The man who mistook his trousers for a carrot

BALLACK WINDS UP ENGLISH
I read this headline the other day, and for a moment, misunderstood it. I thought it was saying that Michael Ballack, of Chelsea and Germany, the owner of the most punchable face in football, had ended up being English. Perhaps he’d married an English woman and applied for British citizenship? But no, it meant something else: that he was cheekily prodding the old enemy in advance of the Crash of the Titans.

So what did he say? Well, something quite incisive in my view: that “England are intimidated by their past”. He was talking about the football team, and needlessly self-imposed pressure. With third person singular verbs, the sentiment could equally apply to the country as a whole, but let’s not sink that deep into the national navel today.

Intimidated by one’s own history. This thought stayed with me for a while, and yes, eventually did stray beyond the football realm. Are we not all guilty of this? Do I make things unnecessarily difficult when it comes to running and fitness? When I’m trying to clamber out of the warm, slimy pit of inertia… the comfort zone… perhaps I make the task even harder than it is, by immediately sparking up another beautiful Excel spreadsheet, and without permission, trying to design a future modelled on the past.

If we describe it as “planning”, it seems to be a good thing. Motivation and all that. But looked at in a different light, I wonder if it doesn’t add, subconsciously,  extra weight to the burden? And extra weight is the last thing I need at the moment.

It was my birthday recently. M bought me some trousers,  reasoning that more people will want to give me more money, the neater I look.

They didn’t fit. Or perhaps it was me that didn’t fit.

After a while, I gave up trying to get them on. Forcing the fastening issue threatened to fire a high velocity button towards the window. Or to cut me in half.

“But I bought you some last year”, protested my wife. “They’re exactly the same size.”

Maybe they are, I told her, but sadly, I’m not. What a hellishly uncompromising reminder of how fat I am all of a sudden.

She offered to take them back and change them. No, I said. Let me keep them. Let them torture me.

So now, they dangle from the back of the bedroom door. Threatening. Accusing. Wagging a finger. Let them be a daily reminder; let these callous Callards torture me. Let them be the first thing I see each morning, and the last thing I see before dragging the tarpaulin of sleep over my head every night. Let them haunt my nightmares. Instead of a race target, I now have a trouser target.

[ASIDE: : Callards? Cockney rhyming slang, innit guv'nor? Callard & Bowser's - trousers.]

It was about six weeks ago that I wrote a post announcing the end of my lethargy. As usual, I need a false start before the serious stuff kicks in. That said,  ‘Juneathon’ wasn’t a total letdown. I managed several bike rides and a few walks. I even got out for a 2 or 3 mile lumber at one point. This is it, I thought. Part of the countdown. But unfortunately I took the firework instructions a bit too literally. I lit the blue touchpaper alright — but then retired.

It’s time to try again; to come out of that premature retirement. The trousers can’t take all of the credit. A recent outburst of Twitter bravado, followed by an explosion of bluster on the forum have helped make up my mind for me. As the great Sweder likes to say, it’s time to get the band back together. I don’t need reasons to get healthier, but there’s an important new one these days:  I’m working on my new business, and I know that losing a few kilos and feeling fitter will help to keep me gazing straight ahead.

It’s always a good time to start, but this weekend is doubly good. The World Cup final is tonight. I’m already committed to watching it at the local pub, but after that, I suddenly run out of excuses to drink beer. Almost. One or two social engagements may linger in the calendar, but nothing excessive. Anyway, I’m not announcing some dramatic transition. You don’t have to become a monk to display a saintly habit.

The plan: a bike ride this weekend. Now, in fact. Then a gym trip or two in the week ahead, with at least one spinning session, and a run-walk of some kind.

I don’t want to go much beyond that at the moment. No need to talk of races. I rather like the idea of being a mere recreational plodder, slowly shedding blubber and feeling re-energised.

It’s easy to be frightened off by the thought of long, painful programmes extending into the seasons beyond the current one.  It’s how I’ve tried to organise myself before now, but it doesn’t always have to be like that. Even though I’ve not had, and will never have, a glorious running career, I do seem to look back to try to work out how to go forward.

So it is indeed easy to be intimidated, or tormented, by one’s past.

Quite a thought.

One of mine?

Or is it Ballack’s?