RunningCommentary

Last weekend I was 232 pounds, or, for those who prefer to measure humiliation in metric, 104.5 kilos . That is one egregious lard mountain. Checking my running stats later, I found that this was heavier than any time in the last 5 years. The fattest I’ve been since records began, you could say. Wow. I was so shocked, I nearly got out of my armchair. Mercifully, I managed to settle back before I found myself doing something irrational, like cancelling my visit to the pub. History shows that a day or two later I did indeed shift my prodigious arse and go a’plodding, but so far it’s had little impact on my impressive bulk. My weighing scales seem to … …

At 6:30 this morning, I opened my eyes and thought: “Thy will be done”. My first pre-breakfast UK run since the early spring. I don’t suppose I ever really enjoyed an early morning run but I tell myself that I did. There is pleasure, but it’s deferred. It’s the getting back home, like a carthorse after a day’s work, breath steaming through your nostrils. The sudden roasting from the central heating as you come in from the cold. All that clinging, dripping and gulping in the kitchen. The pleasure is not in the running, but in the release from the pain of running. I wasn’t looking forward to this one. As I set off, I wondered how many of these … …

It’s not been a good month in the plodosphere. Things had been going pretty well, it will be recalled. I’d finally disembarked from my blotchy, shirtless summer and the Svengoranertia of another World Cup failure. All on my own, I’d somehow got down from my shingley sick bed. How heroic, and how very pleased with myself I looked when I glanced down to see my reflection in that highly polished — and slippery — floor. Others probably saw it coming, but I didn’t. What a sense of liberation when those crutches were cast off. I seem to remember raising my arms aloft, and grinning… before falling flat on my face. And here I still lie, peering upwards through the mist … …

Bad run today. Chugged along the canal for 3 kilometres before having to stop for a walk, and never really got going again.   I amused myself by listening to a collection of podcasts from Hal Higdon and the US Runner’s World magazine, the latter mainly on the subject of the New York Marathon.   I’ve had it in mind that I have so few marathons in me that I should aim to do them in different countries, so I’ve not seriously thought about doing another in the US. I’m not even sure if Brits are allowed to travel there anymore. But if we are, perhaps I should think about the NY Marathon sometime. It sounds like quite an … …

There’s nothing the British like so much as a joke they really know, so it’s been impossible to mention to anyone in recent weeks that I’m going to, or have just come back from, Iceland, without some mention of Tesco or Sainsbury’s. As they throw their head back and guffaw loudly, I quietly thank the god of destiny that I wasn’t born with a jokey name. Someone did once point out that my name is an anagram of LARDY NEW MAN, but I’ve resolved never to mention this to anyone. I once worked with a chap who carried the burden of his name. One wonders what the parents of little Albert Hall were thinking of as they made their … …

Donald Trump’s comedy barnet, part sculpture, part hibernating mammal, is rightly considered suitable for late-night viewing only, so the TV series constructed in its honour, The Apprentice, means little sleep for the tiny community of people entertained both by weighty business issues and the irresistible bitchiness of (superbly-misnamed) "reality TV". Another well-past-midnight climb up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire meant I’d got home from work feeling too tired to go out for a run this evening. But after dumping my work clothes and staring out of the window at the fading daylight, at the warm breeze rattling the trees at the end of the garden, I’d no choice. These are perfect evenings for getting out of the house and … …

Another leaden 3½ mile run-walk this evening, but I may have glimpsed the first rays of hope on the dark horizon. During the last mile or two, just as I was resigning myself to the usual extended, and enforced, warm-down walk, I found one or two of those… bouncy moments when I could almost kid myself I was running freely, and with self-confidence. The big difference is the re-emergence of genuine optimism. I may have to tolerate another… 3 or 6 or even 20 crap runs before a truly good one appears. But it will happen. I now know it. Last week, I couldn’t admit to the probability of experiencing a proper run ever again. It was a trick once … …

If the Chinese can do it, so can I. September 5th – the Running Commentary New Year. The point where we throw off the excesses of summer and tuck into healthier fare. I’ve said something similar a hundred times. Most recent entries here record the explosion of good intentions. We know what happens next. Yes indeed, many good intentions have exploded in this space. Things have changed. Things are different now. Perhaps it was last week’s first yawn of autumn. Or the distant growl of winter. Perhaps I’m wary of making a public fool of myself by calling too many new dawns. Perhaps it was the recent correspondence on the forum about the need to nurture and pamper the runner … …

The long march might just have started — yet again. No running to report, but at least this week I’ve tasted the unfamiliar raw, crunchy texture of a health drive for the first time in several months. I wrote the above 10 days ago, but a football match or two and some compulsory socialising undid the good work in no time. Today’s the start of a new week, illuminated by another flash of fresh resolve, and after this evening I really do have some running to report. Or at least, a faltering, leaden plod. But enough to revive the sensation of pleasantly aching calf muscles. Not something I’ve known in a while. It was nothing more newsworthy than my standard … …