So, following on from where I left off, I entered Autumn 2011 back at square one, but with plenty of time to be ready for the big day. Various things happened over the next few months that gave me a terrible kicking personally, but through it all I managed to keep up the training.
Even moving to New Haw, where joggers seem to be greeted with absolute suspicion and hostility, didn't stop me from pounding the pavements. Even Christmas, a time of year when I traditionally eat and drink until my insides pack up and stop working entirely, didn't derail me. I went for a run the day after Boxing Day! It was horrific. I thought my over-extended abdomen was going bounce in such a way as to either render me infertile or knock my silly face off. But I did it anyway. And I felt great for it.
2012 has seen me reach standards of fitness that I have undoubtedly never before attained. By the beginning of February I was doing 10-mile runs, taking in giant hills, towpaths, tarmac and the occasional roundabout (road, not playground), and I was actually ENJOYING it. Crazy, but hugely satisfying. Everything was going to plan and I was actually looking forward to the big day. My plan was going perfectly. By the end of Feb I'd be doing 15-milers, and by the end of March, just two weeks before the marathon, I'd be doing 20-milers. Perfect.
Then, disaster struck. Towards the end of February I was poleaxed by a bout of flu. I've had flu, or heavy colds, before and they generally keep me out of action for a couple of days, no hassle. You know how it goes: feel shit, lack energy, sleep badly, get better, everything's fine, thank you. But not this. This wasn't going to let me off that easily.
I know people joke about it and say "oh, bit of man flu eh?!" but this is without doubt the most ill I have ever been in my life. The first evening I had all the usual shivery then boiling hot nonsense. Then, that night, I woke up at about 3:00 in the morning, so soaking wet that, ironically, it was like I'd just been out for a long run. I was literally dripping with sweat. I had to go to the bathroom to dry myself off and wait for my bed to dry out a bit. Last time I checked, sleeping shouldn't be strenuous enough to cause that. That was definitely a bit weird and a warning of what I was in for.
Over the next week I continued to have my buttocks thoroughly kicked by this particularly vicious fever. Fuck man flu, this was dragon flu or something. There were a few days when I genuinely thought I might have contracted the Black Death. Take last Saturday for example. Just as I thought I was recovering, I suffered a giant relapse. I felt so weak that I couldn't even bring my hand out from beneath the blanket to change channels on the TV. I felt paralysed with feebleness. Before I knew it, I'd watched almost two hours of documentaries on the holocaust. What. The. Fuck. Not an ideal Saturday. Let that be a lesson to you all – if you ever start feeling ill, make sure you don't leave your digibox on the 'Yesterday' channel, or you could be in for the most depressing sick day of your life.
Even now as I write this, over two weeks later, I still feel rotten. Because of the way the virus struck in my training programme, I basically missed two full weeks of training. Not a single run. No exercise at all. For two whole weeks. Double balls. With just over a month to go, they were two weeks I could ill afford to lose.
But it gets worse. I've now started running again. I simply can't waste any more training days. But things aren't as they were before I fell ill. Where once I was pounding out 10 miles easily, I am now struggling with 4-milers. And it is absolutely devastating. As it stands, I'm not sure if that's a result of the two weeks of enforced inactivity, or the fact that I'm still not operating with a clean bill of health. This virus is still kicking about in my system.
Whatever it is, I am now in a position where I genuinely don't know if I'll be in a any shape to run the marathon. I should be doing runs between 15 and 20 miles now. Instead, I'm aching my way around 4-mile circuits. This is bad.
I guess we'll just have to see how it goes. I'll keep you posted. Touch lots of wood for me please. If I miss the marathon because of a broken leg, a ruptured achilles or a burst arse, I'll be able to handle it. If I miss out because I had a nasty bout of flu, I'm going to throw myself under a bus (not literally).
This is Andy Durrant, marathon hopeful, signing off for now. Hopefully see you at the finish line. x
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Marathon Man - Part 1
For those of you who don't already know, on Sunday 15th April, this year, I will be running the Brighton marathon. Me. Running 26.22 miles. Non-stop.
Ridiculous.
It all started waaaay back at the beginning of last year. Well, further back than that in truth, but the main thrust started last year. I've always thought I'd like to give it a go, so when someone I used to go to school with announced they were running the 2011 Brighton marathon, it piqued my interest for two reasons. Firstly, it was someone I'd known since I was a young, fresh-faced boy, so it brought the marathon mystique closer to home. Secondly, and I'm sure she won't mind me saying this, she's not necessarily the first person you'd pick out as a marathon runner. Don't get me wrong, she's always been very slim and, if I may say so, quite the hottie, but I'd say she's probably more accustomed to sipping a nice glass of wine or wearing a smashing blouse than pounding out 26 miles on the tarmac. So not only was it rather inspiring, but it also made me think, "hmmm, if she can go through with it, maybe I can too?" How silly and, let's be honest, fucking rude of me. Fast forward twelve months and I'm starting to suspect that she might actually be a secret Olympic athlete. Mucho respect. Needless to say, my training hasn't been all plain sailing...
Anyway, if her marathon efforts had piqued my interest, catching the train up to town to watch the London marathon grabbed me by the testes, tugged them violently and didn't let go until a) I had that sick feeling in my stomach, and b) I had told myself that I, Andrew John Durrant (full name used for added effect), would definitely run a marathon. The fact that I also knew people running the London marathon helped fire me up, but it was the atmosphere and support from the crowd that really made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I wanted a piece of that action. And a medal. And maybe a sweaty hug from Nell McAndrew or, as a last resort, Chris Akabusi. Alriiight.
Within a few weeks, my friend and I had signed up for the 2012 Brighton marathon, and a tentative training plan had been drawn up. Bonza.
I officially started road running in July 2011. This was quite a shock to my system. Distance running is neither something I've ever enjoyed or been particularly good at. Put me on a grassy field and I'll sprint after a round ball all day long (not even barely literally), but point me in one direction and tell me to plod along for hours at a time and I'm likely to lash out, be sick on the spot or jog 200 yards and collapse in the gutter, crying. So the first month was pretty tough. But I persevered.
Being an idiot (as I tend to be) I thought I'd be able to juggle training for a marathon with playing competitive football on Saturday afternoons. This very quickly turned out to be an error of judgement.
The first problem was that, at 31 years old, I tended to ache for a few days after a match. So, Saturday I'd be playing, Sunday and Monday I'd be aching, and Friday I wouldn't run because I had a game the next day. Not exactly a good balance, given that running a marathon would require slightly more effort on my part than amateur football.
The second problem was that a hulking, neanderthal, master of bastardry absolutely clattered me, quite intentionally, in a match towards the end of August, leaving me with an open wound in my leg that quickly became septic. Cheers. I don't hold grudges, but I hope he has a terrible and painful accident. Every. Single. Day. Of. His. Rubbish. Life. I was given injections, a course of antibiotics and rendered immobile for about a month. That's definitely not in the Good Guide to Marathon Training.
Needless to say, when I eventually started jogging again, I was back at square one. Two months of training, effectively erased. Bollocks. So, with football now thoroughly on the backburner, I entered Autumn 2011 100% committed to the ongoing marathon slog.
To be continued...
In the meantime, if you'd like to make a donation to our marathon fund, please follow the link. I'll love you forever. All donations will go to Everyman, a charity committed to the fight against male cancer.
www.justgiving.com/Dan-and-Andy-do-some-running
Ridiculous.
It all started waaaay back at the beginning of last year. Well, further back than that in truth, but the main thrust started last year. I've always thought I'd like to give it a go, so when someone I used to go to school with announced they were running the 2011 Brighton marathon, it piqued my interest for two reasons. Firstly, it was someone I'd known since I was a young, fresh-faced boy, so it brought the marathon mystique closer to home. Secondly, and I'm sure she won't mind me saying this, she's not necessarily the first person you'd pick out as a marathon runner. Don't get me wrong, she's always been very slim and, if I may say so, quite the hottie, but I'd say she's probably more accustomed to sipping a nice glass of wine or wearing a smashing blouse than pounding out 26 miles on the tarmac. So not only was it rather inspiring, but it also made me think, "hmmm, if she can go through with it, maybe I can too?" How silly and, let's be honest, fucking rude of me. Fast forward twelve months and I'm starting to suspect that she might actually be a secret Olympic athlete. Mucho respect. Needless to say, my training hasn't been all plain sailing...
Anyway, if her marathon efforts had piqued my interest, catching the train up to town to watch the London marathon grabbed me by the testes, tugged them violently and didn't let go until a) I had that sick feeling in my stomach, and b) I had told myself that I, Andrew John Durrant (full name used for added effect), would definitely run a marathon. The fact that I also knew people running the London marathon helped fire me up, but it was the atmosphere and support from the crowd that really made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I wanted a piece of that action. And a medal. And maybe a sweaty hug from Nell McAndrew or, as a last resort, Chris Akabusi. Alriiight.
Within a few weeks, my friend and I had signed up for the 2012 Brighton marathon, and a tentative training plan had been drawn up. Bonza.
I officially started road running in July 2011. This was quite a shock to my system. Distance running is neither something I've ever enjoyed or been particularly good at. Put me on a grassy field and I'll sprint after a round ball all day long (not even barely literally), but point me in one direction and tell me to plod along for hours at a time and I'm likely to lash out, be sick on the spot or jog 200 yards and collapse in the gutter, crying. So the first month was pretty tough. But I persevered.
Being an idiot (as I tend to be) I thought I'd be able to juggle training for a marathon with playing competitive football on Saturday afternoons. This very quickly turned out to be an error of judgement.
The first problem was that, at 31 years old, I tended to ache for a few days after a match. So, Saturday I'd be playing, Sunday and Monday I'd be aching, and Friday I wouldn't run because I had a game the next day. Not exactly a good balance, given that running a marathon would require slightly more effort on my part than amateur football.
The second problem was that a hulking, neanderthal, master of bastardry absolutely clattered me, quite intentionally, in a match towards the end of August, leaving me with an open wound in my leg that quickly became septic. Cheers. I don't hold grudges, but I hope he has a terrible and painful accident. Every. Single. Day. Of. His. Rubbish. Life. I was given injections, a course of antibiotics and rendered immobile for about a month. That's definitely not in the Good Guide to Marathon Training.
Needless to say, when I eventually started jogging again, I was back at square one. Two months of training, effectively erased. Bollocks. So, with football now thoroughly on the backburner, I entered Autumn 2011 100% committed to the ongoing marathon slog.
To be continued...
In the meantime, if you'd like to make a donation to our marathon fund, please follow the link. I'll love you forever. All donations will go to Everyman, a charity committed to the fight against male cancer.
www.justgiving.com/Dan-and-Andy-do-some-running
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Meh...
This image precisely sums up my general feelings at the moment. Can't shake it. Need some positive news. It can be about monkeys, flapjacks, erosion rates along the Nile delta, popular sports brand Gola, infra-red technology or even damp-proofing single-story outhouses, so long as it's positive. Of course I'd prefer if it was about a substantial sum of money I'm about to receive, a dream job opportunity I'm about to be offered or the promise of a train carriage to myself every morning and evening, but beggars simply can't be choosers...
Image source: unknown.
Image source: unknown.
Monday, 9 January 2012
Worrywart
It's about this time of year that people tend to promise to do things that they will probably never stick to, all because it's a new year. The sentiment is great, I guess, but really it's a massive bag of arse. Don't give up or start doing something because it's January, do it because you want to, no matter what time of year it is. I mean, if I was to be serious about giving something up, I should really give up worrying. But that's never going to happen...
Those of you who know me well enough will know that I tend to worry about stuff. A lot. All the time. Needlessly in most cases. Either I'm too darn considerate or, more likely, I'm just a colossal fretting idiot. People say worrying will give you wrinkles. Not true. Next time someone says that to you, take their words, roll them up into a tight little package and jam them forcibly back down their rotten mouth canal. I'm living proof. I may have the odd wrinkle here or there, but if they were in any way correlated I would have the outward appearance of a 90-year old man's frozen bollock bag. I hope that's not quite the case...
Anyway, now we all know I'm a worrier, it's time to run through the things currently making my mind's metaphorical buttocks quiver. Then you can all laugh at me like gassed-up hyenas because I'm a fully grown adult tit.
1) My trainers. Yeah. Most people don't worry about their trainers because, essentially, they're just less leathery shoes. What's to worry about? Well, mine are a bit hard at the back an give me blisters. I worry about the amount of extra time I have to spend in the morning preparing plasters to prevent the kind of injuries a famous warrior from Greek mythology would also worry about.
2) My beard and hair. I literally have no idea when I'll next get the chance to shave. In my world, quite terrifying.
3) I'm running a marathon in April. I have to run roughly 26 miles. In one day. It's now January. This thought will haunt my every waking hour until I cross the finish line. Then I'll be worried about the fact that my hips have relocated themselves to my armpits.
4) This blog. It's probably a right crock of shit.
5) Other people. Yeah, my worrying isn't just confined to me. I constantly worry about other people. Anyone close to me, if you're having a rough time, know that I constantly worry about you. You're probably just fine. I should probably be eating cheese or selling dogs on ebay or something. Instead I'm worrying. About you.
6) My music. It's probably way too loud right? Sorry about that. I can barely hear it myself and I'm pretty sure it just got drowned out by a couple of ants having a fist fight, but I bet the Bulgarians next door are fucking livid with me. Maybe I should just stop playing it altogether. Better safe than sorry...
7) Text messages. If I sent one and haven't had a reply within half a second, I instantly conclude that it's because I've done something terrible and you hate every fibre of my shitty guts. Similarly, if I forget to reply to one, I take myself to the local vets and ask to be humanely put to sleep. Fortunately they have quite strict rules (laws?) about that, even if you're dressed like a lamb.
8) Smells. I have an OCD-like approach to personal hygiene. Seriously. I'm like a freak. But if there's a funny smell I instantly worry it's me and that everyone else thinks it's me too. Even though it's definitely not. I could sit next to a grizzly bear, fresh from a kill, with blood, insides, shit and arse all over his fur. I'd be convinced I was the smelly one and that I was in some way offending him. And the last thing I need to do right now is offend a massive bear.
There's loads more, but I'm starting to worry that I might be boring you. Or giving too much away. Or annoying the Bulgarians again with my key tapping...
Those of you who know me well enough will know that I tend to worry about stuff. A lot. All the time. Needlessly in most cases. Either I'm too darn considerate or, more likely, I'm just a colossal fretting idiot. People say worrying will give you wrinkles. Not true. Next time someone says that to you, take their words, roll them up into a tight little package and jam them forcibly back down their rotten mouth canal. I'm living proof. I may have the odd wrinkle here or there, but if they were in any way correlated I would have the outward appearance of a 90-year old man's frozen bollock bag. I hope that's not quite the case...
Anyway, now we all know I'm a worrier, it's time to run through the things currently making my mind's metaphorical buttocks quiver. Then you can all laugh at me like gassed-up hyenas because I'm a fully grown adult tit.
1) My trainers. Yeah. Most people don't worry about their trainers because, essentially, they're just less leathery shoes. What's to worry about? Well, mine are a bit hard at the back an give me blisters. I worry about the amount of extra time I have to spend in the morning preparing plasters to prevent the kind of injuries a famous warrior from Greek mythology would also worry about.
2) My beard and hair. I literally have no idea when I'll next get the chance to shave. In my world, quite terrifying.
3) I'm running a marathon in April. I have to run roughly 26 miles. In one day. It's now January. This thought will haunt my every waking hour until I cross the finish line. Then I'll be worried about the fact that my hips have relocated themselves to my armpits.
4) This blog. It's probably a right crock of shit.
5) Other people. Yeah, my worrying isn't just confined to me. I constantly worry about other people. Anyone close to me, if you're having a rough time, know that I constantly worry about you. You're probably just fine. I should probably be eating cheese or selling dogs on ebay or something. Instead I'm worrying. About you.
6) My music. It's probably way too loud right? Sorry about that. I can barely hear it myself and I'm pretty sure it just got drowned out by a couple of ants having a fist fight, but I bet the Bulgarians next door are fucking livid with me. Maybe I should just stop playing it altogether. Better safe than sorry...
7) Text messages. If I sent one and haven't had a reply within half a second, I instantly conclude that it's because I've done something terrible and you hate every fibre of my shitty guts. Similarly, if I forget to reply to one, I take myself to the local vets and ask to be humanely put to sleep. Fortunately they have quite strict rules (laws?) about that, even if you're dressed like a lamb.
8) Smells. I have an OCD-like approach to personal hygiene. Seriously. I'm like a freak. But if there's a funny smell I instantly worry it's me and that everyone else thinks it's me too. Even though it's definitely not. I could sit next to a grizzly bear, fresh from a kill, with blood, insides, shit and arse all over his fur. I'd be convinced I was the smelly one and that I was in some way offending him. And the last thing I need to do right now is offend a massive bear.
There's loads more, but I'm starting to worry that I might be boring you. Or giving too much away. Or annoying the Bulgarians again with my key tapping...
Sunday, 16 October 2011
I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry...
I know I should just ignore it and not give it any airtime in my own life, but I hate X-Factor so much I just can't help it. Living in a one-bed flat with someone who is addicted to it makes it very difficult to avoid. So, at roughly this time every Sunday until Christmas I'm going to be a rattling flesh sack of putrid rage. I live in rented accommodation, so smashing shit up isn't going to help. As I result, my only release is to write a list of all the things I would enjoy more than an episode of Simon Cowell's bastard brain filth.
1) Instead of having the X-Factor on my screen, I would prefer it if Peter Sutcliffe came to my house, sat on my sofa, continuously filled his pants with an enormous, runny, brown puddle, then proceeded to sling it at my TV like a misbehaving chimpanzee with spoons for hands for three full hours.
2) Instead of watching the X-Factor, I would rather visit a dreadful karaoke bar in a run-down part of town and, after every act has performed, have them vomit powerfully on my chest until the sound of retching gets so loud that my ears fall right off the sides of my stupid head.
3) Instead of being subjected to the annual swinging X-Factor bollock bag, I'd rather have my fingernails punched silly until they turn an awful shade of blue and are so sore that I never, ever stop crying. Ever.
4) I'd rather French kiss a very, very angry polar bear, immediately after bathing in a paddling pool full of freshly clubbed baby seal faces. Yeah, that faces, not faeces.
******woah, woah... I interrupt this broadcast to reveal that I just heard Haddaway's chart-busting pop/dance classic 'What Is Love?' bursting out of my TV. Always a treat. On closer inspection, I discovered it was being used in a Next advert. I definitely did not expect to see that. Lovely to hear it, nonetheless...*******
5) I'd much prefer to order a pizza, eat the entire thing then find out that, in actual fact, I'd accidentally eaten a vast swarm of hornets with military training and loads of special guns.
6) I'd rather watch a clinically obese old man with dangerous skin issues thoroughly talc himself up after a hot bath. And maybe lend a hand.
7) I would rather attempt a backflip in front of a throbbing crowd, only to painfully land directly on my face. On gravel.
8) It would make me much happier if I stubbed my toe with shattering force every single time I took a step, until my feet resembled little more than a spilled pot of jellied eels.
9) I would rather walk to the shop with a hangover on a very hot day, only to be told upon my return that I have to go back because I forgot the flapjacks.
10) I'd prefer an ancient and fiery hot asteroid, roughly the size of a shoe, to fly through lightyears of endless space, punch through Earth's atmosphere, plummet through the sky, crash through my fragile ceiling and impact with the force of twenty charging bison directly into my exposed genital area.
Basically, I don't like it an awful lot. This list is by no means exhaustive. But it is factually correct.
Friday, 9 September 2011
If I were Prime Minister...
1) Anyone spotted using a hands-free kit when they're not in a car will have their hands removed instantly. Especially if they're holding the phone to their ruddy mouths anyway. Off with their hands. Now who's hands-free, bucko?
2) Women's magazines are hereby banned from making things up, then ridiculously 'proving' they're true by writing "sources close to Brad and Ange confirmed this." Grazia is perhaps the main culprit of this shit-smearing brand of journalism. Well guess what? I just spoke to sources close to Grazia and, apparently, everyone in the office smells of bums and wee.
3) Driving more than 2mph below the speed limit will be as punishable as driving 2mph over the limit. Anyone caught doing 40mph in a 60mph zone will have their license and car taken away, only to be replaced by a push bike and a snazzy set of lights.
4) Rom-coms will be banned. This might seem harsh, but it's for the greater good. Ask yourself this: have you ever watched a rom-com then, as the credits roll, thought "ha ha, well, that sure was amusing as well as being a realistic portrayal of how relationships usually work out. Good on them!" If your answer is 'yes', then you're banned too. Jennifer Aniston will just have to carve out a new niche.
5) Stupidity in public is a criminal offence. Sure, be an idiot in your own home, but don't inflict your barren mind-bastardry on the rest of us.
6) Anyone sporting a beard with no moustache will only be allowed outside during Halloween.
7) I shouldn't be allowed near a keyboard when I'm this tired.
8) This is little more than a collection of words slipping out of my baggy mind onto a page now.
9) I'm going to stop. This has all been rather silly.
10) If anyone really wants a hug they should just be able to ask a stranger without it seeming weird. But you're not allowed to be insulted if they say no. Yeah. I see no way in which that wouldn't improve the world.
11) Can I have a dishwasher?
12) I think I can see a fox outside. Hmm.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
It's a sign...
It really is a sign. I saw it the other day and it blew me away. So specific. At least I know what to do next time someone's genitals catch fire. Perhaps this is where the Kings of Leon got the idea for that song? You know the one... Use Somebody's Sexy Fire? Something like that.
As for the bit about discarding after use, I can't be sure at the moment if that is referring to the blanket or your friend's fire-ravaged weenus/tuppence. I guess you should make a judgement call at the time. Seems a shame to throw a blanket away, but what are you going to do with barbecued babymakers?
It sure is a jungle out there.
As for the bit about discarding after use, I can't be sure at the moment if that is referring to the blanket or your friend's fire-ravaged weenus/tuppence. I guess you should make a judgement call at the time. Seems a shame to throw a blanket away, but what are you going to do with barbecued babymakers?
It sure is a jungle out there.
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