feel my body, how I'm landing, if my breathing is matching my steps, and I just go. The speeds vary now too, if I know it's going to be short one then I'll quicken as much as I can, longer runs I just pace it out. I don't wear a watch either, I'll match up the time I left with the time I get back, then g pedometer it as I greedily chow down my cereal. And I LOVE it!
But the strangest thing has started happening, I don't think about much anymore, the big things at least. I may have a happy memory pop into my head every now and then, especially if I run past a place of meaning or importance. Usually it's pubs I've fallen out of, or doorways where I've stolen kisses. There's lots of those places around where I live so these little pictures pop into my head, a short, punchy memory of days gone by, but nothing substantial, nothing that follows me through the whole run, and the same goes for bad thoughts, they seem to have fallen away. It seems that the more I run, the less I think.
I must confess that I think about the marathon a lot, and what it represents. I've wanted to run this marathon for such a long time, and now it's 9 weeks away. And the average finish time I posted in London this year adds a delicious tension to Chicago. It's not a question of beating my last time, I could beat that if I spent the morning at a Pizza Hut buffet, drank a couple of pints, had a snooze and set off, I'd still beat that time, it's by how much? how fast can I go? And I know it shouldn't matter, and that the achievement is the real joy but it isn't. It's the beating of something that you know can be beaten.
There a solitariness about running, a sense that it really is you against you, and you for you. The effort you put in, the early mornings and late nights. The weird sleeping patterns and boring diet, all of these things you do to yourself in the hope of bettering yourself. You deny yourself what you want, in order to get what you really want in the future, oh sweet irony!
By all accounts I should be lonely. I don't go out anymore, I'm in bed by 11pm, up at 6am, I don't eat anything that doesn't in some way benefit my running, and I don't drink like I use to. In fact, I may have a glass of wine with a meal but that is it.
And it's shit. I hate it! I hate the lack of fun, I hate not seeing my mates, I hate the constant thought that somewhere the best night ever is happening and I'm not there. I hate seeing the photos and hearing the stories, I hate the tweets and status' I hate not being in the middle of the road at 4am kissing a sweetheart and not caring about the next day.
But I don't hate it at much as I hated a couple of months ago, when I limped over the line four hours and thirteen minutes after I'd started, I hated the looks of pity and disappointment, I hated the realization that nobody else had done this to me except me, I hated that so much more.
And this hatred is driving me forward but I worry that I'm pushing too hard, letting hate and determination cloud my better judgement, and we all know that nothing good ever came from hatred. Which I think is something from Star Wars but I can't be sure.
So I have decided to put love back into my running, and I LOVE it!
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
I MADE THIS ENTIRE THING UP
DISCLAIMER!
I WANT TO MAKE IT VERY CLEAR THAT EVERYTHING WRITTEN BELOW IS A COMPLETE FICTION. NONE OF THE BELOW EVER HAPPENED.
Now. I've seen the wrong side of 7am on a Sunday morning a lot of times in my life, but only sporadically have I been up at 6:30am on a Sunday to go running. But the early morning weekend run is becoming a lot more regular than any other reason why I'd be up at this strange time.
As I run through Queensbridge road it becomes clear that a lot of other people are up and about: the rave zombies. Those desperate people who've found themselves wandering around London in the early hours, confusingly trying to find out either where the hell they are, or how the hell did they get there.
You see them stare into the middle distance, willing a taxi, or anyone, would pick them up and take them home. Some of them are clutching cans of beer like comfort blankets, while others are sweating more than I am. Which is a worry as I've already been running for a mile and a half.
I'd be lying if I didn't feel a smugness or an air of betterment than these poor unfortunates as I glide past them, but this is replaced very quickly by the knowledge that I am one of them, and that I've been in worst states than they ever could cope with, and that basically, if things were only slightly different, I'd be smashed out of my head with them too.
I'm guessing these battered, wide eyed, smoky kids have been to the Lovebox festival. A three day festival in my local park where everyone goes home at midnight, only to return the following day for more drinks, more drugs, and more fun.
I'm not attending any festivals this year, for two reasons,
1. Memories
2. Drugs
1. Memories
I've been to a lot of festivals, and had a lot of fun. And the memories of those amazing times are scolded onto my heart, never to be forgotten. Alas however, these memories are tinged with a sadness, because I know that those great times can't be replicated, and if they were to be, they would be altered by time and circumstance. The people who made those wonderful times with me don't go to festivals anymore, and the ones that do go with people I don't want to go with. And I'm not sure if I can be bothered making new memories with a load of other people, I'd rather just remember the ones I have.
I remember finding someone in Lovebox once, I found them in a sea of 35,000 people, as if it were normal. They'd been there all day and I'd followed later, they were drinking and having fun and phone signals were dead so I had no clue where they could be. I just walked in, and walked straight to where they were and tapped them on the shoulder. It was uncanny, like a subconscious GPS system was working in my head. and the shock and surprise and joy on their face made me feel amazing.
I remember being sat in a field in Glastonbury with my friend Mark, who'd taken far too much speed and couldn't get to sleep, in fact, he couldn't stop moving his leg. And we sat in that field watching his leg shake for 3 hours until the sun came up, then he fell asleep, his leg kept shaking though.
I remember a man in a portaloo have his portaloo pushed over by some guys and it fell straight into a lake of piss and shit that had built up around the toilets. And as he climbed out of his portaloo boat he just laughed and laughed, and I thought he'd be spitting fury but he was pissing himself. Which he actually could have been because he was covered in it.
I remember dancing surrounded by strangers. I remember trying to finger a girl with my dirty festival fingers, while her friends slept all around us. She wouldn't let me. I remember the drinking and the drugs, I remember the heightened fear of the searches at the gates, and most of all I remember the love. from all around, you just feel this connection with your friends, your girl, that person you've just met, and from strangers. It's amazing.
I do love a festival, but it's not my life right now, this much I'm sure of as I get my the buzz from running across the Thames. This feeling that lifts my legs and changes my pace, when I come alive in London, instead of feeling like London is killing me.
2. Drugs
I have been doing drugs, in one way or another, for over 14 years now. I started, like everyone, by drinking. Alcohol is the worst drug I've ever taken, it causes more damage, more violence, and costs society more money and causes more deaths than any other drug I have come across. And on a personal level, while I've been pissed I've said and done the things I regret most in my life.
At about 15/16 I started smoking weed, long summers out of school were spent smoking weed, playing the megadrive, and endless hours playing football. But as I started drinking more I quickly realized that mixing the two resulted rapidly in me going green and vomiting. It's calmed down a lot since then but as my drinking became regular, in line with the new friends I'd made after I'd left school, booze and speed became my thing.
Then one day our dealer Steve said that he didn't have any speed, and would we be interested in a mix of coke and speed? We were in a rush and agreed, not really thinking about the fact that we were going to start taking cocaine. I was 17.
I'd always been aware of the use of drugs and its impact on music, and I had been working in HMV from the age of 15, so hearing all the jungle, house, and techno made me very alive to it, and I learned more about ecstasy and the rave culture that had just passed me by a few years before. I remember one of the first concerts I ever went to was the Prodigy, with a few people from work. About half way through my co-workers all started getting really 'huggy' and smiling a lot. I thought that they were just pleased that the Prodigy were about to come on stage, and I sort of wished that I could like a band THAT much. Then after the concert Dave and H drove me home, and as I sat happily in the back seat, I didn't really understand why H kept saying things like,
"you're going a bit left Dave, OK, slow down a bit Dave, there's a red light here Dave, stop now Dave" I just thought Dave was a little bit bad at driver. I look back now and clearly see that they were both smashed on pills, and were negotiating the roads as well as they could. Bless them.
So at about 18 I was annoyed that I'd bypassed the ecstasy culture and ended up on cocaine, without ever experiencing the drug that changed youth culture in the late 80s and defined the 90s.
So I went out specifically to find someone who still did E's and asked them to take me out. I found someone, and they agreed, and I took my first pill at the Emporium nightclub, Cardiff. It was called an 'elephant', I think it was because the thing was as thick as a elephants leg. Many people have tried to describe their first pill, and I'm not going to even attempt it now, but as I cross back over Tower Bridge, and look across to St Katherine's Dock, the recollection of my first pill draws a massive smile across my face, much to the bewilderment of an oncoming cyclist.
I lied.
It's the best feeling in the world, a rising sense of well being, coupled with the feeling that everything is OK in your world, and that your friends are the best friends you'll ever have, and that you're life is going to be so much more than the sums of its parts. The euphoria of feeling that good makes you so happy to be alive that you cannot imagine ever not feeling this way for the rest of your life. Incredible.
And it sort of never went away, through University and out of University drugs became the background to my social life. The white foundation to whatever paint of life I wanted to create with. It never took me over, I never got hooked, I was always aware and respectful of drugs and their uses. I'll admit that there were some bad times, nights where I took too much, drank too much, and too quickly. Nights where I possibly didn't really think about the effect it was having on others. But I never let it define me, and I always made sure that weekends were spent doing things away from the nightclubs and music, and for a couple of months at a time I wouldn't drink either, knowing full well that drinking is my trigger for wanton excess. Take away the booze and I wouldn't ever contemplate getting smashed.
In my early twenties I smoked heroin.
once.
and I'll never do it again, not because it wasn't great, it was. It was really great. I only did it because I believe that if you are to have an opinion on anything, you must have experience of it. If you don't know what you're talking about then you don't have the right to judge anyone about their choices in life. This doesn't really stretch to paedophilia, serial killing, and eating baked beans though, but for nearly everything else, if you choose to have an opinion, and a opinion that you want to push onto other people, then you need to know what you're talking about. I didn't just try it so I could say 'yeah, I've done it, you haven't' or because drugs are 'cool' I did it because it was a moment in time, and I can look back on that time and say,
'I made a choice, and now I have a fuller understanding of what happens to people when they fall into the hole of dependency and addiction, and why a drug can do that to a person, and I am glad that I have never fallen into that hole'
Thinking about these experiences as I run makes me feel like I'm having a bit of a panic attack, I guess the mixture of these memories, coupled with my raised heart rate from the running makes my brain think that I'm in a sweaty, nightclub, afterparty, scenario. When in fact I'm banging it down Whitechapel high street on my own.
My mind shifts to now and I think about the fact that that I've not enjoyed taking drugs for about 2 years, don't get me wrong, the chemicals still work, and the changes in my body still work when I take them but I just don't like the situation anymore. I don't like how I feel after or during if I'm honest, but in almost all social situations and with almost all the people I know, I have to take a drug. Normally it's just a beer, but from there it's the booze to coke, coke to pills, pills to ket and so it goes on. So I don't go on, but of course I do. I am not a hermit, and I'm going to stay in for the rest of my life, and red wine is far too good to never drink again, and a cold lager on a hot day is sublime, and the rush of a pill surrounded by your mates, with the best music on earth blaring around you is feeling that is hard to turn down, but it's not a coincidence that I want to stop taking drugs at the same time as I have signed up for 3 marathons and a ultra marathon. I just know that I need discipline to stay out of trouble, a project if you like, and right now, running is all the project I need.
AS I SAID AT THE BEGINNING NONE OF THIS EVER TOOK PLACE, I AM WHOLLY AGAINST ANY ILLEGAL ACTIVITY. I JUST LIKE THE SENTIMENT BEHIND THE STORY.
I WANT TO MAKE IT VERY CLEAR THAT EVERYTHING WRITTEN BELOW IS A COMPLETE FICTION. NONE OF THE BELOW EVER HAPPENED.
Now. I've seen the wrong side of 7am on a Sunday morning a lot of times in my life, but only sporadically have I been up at 6:30am on a Sunday to go running. But the early morning weekend run is becoming a lot more regular than any other reason why I'd be up at this strange time.
As I run through Queensbridge road it becomes clear that a lot of other people are up and about: the rave zombies. Those desperate people who've found themselves wandering around London in the early hours, confusingly trying to find out either where the hell they are, or how the hell did they get there.
You see them stare into the middle distance, willing a taxi, or anyone, would pick them up and take them home. Some of them are clutching cans of beer like comfort blankets, while others are sweating more than I am. Which is a worry as I've already been running for a mile and a half.
I'd be lying if I didn't feel a smugness or an air of betterment than these poor unfortunates as I glide past them, but this is replaced very quickly by the knowledge that I am one of them, and that I've been in worst states than they ever could cope with, and that basically, if things were only slightly different, I'd be smashed out of my head with them too.
I'm guessing these battered, wide eyed, smoky kids have been to the Lovebox festival. A three day festival in my local park where everyone goes home at midnight, only to return the following day for more drinks, more drugs, and more fun.
I'm not attending any festivals this year, for two reasons,
1. Memories
2. Drugs
1. Memories
I've been to a lot of festivals, and had a lot of fun. And the memories of those amazing times are scolded onto my heart, never to be forgotten. Alas however, these memories are tinged with a sadness, because I know that those great times can't be replicated, and if they were to be, they would be altered by time and circumstance. The people who made those wonderful times with me don't go to festivals anymore, and the ones that do go with people I don't want to go with. And I'm not sure if I can be bothered making new memories with a load of other people, I'd rather just remember the ones I have.
I remember finding someone in Lovebox once, I found them in a sea of 35,000 people, as if it were normal. They'd been there all day and I'd followed later, they were drinking and having fun and phone signals were dead so I had no clue where they could be. I just walked in, and walked straight to where they were and tapped them on the shoulder. It was uncanny, like a subconscious GPS system was working in my head. and the shock and surprise and joy on their face made me feel amazing.
I remember being sat in a field in Glastonbury with my friend Mark, who'd taken far too much speed and couldn't get to sleep, in fact, he couldn't stop moving his leg. And we sat in that field watching his leg shake for 3 hours until the sun came up, then he fell asleep, his leg kept shaking though.
I remember a man in a portaloo have his portaloo pushed over by some guys and it fell straight into a lake of piss and shit that had built up around the toilets. And as he climbed out of his portaloo boat he just laughed and laughed, and I thought he'd be spitting fury but he was pissing himself. Which he actually could have been because he was covered in it.
I remember dancing surrounded by strangers. I remember trying to finger a girl with my dirty festival fingers, while her friends slept all around us. She wouldn't let me. I remember the drinking and the drugs, I remember the heightened fear of the searches at the gates, and most of all I remember the love. from all around, you just feel this connection with your friends, your girl, that person you've just met, and from strangers. It's amazing.
I do love a festival, but it's not my life right now, this much I'm sure of as I get my the buzz from running across the Thames. This feeling that lifts my legs and changes my pace, when I come alive in London, instead of feeling like London is killing me.
2. Drugs
I have been doing drugs, in one way or another, for over 14 years now. I started, like everyone, by drinking. Alcohol is the worst drug I've ever taken, it causes more damage, more violence, and costs society more money and causes more deaths than any other drug I have come across. And on a personal level, while I've been pissed I've said and done the things I regret most in my life.
At about 15/16 I started smoking weed, long summers out of school were spent smoking weed, playing the megadrive, and endless hours playing football. But as I started drinking more I quickly realized that mixing the two resulted rapidly in me going green and vomiting. It's calmed down a lot since then but as my drinking became regular, in line with the new friends I'd made after I'd left school, booze and speed became my thing.
Then one day our dealer Steve said that he didn't have any speed, and would we be interested in a mix of coke and speed? We were in a rush and agreed, not really thinking about the fact that we were going to start taking cocaine. I was 17.
I'd always been aware of the use of drugs and its impact on music, and I had been working in HMV from the age of 15, so hearing all the jungle, house, and techno made me very alive to it, and I learned more about ecstasy and the rave culture that had just passed me by a few years before. I remember one of the first concerts I ever went to was the Prodigy, with a few people from work. About half way through my co-workers all started getting really 'huggy' and smiling a lot. I thought that they were just pleased that the Prodigy were about to come on stage, and I sort of wished that I could like a band THAT much. Then after the concert Dave and H drove me home, and as I sat happily in the back seat, I didn't really understand why H kept saying things like,
"you're going a bit left Dave, OK, slow down a bit Dave, there's a red light here Dave, stop now Dave" I just thought Dave was a little bit bad at driver. I look back now and clearly see that they were both smashed on pills, and were negotiating the roads as well as they could. Bless them.
So at about 18 I was annoyed that I'd bypassed the ecstasy culture and ended up on cocaine, without ever experiencing the drug that changed youth culture in the late 80s and defined the 90s.
So I went out specifically to find someone who still did E's and asked them to take me out. I found someone, and they agreed, and I took my first pill at the Emporium nightclub, Cardiff. It was called an 'elephant', I think it was because the thing was as thick as a elephants leg. Many people have tried to describe their first pill, and I'm not going to even attempt it now, but as I cross back over Tower Bridge, and look across to St Katherine's Dock, the recollection of my first pill draws a massive smile across my face, much to the bewilderment of an oncoming cyclist.
I lied.
It's the best feeling in the world, a rising sense of well being, coupled with the feeling that everything is OK in your world, and that your friends are the best friends you'll ever have, and that you're life is going to be so much more than the sums of its parts. The euphoria of feeling that good makes you so happy to be alive that you cannot imagine ever not feeling this way for the rest of your life. Incredible.
And it sort of never went away, through University and out of University drugs became the background to my social life. The white foundation to whatever paint of life I wanted to create with. It never took me over, I never got hooked, I was always aware and respectful of drugs and their uses. I'll admit that there were some bad times, nights where I took too much, drank too much, and too quickly. Nights where I possibly didn't really think about the effect it was having on others. But I never let it define me, and I always made sure that weekends were spent doing things away from the nightclubs and music, and for a couple of months at a time I wouldn't drink either, knowing full well that drinking is my trigger for wanton excess. Take away the booze and I wouldn't ever contemplate getting smashed.
In my early twenties I smoked heroin.
once.
and I'll never do it again, not because it wasn't great, it was. It was really great. I only did it because I believe that if you are to have an opinion on anything, you must have experience of it. If you don't know what you're talking about then you don't have the right to judge anyone about their choices in life. This doesn't really stretch to paedophilia, serial killing, and eating baked beans though, but for nearly everything else, if you choose to have an opinion, and a opinion that you want to push onto other people, then you need to know what you're talking about. I didn't just try it so I could say 'yeah, I've done it, you haven't' or because drugs are 'cool' I did it because it was a moment in time, and I can look back on that time and say,
'I made a choice, and now I have a fuller understanding of what happens to people when they fall into the hole of dependency and addiction, and why a drug can do that to a person, and I am glad that I have never fallen into that hole'
Thinking about these experiences as I run makes me feel like I'm having a bit of a panic attack, I guess the mixture of these memories, coupled with my raised heart rate from the running makes my brain think that I'm in a sweaty, nightclub, afterparty, scenario. When in fact I'm banging it down Whitechapel high street on my own.
My mind shifts to now and I think about the fact that that I've not enjoyed taking drugs for about 2 years, don't get me wrong, the chemicals still work, and the changes in my body still work when I take them but I just don't like the situation anymore. I don't like how I feel after or during if I'm honest, but in almost all social situations and with almost all the people I know, I have to take a drug. Normally it's just a beer, but from there it's the booze to coke, coke to pills, pills to ket and so it goes on. So I don't go on, but of course I do. I am not a hermit, and I'm going to stay in for the rest of my life, and red wine is far too good to never drink again, and a cold lager on a hot day is sublime, and the rush of a pill surrounded by your mates, with the best music on earth blaring around you is feeling that is hard to turn down, but it's not a coincidence that I want to stop taking drugs at the same time as I have signed up for 3 marathons and a ultra marathon. I just know that I need discipline to stay out of trouble, a project if you like, and right now, running is all the project I need.
AS I SAID AT THE BEGINNING NONE OF THIS EVER TOOK PLACE, I AM WHOLLY AGAINST ANY ILLEGAL ACTIVITY. I JUST LIKE THE SENTIMENT BEHIND THE STORY.
Monday, 11 July 2011
birthdays, good calfs, pubes, and Tina Turner
I ran into a dead pigeon today.
That's not really true. I ran over a mutilated pigeon today. It was already mutilated when I stomped my trainer into its, erm, middle? It had been smashed by a very large vehicle and now lay, intestines aplenty, in a pile on Sandringham road.
'I wouldn't want to go like that' is the only thing I could think of, other than thinking about some other ways I wouldn't like to go,
1. Whilst pushing out a really unfulfilling pooh I have an aneurysm and drop forward and die, trousers round my ankles, arse in the air, then only to wait to be found. I'd be content if I left behind a momentous log, but to leave a little pile of cat like excrement and be found like that? Then I'd feel a massive let down.
I celebrated my birthday last week, 33 years old. I have mixed feelings about being 33. On one hand I'm hugely pleased to still be healthy and happy, but on the other I am now closer to 35 than 30, and this yet again stands as a cunning reminder that I am going to die.
Luckily I was able to spend the day with some of my oldest, newest, and best friends, giving me amble opportunity to forget all about my age and accidentally fall into another uncomfortable situation with a couple of homosexual men, 2 pissed women, and nervous housemate.
2. Burning to death like the protesting monk. I can't think of anything worth protesting about enough to set myself on fire. I have lots of beliefs, and I'd fight for a lot of them, but I wouldn't pour petrol over my bald head and robes and have at it with a clipper lighter.
Sunday lunch had turned into Sunday boozing, which then turned into 'let's have one more'. Myself, Elliot the housemate, Laura the Uni pal, and Sarah her pal were fairly worse for wear by around 10:30pm when it was agreed that we'd head into the Dalston Superstore for 'one. last. drink.' For those of you who've never heard of the Superstore, it is a mostly gay, straight friendly, bar/nightclub at the end of my street. It's wildly busy with painfully cool people every weekend but on Sundays it's a little quieter.
Their are 3 male couples and one female couple in the whole place when we fall through the door, but we find a booth and have a drink. The couple at the bar are kissing passionately, occasionally stopping to rub each others faces. It's a very sweet scene. The girls are cackling loudly so the boys at the bar look over and smile at the fun we're having, the smiles also hide glimmers of amusement that some straight, drunk people have bought themselves into this gay paradise.
Laura and I get up and go to the bar, as we vacate our seats the couple engage us in conversation and it becomes apparent very, very quickly that the tall one is drunk, and quite high. The tall one gets up and sits next to Elliot. I have my back to the scene but the next thing I see is Elliot bolting out of his seat and charging down the bar. The tall one turns to me and says,
"I think I've offended your friend"
"oh, what did you say to him?"
"I didn't really say anything, I just rubbed the bottom of his back a little, and maybe his arse. He is gay though isn't he?" asks Gavin (the tall one's name is Gavin)
"no, he's not gay"
"Are you gay?" Gavin has now moved from the booth and is now standing over me. He is very tall,
"No, I'm not gay, although with the amount of luck I'm having with the girls these days, I may as well be!"
This joke doesn't really get the laugh I was hoping for. Gavin is now eyeing me up and down, reminding me slightly of the dinosaur in 'Jurassic Park' that spits out all the poison into this guys face:
Gavin has noticed that I am wearing shorts,
"you've got very good calfs. Good calfs are very nice for a gay man you know?"
"I did not know that Gavin, thank you for your kind words"
"Are they ginger hairs on your calfs?"
"yes they are"
"and are you ginger up here?" Gavin lifts his tee shirt up to his chest, revealing his stomach,
"I am yes"
"show me then"
"I"m not showing you Gavin"
"Oh come on! I know you're not gay, the barman knows you're not gay"
"you're not gay?" says the barman,
"No, he's not gay, what! you think he looks gay?" Laura has decided to pipe up,
"a little bit gay, yeah. So you're not gay, but your friends is gay?"
"No. he's not gay, and I'm not gay. The girls aren't gay, and this one's married!" I point at Laura, who is now happily laughing into her vodka, and I'm starting to wish that I'd never gone for this last drink.
"show me your chest then"
Gavin is determined to get to the bottom of the ginger hair chest mystery, I pull up my shirt to just under my chest,
"there you go Gavin, ginger too"
"how about down here?" Gavin is now pulling his jeans down, letting his pubes get an airing,
"yes, I am ginger down there too"
"show me"
"I'm not showing you"
This goes on for a while and eventually Gavin's boyfriend ushers him away. Elliot has returned from the toilet looking a little bit like Jodie Foster did in 'The Accused'. We then all decide it's time to go home.
3. Being hammer attacked by the Yorkshire Ripper. Reason 87 on my '480 reasons why I thank my lucky stars I'm not a women' list.
My runs have started getting easier, and I think I know what has helped me turn the corner,
I don't stretch before I go running anymore.
My physio (I have 2 now, and a pilates instructor on standby) told me that the run should actually be the stretch, because if you stretch your muscle to their maximum as soon as you get out of bed, the muscle will be too 'cold' to cope with it, and you'll be more likely to seize the muscle up or tear it.
So now I walk around for a while, test the legs a little, then off I go. It's incredible how different it feels, and how much quicker and supple my legs feel as I run. I recommend anyone to give it a try.
As I'm running around other little memories of my birthday weekend ping into my head. One moment comes back to me time and again,
I bumped into a friend of a friend in a bar and he announces that he's having a baby! I am so happy for him, and I wonder if I am literally the only person out of all my friends, and friends of friends, who isn't having a baby this year. I shake his hand and give him a hug, and as we separate his smiles breaks a little, and he looks me in the eye and says,
"I'm not in love though Ga, I'm having a baby but I'm not in love"
His eyes fill with a sadness and I don't know quite what to say, we are not close enough friends for me to try to say anything profound or helpful, even though I know that I've got nothing I can say to him. The idea of being in that situation and not feeling a love for the person you're in the situation with? it freaks me out, and sort of makes me understand why I'm not going to be having a baby this year, or possibly the next. I think he senses this and the conversation comes to a close, and I think we start talking about something else.
As I run out of the park and onto Victoria Park road that sentence goes around and around my head, almost in time with my steps. I run all the way home and still can't get my head around it.
I think I might go for a drink at the Superstore this week, and maybe wear some shorts.
That's not really true. I ran over a mutilated pigeon today. It was already mutilated when I stomped my trainer into its, erm, middle? It had been smashed by a very large vehicle and now lay, intestines aplenty, in a pile on Sandringham road.
'I wouldn't want to go like that' is the only thing I could think of, other than thinking about some other ways I wouldn't like to go,
1. Whilst pushing out a really unfulfilling pooh I have an aneurysm and drop forward and die, trousers round my ankles, arse in the air, then only to wait to be found. I'd be content if I left behind a momentous log, but to leave a little pile of cat like excrement and be found like that? Then I'd feel a massive let down.
I celebrated my birthday last week, 33 years old. I have mixed feelings about being 33. On one hand I'm hugely pleased to still be healthy and happy, but on the other I am now closer to 35 than 30, and this yet again stands as a cunning reminder that I am going to die.
Luckily I was able to spend the day with some of my oldest, newest, and best friends, giving me amble opportunity to forget all about my age and accidentally fall into another uncomfortable situation with a couple of homosexual men, 2 pissed women, and nervous housemate.
2. Burning to death like the protesting monk. I can't think of anything worth protesting about enough to set myself on fire. I have lots of beliefs, and I'd fight for a lot of them, but I wouldn't pour petrol over my bald head and robes and have at it with a clipper lighter.
Sunday lunch had turned into Sunday boozing, which then turned into 'let's have one more'. Myself, Elliot the housemate, Laura the Uni pal, and Sarah her pal were fairly worse for wear by around 10:30pm when it was agreed that we'd head into the Dalston Superstore for 'one. last. drink.' For those of you who've never heard of the Superstore, it is a mostly gay, straight friendly, bar/nightclub at the end of my street. It's wildly busy with painfully cool people every weekend but on Sundays it's a little quieter.
Their are 3 male couples and one female couple in the whole place when we fall through the door, but we find a booth and have a drink. The couple at the bar are kissing passionately, occasionally stopping to rub each others faces. It's a very sweet scene. The girls are cackling loudly so the boys at the bar look over and smile at the fun we're having, the smiles also hide glimmers of amusement that some straight, drunk people have bought themselves into this gay paradise.
Laura and I get up and go to the bar, as we vacate our seats the couple engage us in conversation and it becomes apparent very, very quickly that the tall one is drunk, and quite high. The tall one gets up and sits next to Elliot. I have my back to the scene but the next thing I see is Elliot bolting out of his seat and charging down the bar. The tall one turns to me and says,
"I think I've offended your friend"
"oh, what did you say to him?"
"I didn't really say anything, I just rubbed the bottom of his back a little, and maybe his arse. He is gay though isn't he?" asks Gavin (the tall one's name is Gavin)
"no, he's not gay"
"Are you gay?" Gavin has now moved from the booth and is now standing over me. He is very tall,
"No, I'm not gay, although with the amount of luck I'm having with the girls these days, I may as well be!"
This joke doesn't really get the laugh I was hoping for. Gavin is now eyeing me up and down, reminding me slightly of the dinosaur in 'Jurassic Park' that spits out all the poison into this guys face:
Gavin has noticed that I am wearing shorts,
"you've got very good calfs. Good calfs are very nice for a gay man you know?"
"I did not know that Gavin, thank you for your kind words"
"Are they ginger hairs on your calfs?"
"yes they are"
"and are you ginger up here?" Gavin lifts his tee shirt up to his chest, revealing his stomach,
"I am yes"
"show me then"
"I"m not showing you Gavin"
"Oh come on! I know you're not gay, the barman knows you're not gay"
"you're not gay?" says the barman,
"No, he's not gay, what! you think he looks gay?" Laura has decided to pipe up,
"a little bit gay, yeah. So you're not gay, but your friends is gay?"
"No. he's not gay, and I'm not gay. The girls aren't gay, and this one's married!" I point at Laura, who is now happily laughing into her vodka, and I'm starting to wish that I'd never gone for this last drink.
"show me your chest then"
Gavin is determined to get to the bottom of the ginger hair chest mystery, I pull up my shirt to just under my chest,
"there you go Gavin, ginger too"
"how about down here?" Gavin is now pulling his jeans down, letting his pubes get an airing,
"yes, I am ginger down there too"
"show me"
"I'm not showing you"
This goes on for a while and eventually Gavin's boyfriend ushers him away. Elliot has returned from the toilet looking a little bit like Jodie Foster did in 'The Accused'. We then all decide it's time to go home.
3. Being hammer attacked by the Yorkshire Ripper. Reason 87 on my '480 reasons why I thank my lucky stars I'm not a women' list.
My runs have started getting easier, and I think I know what has helped me turn the corner,
I don't stretch before I go running anymore.
My physio (I have 2 now, and a pilates instructor on standby) told me that the run should actually be the stretch, because if you stretch your muscle to their maximum as soon as you get out of bed, the muscle will be too 'cold' to cope with it, and you'll be more likely to seize the muscle up or tear it.
So now I walk around for a while, test the legs a little, then off I go. It's incredible how different it feels, and how much quicker and supple my legs feel as I run. I recommend anyone to give it a try.
As I'm running around other little memories of my birthday weekend ping into my head. One moment comes back to me time and again,
I bumped into a friend of a friend in a bar and he announces that he's having a baby! I am so happy for him, and I wonder if I am literally the only person out of all my friends, and friends of friends, who isn't having a baby this year. I shake his hand and give him a hug, and as we separate his smiles breaks a little, and he looks me in the eye and says,
"I'm not in love though Ga, I'm having a baby but I'm not in love"
His eyes fill with a sadness and I don't know quite what to say, we are not close enough friends for me to try to say anything profound or helpful, even though I know that I've got nothing I can say to him. The idea of being in that situation and not feeling a love for the person you're in the situation with? it freaks me out, and sort of makes me understand why I'm not going to be having a baby this year, or possibly the next. I think he senses this and the conversation comes to a close, and I think we start talking about something else.
As I run out of the park and onto Victoria Park road that sentence goes around and around my head, almost in time with my steps. I run all the way home and still can't get my head around it.
I think I might go for a drink at the Superstore this week, and maybe wear some shorts.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Babies, Bodies, and another sign that I can't go gay
Everyone I know is pregnant. Everyone. It feels like every single one of my friends is having a baby, my best friend could be having a baby as I type this, so close is she to popping out a little baby out of her massive stomach. My other friend has just told me that his girlfriend is expecting, and frankly I didn't think he had it in him, I'm not being cute, I honestly thought that his sperm could never be bothered enough to swim anywhere near an egg, possibly because,
"It's miles away from where we live so we might just sit down for a bit and do nothing"
The rest of my friends have just had babies, or are at least 3 months gone. It's amazing and wonderful and beautiful. It is also very annoying.
I want a baby, not in a 'I'm taking a baby from the Hospital' sort of way, in a sort of 'I feel that I am ready to give up my life to care, nurture, educate, and unconditionally love, a little person' sort of way. I daydream about holding said little person and walking up and down the landing cradling them to sleep, I see myself teaching them how to read, and filling their minds with wonder of dinosaurs and space. I see updates and pictures of babies and parents all day, every day across Facebook and love seeing the joy on the faces, and I think to myself 'I would be really good at that'
And yet I am closer to actually giving birth to a baby myself than I am actually finding a girl who'll let me put my unprotected thing inside her for a few minutes to create a life, but this is not a problem. I'll just have to wait. And stay away from Hospitals for the time being.
And as I step onto the road for my first longish run of the week the joy of birth, and the pain of death, rattles around my head. My Mum has returned from a holiday to face the news that another family member has terminal cancer, this is the second time my Mum has come home from a holiday to be told this sort of horrible news. I've now instructed Mum that she is no longer allowed to go on holiday, we're running out of the older family members, and I'm not ready to get a serious illness and die just yet, I mean, I haven't even had a kid!
Death and life, life and death. The oldest man in the world* once said,
"I'm not afraid of death, we are born to die, and you should never be afraid"
Which is all very well for him, he was 106. If I get to that sort of number I'll be sticking my fingers up at death and calling him a ineffectual dicknose. But for me right now, as the age of 33 creeps towards me, death is the last thing on my mind, and the thing I want least in the world.
I turn into the first of the 2 parks I'll run around this morning and I remind myself of when, at University, I made this proclamation to my friend Christie,
"if things haven't worked out for me by the time I'm 30, I'm going to kill myself"
"what do you mean by 'worked out'?"
"well, I mean, if I'm not married, earning loads of money, and really happy, I'm going to kill myself"
"right, and you don't think that perhaps you're being a little short sighted here then? seeing as though you won't even be halfway through your life by that point? and that your life might turn in so many directions before then that it might not be how you think it will be at that age?"
I paused for a long time to consider this,
"nope, I'm just going to kill myself"
Christie took great glee to remind me of this conversation several times before, lots of time during, and a few times after my 30th birthday, although these days when she mentions it she has an air a regret in her voice, as if she was sort of hoping that I wouldn't be around to annoy her anymore.
My life isn't 'worked out' by any means, I live in rented accommodation with an Australian, I have made some career decisions that have taken me the longer route of where I want to be, and I don't have a women in my life who makes me think 'let's you and me name some babies, then go make one'
And yet in a lot of ways I've never been happier, my thirst for life and experience is overflowing, my friends are all having babies and their joy is mine, my Australian housemate doesn't sound like he's form Oz, and he's a good man, work is only work and I do more things outside of work to counter balance, and a few girls out there are willing to let me put my thing in them for a few minutes. Albeit with protection.
I round Mare St and head for the canal, I'm trying to slow my pace, mainly because I intend to build very slowly for Chicago and not tempt injury. But I can't run slow, never could, so as I enter the park I start to feel breathless, my legs lose their rhythm and my breathing follows. My pace is still good, and I feel like I could push on to another 3 miles without a thought but I know that I'm pushing too hard too soon, forcing something that isn't there yet, so I turn out of the park and back towards London Fields.
As I get into the park my mouth is gaping for air like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, and summer flies happily score direct hits into the back of my throat. As I cough, splutter, and spit I see the perfect running man come towards me. You may remember him as the guy who silently gave me counsel a few months ago in this very park, we see each other and our eyes meet, mine are weeping from the fly, cough, attack, his are serene. He looks at me, registers who I am and smiles a nod towards me, as if to say,
"you'll get it back, you're on the way, you'll get it back"
I nod back, nearly hitting a old woman and her dog, and proceed for home. I think to myself that I may have a bit of a man crush on this runner, and wonder how weird it would be if we got to chatting, and we ended up having a intense, animalistic, sexual, affair behind the lido. But, the thought of his penis anywhere near my mouth, arse, face, and body in general makes me feel very not sexy in any way at all. I quicken my pace the rest of the way home.
I get home in 40 minutes, and I ran 6 miles, and I feel good.
"you're getting it back, you're on the way, you're getting it back"
"It's miles away from where we live so we might just sit down for a bit and do nothing"
The rest of my friends have just had babies, or are at least 3 months gone. It's amazing and wonderful and beautiful. It is also very annoying.
I want a baby, not in a 'I'm taking a baby from the Hospital' sort of way, in a sort of 'I feel that I am ready to give up my life to care, nurture, educate, and unconditionally love, a little person' sort of way. I daydream about holding said little person and walking up and down the landing cradling them to sleep, I see myself teaching them how to read, and filling their minds with wonder of dinosaurs and space. I see updates and pictures of babies and parents all day, every day across Facebook and love seeing the joy on the faces, and I think to myself 'I would be really good at that'
And yet I am closer to actually giving birth to a baby myself than I am actually finding a girl who'll let me put my unprotected thing inside her for a few minutes to create a life, but this is not a problem. I'll just have to wait. And stay away from Hospitals for the time being.
And as I step onto the road for my first longish run of the week the joy of birth, and the pain of death, rattles around my head. My Mum has returned from a holiday to face the news that another family member has terminal cancer, this is the second time my Mum has come home from a holiday to be told this sort of horrible news. I've now instructed Mum that she is no longer allowed to go on holiday, we're running out of the older family members, and I'm not ready to get a serious illness and die just yet, I mean, I haven't even had a kid!
Death and life, life and death. The oldest man in the world* once said,
"I'm not afraid of death, we are born to die, and you should never be afraid"
Which is all very well for him, he was 106. If I get to that sort of number I'll be sticking my fingers up at death and calling him a ineffectual dicknose. But for me right now, as the age of 33 creeps towards me, death is the last thing on my mind, and the thing I want least in the world.
I turn into the first of the 2 parks I'll run around this morning and I remind myself of when, at University, I made this proclamation to my friend Christie,
"if things haven't worked out for me by the time I'm 30, I'm going to kill myself"
"what do you mean by 'worked out'?"
"well, I mean, if I'm not married, earning loads of money, and really happy, I'm going to kill myself"
"right, and you don't think that perhaps you're being a little short sighted here then? seeing as though you won't even be halfway through your life by that point? and that your life might turn in so many directions before then that it might not be how you think it will be at that age?"
I paused for a long time to consider this,
"nope, I'm just going to kill myself"
Christie took great glee to remind me of this conversation several times before, lots of time during, and a few times after my 30th birthday, although these days when she mentions it she has an air a regret in her voice, as if she was sort of hoping that I wouldn't be around to annoy her anymore.
My life isn't 'worked out' by any means, I live in rented accommodation with an Australian, I have made some career decisions that have taken me the longer route of where I want to be, and I don't have a women in my life who makes me think 'let's you and me name some babies, then go make one'
And yet in a lot of ways I've never been happier, my thirst for life and experience is overflowing, my friends are all having babies and their joy is mine, my Australian housemate doesn't sound like he's form Oz, and he's a good man, work is only work and I do more things outside of work to counter balance, and a few girls out there are willing to let me put my thing in them for a few minutes. Albeit with protection.
I round Mare St and head for the canal, I'm trying to slow my pace, mainly because I intend to build very slowly for Chicago and not tempt injury. But I can't run slow, never could, so as I enter the park I start to feel breathless, my legs lose their rhythm and my breathing follows. My pace is still good, and I feel like I could push on to another 3 miles without a thought but I know that I'm pushing too hard too soon, forcing something that isn't there yet, so I turn out of the park and back towards London Fields.
As I get into the park my mouth is gaping for air like a Hungry Hungry Hippo, and summer flies happily score direct hits into the back of my throat. As I cough, splutter, and spit I see the perfect running man come towards me. You may remember him as the guy who silently gave me counsel a few months ago in this very park, we see each other and our eyes meet, mine are weeping from the fly, cough, attack, his are serene. He looks at me, registers who I am and smiles a nod towards me, as if to say,
"you'll get it back, you're on the way, you'll get it back"
I nod back, nearly hitting a old woman and her dog, and proceed for home. I think to myself that I may have a bit of a man crush on this runner, and wonder how weird it would be if we got to chatting, and we ended up having a intense, animalistic, sexual, affair behind the lido. But, the thought of his penis anywhere near my mouth, arse, face, and body in general makes me feel very not sexy in any way at all. I quicken my pace the rest of the way home.
I get home in 40 minutes, and I ran 6 miles, and I feel good.
"you're getting it back, you're on the way, you're getting it back"
Thursday, 16 June 2011
I'm glad my life isn't all inclusive.
"Do you know that you've got the most amazing eyes? Your eyes are so beautiful, I love staring at them"
This is the nicest compliment I have ever been given, hands down. So sweet and generous, without a hint of sarcasm or meanness and yet, I don't believe her when she says it to me. Do you want to know why? Because I can't take compliments.
I hate them. I just feel stupid when people say nice things to me, stupid and suspicious. How could you think my eyes are amazing? They're brown! there's nothing amazing about the colour brown, it's the colour of pooh, it hides no beauty like a blue or a green, it's just pooh colour.
The main reason I can't take compliments is because I don't get that many come my way. A ex girlfriend would tell me that I had amazing eyebrows, so sculptured and neat, perfect in every way. She'd say this more out of jealousy though, because when she'd get her eyebrows done she'd come back looking like a permanently startled young child.
Occasionally somebody would say I'm nice, or I'm 'funny' but I don't really believe them. And I certainly don't believe anyone when they something about my appearance. I just can't deal with it. I know I'm not Joseph Merrick, but I know I'm not Ryan Reynolds either, I'm the middle point, the desert between good looking and ugly, the bland grey middle of opinion, so when you try to compliment me I can't believe it.
I was given the eye compliment whilst on holiday in Zakynthos. I have gone on this holiday with a girl, a girl I'd met in Peru but she's from Australia. It's a strange set up but the holiday is lovely and tense free.
Although I've never seen so many fat people moan about food before,
"Can't eat this (minced lamb skewers), Won't eat this (moussaka), Won't eat that (aubergine) Can't eat this (salad!), Where's the chef? Chef? Can you make us all burgers? Cheers pal. With chips"
The joy of the all inclusive holiday, poor people who like what they like, and don't want anything else, no matter where else in the world they are. It's a joy to behold. The simple demands that the British holiday maker puts upon their hosts is hilarious, the stubborn belief that they should have everything exactly like it is at home makes you wonder why they bother leaving the country in the first place. Of course I know the answer, the weather. The glorious sunshine that escapes us on this island of ours. But if you're going to go to a different country at least try a bit of the food.
So for two weeks I've been off the training, and I've not missed it. My love for the sport is gone, and I can't find it anywhere. My legs feel sluggish and my breathing heavy but I think I've found a solution. I am running barefoot. And I'm not calling it a sport anymore.
In the last 30 years of running trainer development and technological advancement, running injuries have never slowed down, in fact they have gone up. We have gone down a path where we have completely changed the way the body moves when it runs, mostly because we wear padded trainers, so we no longer need to run the way the body naturally moves. We've gone against thousands, hundreds of thousands, of years of evolution and decided that it's better we land with all our weight onto our unsupported heels, rather than the padded and resilient balls of our feet. And for a man who spends every day wearing trainers at work and when he's running, this is a massive shout.
But I can feel the difference already, I can feel muscles aching that I've never felt before, but I feel stronger after a run than I ever have before. And it add's a new dimension to my running now, I don't worry about how far I've gone, or how fast. I don't obsess over my minute to a mile count either, I just run purely for the feeling. And that's just lovely.
After a week in Zakynthos it's time for us to head back to London and count down the time before she has to go back to Oz. We land at Gatwick, get passed passport control and head towards the baggage claim, I'm on the escalator and a voice behind me says,
"Excuse me, do you mind if I tell you that I really like your beard? it looks really sexy"
Unbelievable.
This is the nicest compliment I have ever been given, hands down. So sweet and generous, without a hint of sarcasm or meanness and yet, I don't believe her when she says it to me. Do you want to know why? Because I can't take compliments.
I hate them. I just feel stupid when people say nice things to me, stupid and suspicious. How could you think my eyes are amazing? They're brown! there's nothing amazing about the colour brown, it's the colour of pooh, it hides no beauty like a blue or a green, it's just pooh colour.
The main reason I can't take compliments is because I don't get that many come my way. A ex girlfriend would tell me that I had amazing eyebrows, so sculptured and neat, perfect in every way. She'd say this more out of jealousy though, because when she'd get her eyebrows done she'd come back looking like a permanently startled young child.
Occasionally somebody would say I'm nice, or I'm 'funny' but I don't really believe them. And I certainly don't believe anyone when they something about my appearance. I just can't deal with it. I know I'm not Joseph Merrick, but I know I'm not Ryan Reynolds either, I'm the middle point, the desert between good looking and ugly, the bland grey middle of opinion, so when you try to compliment me I can't believe it.
I was given the eye compliment whilst on holiday in Zakynthos. I have gone on this holiday with a girl, a girl I'd met in Peru but she's from Australia. It's a strange set up but the holiday is lovely and tense free.
Although I've never seen so many fat people moan about food before,
"Can't eat this (minced lamb skewers), Won't eat this (moussaka), Won't eat that (aubergine) Can't eat this (salad!), Where's the chef? Chef? Can you make us all burgers? Cheers pal. With chips"
The joy of the all inclusive holiday, poor people who like what they like, and don't want anything else, no matter where else in the world they are. It's a joy to behold. The simple demands that the British holiday maker puts upon their hosts is hilarious, the stubborn belief that they should have everything exactly like it is at home makes you wonder why they bother leaving the country in the first place. Of course I know the answer, the weather. The glorious sunshine that escapes us on this island of ours. But if you're going to go to a different country at least try a bit of the food.
So for two weeks I've been off the training, and I've not missed it. My love for the sport is gone, and I can't find it anywhere. My legs feel sluggish and my breathing heavy but I think I've found a solution. I am running barefoot. And I'm not calling it a sport anymore.
In the last 30 years of running trainer development and technological advancement, running injuries have never slowed down, in fact they have gone up. We have gone down a path where we have completely changed the way the body moves when it runs, mostly because we wear padded trainers, so we no longer need to run the way the body naturally moves. We've gone against thousands, hundreds of thousands, of years of evolution and decided that it's better we land with all our weight onto our unsupported heels, rather than the padded and resilient balls of our feet. And for a man who spends every day wearing trainers at work and when he's running, this is a massive shout.
But I can feel the difference already, I can feel muscles aching that I've never felt before, but I feel stronger after a run than I ever have before. And it add's a new dimension to my running now, I don't worry about how far I've gone, or how fast. I don't obsess over my minute to a mile count either, I just run purely for the feeling. And that's just lovely.
After a week in Zakynthos it's time for us to head back to London and count down the time before she has to go back to Oz. We land at Gatwick, get passed passport control and head towards the baggage claim, I'm on the escalator and a voice behind me says,
"Excuse me, do you mind if I tell you that I really like your beard? it looks really sexy"
Unbelievable.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Chinese rollercoasters and death.
So David and I have snuck onto a race that's being held in the Chinese countryside. We've been given illicit running numbers by a shadowy individual, and now we're running through the fields.
The next thing I remember is that we're queuing at the foot of a huge rollercoaster, but I have my concerns because it's a Chinese rollercoaster, I can't explain why I'm concerned, I just am.
I wake from this dream and look around my room. The light shining through my paper thin curtains suggests it's about 7am, it isn't. It's 5:20am, I'm restless and my mind is racing, all the classic signs that I need to go for a run.
As I head out of the door the sun is just creeping over the tops of the houses, the streets are clear and silent, and the blue skies flirt the idea of a beautiful day.
This sunny day is quite at odds with my emotions as I cannot get my friend Will out of my mind. Will and I are casual friends, we are acquaintances, friends of friends. But he works close to where I work, so we stop and chat and share pleasantries occasionally. I saw him yesterday, and I asked him how he was,
"I'm alright, just trying to get everything sorted. My mum died last Wednesday" he replied as he rubbed his tired, sunken, eyes.
I'd known that his mum wasn't well, but whenever you hear this news, no matter how expected it is, you can never reply with the compassion or feeling that you want.
Death. The last laugh of life, the final mean practical joke that life plays on you. There's no escaping it, you can't hide from it, and you certainly can't ask it if it wouldn't mind leaving you alone because you've got so much more to do.
Out of sheer good fortune my dealings with death have so far been remote and limited, but while I'm running the memories of those dealings linger in my head.
I am 8 years old and playing 'Pot Black' snooker on my little snooker table in the basement of my childhood home, I think it's a Saturday or Sunday. The phone rings upstairs in the distance and after about 5 rings somebody picks it up. The next thing I hear is my Mum shouting 'No, No, No, No, No' over and over. The shouting gets louder, and turns to screaming. At first I think it's me, because Mum only ever went that mad if I was beating my sister or torturing the cat, but I hadn't moved from the table so it can't be me.
I walk to the bottom of the stairs as the noise gets louder, and then I see my Mum run past the top of the stairs, still clutching the cordless phone in her hand. Now I was a little confused, and as I climbed the stairs Mum whizzed past the landing again, this time I could see she was shaking her her and screaming. By this point I was getting scared, I'd never seen Mum like this. I got to the top of the stairs just as Mum shot passed me again, it was like watching F1 car going round and round a track, but it wasn't a car, it was my mother, besides herself with grief and pain.
My grandfather, her dad, had died of a heart attack. I didn't really know how to take this information on board. My father explained that Taid (a Welsh term for grandad) had died and gone to heaven, and that he was really happy. I took this to mean that it wasn't really a problem and wondered why Mum was so upset? If he was happy then why are you so sad?
A few days later we all head up to Rhyl for the funeral. The church is full of people because my Taid was a popular man, an ex headmaster, poet, and local church choir singer. The place is rammed.
We are front row VIP being the immediate family. The service starts and every one's crying. Mum's crying, Dad's sort of crying, Auntie Liz is crying, every one's having a good, old, cry.
I'm not, and I start to worry that people don't think that I'm sad that my Taid has died, and that I should surely be crying for him? So, I try to cry. I start pushing air out of my nose and scrunching up my eyes, willing the tear ducts to open and express my grief. I start trying to make cry noises, and then, I suddenly let out a purposeful, clear, obvious, and loud,
"HA"
I'd laughed out loud. It sounded like the first half of Nelson Muntz's HA from the Simpsons.
My Dad shot me a look of pure, unmistakable fury. My Mum raised her head out from her wet hands and looked over at me with a look of confusion and hurt. I looked behind me and saw an army of old people, looking at me with disappointment and shame.
Taid was the only grandparent I had, the others had all died before I was born, and the next time death would swagger into my life would be 17 years later.
Mary Gout was my next door neighbour, and possibly one of the sweetest, gentlest, kind, and wonderful human beings that ever walked the earth. And she really was like the grandmother I never had. I spent most of my summers running around her garden with her real grandkids, secretly wishing that they'd adopt me.
I was living in London when my Mum rang and told me that she was in hospital, and that if I was planning to come home soon, that I should do it now.
I left that weekend.
Seeing her helpless in a strange room, in a strange bed, in hospital, is one of the hardest memories I have. So frail. Her kind, loving eyes, the only sign left of the proud women she once was. And I'll never forget how her eyes lit up when she saw me.
Half way through my visit she started to cry, and became agitated, she'd soiled herself and was embarrassed, she asked me to leave and visit her again, they wheeled her away and I remember shouting my love for her as the bed rolled down the ward.
She died a week later.
I'm crying now, standing outside the Mayor's building on the river and tears are rolling down my cheeks. I stop and walk to London Bridge, letting the tears and memories pass through me. I get to the steps and start to run again.
You'd think that these sort of thoughts would make you depressed, or at the very least make it hard to run, but it's the opposite for me.
When you face up to death and loss you understand the purpose of life. The true wonder of life is to live, to push and pull yourself every step of the way, and to make sure that you do so with love in your heart for your friends and family, creating memories that will last a lot longer in their minds than you will on this earth.
I turn off Whitechapel and onto Cambridge Heath road, the streets are busier, people are making their way to work and I think about all the pain and suffering they might have coped with in their lives, and I smile. Knowing that we all live these emotions and that not one person is immune from death's touch.
I get home, take a shower, and get on with filling my day up with LIFE!
The next thing I remember is that we're queuing at the foot of a huge rollercoaster, but I have my concerns because it's a Chinese rollercoaster, I can't explain why I'm concerned, I just am.
I wake from this dream and look around my room. The light shining through my paper thin curtains suggests it's about 7am, it isn't. It's 5:20am, I'm restless and my mind is racing, all the classic signs that I need to go for a run.
As I head out of the door the sun is just creeping over the tops of the houses, the streets are clear and silent, and the blue skies flirt the idea of a beautiful day.
This sunny day is quite at odds with my emotions as I cannot get my friend Will out of my mind. Will and I are casual friends, we are acquaintances, friends of friends. But he works close to where I work, so we stop and chat and share pleasantries occasionally. I saw him yesterday, and I asked him how he was,
"I'm alright, just trying to get everything sorted. My mum died last Wednesday" he replied as he rubbed his tired, sunken, eyes.
I'd known that his mum wasn't well, but whenever you hear this news, no matter how expected it is, you can never reply with the compassion or feeling that you want.
Death. The last laugh of life, the final mean practical joke that life plays on you. There's no escaping it, you can't hide from it, and you certainly can't ask it if it wouldn't mind leaving you alone because you've got so much more to do.
Out of sheer good fortune my dealings with death have so far been remote and limited, but while I'm running the memories of those dealings linger in my head.
I am 8 years old and playing 'Pot Black' snooker on my little snooker table in the basement of my childhood home, I think it's a Saturday or Sunday. The phone rings upstairs in the distance and after about 5 rings somebody picks it up. The next thing I hear is my Mum shouting 'No, No, No, No, No' over and over. The shouting gets louder, and turns to screaming. At first I think it's me, because Mum only ever went that mad if I was beating my sister or torturing the cat, but I hadn't moved from the table so it can't be me.
I walk to the bottom of the stairs as the noise gets louder, and then I see my Mum run past the top of the stairs, still clutching the cordless phone in her hand. Now I was a little confused, and as I climbed the stairs Mum whizzed past the landing again, this time I could see she was shaking her her and screaming. By this point I was getting scared, I'd never seen Mum like this. I got to the top of the stairs just as Mum shot passed me again, it was like watching F1 car going round and round a track, but it wasn't a car, it was my mother, besides herself with grief and pain.
My grandfather, her dad, had died of a heart attack. I didn't really know how to take this information on board. My father explained that Taid (a Welsh term for grandad) had died and gone to heaven, and that he was really happy. I took this to mean that it wasn't really a problem and wondered why Mum was so upset? If he was happy then why are you so sad?
A few days later we all head up to Rhyl for the funeral. The church is full of people because my Taid was a popular man, an ex headmaster, poet, and local church choir singer. The place is rammed.
We are front row VIP being the immediate family. The service starts and every one's crying. Mum's crying, Dad's sort of crying, Auntie Liz is crying, every one's having a good, old, cry.
I'm not, and I start to worry that people don't think that I'm sad that my Taid has died, and that I should surely be crying for him? So, I try to cry. I start pushing air out of my nose and scrunching up my eyes, willing the tear ducts to open and express my grief. I start trying to make cry noises, and then, I suddenly let out a purposeful, clear, obvious, and loud,
"HA"
I'd laughed out loud. It sounded like the first half of Nelson Muntz's HA from the Simpsons.
My Dad shot me a look of pure, unmistakable fury. My Mum raised her head out from her wet hands and looked over at me with a look of confusion and hurt. I looked behind me and saw an army of old people, looking at me with disappointment and shame.
Taid was the only grandparent I had, the others had all died before I was born, and the next time death would swagger into my life would be 17 years later.
Mary Gout was my next door neighbour, and possibly one of the sweetest, gentlest, kind, and wonderful human beings that ever walked the earth. And she really was like the grandmother I never had. I spent most of my summers running around her garden with her real grandkids, secretly wishing that they'd adopt me.
I was living in London when my Mum rang and told me that she was in hospital, and that if I was planning to come home soon, that I should do it now.
I left that weekend.
Seeing her helpless in a strange room, in a strange bed, in hospital, is one of the hardest memories I have. So frail. Her kind, loving eyes, the only sign left of the proud women she once was. And I'll never forget how her eyes lit up when she saw me.
Half way through my visit she started to cry, and became agitated, she'd soiled herself and was embarrassed, she asked me to leave and visit her again, they wheeled her away and I remember shouting my love for her as the bed rolled down the ward.
She died a week later.
I'm crying now, standing outside the Mayor's building on the river and tears are rolling down my cheeks. I stop and walk to London Bridge, letting the tears and memories pass through me. I get to the steps and start to run again.
You'd think that these sort of thoughts would make you depressed, or at the very least make it hard to run, but it's the opposite for me.
When you face up to death and loss you understand the purpose of life. The true wonder of life is to live, to push and pull yourself every step of the way, and to make sure that you do so with love in your heart for your friends and family, creating memories that will last a lot longer in their minds than you will on this earth.
I turn off Whitechapel and onto Cambridge Heath road, the streets are busier, people are making their way to work and I think about all the pain and suffering they might have coped with in their lives, and I smile. Knowing that we all live these emotions and that not one person is immune from death's touch.
I get home, take a shower, and get on with filling my day up with LIFE!
Thursday, 5 May 2011
I give up running, a fox stares me down, and I go outside
Normally I like to have a huge, Ricky Hatton style blow out after a marathon. I used to think that after 5 months of stopping yourself having all the things you want, you deserve to 'let go' and enjoy life to excess. I like to take a month to take loads of drugs, drink every day, eat take aways, and dine out with my friends.
This year has been an odd one though, my height of debauchery was going for a Sunday roast after the race and drinking a bottle of wine to myself. I shunned going to the nightclubs and the drugs. The most drunk I got was last Saturday, and even then I was in bed by 1am, sober enough to read the end of my A C Grayling book. I just didn't want to do more than that. I'll admit, I've eaten a obscene amount of Easter eggs for one man. I am now also being stalked by Firezza pizza, who Email me and text me at the strangest times of day, but this is as far as it's gone. And I can't put my finger on why.
Is my heart not in it? Or is my body too old for all that? It can't be my body, if I can run a marathon, I know I've still got a 24 hour party in me, so it must be the mind. But it's all very strange.
And I still couldn't get my running back into swing. After what happened last time (see last blog) I just couldn't look at running and enjoy it. Every time I set out it felt difficult and hard, like it just wasn't worth doing anymore, the effort of going round was just too much to bare, and I wrestled with my head as to what to do and then I made a decision.................I gave up running. I gave up on the one thing that has focused and defined me over the last 2 years. I gave up on what I loved, and walked away.
I didn't even tell anyone, I just carried on as before, entering races, looking at trail marathons on the net, securing a fast corral for the Chicago marathon, I even re-applied for London next year! I just ignored the actual running part. I just didn't want to try, if it wasn't going to be as easy as before then I was going to do something else. I needed a diversion.
So I went cycling. Cycling had been sniffing around me for a while now, waiting for the chance to take up more of my time. At first I just let it take me to work, get me things, and save me money, but I always knew it wanted to take things further, so last week we set off. We had a lovely day, I cycled for hours, all over London. Then the next day I'd finish work and cycle for two hours before finding myself miles from home, then I'd race all the way back. It was new and fun. I forgot about running and everything it meant to me, and I just enjoyed the carefree cycling life. It gave me all the things that running did, the high of exercise, the sweat, and the adrenaline, but it was really safe and easy, there's no real effort in it. I felt like I was doing it to escape running, rather than doing it because I loved doing it.
But I constantly feel that there's something missing, a void that no amount of miles on the bike can fill. There's a feeling when I run that I only get at that second, it's the moment when you feel complete, when your mind is so in touch with your body that you can feel every muscle, and hear every breath speak to you. When you know that your body is tiring but you find that you can quicken the pace, when your body speaks to you and allows you to push further, run longer, and push your limit to the furthest point, and then beyond it.
And I can't get that sitting happily on a saddle, it's really easy and I should really like it, but somethings missing.
I wake up at 4:47am, I need to piss. I go back to my room and sit naked on the corner of my bed. I feel like I need to do something, like the feeling you get when you leave the house and you know you've forgotten something, I feel a bit like that. I put on some shorts, and then a vest, then for some reason I have a pair of trainers on, and I start to reach for my stop watch and headphones. Then, as if it wasn't even me, I turn around and run out of the house without them.
Then I ran and ran. Down streets I'd never been down, through junctions I didn't know, alongside churches I'd never seen. I didn't even know where I was going. The only thing I saw was a fox trying to hide something he'd stolen.
Then a memory came into my head of when I tried to steal my cousins M.A.S.K Matt Trakker figure and flying car when he was at my house.
I was 7, and he was 5, and he'd bought this figure with him and I wanted it. He wasn't keen on sharing, well, who is at 5? I wouldn't have given it to him either, so I spent the day quietly fuming that he wouldn't let me play with it. Towards the end of the day he'd grown tired and fallen asleep on his Mum's lap, and they finally announced that it was time to go,
'this is it' I thought 'my chance to steal his toy'
And I hid it.
While his family gathered all their stuff he was still sleeping, my Auntie carried him through the house, then, as if he knew what I'd done, he started asking for his Matt Trakker doll, pleading for it and whining. So my Uncle tries to find, but he can't. Then my mum starts and she can't find it, then eventually my Dad pulls away all the cushions off the sofa and finds Trakker inexplicably pushed down into the very bottom of the sofa. There was no way it could have got there by accident. Everyone looked at me and knew what I'd done, except for Owen my cousin, who quietly opened his eyes a tiny bit, looked at me, and smiled a little self satisfied smile.
The little shit.
As that memory popped out of my mind I looked around and realized that I had no idea where I was, but I kept running anyway, I could see the Emirates but didn't really know what side of it I was on, but I eventually found a road I knew and ran all the way home.
I don't know how far I ran, I don't know how long I ran for, I just knew that I felt complete again.
I got into the house and my bike was waiting for me on the landing,
"where have you been?" it asked, trying to be casual,
"running" I said through heavy breaths,
"Are we still cycling to Chiswick today?"
"I don't think so, that run has done me for today"
"oh I see, back to the running are you? So it's back to the work run for me then is it?"
"No, me and running are over, I'm just back to being me"
I push pass my bike and walk into my room, I've got a text from an unknown number,
it reads,
'Gareth, why don't you take advantage of our Thursday, pizza for 1 meal deal offer?'
This year has been an odd one though, my height of debauchery was going for a Sunday roast after the race and drinking a bottle of wine to myself. I shunned going to the nightclubs and the drugs. The most drunk I got was last Saturday, and even then I was in bed by 1am, sober enough to read the end of my A C Grayling book. I just didn't want to do more than that. I'll admit, I've eaten a obscene amount of Easter eggs for one man. I am now also being stalked by Firezza pizza, who Email me and text me at the strangest times of day, but this is as far as it's gone. And I can't put my finger on why.
Is my heart not in it? Or is my body too old for all that? It can't be my body, if I can run a marathon, I know I've still got a 24 hour party in me, so it must be the mind. But it's all very strange.
And I still couldn't get my running back into swing. After what happened last time (see last blog) I just couldn't look at running and enjoy it. Every time I set out it felt difficult and hard, like it just wasn't worth doing anymore, the effort of going round was just too much to bare, and I wrestled with my head as to what to do and then I made a decision.................I gave up running. I gave up on the one thing that has focused and defined me over the last 2 years. I gave up on what I loved, and walked away.
I didn't even tell anyone, I just carried on as before, entering races, looking at trail marathons on the net, securing a fast corral for the Chicago marathon, I even re-applied for London next year! I just ignored the actual running part. I just didn't want to try, if it wasn't going to be as easy as before then I was going to do something else. I needed a diversion.
So I went cycling. Cycling had been sniffing around me for a while now, waiting for the chance to take up more of my time. At first I just let it take me to work, get me things, and save me money, but I always knew it wanted to take things further, so last week we set off. We had a lovely day, I cycled for hours, all over London. Then the next day I'd finish work and cycle for two hours before finding myself miles from home, then I'd race all the way back. It was new and fun. I forgot about running and everything it meant to me, and I just enjoyed the carefree cycling life. It gave me all the things that running did, the high of exercise, the sweat, and the adrenaline, but it was really safe and easy, there's no real effort in it. I felt like I was doing it to escape running, rather than doing it because I loved doing it.
But I constantly feel that there's something missing, a void that no amount of miles on the bike can fill. There's a feeling when I run that I only get at that second, it's the moment when you feel complete, when your mind is so in touch with your body that you can feel every muscle, and hear every breath speak to you. When you know that your body is tiring but you find that you can quicken the pace, when your body speaks to you and allows you to push further, run longer, and push your limit to the furthest point, and then beyond it.
And I can't get that sitting happily on a saddle, it's really easy and I should really like it, but somethings missing.
I wake up at 4:47am, I need to piss. I go back to my room and sit naked on the corner of my bed. I feel like I need to do something, like the feeling you get when you leave the house and you know you've forgotten something, I feel a bit like that. I put on some shorts, and then a vest, then for some reason I have a pair of trainers on, and I start to reach for my stop watch and headphones. Then, as if it wasn't even me, I turn around and run out of the house without them.
Then I ran and ran. Down streets I'd never been down, through junctions I didn't know, alongside churches I'd never seen. I didn't even know where I was going. The only thing I saw was a fox trying to hide something he'd stolen.
Then a memory came into my head of when I tried to steal my cousins M.A.S.K Matt Trakker figure and flying car when he was at my house.
I was 7, and he was 5, and he'd bought this figure with him and I wanted it. He wasn't keen on sharing, well, who is at 5? I wouldn't have given it to him either, so I spent the day quietly fuming that he wouldn't let me play with it. Towards the end of the day he'd grown tired and fallen asleep on his Mum's lap, and they finally announced that it was time to go,
'this is it' I thought 'my chance to steal his toy'
And I hid it.
While his family gathered all their stuff he was still sleeping, my Auntie carried him through the house, then, as if he knew what I'd done, he started asking for his Matt Trakker doll, pleading for it and whining. So my Uncle tries to find, but he can't. Then my mum starts and she can't find it, then eventually my Dad pulls away all the cushions off the sofa and finds Trakker inexplicably pushed down into the very bottom of the sofa. There was no way it could have got there by accident. Everyone looked at me and knew what I'd done, except for Owen my cousin, who quietly opened his eyes a tiny bit, looked at me, and smiled a little self satisfied smile.
The little shit.
As that memory popped out of my mind I looked around and realized that I had no idea where I was, but I kept running anyway, I could see the Emirates but didn't really know what side of it I was on, but I eventually found a road I knew and ran all the way home.
I don't know how far I ran, I don't know how long I ran for, I just knew that I felt complete again.
I got into the house and my bike was waiting for me on the landing,
"where have you been?" it asked, trying to be casual,
"running" I said through heavy breaths,
"Are we still cycling to Chiswick today?"
"I don't think so, that run has done me for today"
"oh I see, back to the running are you? So it's back to the work run for me then is it?"
"No, me and running are over, I'm just back to being me"
I push pass my bike and walk into my room, I've got a text from an unknown number,
it reads,
'Gareth, why don't you take advantage of our Thursday, pizza for 1 meal deal offer?'
Sunday, 24 April 2011
First run back, and there's heartache in the air
It's a week since the marathon, and the whole week has felt lonely and troublesome. So many people are really pleased and proud of my run, but I just feel annoyed and unhappy.
I know that I need to get back to doing what I love, which is running. So I'm up at 8am, and out the door.
But there's something wrong, I feel out of step, and my body lacks the fluidity in motion that I used to be able to do, when running and I were in harmony together, moving forward and able to run as far as we wanted.
But 'running' is distant and evasive. I get to the park after a mile or so, and this is when I usually open up and find a rhythm to follow but I can't. My legs are already uncomfortable, and my breathing is way off. I look around and see running all around me and I get into a conversation with it,
"what's the problem?" I ask
"I don't think I can do this anymore with you, I don't think I can go back and try again. Not at the moment" running replies,
"but I love you so much, all I can think about is running and training, and going away for running weekends, where we run around the countryside together"
"I know, and I love you too, but I don't think we can get it back to how it was, when we were happy together. It's been so long since you were good at this and I'm not sure if we can get it back"
"But I just need a bit of time to get back in shape, you know that calf injury caused me a lot of problems but it's fixed now, come on! you and me, twice around the park, like the old days"
Running just looks at me, and looks away. I get to the corner of London Fields, where I'd normally head towards Victoria Park, my blisters are throbbing again and my calf is tightening,
"I'm sorry" says running,
"Look at you, your legs are tired, and you're still a little over optimum running weight, and I think your trainers are too small for you, because I can see the blisters from here. Frankly, you're running a little bit like Baby Harvey running towards a McDonalds, how can you go twice round the park?"
"Just give me a chance, I promise I'll get better, quicker!"
"but I've heard it all before Gareth, and I'm happy now, I just don't want to take the chance with you again"
I turn back into the park and start jogging around the outside. I feel lost but decide to get around the park twice then head for home. I see a guy running towards me, he looks lean and tall. He's running in one steady motion, barely coming off the ground. He's seems my dejected gait stumble towards him and he smiles at me, and it's a smile that says,
"I've been there my friend, running pushed me away once, you just need to give it time"
I get back to the corner of the park and stop. I reckon these trainers are too small for me, the blisters on the back heal are already hurting and I have barely run 3 miles. I walk the rest of the way and by the time I get home I feel slightly better. Running when running doesn't want you is going to be really hard. I just hope it comes back soon, otherwise Chicago's going to hurt like a mother fucker.
Someone's waiting for me when I get home and they ask how I got on,
"Not bad, the first one back is always tricky" I don't have the heart to tell her that it was miserable, that the one thing I love to do has rejected me.
I make some breakfast and clean the roof terrace, the sun shining and I've got pals coming round for Easter lunch. I drink my juice and listen to the sounds of the city.
I think I'll go for a run tomorrow.
I know that I need to get back to doing what I love, which is running. So I'm up at 8am, and out the door.
But there's something wrong, I feel out of step, and my body lacks the fluidity in motion that I used to be able to do, when running and I were in harmony together, moving forward and able to run as far as we wanted.
But 'running' is distant and evasive. I get to the park after a mile or so, and this is when I usually open up and find a rhythm to follow but I can't. My legs are already uncomfortable, and my breathing is way off. I look around and see running all around me and I get into a conversation with it,
"what's the problem?" I ask
"I don't think I can do this anymore with you, I don't think I can go back and try again. Not at the moment" running replies,
"but I love you so much, all I can think about is running and training, and going away for running weekends, where we run around the countryside together"
"I know, and I love you too, but I don't think we can get it back to how it was, when we were happy together. It's been so long since you were good at this and I'm not sure if we can get it back"
"But I just need a bit of time to get back in shape, you know that calf injury caused me a lot of problems but it's fixed now, come on! you and me, twice around the park, like the old days"
Running just looks at me, and looks away. I get to the corner of London Fields, where I'd normally head towards Victoria Park, my blisters are throbbing again and my calf is tightening,
"I'm sorry" says running,
"Look at you, your legs are tired, and you're still a little over optimum running weight, and I think your trainers are too small for you, because I can see the blisters from here. Frankly, you're running a little bit like Baby Harvey running towards a McDonalds, how can you go twice round the park?"
"Just give me a chance, I promise I'll get better, quicker!"
"but I've heard it all before Gareth, and I'm happy now, I just don't want to take the chance with you again"
I turn back into the park and start jogging around the outside. I feel lost but decide to get around the park twice then head for home. I see a guy running towards me, he looks lean and tall. He's running in one steady motion, barely coming off the ground. He's seems my dejected gait stumble towards him and he smiles at me, and it's a smile that says,
"I've been there my friend, running pushed me away once, you just need to give it time"
I get back to the corner of the park and stop. I reckon these trainers are too small for me, the blisters on the back heal are already hurting and I have barely run 3 miles. I walk the rest of the way and by the time I get home I feel slightly better. Running when running doesn't want you is going to be really hard. I just hope it comes back soon, otherwise Chicago's going to hurt like a mother fucker.
Someone's waiting for me when I get home and they ask how I got on,
"Not bad, the first one back is always tricky" I don't have the heart to tell her that it was miserable, that the one thing I love to do has rejected me.
I make some breakfast and clean the roof terrace, the sun shining and I've got pals coming round for Easter lunch. I drink my juice and listen to the sounds of the city.
I think I'll go for a run tomorrow.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
My marathon nightmare, and my bodies revenge
I felt really good on Sunday morning. I'd slept through the night, apart from one 5am wake up, where I had to down a liter of water to quash a massive headache, but as I munched my marmalade toast I felt confident.
I knew that 5 weeks of no training would take its toll, and I knew that starting the training in February and not September would result in not beating my personal best, and I was also aware that having a torn calf muscle would be a slight handicap, but I really, honestly, truly felt that previous experience and iron will would get me over the line in a respectable time.
I got to the starting line with 3 men who'd never run a marathon before and their nerves and heightened concern made me feel sedate,
"You've done this before, you can do it again" rattled through my mind over and over like a buddhist chant. I felt like mind was winning over body, and that my body would have to bow to me and do my bidding.
I got to my corral and joined the rest of the runners. The mix of pensive and focused runner was obvious, their faces told different stories and it was clear that I should be standing with the pensive crew, but I had other ideas, I KNEW what I was going to do, so I positioned myself behind some running club runners and waited for the start horn.
And I was off, the calf felt good and strong, the numbing pain felt normal and I was heartened by the fact that it didn't just snap in the first 30m,
"Right, the calf's working at this pace, get into a groove and get going" the old trick of talking to myself and having a conversation with my body was working well,
"How we feeling?" I asked,
"Good" was the reply from the legs.
I locked into a pace of 7.20 minutes per mile and stayed there. I started passing all the posher houses on the top of Greenwich park, with the posher people clapping warmly as we past. About 3 miles in and we joined the other running lanes and a cheer spread across the duel carriage way
From then we got into pikey territory. Fat women and men sat on sun lounges drinking pints and smoking fags. They looked like they couldn't really understand what they were seeing, as if the notion of exercise and effort had been lost to them in the mid eighties. Moody pubs and even moodier customers lined the streets, the numbers swelled because of the hot weather, dragging them away from the TV. Everyone who lined the streets looked ugly and grotesque, and I didn't like the look of them.
Now last year all these people and places were amazing, peoples smiles and cheers of encouragement were music to my ears. It was as if my experience this time was less fun and jovial, and I couldn't put my finger on why I was in such a dark mood. I know now though, it's because my body wasn't happy,
"Fellas, we're going to have problems if 'brains of Britain' upstairs thinks that we can carry one like this for 20 more miles, we're tiring now and we haven't even hit 8 miles yet!" my legs were worried.
I got to 7 miles and took on a energy gel to counter act the pain that was starting to build around my quads. The gel worked for about a mile, then the pain returned with a vengeance and this time it had spread to my calfs. This was going badly wrong but I still thought that blind will would get me through,
"You've done this before, you can do it again"
Mile 10 came up and I thought that maybe hitting double figures would settle me into another groove, I slowed my pace, and when I say 'I' I mean my legs stopped moving as fast, and I started thinking about getting half way. I was drinking lucazade drinks and sucking down gels like a young kid banging down pills at a hideous mega rave, but they weren't touching the sides, by now the pain was unrelenting,
"Yeah, Gareth? WE. ARE. FUCKED. cheers" the legs had spoken. but still I pushed on.
Tower Bridge was the highlight of my race last year, the people and noise are amazing, and you don't realize it's coming until you turn the corner, and you're smacked in the face by the noise of people. This year I was annoyed that so many people were there, watching me as I bundled my body forward. I get over the bridge and hit the halfway point, the physiological point where I thought that having less miles to run than what I'd already done would tip the balance in my favour.
How wrong I was.
At mile 14 my legs just stopped working. I can't really explain it. It was like every single moment of pain that I'd ever suffered in my life was being replayed into my legs all at once. Both legs would spasm and cramp, the spasms got so bad that my big toes would curl into a tight ball, and I couldn't open them up again.
And then I stopped. the cardinal sin. My body reacted to me stopping very oddly. At first I felt a wave of relief, and the pain ebbed away. Then a spilt second after that pain hit me with so much force that I fell to the ground. I didn't know what to do or say, I looked skywards and pulled myself to my feet. members of the crowd asked if I was ok, I just walked away, trying to will my body to run again. But it was no use. This wasn't me hitting the wall, this was my body taking the wall and building an attractive conservatory onto the back of it, with a decking feature for the new garden.
I was done but I was still 800m from the 17 mile mark. 9 more miles to go. I wanted to give up more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life. And that includes getting the AT AT Star Wars toy, or shagging Natalie Portman. I nearly walked through the barrier and onto the DLR station, with the idea that I wold just go home and wait for my housemate to come back and let me in. And with every step I tried to make the pain would engulf me from the neck down. I've always said that I couldn't stand the pain of child birth, but last Sunday I felt like I'd given birth to the Jackson 5, and I mean given birth to them as fully grown adults. As well as Michael's jagged, boney corpse.
The rest of the race was like a Dali painting, it felt like I was tripping. I felt moments of pure love and happiness, intertwined with searing pain. I got overly emotional when I saw blind people running, or squaddies in full uniform and weighted backpacks. I started reading the messages on the backs of peoples shirts, and I realized that people were running for their own children who'd died. And it was at that moment that I started running a little harder, as I understood that what I was doing was a privilege, and that some children had never even been alive long enough to achieve anything in their short lives. It made me want to get to the finish line.
That, and getting overtaken by a guy who was running it backwards. That was the final indignity that pushed me over the edge.
After what seemed like hours (turns out it actually was hours) I turned a corner and faced Buckingham Palace. My nano had died long before so I cold hear the cheering and the voice of the TV host. Then I saw the finish line and I spasm'd my way over the line, crying out as I came to a stop.
I found my friends and family and headed to the pub. People were elated and proud, but I felt dejected and pitiful. I was a whole hour slower than last year. The only thing that cheered me up was seeing my friend Tayo, and understanding his happiness at finishing his first ever marathon. An emotion that I am still chasing, like the last, sad, over 30s raver, still chasing the high of that first E. And while I don't chase the E high anymore, the thrill of pushing my body to its complete limit is going to be with me for a very long time.
What happens now? I re-group and start training again, this time with patience and stability, and with the added knowledge that I will never be in that much pain ever again. 5 months from now I'll be in Chicago running the marathon there and I will run the race of my life, knowing that I am thankful for my life every day that passes.
I knew that 5 weeks of no training would take its toll, and I knew that starting the training in February and not September would result in not beating my personal best, and I was also aware that having a torn calf muscle would be a slight handicap, but I really, honestly, truly felt that previous experience and iron will would get me over the line in a respectable time.
I got to the starting line with 3 men who'd never run a marathon before and their nerves and heightened concern made me feel sedate,
"You've done this before, you can do it again" rattled through my mind over and over like a buddhist chant. I felt like mind was winning over body, and that my body would have to bow to me and do my bidding.
I got to my corral and joined the rest of the runners. The mix of pensive and focused runner was obvious, their faces told different stories and it was clear that I should be standing with the pensive crew, but I had other ideas, I KNEW what I was going to do, so I positioned myself behind some running club runners and waited for the start horn.
And I was off, the calf felt good and strong, the numbing pain felt normal and I was heartened by the fact that it didn't just snap in the first 30m,
"Right, the calf's working at this pace, get into a groove and get going" the old trick of talking to myself and having a conversation with my body was working well,
"How we feeling?" I asked,
"Good" was the reply from the legs.
I locked into a pace of 7.20 minutes per mile and stayed there. I started passing all the posher houses on the top of Greenwich park, with the posher people clapping warmly as we past. About 3 miles in and we joined the other running lanes and a cheer spread across the duel carriage way
From then we got into pikey territory. Fat women and men sat on sun lounges drinking pints and smoking fags. They looked like they couldn't really understand what they were seeing, as if the notion of exercise and effort had been lost to them in the mid eighties. Moody pubs and even moodier customers lined the streets, the numbers swelled because of the hot weather, dragging them away from the TV. Everyone who lined the streets looked ugly and grotesque, and I didn't like the look of them.
Now last year all these people and places were amazing, peoples smiles and cheers of encouragement were music to my ears. It was as if my experience this time was less fun and jovial, and I couldn't put my finger on why I was in such a dark mood. I know now though, it's because my body wasn't happy,
"Fellas, we're going to have problems if 'brains of Britain' upstairs thinks that we can carry one like this for 20 more miles, we're tiring now and we haven't even hit 8 miles yet!" my legs were worried.
I got to 7 miles and took on a energy gel to counter act the pain that was starting to build around my quads. The gel worked for about a mile, then the pain returned with a vengeance and this time it had spread to my calfs. This was going badly wrong but I still thought that blind will would get me through,
"You've done this before, you can do it again"
Mile 10 came up and I thought that maybe hitting double figures would settle me into another groove, I slowed my pace, and when I say 'I' I mean my legs stopped moving as fast, and I started thinking about getting half way. I was drinking lucazade drinks and sucking down gels like a young kid banging down pills at a hideous mega rave, but they weren't touching the sides, by now the pain was unrelenting,
"Yeah, Gareth? WE. ARE. FUCKED. cheers" the legs had spoken. but still I pushed on.
Tower Bridge was the highlight of my race last year, the people and noise are amazing, and you don't realize it's coming until you turn the corner, and you're smacked in the face by the noise of people. This year I was annoyed that so many people were there, watching me as I bundled my body forward. I get over the bridge and hit the halfway point, the physiological point where I thought that having less miles to run than what I'd already done would tip the balance in my favour.
How wrong I was.
At mile 14 my legs just stopped working. I can't really explain it. It was like every single moment of pain that I'd ever suffered in my life was being replayed into my legs all at once. Both legs would spasm and cramp, the spasms got so bad that my big toes would curl into a tight ball, and I couldn't open them up again.
And then I stopped. the cardinal sin. My body reacted to me stopping very oddly. At first I felt a wave of relief, and the pain ebbed away. Then a spilt second after that pain hit me with so much force that I fell to the ground. I didn't know what to do or say, I looked skywards and pulled myself to my feet. members of the crowd asked if I was ok, I just walked away, trying to will my body to run again. But it was no use. This wasn't me hitting the wall, this was my body taking the wall and building an attractive conservatory onto the back of it, with a decking feature for the new garden.
I was done but I was still 800m from the 17 mile mark. 9 more miles to go. I wanted to give up more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life. And that includes getting the AT AT Star Wars toy, or shagging Natalie Portman. I nearly walked through the barrier and onto the DLR station, with the idea that I wold just go home and wait for my housemate to come back and let me in. And with every step I tried to make the pain would engulf me from the neck down. I've always said that I couldn't stand the pain of child birth, but last Sunday I felt like I'd given birth to the Jackson 5, and I mean given birth to them as fully grown adults. As well as Michael's jagged, boney corpse.
The rest of the race was like a Dali painting, it felt like I was tripping. I felt moments of pure love and happiness, intertwined with searing pain. I got overly emotional when I saw blind people running, or squaddies in full uniform and weighted backpacks. I started reading the messages on the backs of peoples shirts, and I realized that people were running for their own children who'd died. And it was at that moment that I started running a little harder, as I understood that what I was doing was a privilege, and that some children had never even been alive long enough to achieve anything in their short lives. It made me want to get to the finish line.
That, and getting overtaken by a guy who was running it backwards. That was the final indignity that pushed me over the edge.
After what seemed like hours (turns out it actually was hours) I turned a corner and faced Buckingham Palace. My nano had died long before so I cold hear the cheering and the voice of the TV host. Then I saw the finish line and I spasm'd my way over the line, crying out as I came to a stop.
I found my friends and family and headed to the pub. People were elated and proud, but I felt dejected and pitiful. I was a whole hour slower than last year. The only thing that cheered me up was seeing my friend Tayo, and understanding his happiness at finishing his first ever marathon. An emotion that I am still chasing, like the last, sad, over 30s raver, still chasing the high of that first E. And while I don't chase the E high anymore, the thrill of pushing my body to its complete limit is going to be with me for a very long time.
What happens now? I re-group and start training again, this time with patience and stability, and with the added knowledge that I will never be in that much pain ever again. 5 months from now I'll be in Chicago running the marathon there and I will run the race of my life, knowing that I am thankful for my life every day that passes.
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