Occasionally, just occasionally, everything falls into place for the long distance runner.
You feel like you are floating rather than running, carried by the warm breath of a choir of angels. The ground itself is as soft to the touch as the finest Axminster, and every step provides you with renewed energy.
Mind, heart and body work in perfect harmony as you effortless consume mile after mile, free of fatigue or weariness.
Unfortunately I have never had that experience.
In only a few more days this madness will be over. Quite why I decided to enter the Marathon has been completely lost in the mists of early morning jogs, but the torment is nearly done. Just the 26.2 miles to go.
I’m in the taper down period at the moment. This means that with one week left until the Marathon, activity is scaled down by 75%. For me this has basically meant lying back in the sofa doing some heavy lifting with the TV remote control.
Sunday can’t come quickly enough now, even though I am going to spend a large proportion of it pounding the streets of London. It will be very strange to be surrounded (or rather) following 50,000 fellow joggers, having spent the past three months running alone in the deserted Oxfordshire countryside.
The nearest I have come to a crowd was a couple of weeks ago when I stayed in London. I surprised myself by going for a 6.00 a.m. jog in Hyde Park. I had assumed I would pretty much have the place to myself but in the event was trying to keep my head above a sea of Lycra being worn by at least three genders of jogger.
The were runners of all ages, shapes and sizes, in bright reds, purples, greens, blues and yellows. The only thing they had in common was that they all were moving really fast.
I have immense respect for everyone who has ever completed the Marathon, and for those who will complete it on Sunday. Everyone understands the Marathon is difficult, but until you attempt to run it yourself you don’t realise just how bloody difficult, difficult can be
I would like to say a big thank you to all the very generous people, many anonymous, who have donated over the past three months, and a huge thank you to my unofficial but scarily efficient fundraising team, Claire and Nic.
Another big thank you to all of you who donate after reading this post.
This week someone asked why my blog was called One Fat Man 08. I explained that it was rooted in bingo callers’ rhyming slang for 88 being two fat ladies. As there is only one of me I am obviously One Fat Man 08.
‘But you’re not fat,’ she said. And there is the not unpleasing dilemma. Through a diet of pavement pounding and broccoli, I have managed to shed just 3lbs short of 2 stone since January 2nd and while I’m still in no position to show off a six-pack, I’m a lot more human shaped than I used to be.
I have two choices: I either go back to the bingo callers’ lexicography and find a more suitable sobriquet: One Man 31, for example, meaning Get Up and Run, or perhaps more aptly One Man 43 meaning Down on Your Knees or even One Man 75 meaning Strive and Strive.
Or there is always the second choice which is to is to eat lots of pies and drink lots of beer so I fit my name again.
I think I know which I prefer.
During my run yesterday, I took a new route, and as I made my way ponderously down a long straight piece of road I passed a sign which asked: ‘Are you speeding?’
It would have been more appropriate had it asked: ‘Are you moving?’.
If you had told me a month ago that by February 1st I would be running several miles a day before 8.30 a.m I would have choked on my breakfast Mars Bar.
My marathon preparations began on January 2nd when I weighed in at 15st 3lbs and the only walk that didn’t involve a rest was the one to the pub. Today I weigh in at 14st 3lbs exactly. I have not only lost a stone but found an unexpected ability to challenge sloths to running races.
Back on the 15th January I wrote a post about my frustration at slowing to a walk when encountering a steep hill. This morning I not only ran happily all the way up, but continued for a further five miles.
The human body is amazingly resilient. I have thrown pies and alcohol at mine for years and its only protest has been to indignantly increase in size. Now suddenly after 46 years of weary acquiescence to excess, my body is being asked to run, swim and more agonisingly go without beer, pastry or chocolate. And to add insult to injury it is being asked to cope with a large and entirely alien intake of vegetables and fruit.
However, I am under no illusion. I have a lot more work to do if I am going to get anywhere near to completing the 26 mile marathon course in April, which suddenly seems so close. But at least I can now see the light rather than the cellulite.
My shedding pounds is all in add of raising pounds for the RNIB so please dig deep. You can support me by clicking on the text underneath the Sponsor Me tab to the right of this page.
