September ... why isn't it Nontember?

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I well remember in technical drawing classes at high school the intense frustration of our teacher as he attempted to teach a bunch of unruly boys how to properly draw a septagon. As I struggled to come to grips with the concept of 'simply dividing each side of a hexagon into six equal parts by using the same methods you use to create the hexagon, then at the fifth sixth of each side use your compass to inscribe a mark...' by which time Fuzz or Johnno would have lost interest and distracted our attention by surreptitiously throwing things around the room whilst Sir wasn't watching ... and well, you get my drift. By some miracle I became one of the few people in my class actually able to create a reasonable representation of a septagon using only a compass and some other piece of gear long forgotten and lost to time, but I also recall (apart from my smugness as I attempted to explain during the recess break to my bemused classmates how this was actually achieved) my confusion as to why September is called that when it is in fact the ninth month of the calendar. Well apparently it has something to do with the Romans only being able to count to ten and not twelve, which I don't believe for a moment, but I read it in The Guardian, so I guess it must be true. Whatever the case, it was just one of those insignificant pieces of trivia somehow trapped in my memory like so many others that came to mind for no particular reason.

Anyway, I told you all that in a desperate attempt to distract your attention from the fact that I've been very quiet of late, which as you probably have guessed, is because I haven't been running at all. I know for certain that I haven't been running because when I did attempt to run up some stairs recently at the train station in a vain attempt to catch the 6:29 for home that I was late for, I found myself alarmingly short of breath and long of pounding heart. It was, you might say, a wake up call.

I of course have excuses. But these, as valid as they might be for me personally, are of as much interest to a collective of runners as quiet discourse is to a rabid mob of drunken fascist skinheads. So I shall refrain from citing them.

The good news is that the long promised first volume of my running diaries is now only a few days from genuine publication, i.e. available for purchase from recognised outlets which I shall nominate once officially and demonstrably on stream and ready for action. To say this has been a long journey would be an understatement. What I thought would be a simple tidy up, convert to a commercial format and hit 'publish' affair was far from it. I've proof-read that book so many times and found (and more importantly, corrected) so many damned mistakes that I am really quite weary of the whole process. However, a worthy pastime it has been, and the process is now 99% complete. So, very, very soon I will be pointing you at the correct websites and humbly asking you to consider purchase of a copy, the proceeds of which will of course go to a very worthy charity. And in time for Christmas!

But I really must get back into the running shoes. Especially as a couple of southern England types that I'm rather fond of are really cooking up a storm in the Sussex Downs and putting me to great shame. 

Soon, baby, soon.

[Sweder]

1. Wasn't that all about the metric system?
2. Who are you called fascist skinheads? *brushes today's freshly-shorn barnet*
3. Darling, you HAVE A BOOK OUT. You are forgiven.

[Charliecat5]

In your gallant attempt to throw us off the scent and to promote your forthcoming book (which I will be purchasing on the basis that it is the prequel to your next work “The CharlieCat Years”), I briefly missed that you have started a new September theme when we are still firmly planted in August.  Whilst you continue to think of appropriate excuses for the lack of running I wonder if you could explain the 14 missing days of August.  14 days in which you could actually be running.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

... I wonder if you could explain the 14 missing days of August.  14 days in which you could actually be running.

Two reasons: firstly, anyone can draw a bloody octagon, and secondly, you know how the September issue of pretty much any magazine is always out by mid-August? Yeah, well, that.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

OK here it is! The Running Diaries on sale now from your favourite bookseller ... provided that happens to be Amazon, of course. Just £15.95! And it's free postage in the UK!

Also available from U.S. Amazon of course.

And remember, all proceeds go to JDRF, so don't forget your friends and loved ones who might like a copy for Christmas etc!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Running-Diaries-Midlife-Crisis-Years/dp/0987347039/ref=sr_1_12?ie=UTF8&qid=1439949083&sr=8-12&keywords=Running+diaries

[Charliecat5]

OK here it is! The Running Diaries on sale now from your favourite bookseller ... provided that happens to be Amazon, of course. Just £15.95! And it's free postage in the UK!

I've ordered it... does it come with a money back guarantee?  

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

OK here it is! The Running Diaries on sale now from your favourite bookseller ... provided that happens to be Amazon, of course. Just £15.95! And it's free postage in the UK!

I've ordered it... does it come with a money back guarantee?  

Good on you CC5.

Guarantee? There are no guarantees other than the hurt and disappointment on the faces of the children whose diabetes treatment has to be compromised because someone blithely asked for their money back.

But fear not - you will undoubtedly be enchanted and inspired by the tome. And children everywhere will be thankful.


 

[glaconman]

Massive congratulations MLCMM on making a contribution to the sporting literary genre. A commendable milestone.

Looking forward to my copy. I seem to have an appetite for sporting biographies at the moment so this will fit in nicely.

Are you back out meditating and ruminating on-the-move?

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Massive congratulations MLCMM on making a contribution to the sporting literary genre. A commendable milestone.

Looking forward to my copy. I seem to have an appetite  for sporting biographies at the moment so this will fit in nicely.

Are you back out meditating and ruminating on-the-move?

Thanks G'man ... I'm still recovering from a persistent strain of influenza B which has knocked me about for the last six weeks, but am back out there at least walking a few kilometres most days, so will be back running soon. It's been too long!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

For those who didn't see it on Facebook...

Supremo scientist, media guru and fellow runner Dr. Karl Kruszelnicki with his copy of my book!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I'm still here, but I'm still not running. Heavens!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

The time hath come.

This is it. Tomorrow morning, about 5 a.m. I am heading into the streets for my first run in quite a few weeks. It will be short, ugly, probably painful and almost certainly embarrassing. But it will be, at least by definition, a run.

I shall report back (assuming I don't die from cardiac arrest) sometime thereafter.

And in case you were wondering why I don't just go out and hit the streets now, instead of all this tedious writing about it, the answer lies in having imbibed of slightly too much montepulciano ... a sort of condemned man's last request. And also, the mysterious fact that over the years I have turned the tables one-eighty-degrees and become pretty much a dedicated early morning runner, erm, that is to say, when I actually do get out there.

Which will be tomorrow. Just see if it isn't. Doesn't. Whatever.

Cheers.

Why would you want to put yourself through all that again? - Sting

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Of bats, bunnies and that book.

Tuesday, 5 a.m.

Like some prodigal son I skulk home whilst it is still dark and with everyone asleep. Of course, ‘home’ in this sense means the streets, lanes and avenues of my neighbourhood and into which I must now run once more. Some things are the same; there are still rabbits hopping about on the lush grass by the bench that no-one ever sits on at the end of Park Avenue; the fruit bat that I hate and which hates me still hangs in the palm tree on the corner of the lane, flapping its batty wings and muttering batty oaths and threats in its vulgar chiropterean language as I jog past.  The bus interchange however is brand spanking new and still sparkly and clean. I run its length but discover the footpath I thought might be at the end is nonexistent, so return along its length, marvelling at this fresh new temple to transportation in an old, crusty suburb.

Thankfully the cold ache of winter is gone, and this spring morning is mild and glorious, with clearing overnight rain leaving the streets clean and glistening. This is my first outing in running shoes for ... ages, and it’s of course tired, creaky and somewhat painful. I cover just three short kilometres in too many minutes, and return home with aching chest and needing a long sit down with my asthma inhaler. But once the ache in my chest subsides and I wash away the sweat which stinks of the sin of gluttony and slovenliness in which I have wallowed of late, I begin to feel bloody marvellous. My ever-expanding belly quivers slightly, not this time from its jelly-like predisposition for wobbling, but  at the very thought of its own demise, now firmly set in my mind as the first target of this new, running me.

I’ve been here before, of course, and it doesn’t always lead where I would like. My last attempt was thwarted by a long spell of influenza, followed by a similarly long spell of maudlin, self-pitying indifference. This time however, there is the additional spur of death and illness among family and friends which reminds me all too clearly once again of my oft-repeated oath, and which in recent weeks and months has been so heinously ignored by me, to never take health and fitness for granted. I have been spurred too, by the local season of distance events which peaked at the weekend with the annual Sydney Running Festival (including the Sydney marathon) which I callously slept through whilst friends and relatives – some with serious illnesses – made the effort to do something really worthwhile.

Of the book, I am pleased and not a little humbled to say that it has sold beyond expectations, and I have been touched by the number of people who have insisted on buying, and even reading it. It has raised a modest sum for juvenile diabetes, and once again reminds me that I need to hit those streets and not waste the generally good health I enjoy.

So, here we go. Goals? Well, firstly to shift this flab from around my waist. I need to shed several kilos, get back to running some respectable distances and then set some race goals. At the height of my running fitness I was able to comfortably run a half marathon any time you’d care to dare me to do so, and the feeling of wellness I enjoyed then is something I would very much welcome back. That’s the primary goal. If there’s a race or two along the way, so much the better, especially if it’s in the company of some of my RC friends here. Time waits for no-one, and my aching knees and hips are telling me to get moving again before they calcify for good.

Besides, I have Volume 2 of the Running Diaries to complete.





 

[glaconman]

The thought of you having a hate-hate relationship with a fruit bat amuses me no-end MLCMM.

And your attitude is a welcome reminder. The time we have to enjoy ourselves on this fascinating planet is finite and unknowable.

Good to see you back in the mix and seizing the day.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Rabbits, running and rainbows.

The weather here has taken a turn for the worse, with a huge high pressure system moving across from the west, bringing an icy, wet blast of Antarctic weather up from the south. It’s great news for skiers, with unusually large falls of snow on the ski slopes, almost unheard of this late in the season. Workplaces have emptied as ski fans fall suddenly and suspiciously ill, their tanned faces and etched-in-place silly smiles giving the game away on their return from two or three days of ‘sick leave’.

Great for skiing it may be, but for runners and commuters down here on the coastal fringes it’s just cold, wet and windy. I went to bed last night to the sound of heavy rain drumming on the roof and wondering what the chances were in the morning of me actually donning the running gear I had left out for the early run. I awoke to the sound of silence, or so I thought. In fact the rain was just less heavy than earlier, but raining it was and chilly with it. With toast and coffee beckoning in the kitchen I nearly chose to opt out of the run but I’m pleased to say I only seriously considered it for a moment before grasping the nettle, as it were, and waddling out the door and into the drizzly night.

To my surprise and relief I had discovered I could still squeeze into my Adidas sleeveless running rain jacket (hallelujah), and with that in place and a cap low over my eyes I ran off into the rain. Intending to run just a little further than last time, I wandered off fairly aimlessly, just roaming around the local streets, avoiding the worst of the hills and perhaps ducking down one or two side streets not previously explored. Rabbits were everywhere, and once again we seem to be in the midst of a bunny plague. For a few years their numbers had declined, but now the ‘burbs are a bunny paradise and everywhere I ran they would scatter, parting like a bunnykin red sea.

After the first few minutes which were of course cold and miserable, the run became enjoyable despite the rain, and I ventured a little further afield feeling pretty good with myself. The run was slow (very), and I avoided the worst of the hills, but I was out there, going through the motions of becoming a runner again and feeling pretty good about it. Only a deep-down double-sided stitch late in the run made it a bit uncomfortable, but I ran a little further than last time and returned in better nick than before, so on the whole a very satisfying outing. Except for the fact that I needed to return home and prepare for work I could have stayed out a little longer, so already there are some encouraging signs of improvement for me.

I was a little sleepy on the train into town, but as I walked through the grand concourse at Central Station I started to feel fantastic, and I knew this was going to be a good day. As I ventured outside into the streets and as if in response to my buoyant mood and return to the world of running, I was greeted with this magnificent rainbow.

Why oh why did I ever stop running? This is brilliant!


Outside Central Station, Sydney, 6:45 a.m.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Croissants, coffee and quadriceps.

This morning I was sufficiently civilised to have a long Sunday lie-in and not head off for my scheduled run until the outrageous late hour of 11 a.m. This was almost enough to put me in a state of shock but proved to be merely psychosomatic and a quick once-over indicated the body seemed up for it, so off I went.

The day was cool, but not cold, with only the very lightest of misty drizzles which was as nothing compared to the buckets of sweat my flabby self was producing, and so of no consequence. It was, you might say, pretty much ideal running weather.

Of course one of the drawbacks of running in such an urbane setting as Sunday morning in a sophisticated, old-money suburb such as ours is that one does have to run past those very dégagé cafés that make you almost cry with their roasted single origin coffee and organic smoked free-range organic bacon aromas and the easy, comfortable attitude of their non-running customers who, if they perchance happen to make eye contact with you as you run past, have nought but pity for your obvious, blatant and shameless show of insanity. I did, I have to say, feel like an intruder on their Notting Hill-style petit déjeuner du dimanche*.

The run itself was a pretty bad one. Perhaps that wasn’t totally unexpected after two brilliant runs to begin the current campaign, so I’m not exactly upset about it, even if I didn’t quite cover the distance I had intended. Pain in my left knee was a touch uncomfortable, but I didn’t mind that so much as this is normal when starting over again as I am, and pain in my right quads was merely an indicator that I haven’t been stretching and massaging the big muscles appropriately, so OK, lesson learned, thank you and I will attend to that. The vice-like grip of lethargy that overcame my legs and lungs as I attempted to push on toward my intended goal was sufficient to make me turn around on the spot and head for home home, not unhappy exactly, but at least a little melancholy. Maybe this will be harder than I thought after all.

But then, nothing worthwhile is ever easy, so I know I’m on the right track; as if there was ever any doubt. This all feels so familiar, like a home coming and that outweighs the negatives of a painful run cut short. There's a long way to go to wherever it is I'm going, but the journey will of course be worthwhile. I may want to stop running past cafés on Sunday mornings, though.


*Breakfast, for non-Notting Hill types.