My witness is the empty sky

As chic as Switzerland can be, the lack of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord is a critical design fault. I was reminded of this during my six-day London fun package which, apart from the funeral, the Guardian weekend writing workshop thing, some hospital visits and a two-day work conference, included a few nights in the pub to renew acquaintance with friends human and friends liquid.

I even had a good excuse for my trips to the local Hatch End hostelry. They had Wi-Fi, while my permanently offline elderly father has never felt the broadband urge. It was where the previous, rather forlorn, entry was created — so blame the beer.

The funeral was the usual mixture of gloom and euphoria. But it’s gone, and there’s nothing more to say about it now, or anything else from that weekend. Tim Taylor’s or not, it’s a relief to be back in Die Schweiz.

Autumn is here, which isn’t Switzerland’s most flattering season. It starts and ends beautifully, first clinging to summer, then trying to repel winter. But the bit in the middle can be dreary. Around Lake Zurich, it means weeks of thick clammy fog, hovering above us like a threatening blanket in the hands of a giant abductor. Looking down through my sitting room window now, the Meilen ferry is as visible as ever. On the other side of the lake, I see a stretch of that delicate sprawl of towns that starts in Zurich and reaches all the way up to Rapperswil, 25 miles away at the far end. But all this exists in a narrow horizontal band. The top half of the picture is dense grey mist, and will be for a while yet.

I have a strong urge to enter the Paris Marathon. Note this isn’t quite the same as expressing a strong urge to run it, or train for it. Fortunately there’s still a week to go before registration opens, so I have an enforced cooling off period.

It’s more than three years since I struggled round Boston, and another three separated Boston from Zurich in 2006. The benefit of this recent patchy history is marathon amnesia, a necessary condition for taking on the 26.2 mile serpent.

Can I do it? [Shrugs] Hard to say. The appetite for the challenge is strong enough. And I have the orthotics, the core-strength regime, and the decision to take an extended break from alcohol, sugar and processed food. All of those things are within my control. The question mark hangs over the troublesome calves. I can reduce the risk of them exploding again, but I can’t eliminate that risk entirely.

Right now I’m in poor condition, though much better than I was three weeks ago. I had quite an active, healthy summer from the end of June. No running to speak of, but plenty of gym cardio, stretching and sensible eating.

But September was a write-off. It would be easy to make excuses, but the only semi-reasonable one is the death of my sister. And even that one might be reprehensible exploitation. In any case, the dip started three weeks earlier when I couldn’t resist a couple of work parties and other social invitations. This wasn’t just a slippery slope but a full-on black run. It’s astonishing how quickly all gains can be lost, and the tendency seems to accelerate with age.

On the plane back to Switzerland I started planning my Point-to-Pinnacle campaign for 2013 with the help of a spreadsheet and plenty of self-delusion. The spreadsheet told me there were precisely 60 weeks until that abominable race up the mountain.

I put a deal on the table that I never thought I would accept, but incredibly, I fell for it. (Yess!!) The agreement I’ve negotiated with myself includes a total embargo on alcohol until the race date in November 2013. A remarkable concession. I now have to wait nervously to see if I’m a man of my word. I have my doubts, but shucks, I’m too trusting sometimes. I’ll give myself just one final chance.

Despite the September blip, this is a continuation of the resolve expressed a few months ago. I’m convinced that real change is afoot. It reminds me of the time I finally stopped smoking after 25 years of addiction. I’d tried, and failed, to stop several times. Then one day I knew this was it. I was in my late thirties, and knew I had got too old and wise to be behaving like this. An intelligent person should not hit 40 as a smoker. And that was that. No more cigarettes.

(Aside: Er, well, apart from that most remarkable of days in Almeria in, I think, 2006, when the great SP, Sweder and I spent 12 hours boozing in Molly’s. An hour or two into the session, someone suggested we buy some Old Holborn rolling tobacco. All agreed that this was a fine plan, and so we spent the next 10 hours or so manfully puffing on roll-ups and becoming unspeakably drunk. Antonio arrived about 6 hours later, horrified by the debauched scene that greeted him. I sometimes wonder if he has flashbacks. I’m glad I don’t. I wouldn’t want to know.)

Here I am in my mid-50s, and bang in the middle of heart-attack territory — at least with the lifestyle I’m trying to leave behind. It’s my call.

I gave some thought to the September slip, and knew that not having well-defined goals was making temptation easier. Hence the thought of a spring marathon. Paris ticks most of the boxes.

Obesity and a chronic lack of fitness has its advantages when trying to make a comeback. Yes, you read that right. It means I have a number of options for improvement. Even through my regular race period (2002 to 2009) I was overweight and out of condition. A 60 minute 10K was always a struggle, as was a five hour marathon. Now suppose I had always been lean and fairly fit, and had decided to go back to running aged 55. There wouldn’t be many options beyond getting training miles into the legs again, and I would have to accept that my record was very unlikely to improve, however hard I worked.

But if you’ve always been a panting porker like me, even at the, er, peak of your running career, then you have some huge, bloated targets to blast away at. Even at my fittest, I was never below 200 pounds (90 kg). Despite being a few years older, I have to believe that if I could get down to my apparently healthy weight — about 20 pounds or 9 kg below that previous best mark — I would have every chance of matching or even beating my previous performances.

And that’s what I’ll do — get rid of the useless ballast once and for all. My only chance is to eliminate booze completely, and all the unhealthy snacking and inactivity that inevitably accompanies it. Naturally, carrying less weight will also reduce impact on my joints and calves.

Here’s where I am:

I was already 2 days into the first of the 60 weeks when the initial plan was hatched, so I would regard Week 1/60 as preparation. The very first day of that week was my sister’s funeral, followed by an early evening filled with pleasant conference Rioja and delicious but atrociously calorific hot spicy snacks. Arriving back at the hotel, already forming a plan to strike out booze, I felt moved to sit in the bar and order one solitary final pint of Stella. I was unable to finish it. A good symbolic note on which to begin an extended break from alcohol.

The rest of Week 1 was healthy enough. No alcohol, but no exercise either — beyond chopping vegetables. I concentrated on the edible end of the campaign, keeping processed food to a minimum. My only slip came on the Sunday night when, digging around for petrified vegetation in the freezer, I spotted a small rhubarb tart and half a large tub of caramel ice cream. I knew these items would continue to haunt me. The only way of permanently eliminating the temptation was to eat them. So I ate them, though at least I tried hard not to enjoy the experience — instead focusing on the heroic side of the task. Sadly, this final act of gluttony was indescribably pleasurable. What a way to go.

Interesting to note the effect of the spontaneous dessert on my figure(s). I’d begun the first week, and the campaign, with the nice round figure of 222.2 pounds. This had drifted down to 219 by the following Sunday morning. But that late-night sugary splurge drove it back up a couple of notches, and it took me until Thursday to get below 219 again.

Week 2/60 continued the good work (sans ice cream). Much time was spent researching approaches to diet and nutrition. In the process, I picked up a book I’d bought a couple of years ago — Patrick Holford’s  9 Day Liver Detox. I had been through it once before, and remembered its benefits. Decision made. The nine days would ‘officially’ start as recommended, on a Saturday, but I spent the intervening days following the recipes and principles, so in effect it’s been more of a 12 or 13 day detox.

One of things I like about Holford’s suggested regime is that it’s not too ascetic. It’s not about fasting. It’s not all water and fennel tea and handfuls of raw watercress and sweaty sleepless nights, shivering, naked, on a plastic mattress. The food is plentiful, though there are rules to be observed. These include no wheat or milk products, and no caffeine or alcohol. It majors on the well-known ‘superfoods’, lots of seeds and nuts, and green vegetables. Another thing I like about the 9-day regime is that it’s a 9-day regime. Long enough to make a difference, but not so long that you lose interest. I recommend it.

Week 2 also saw me starting to consider my exercise options. The ultimate nominal aim of this whole campaign is to get up that mountain in Hobart next year, so I have to learn to run again. And that’s how I’m seeing it, rather than a continuation of something I did before. Two marathons in six years, with the last one 3.5 years ago, does not allow me to call myself a runner. I’ve not run a proper race — one I’ve actually finished uncrippled — for three whole years (Brighton 10K, November 2009). Much has changed since then. The persistent calf injury needs to be factored into everything, so I need to find a different way back..

What is that different way? No quick and easy answer to that, but stretching and working on muscle strength, particularly the core, glutes and legs, must continue to be key ingredients. I say “continue” because I have done a fair amount of this tedious work over the last few months, but I need to make it much more routine. I’m also looking at yoga and/or pilates, or something similar, as well as the more pedestrian gym and dumb bell workouts.

No exercise plan has been established yet, but I’m working on it. There isn’t any great hurry. My priority is weight loss, with some gentle activity running alongside. Through Week 2 I was stretching and doing a bit of indoor exercise, but on the Saturday I finally did something physical outdoors. I engaged in an activity I will doggedly call running. That’s how it’s labelled in my spreadsheet at least. 3.05 miles, which took me, er, 43 minutes, or a mile pace of… 14 minutes. [Blush.] Yep, that’s where I am. The first half was comfortable enough, but coming back up the hill proved too much, and I ended up in a sweaty stroll. But it’s a start. (Appropriate track du jour — Melvin Bragg’s ever-superb In Our Time podcast. This episode? The Black Death.)

I finished Week 2 on 217 pounds, 5.2 less than when I started.

Today’s the final day of my 9 day detox, and the end of Week 3/60. Verdict? Feeling very much more fit and alive than I did three weeks ago. Exercise this week has included another two 5 km runs and three gym visits, plus another go at the 200 sit-ups and 200 squats programs. All six days of the first week successfully completed. Only another five weeks to go.

This morning’s weigh-in had me at 213.4 pounds, or 8.8 shed in 3 weeks. I’m happy enough with that. Another stone to melt off to get below the magical 200 mark. It’s what happens beyond that that really matters. The start of a weight loss campaign is always easy as there’s so much blubber to aim at. Things will start to settle down from now on, though the intention is to continue to burn off a steady two pounds, or one kilo, per week. If I manage that, I would reach my 180-pound target by the final weekend of January. Which is Almeria Half Marathon weekend. But of course, I won’t be going this time…

And Paris? The official status is “Wait and see”, but this hasn’t stopped me entering the suggested long runs from Hal Higdon’s marathon training plan in my spreadsheet — just in case, like. Running my eye down the list, I see he recommends running the first half marathon distance… when? Ah, here we are: hmm, the final weekend of January. Which, er, again is Almeria Half Marathon weekend. But as I said, I won’t be going this time…

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*Note: “My witness is the empty sky” is a great line from Kerouac I was reminded of this evening. Has a kind of running flavour that I like.