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!
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
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.
Sunday, 27 March 2011
My body thinks I'm a joke, but the jokes on my body in 3 weeks
My body hates me, which, if you look at the detestable things I've made it do over the years you can almost understand its quiet disdain and disgust of me.
I always thought we got on, my body and me. It was a dysfunctional relationship yes, I would get upset at certain sizes and curves my body had, and in turn, my body would reply,
"Well the size of your cock you can blame on your parents and the basic principals of genetics. As for being rotund, do some exercise and eat less shit you fat fuck"
But like any healthy union we were bonded together for eternity, because we didn't have a choice in the matter.
But now my body has gone too far, its stubborn and uncooperative actions have seriously put my marathon running hopes on the line. I have acute and constant pain in my left calf muscle every time I step down on my left leg to propel myself forward. Something you have to do quite a lot when you run,
"It's your own fucking fault you fucking mug" is the only thing my body says when I try to raise the matter with it,
"You can't swan around expecting to run 6 minute miles after you've done fuck all for 5 months, and then when we give you initial warning signals, don't fucking ignore them and carry on running! of course you're going to do more damage to yourself you wanker"
I had broken the first rule, always listen to what your body tells you, if you're in pain, stop. If you get fat, stop eating. If you're tired, go to sleep. If your penis gets sore, maybe try to curtail the 5 hour tantric wanks you treat yourself to on your day off. That sort of thing.
So I have been off the road, off my leg, and onto the couch. For a week I couldn't even climb stairs. The bitter irony of this whole situation is my usual love of doing precisely nothing. Being forced onto the couch because I can't walk would have been my go to option over anything, but now I am restless and depressed. Time's ticking away, and I'm not physically anywhere near ready to finish at the time I want, and that bothers me. It bothers me so much that I can't sleep, the thought of failure fills me with anger and indignation, and I hate myself for being so stupid, to be blinded by an obsession to beat my old time, and to ensure that I go faster than someone else.
I begin to run out of patience and decide to go and try some acupuncture and massage to try to relive the pain. Having never experienced the joy of loads of tiny needles thrust into my body, I am a little hesitant, but I've got to do something, so off I go.
The Chinese quack sits me lays me down, does some prodding and poking around my leg then says,
"Yes, your back very bad, we going to start there"
"But it's me leg that hurts"
"Yes" he says, then walks out of the room. I wonder if he's confused me with another patient, or if, in his anciently wise way, he's located the problem from my spine downwards. I begin to marvel at how complicated the body is, and how fascinating it is that a pain in my lower leg can be caused by something in my back.
1 hour and £90 later I float out of the place feeling excellent. I've had 40 minutes of relaxing massage and the sensation of tiny needles letting the pressure escape my body is wonderful,
"Now you must buy this medicine, and we do treatment 7 times to fix problem in your back and your leg" the quack is on me like a charity mugger in Covent Garden,
"If we don't do treatment, it's very bad for you"
I'm still in la la land from the massage, the heat, the needles, and the soothing music, my head's all over the place, but the fact that I've just been given the hard sell to procure some herbal tea, herbal leg wrap, and another 6 session of this, wakes me out of my soft cocoon, and straight into 'he's trying to cheat me' mode,
"I have got to do the marathon in 4 weeks, I don't have time to do this, or the money" I say, the quacks eyes light up!
"The marathon! oooo! Then we do double course! you come in 3 times a week! you need more medicine!" as he reaches for another boxes of the herbal stuff,
"no, no. I'll have one more session then see how we go"
I bound purposefully out of the shop and into the shopping centre, by the time I finish my shop in Sainsburys my leg's started hurting again. Motherfucking Motherfuckering Fuck Fuck!
After another week of rest and stretching I still can't shake this pain, and the start date looms over me like a massive black cloud, a bit like the wall of black in 'the 5th element'
I see the doctor and get a referral, then I find the best sports physiotherapist in London and book myself in. He takes one look at me, pulls my leg, cracks a few bones, cracks my back, then basically manually loosens all of my leg muscles by applying huge, agonizing pressure to my buttocks using only his thumb. If you want to have any idea of how painful this is give it a go on yourself, or perhaps a lover while they lie next to you.
From there he basically rips my legs to bits, then massages it all back in again,
"So, basically what you've done is torn the calf just a little, then you've also twisted your pelvis a bit there as well, then the alignment of your legs are off because your body has been leaning to one side to compensate, which has then caused more pressure and pain in this leg. And you've carried on running through this then have you?"
"Yes" I meekly replied.
"Then you're a fucking idiot then aren't you? The good news is that I've done your pelvis, and once the achy feeling has gone you should feel a little off balance as you correct yourself, but the pain should be gone, and we'll have you back to running by Tuesday, and you'll definitely be able to run the marathon"
I am so happy that for a brief second I consider noshing him off as a thank you, but I'll be seeing him for another few sessions so I decide not to fellate him to orgasm just that second.
Maybe after the marathon.
I always thought we got on, my body and me. It was a dysfunctional relationship yes, I would get upset at certain sizes and curves my body had, and in turn, my body would reply,
"Well the size of your cock you can blame on your parents and the basic principals of genetics. As for being rotund, do some exercise and eat less shit you fat fuck"
But like any healthy union we were bonded together for eternity, because we didn't have a choice in the matter.
But now my body has gone too far, its stubborn and uncooperative actions have seriously put my marathon running hopes on the line. I have acute and constant pain in my left calf muscle every time I step down on my left leg to propel myself forward. Something you have to do quite a lot when you run,
"It's your own fucking fault you fucking mug" is the only thing my body says when I try to raise the matter with it,
"You can't swan around expecting to run 6 minute miles after you've done fuck all for 5 months, and then when we give you initial warning signals, don't fucking ignore them and carry on running! of course you're going to do more damage to yourself you wanker"
I had broken the first rule, always listen to what your body tells you, if you're in pain, stop. If you get fat, stop eating. If you're tired, go to sleep. If your penis gets sore, maybe try to curtail the 5 hour tantric wanks you treat yourself to on your day off. That sort of thing.
So I have been off the road, off my leg, and onto the couch. For a week I couldn't even climb stairs. The bitter irony of this whole situation is my usual love of doing precisely nothing. Being forced onto the couch because I can't walk would have been my go to option over anything, but now I am restless and depressed. Time's ticking away, and I'm not physically anywhere near ready to finish at the time I want, and that bothers me. It bothers me so much that I can't sleep, the thought of failure fills me with anger and indignation, and I hate myself for being so stupid, to be blinded by an obsession to beat my old time, and to ensure that I go faster than someone else.
I begin to run out of patience and decide to go and try some acupuncture and massage to try to relive the pain. Having never experienced the joy of loads of tiny needles thrust into my body, I am a little hesitant, but I've got to do something, so off I go.
The Chinese quack sits me lays me down, does some prodding and poking around my leg then says,
"Yes, your back very bad, we going to start there"
"But it's me leg that hurts"
"Yes" he says, then walks out of the room. I wonder if he's confused me with another patient, or if, in his anciently wise way, he's located the problem from my spine downwards. I begin to marvel at how complicated the body is, and how fascinating it is that a pain in my lower leg can be caused by something in my back.
1 hour and £90 later I float out of the place feeling excellent. I've had 40 minutes of relaxing massage and the sensation of tiny needles letting the pressure escape my body is wonderful,
"Now you must buy this medicine, and we do treatment 7 times to fix problem in your back and your leg" the quack is on me like a charity mugger in Covent Garden,
"If we don't do treatment, it's very bad for you"
I'm still in la la land from the massage, the heat, the needles, and the soothing music, my head's all over the place, but the fact that I've just been given the hard sell to procure some herbal tea, herbal leg wrap, and another 6 session of this, wakes me out of my soft cocoon, and straight into 'he's trying to cheat me' mode,
"I have got to do the marathon in 4 weeks, I don't have time to do this, or the money" I say, the quacks eyes light up!
"The marathon! oooo! Then we do double course! you come in 3 times a week! you need more medicine!" as he reaches for another boxes of the herbal stuff,
"no, no. I'll have one more session then see how we go"
I bound purposefully out of the shop and into the shopping centre, by the time I finish my shop in Sainsburys my leg's started hurting again. Motherfucking Motherfuckering Fuck Fuck!
After another week of rest and stretching I still can't shake this pain, and the start date looms over me like a massive black cloud, a bit like the wall of black in 'the 5th element'
I see the doctor and get a referral, then I find the best sports physiotherapist in London and book myself in. He takes one look at me, pulls my leg, cracks a few bones, cracks my back, then basically manually loosens all of my leg muscles by applying huge, agonizing pressure to my buttocks using only his thumb. If you want to have any idea of how painful this is give it a go on yourself, or perhaps a lover while they lie next to you.
From there he basically rips my legs to bits, then massages it all back in again,
"So, basically what you've done is torn the calf just a little, then you've also twisted your pelvis a bit there as well, then the alignment of your legs are off because your body has been leaning to one side to compensate, which has then caused more pressure and pain in this leg. And you've carried on running through this then have you?"
"Yes" I meekly replied.
"Then you're a fucking idiot then aren't you? The good news is that I've done your pelvis, and once the achy feeling has gone you should feel a little off balance as you correct yourself, but the pain should be gone, and we'll have you back to running by Tuesday, and you'll definitely be able to run the marathon"
I am so happy that for a brief second I consider noshing him off as a thank you, but I'll be seeing him for another few sessions so I decide not to fellate him to orgasm just that second.
Maybe after the marathon.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
I clear the air for all of us.
WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!
Before you read the rest of this I'd just like to say something in all seriousness. I know that some people's parents read this, I know that family friends read this, and I know that my Dad has occasionally glanced at it, and told me that I use swearing as a comedic device too often and that I should limit it. I would advise respectfully that everyone mentioned above not read this post. Just bypass this one, and wait for another one. Please?
The rest of this post is FULL of swear words. Full like a people carrier heading out of Libya.
And the swear words are surrounded by opinions that will offend almost 80% to 90% of you. But I've warned you now, and I hope that you admit that I'm basically right. Here we go then, ready?
I let my body calm down and offered very contrite apologies to it every few hours, but my body is stubborn and refusing to play ball, so every run I go on, acute pain spreads through my legs and feet. The rest of me is OK, I've started a meticulous carb free diet, with raw veg and fish being the main staple, and the body is grateful, but the muscles still hate me.
As I ran one night I was nagged by a memory of a conversation I'd had with a friend when I got back form traveling. He'd turned to me and said,
"I wanted to read your blog, because I was quite shocked by some things you'd said to me before you left. I was shocked and quite offended to be honest, as I'd never have thought you'd say something like that"
"Really?" I replied, quite shocked that I could have offended this big fella,
"what did I say? and I'm sorry if it caused you offence but what did I say?"
"you said that all women were slags. all of them were fucking slags"
"Oh. That."
And when you take it out of context it does come across as being a little, how do you say? massively hateful towards women?
I hadn't explained to him the full theory, I hadn't gone into the full extent of how horrible and hateful I thought women were. How they do, say, and act in the most heinous way to each other, and mostly towards the men they claim to love. I just said it in passing and forgotten about it. But now maybe the time is right to explain why I think all women are slags.
Firstly, I don't mean that they, maybe I should start using the word you? in case you are a women, reader. I don't mean that you are all sexually promiscuous, and happy to drop your draws to anyone, anytime, irrespective of your boyfriend, fiance, or husband. Although a lot of you have haven't you? You slags. But I don't mean that. What I mean is that you act in a way that is reprehensible, you emotionally damage and hurt other people without a secondary thought. Fallen in love with a new man? Love him? Tell him so? see a future with him? lovely. Go and fuck his best mate while he's on a holiday with his Dad? course you do. Excellent. Well done. Same goes for the way you treat your mates. Really close are you? get on really well? almost like sisters? lovely. You need friends. Then you start slagging her off to the rest of your mates, then you start edging her out of your circle of friends? Why not. Lovely. well done.
I know a girl who has strung along a guy for a number of years, happily swinging from 'I want to marry you' to 'I just don't think that it's right' without even thinking once about the damage she's doing to his head, heart, and life. Or hers for that matter. That's a slag. not the men she's fucked in between, who cares about that? It's the disregard for basic humanity that I can't sit with, you love this man, he loves you, and yet you continue to flit from one to the other without a care or acknowledgment of the damage you're causing. The word slag is simply a umbrella term for all the horrible things that you do to people.
And it's everywhere, I've heard of certain acts that truly amaze me, levels of disgracefulness and heartlessness that would make Count Dracula want organize his own intervention and go into rehab. And I don't mean individuals, because I know that at least 4 of you are thinking that I'm talking about you. Which I'm not. Well not specifically, obviously you fall under the umbrella, but I don't think you're the worse one. Promise.
And I know you must think that I'm a hateful, embittered, lonely, sad, man? Who's life has been crushed by a small number of women, that has left me raging and furious to all womankind?
And you'd be dead wrong. I'm not sad that women treat people this way. I'm not angry at any women at all. I love women, they gave me life, and they hold the key to prosperity, health, and peace for all mankind in the future. Women are amazing, subtle, complex beings and I think you're all amazing, and when I call you a slag, I do it with a rye smile and a shake of the head. And do you know why?
Because all men are cunts.
We are all vacuous, stupid, callous, self centered, brainless, cheating, lying, cunts. We don't care if we have sex with you, then never ever see you again. We don't care, or even know if there's a problem between the two of us, because we're too busy playing computer games and watching TV, wondering if the 'bad mood' your in is going to stop us from having sex with you later that night. We're so stupid that we waste years of our lives getting wasted, instead of realizing that the future is not 2 grams of coke, 4 E's and staying awake till Sunday. The future is building on the deep, loving friendship we share, and turning the dreams that we had into reality. We're so fucking stupid that we should be grateful that you even speak to us, let alone let us make the sex with you.
It goes without saying that I am none of the things I mentioned above. I'm joking, I am a cunt. But nowhere near as bad as some of the things I've seen and heard. Men in relationships that they should be counting their lucky stars to be in, running off and fucking the nearest thing they can find when there girlfriends are away.
Men who simply cannot be on their own, and would rather string a girl along for a year, rather than go to the cinema on their own, even though they know they don't love them, and she does love him, and he just carries on regardless. Men who sleep with their wives friends without even the thought of the damage and pain it might cause to their children. Cunts basically.
Everyone is either a slag or a cunt, Thankfully you're all good people, and good people meet, and eventually bond with good people. And while we all have the ability to be a slag or cunt to one another, we know that we're not as bad as the rest of the people we don't like or love. And that's the key, at some point your loved one will have either-
Been a slag/cunt
Will be a slag/cunt
Is a slag/cunt
And it's about how you want to proceed with that, I'd rather go with the one that was a slag/cunt and move on from there.
This train of thought got me about 11 miles when I had to stop. I'd run too hard again and could feel blood coming out of my foot.
Ahem.....so there we are then. What I think when I run. I won't apologise though.
Before you read the rest of this I'd just like to say something in all seriousness. I know that some people's parents read this, I know that family friends read this, and I know that my Dad has occasionally glanced at it, and told me that I use swearing as a comedic device too often and that I should limit it. I would advise respectfully that everyone mentioned above not read this post. Just bypass this one, and wait for another one. Please?
The rest of this post is FULL of swear words. Full like a people carrier heading out of Libya.
And the swear words are surrounded by opinions that will offend almost 80% to 90% of you. But I've warned you now, and I hope that you admit that I'm basically right. Here we go then, ready?
I let my body calm down and offered very contrite apologies to it every few hours, but my body is stubborn and refusing to play ball, so every run I go on, acute pain spreads through my legs and feet. The rest of me is OK, I've started a meticulous carb free diet, with raw veg and fish being the main staple, and the body is grateful, but the muscles still hate me.
As I ran one night I was nagged by a memory of a conversation I'd had with a friend when I got back form traveling. He'd turned to me and said,
"I wanted to read your blog, because I was quite shocked by some things you'd said to me before you left. I was shocked and quite offended to be honest, as I'd never have thought you'd say something like that"
"Really?" I replied, quite shocked that I could have offended this big fella,
"what did I say? and I'm sorry if it caused you offence but what did I say?"
"you said that all women were slags. all of them were fucking slags"
"Oh. That."
And when you take it out of context it does come across as being a little, how do you say? massively hateful towards women?
I hadn't explained to him the full theory, I hadn't gone into the full extent of how horrible and hateful I thought women were. How they do, say, and act in the most heinous way to each other, and mostly towards the men they claim to love. I just said it in passing and forgotten about it. But now maybe the time is right to explain why I think all women are slags.
Firstly, I don't mean that they, maybe I should start using the word you? in case you are a women, reader. I don't mean that you are all sexually promiscuous, and happy to drop your draws to anyone, anytime, irrespective of your boyfriend, fiance, or husband. Although a lot of you have haven't you? You slags. But I don't mean that. What I mean is that you act in a way that is reprehensible, you emotionally damage and hurt other people without a secondary thought. Fallen in love with a new man? Love him? Tell him so? see a future with him? lovely. Go and fuck his best mate while he's on a holiday with his Dad? course you do. Excellent. Well done. Same goes for the way you treat your mates. Really close are you? get on really well? almost like sisters? lovely. You need friends. Then you start slagging her off to the rest of your mates, then you start edging her out of your circle of friends? Why not. Lovely. well done.
I know a girl who has strung along a guy for a number of years, happily swinging from 'I want to marry you' to 'I just don't think that it's right' without even thinking once about the damage she's doing to his head, heart, and life. Or hers for that matter. That's a slag. not the men she's fucked in between, who cares about that? It's the disregard for basic humanity that I can't sit with, you love this man, he loves you, and yet you continue to flit from one to the other without a care or acknowledgment of the damage you're causing. The word slag is simply a umbrella term for all the horrible things that you do to people.
And it's everywhere, I've heard of certain acts that truly amaze me, levels of disgracefulness and heartlessness that would make Count Dracula want organize his own intervention and go into rehab. And I don't mean individuals, because I know that at least 4 of you are thinking that I'm talking about you. Which I'm not. Well not specifically, obviously you fall under the umbrella, but I don't think you're the worse one. Promise.
And I know you must think that I'm a hateful, embittered, lonely, sad, man? Who's life has been crushed by a small number of women, that has left me raging and furious to all womankind?
And you'd be dead wrong. I'm not sad that women treat people this way. I'm not angry at any women at all. I love women, they gave me life, and they hold the key to prosperity, health, and peace for all mankind in the future. Women are amazing, subtle, complex beings and I think you're all amazing, and when I call you a slag, I do it with a rye smile and a shake of the head. And do you know why?
Because all men are cunts.
We are all vacuous, stupid, callous, self centered, brainless, cheating, lying, cunts. We don't care if we have sex with you, then never ever see you again. We don't care, or even know if there's a problem between the two of us, because we're too busy playing computer games and watching TV, wondering if the 'bad mood' your in is going to stop us from having sex with you later that night. We're so stupid that we waste years of our lives getting wasted, instead of realizing that the future is not 2 grams of coke, 4 E's and staying awake till Sunday. The future is building on the deep, loving friendship we share, and turning the dreams that we had into reality. We're so fucking stupid that we should be grateful that you even speak to us, let alone let us make the sex with you.
It goes without saying that I am none of the things I mentioned above. I'm joking, I am a cunt. But nowhere near as bad as some of the things I've seen and heard. Men in relationships that they should be counting their lucky stars to be in, running off and fucking the nearest thing they can find when there girlfriends are away.
Men who simply cannot be on their own, and would rather string a girl along for a year, rather than go to the cinema on their own, even though they know they don't love them, and she does love him, and he just carries on regardless. Men who sleep with their wives friends without even the thought of the damage and pain it might cause to their children. Cunts basically.
Everyone is either a slag or a cunt, Thankfully you're all good people, and good people meet, and eventually bond with good people. And while we all have the ability to be a slag or cunt to one another, we know that we're not as bad as the rest of the people we don't like or love. And that's the key, at some point your loved one will have either-
Been a slag/cunt
Will be a slag/cunt
Is a slag/cunt
And it's about how you want to proceed with that, I'd rather go with the one that was a slag/cunt and move on from there.
This train of thought got me about 11 miles when I had to stop. I'd run too hard again and could feel blood coming out of my foot.
Ahem.....so there we are then. What I think when I run. I won't apologise though.
The unwanted return
So.......where was I?
Ah yes, I'd vowed to never write this blog again, as I had nothing left to write about or say. I'd run a marathon and traveled through South America, and yes, I'd learnt a lot about myself and had made my peace with this crazy thing called life. But there was no reason to come back to this blog, I'd said everything I could possibly have wanted to.
But something happened reader, something that would profoundly change me, something that would bring me back to this laptop to catalogue my thoughts, problems, and issues with life, and also to log my trials and pains as I try to run another marathon.
I got fat.
"You fat Fuck"Not obese or hideous, just fat. I'd gone from marathon build to a fat fuck in 6 amazing, fun filled months. You don't notice, well you do, you just pretend that it's fine.
The excesses of traveling life hit me with a fat punch to my stomach, and a choke hold to my arteries. My promise to myself to eat a steak every other day for month had backfired, and resulted in me being very weighty when I got back to London. Loved ones laughed, friends playfully renamed me 'Fatty Potter fat fat' and a girl who I care very deeply for told me that I repulsed her. It was a shock to my system, luckily I had a rubber ring a blubber to protect me.
I got back and got a call from a charity, asking me if I'd consider running for them at this years marathon. I agreed immediately, knowing that I need goals and targets to achieve in life, and if I'm ever going to get off my fat arse and do something then helping this charity is a beautiful way of applying pressure on myself. This was in January, and the race is in April, I was in trouble but knew that I could do it.
First run back
Knowing that I was in bad shape, and knowing that I used to be able to run fast I set off quick. It quickly became clear that the feeling of running was different, I didn't feel loose and relaxed, I felt bloated and sick. With every forward step I could feel the excess of 5 months of steak, beer, chips, and rice bounce around my hefty belly. It felt like I had Maddie Mcann strapped to my stomach, except that if you consider decomposition I was easily carrying a heavier weight than her. You know, with her being dead and everything.
With every bone rattling step it felt like I was smashing into the hundreds of bottles of beer I'd drunk, I felt slow and unresponsive, like being out on a date with a special needs girl. This fueled an anger inside me, an anger that I'd let myself get to this position, and the thing about anger is that you make silly decisions when you're angry, so I decide to run faster. I did 5 miles in 39 minutes. I stopped outside my house and puked into a drain.
My body heaved a collective groan, and then the pain started. From the inside of my feet first, as the blisters decided to reveal themselves. then the calves and thighs, as they politely, and aggressively started making stabbing pains on regular, 3 second intervals. My chest was shaking with fury, the lungs and heart were sobbing wildly, like they'd just found out that they'd been conned out of their life savings by a heartless shyster. Then finally my brain, which at first was calm, then simply said,
"Well you fucked your body up, now it's going to fuck you up"
Then the brain started with a spine curling headache.
I am in trouble.
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