Blasphemy

Any restaurant that puts leaflets on its tables telling customers “How to enjoy” its food has a problem, or at the very least a lack of confidence.

We do enjoy being told what to do of course - filling one’s belly on the tit of authority does sooth the 'soul'. However, stuffing your gut at an all you can eat Taybarn’s buffet is a bleak, soulless affair despite any command to enjoy it.

Now I don’t mean to be a snob, which of course I am, but I did spend Saturday lunch time boggling at obese families shovelling their week’s calorific quota onto a single plate of bloated slop and marvelling at anorexic waifs making confused points of nibbling exclusively on salad leaves at an all you can eat restaurant.

There were ordinary families of course. And if I could be so bold as to count ourselves amongst them, then we might assume that they’d rather not have been noticed.

Not somewhere we’ll be rushing back to.

Anyway, I felt I should run early yesterday morning to take advantage of the empty Easter Sunday roads and burn off the Taybarn calories before girding myself for the considerably more palatable onslaught that is the mother-in-law’s Sunday lunch.

The route took me through the back of the church yard, past the arched main entrance where ordinarily I would scarper at full tilt down the steep path to the main gate.

I didn’t expect to literally run into the vicar who was stood welcoming his congregation to the early Easter service.

He was a pleasant, somewhat eager twenty something – bright eyed and bouncy enough for him to skip aside in his flowing white robe to let me past without a serious collision.

“Shit, Christ! Sorry!” I blurted out.

He didn’t even flinch at my blasphemy and gave me a big, holy smile and said “No problem mate, enjoy your run!”

He had Nike trainers on under his robe.

Nice bloke.

Discovered today that running through snow is rather hard going.

Beach Run

Was a bit nippy.

Why I've been absent

I don't remember birthdays being such events as they are for children these days. Meg was six on Thursday you see, which does scare me a little.

Her festivities began on Tuesday, when friends came home for tea. Since then there have been various gatherings, large and small, culminating in a Ten Pin Bowling party this AM.

Now, much as I love my children, I'm afraid I'm kiddy partied out. Also, I'm a man - so I have to work against my genetic programming to eke out a small jot of enjoyment from the screaming of children other than my own.

So I bid my goodbyes to Miche & the kids this morning and buggered off for a project run - up the north bank of the Tyne from Newcastle, past Wallsend, through the pedestrian tunnel and return via the south bank.

Some 16 miles or so. I'll admit to biting off more than I can chew, as I had to walk a good bit of the last three miles, but the peace was wonderful.

Of course, we had a houseful on my return home, though some of my boy mates were there, so drinking could be done. Mind, after a run like that, boozing isn't really a good idea. I am, to be honest, quite profoundly drunk writing this post. But I do have my feet up on the couch and the house is quiet once more.

Some photos of my run;

Manbra

Three weeks of snot, coupled with an excessive festive season has been good for my breast size. I have man teets! Small, puffy ones I'll grant you, but these puppies need to be exercised away.

So I went for my first decent run of the year over 3 miles, early this morning in the mud of the countryside.

Some photos from each mile that will have little significance for you;

Mile 1


Mile 2


Mile 3


Mile 4


Mile 5


Mile 6

Mile 7



Mile 8


Mile 9

Great North run

That's it, my arse is not moving off this couch for the rest of the night. I've my feet up on the foot stool, a belly full of roast beef, and an open can of Stella Artois to soothe me. The feet aren't so bad either after the half marathon. No blisters or chaffs, just a dull throbbing that goes up to my knee caps.

I would have smashed my target time of 1:45 - 1:50 if it wasn't for my wobbly 9th mile. For some unfathomable reason my legs just stopped working. I could have no more ran than licked my elbow. So I walked for about half a mile until the blood seeped back into my quads.

I never regained my previous pace, though managed to run the rest of the way at about 9:30 minute miles, which brought me in just under 1:55. Not bad.

Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I have some slobbing to do.

A lack of self awareness

When I showed Miche the video diary I planned to post of this morning's ten mile run in training for the half marathon she winced. Visibly.

"What?" I asked.

"Well, don't you think it makes you look a little, umm, narcissistic?"

"Narcissistic?" I said in full girly-strop, "Come on, you know I'm not!"

"I know that," she said with not enough sincerity, "but anyone watching it will think your a right twat."

"Seriously? Is it that bad?"

"Scott, you winked at the bloody camera. And you never shut up. What possessed you to think that this was in any way interesting?"

"Well it interests me pet" I retorted, whilst secretly doubting my blogger instincts.

After Miche went out for the day with her friends I showed it to the kids. Nonplussed is perhaps the best word...

So, I've spent the day inwardly debating whether or not to post. To be a twat or not to be? That was my question. In the end I've thought bollocks to it.

I'd made the video on my cell phone to see if it was good enough to make a video blog of the GNR proper. As it is, the quality's crap so I won't be doing so. I'm now left with an unused video.

What's the worst that can happen? At least my small but esteemed readership will get to see what this big nosed, narcissistic, geeky twat looks like. And if Murph can post this picture, then I'm duty bound I suppose. ;-)

Be nice...

Oh Christ

Only 25 days now until the Great North Run half marathon. I'm going to have to pull my socks up if I'm going to reach my target of 1:45 - 1:50. Right now I feel about ten years off it. Ten years in the past to be frank. When I was 25 it would have been a piece of cake. Now I'm not so sure.

The last time I ran it - in 2005, I creaked in at 2:20. The week previously I'd pulled my medial collateral ligament in my left knee. Like the stubborn toss pot I am though, I was buggered if I'd waste all the training I'd done.

So I dosed myself up on 1G Paracetamol and 800MG Ibuprofen and set off. I felt nothing until the last four miles when my knee cap nearly exploded out of my leg. I limped past the finish post half an hour after the target time.

Stoopid I know, because I was off my feet for three days and endured three months of physio just to get up to a half mile jog. A sage lesson - never run when injured.

Note to self

Be aware of your colon's routine. There will be commuters who could have sworn they saw Charlie Chaplain on amphetamines running down the main road this morning.

Metablogging

Sans God will be quiet for a while. I'm a creature of habit you see. Up until now each night I'd given myself the hour in which the masses are medicated with soap operas to vent my spleen.

However, we've now entered the six weeks in which our children are set free from the machinery of education. As such they're up later, and invariably bouncing and screeching around the place. Hardly conducive to writing.

I'll be bouncing and screeching around the place too no doubt. So my posts will slow to a trickle. Perhaps your loss is my gain, or should that be the other way round?

Anyway, here's a photo from each mile of my run early this morning;

Mile 1















Mile 2



















Mile 3



















Mile 4















Mile 5



















Mile 6















See you around ;-)

Flabby

You'd think that when you give your body a rest from exercise, it would store up all your energy. That way, when you start exercising again, you'd go off like a rocket.

Not so. It's been a fortnight since my last run and subsequent dose of clown feet. My antibiotics are now finished, and feet healed. So I've been for a gentle 4 miler just now. Damn it was hard.

Here's the pics;

Mile 1



















Mile 2















Mile 3



















Mile 4

Lazy post

The last time I bored you with pictures at each mile of a run was the 23rd March. I figure I can get away with another one of these dullest of posts.

It's far from dull for me of course. Running is the only chance for solace I get these days. That, and the fact that it gets me high.

Mile 1















Mile 2



















Mile 3

















Mile 4



















Mile 5















Mile 6















Mile 7

Paralysed

Dougie lives next door to me. I know very little about him as he works away a lot with the RAF. Last night was warm enough for Miche & I to be sat outside after the kids were to bed. Dougie was in his garden too, so I thought I'd say hi over the fence.

We got to chatting. He seemed like a really nice guy. He said,

"Scott, I've seen you run past my house sometimes, are you a keen runner?"

"Yeah", I said, "I get out pretty regular, it's something I enjoy." I was feeling pretty smug about it, to be honest.

"Yeah me too", said Dougie, "Though I don't get to run as much as I'd like"

"Well, I'm going for a scarper tomorrow morning, if you fancy joining me?" I offered.

He seemed up for it. We agreed to try an 8 miler, of course, we were sizing each other up and like any bloke, neither of us would be trumped. I'm surprised we didn't end up planning a half marathon.

So this morning at 8:30 we set off. And at a fair clip too. Certainly faster than I would ordinarily. I kept my mouth shut about that, of course.

After four miles I began to sweat, and my legs began to protest. But we carried on.

He & his wife have recently divorced, sadly. This morning however, it was a blessing. Dougie obviously wanted to spill the beans and recount the whole story. He chatted, barely out of breath the whole time. All I had to do was concentrate on not passing out and offering the odd, "Yeah?" or "Hmn..".

Somewhere in mile seven, I asked,

"So, what do you do in the RAF then?"

"I'm a Physical Training Instructor." He told me, without even a bead of sweat on his forehead.

No fucking wonder then. I felt like a reet tosspot.

I'm sat at my desk now, barely able to move, as me legs have all but seized up solid. I've just checked my Garmin for the run stats; 8.3 Miles, average pace 7:36 minute/mile.

Never again. Never again am I going to let my male pride get in the way.

I'm going out for a few beers with him next Saturday. I've already told him I'm a wimp when it comes to drinking...

Spring, still

This weekend the clocks go forward. Another hour stolen from my life. When this fiddling about with time is finally put to one side, I hope it's done through the winter.

I want my hour back.

The light evenings are nice though. We get more opportunities to be outside once I'm home from work. This'll help me and my dog work off some of the fat we've laid down over winter.

Here's some seasonally themed pics from my run this morning.

No time for blogging

Busy day today, off to Wallington Hall with the kids. Plan: let off their steam. Home, DIY (not one of my favoured pursuits), then beers with the boys. Wehey!

So, all I've got for you today is pics of my 7 mile run earlier this morning. Similarly to love, the runners high can be reduced to biochemicals. It being my only opportunity for solace, I couldn't care less. It makes me feel good, and is a little more wholesome than the excessive amount of alcohol I have every intention of imbibing tonight.

Mile 1
















Mile 2




















Mile 3




















Mile 4

















Mile 5















Mile 6















Mile 7