‘I just felt like running’

Forrest Gump

In January 2018 I signed up to RED, Run Every Day. It’s exactly what it says on the tin. Run. Every. Day. The last two years I’ve enjoyed it in a slightly masochistic way. Equal parts pain and pleasure. More than anything, it’s just a good excuse to get my fat post-Christmas arse out and shifting the poundage. If you want to know more, rather than let me babel on about it badly, then click here redtogether.co.uk

So, how did it go, none of you are asking. Well, I kept a daily diary. The existence of one kept me motivated in both 2018 and 2019. You can read last years here if you’d like. It’s probably the same old shite as this one so should save you a fair bit of time.

Day 1 – The first day of running is also the last day of being off work for Christmas. I set the alarm to get out early but the struggle is real. As I’m now hurtling towards middle age, my New Years Eve the night before consisted of watching Deadpool and trying to stay awake. Craig David was the ‘special’ guest act on the beeb after midnight, which was the first Accidental Partridge of the year. Apparently he’s DJing in Ibiza now. I don’t know whether that’s the island or just the name of the shit nightclub at Margate Butlins. I eventually get my head together for 8am, take one look at the sheet black ice out there and vote on the ‘fuck that’ option of returning to the house. Jump on the Treadmill for 3 miles and feel quite good. Later I watch NUFC get stuffed. Sober. Happy Fucking New Year.

Day 2 – First day back at work after strategically scoring two weeks off over the festive period. Work is unnaturally and quite unnervingly quiet. Jump straight into a couple of big bits of work that need doing in January and by 11:30am I have given myself a migraine, probably caused by being back on drinking too much coffee far too quickly. By 11:45am I’m downing Co-codamol like a shot. Return home to find we have a nit infestation, which for someone with little to no hair is like telling a recovered alcoholic there is a sale on at Oddbins. Head out for a 3 and a bit miler and it’s tough going, caused by a combination of a pissy head wind and can’t be arsedness.

Day 3 – Having just returned to work, its Friday already. Re-fucking-sult. It’s also another productive day, including registering the notbuilttorun.com domain on my lunch. Potentially the greatest £1.19 I’ll ever spend. For the first time in a while I feel loose, and I knock out 2.1 mile on the treadmill. Take That’s Pray comes on my shuffle during the run and I unashamedly knock it on repeat, several times. Do not judge me.

Day 4 – Saturday is usually ‘Big’ run day, but I’m heading out sharpish in the morning for a party so logistically it’s just not going to happen. Even a short run would probably leave me rushing around, so I decide to Treadmill it later and do the biggy tomorrow morning instead. The party is soft play, and my daughter runs around so much her cheeks look like a smacked arse by the finish. I do 2 miles on the Treadmill early evening and I definitely have that lighter on the feet feeling, like I’m less stodgy and carrying less weight. Whether that is psychological or not, I couldn’t give a shite at this point.

Day 5 – Up early for a 10 miler. There’s a slight wind in the air but other than that it’s perfect running conditions. I try to avoid running on Sundays for a number of reasons. The first is that I’m usually groggy off the drink from the day before if there is a match on. The second is that I like getting the hard run out of the way at the start of the weekend, so I can relax for the rest of it. The third reason however is the big one; you get lots of arseholes out running on a Sunday morning. By arseholes I’m talking about the ‘I’m a proper runner’ brigade. You’ll all have encountered one. They usually have all the gear. They like to blank you as they pass due to their superiority complex and lack of being hugged as a child. They’ll also refer to it as SLR (Sunday Long Run) to their equally wanky friends in conversation. That kind of bell end. And this morning doesn’t disappoint. As I hit Tynemouth on my run, I spot two yummy mummys. Dressed in full high-end running clobber and with hair and makeup done like they’re away on a night out, they enter the local swanky coffee shop sweat free, where they can sit and talk about the exercise they were going to do but couldn’t be arsed to. Flyby shows they did walk from the car though, so good for them.

Day 6 – It’s the first Monday of 2020. Hip Hip Hoo-fucking-ray. The weather for the next couple of days is looking quite dodgy. It’s the return of my nemesis, the friggin wind. It’s one of the only downsides of living next to the sea, apart from those bastard seagulls. During the summer there’s nothing better than a scenic coastal run, with a nice cooling light breeze coming off the sea. Lush. Winter? My balls have shrunk into my stomach. The North Sea can lash in some absolute baltic weather, courtesy of our Scandinavian cousins. Even with my rape and pillaging Viking breeding, it’s not something I’m a fan of. And, basically, we’re about to get two sodding days of the stuff. I’ll get on the Treadmill tonight ta.

Day 7 – Its Windageddon Day 2. It’s gusty and only going to get worse as the day goes on. Last nights treadmill run was a bit of a slog, probably due to hammering out a 10 miler on Sunday, and I’m expecting the same tonight. Still, it’s much better than running in Hurricane Dicksplash outside. When I get home from work, I kneel down to pick something up in the living room and get a shooting pain in my knee. Not. Good. I do the sensible thing, I run on the treadmill. It seems ok, but something to keep an eye on…

Day 8 – My knee is still a bit tender in the morning. Uh oh. It’s the work running club today, and luckily someone has signed up for the Couch to 5k which I’m going to lead. This should mean a nice gently one. I really like the Couch to 5k App, I think it’s a great way to start running and even though some would argue this isn’t a ‘proper’ run, I don’t mind doing it. I’ve seen many people start running journeys and it’s great to be a part of that. For some it just isn’t for them (there is no fail, only try) while others keep it going and love it. I forget to set my Garmin off (D’oh!) so don’t record it. I therefore hop out for a quick 5k when I get home. My Garmin gans crackers, records crazy paces, and once uploaded shows me hurtling through people’s gardens.

Day 9 – My Garmin might be on the way out. Lately, it’s taking what seems like forever to pick up GPS I and I’m finding myself hanging around like a spare prick waiting to get going. When it does kick in, it’s the same problem as yesterday. The pace is all wrong, shooting quickly from 4 min miles to 10 min miles, when it reality I’m probably doing 8. It settles down at around half a mile and behaves the rest of the run. The weather is surprisingly calm – the forecast isn’t great the next few days so I’m taking advantage of it. I have a nice tootle down the sea front and run smack bang into a running club on part of it. I cross the road to avoid them because, frankly, these bastards won’t move for an atomic bomb heading towards them. One day I’ll join one I’m sure.

Day 10 – I’ve decided that my running socks have seen better days. If they were a race horse, they’ve basically fallen at the 12th fence and the vet has the revolver out. I head to a well known retailer (ok, it’s Start Fitness) and pick up my usual pair for a couple of quid. I always feel weird browsing through here, like I don’t really belong. I’ve ran on average about a 1,000 miles a year over the last 3, yet I still feel a little bit of an impostor. I move desks at work and it blows everyone’s fucking mind. Little things like that always seem to mess with peoples equilibrium. Seeing as I got out last night, I hop on the treadmill for a couple of miles. I’ve completed my first working week of the decade. By the end of it I’ll be 50 and my daughter will be 18. I don’t know which of those worries me more.

Day 11 – Dilemma time. Do I stay or do I go? I usually go out for my ‘big’ run on a Saturday morning, but the weather forecast is not great. Usually, that’s fine, delay it till the Sunday (when the weather is forecasted to be ok). Except I’m on the lash later, meaning I’ll be most likely hanging like a monkey in Hartlepool tomorrow morning. When I get out, my hand is forced. 40mph winds. Nah thanks. So, it’s going to have to be a morning Treadmill. Go out later, and no one can really be arsed. I play the long game and don’t get back late. I am an old man.

Day 12 – I’m feeling fresh and the wind has pissed off. I decide to do my ‘go to’ 10 miler, through Holywell, into Seaton Sluice and back along the coast. It starts a bit slow but I soon up the pace and I feel pretty good all the way round. My mile 9 is an 8:25 minute pace which is unheard of, I’m usually blowing out my arse by this point. At the Sluice I notice a lass running behind who slowly catches me, so I wait for her to pass. Except she doesn’t. She just sits up my arse for 2 miles, slowing down and going quicker whenever I do either. I’m either being mocked or this is a reverse #MeToo situation.

Day 13 – It’s Monday, and the main news is that we’re going to get hit by Storm Brendan, possibly the shittest sounding weather front of all time. It slowly creeps in and by 2pm it’s biblical out there. Due to pushing out a 10 miler yesterday, today was always going to be a short treadmill run anyway, but it just goes to show the logistical ball ache that Winter running can be. Out of 3 days, 2 of them were pretty unrunable. It’s all about the weather window.  Still, at least we haven’t had snow. Yet.

Day 14 – I read a very interesting Guardian article in the morning (get me) all about Strava and it gives what I think is a fairly balanced view of the platform. Cue the predictable reactionaries on the Guardian comments section missing the fucking point after not reading it properly. It’s here anyway for anyone interested. I get off the Fucking Metro (see any previous blog) after work and the weather has taken a rather surprisingly calm and mild turn. I was fully expecting more of the same and to get on the treadmill, but you can’t thumb your nose to a weather window so I head out. I do a run that I always think is 3 miles in my head but 3/4 of the way through realise is more like 3.5 and remind myself to remember the next time, which I then forget to do. It’s fairly standard and comes to 3.7 mile in 31 minutes, which I’m quite happy with. Strava then pisses on my chips by telling me I’ve done it much quicker in the past and this is actually my slowest effort. Shamed by a bot.

Day 15 – I’m on a course for Presentation skills. I present every day, it’s part of my job, but it’s still quite interesting and it’s a good group so I quite enjoy it. As part of it, I have to think of a topic and speak for 2 minutes on it. I pick running, and am made to stop after 3 minutes because it turns out I’m too good at public speaking and am actually a gobshite. It’s the work running club straight after, and I do week 2 of the Couch 2 5k which again goes really well. When I get back, I jump on the treadmill for a quick 2 mile, just for my own piece of mind. I’m changing phone providers, and phones, and I currently have 2 handsets while I wait for it to happen. Like a drug dealer.

Day 16 – I’ve officially made it over half way. Strava had informed me last week that January 12th is ‘Quitters Day’, when most people give up on the resolutions they made on New Years Eve. I could stop now and it would be a win. I haven’t felt ‘tired’ yet, but that will come. I’ve also been canny lucky with the weather, a bit of wind here and there but 2 years ago we had about 9 foot of snow or something so I can’t complain. Still, it’s a treadmill quickie tonight and at the half way point I’m both injury free and still alive which are always bonuses.

Day 17 – The week has flown and it’s Friday already. I set my alarm to get up for an early run, just so I can have a break from the Treadmill. It would also mean giving myself some rest time before attempting the 10 miler on Sat morning. The alarm goes off but I really can’t be arsed so just reset it for normal get up and go back to sleep. I used to be so good at getting up early for runs before work. Nowadays, I really can’t be chewed. I go to The Strawberry for lunch and keep it classy by demolishing a Fishfinger sarnie and chips. Lunch of champions. I still don’t fancy the Treadmill when I get home, so go out for a short run. To keep motivated, I try a new route which cuts through random streets I’ve never done before and I end up doing 3.35 miles.

Day 18 – Up for my ‘Big’ run and the weather has retaken a windy turn. It’s an annoying wind as well – not strong enough to call the whole thing off but enough to make it harder than it should be. I actually change my route because of it. I was going to head down to the Fish Quay and along to the mouth of the Tyne, but that would leave me more exposed than a Tory MP at a private party organised by a dubious looking Shiek. Instead, it’s a nice safe easy 10 miler I devised just before Christmas when I was feeling particularly lazy. Part of this run takes me fully down Monkseaton Drive, about a mile of downhill. Half way down, a lady runner bounces past me coming up the hill and gives me a very jolly ‘Morning!’. About 10 yards behind her, an older bloke, red in the face and struggling a bit gives me a far less cheerful acknowledgement. 5 seconds after I pass them, I hear ‘Come on man Dad!’ Poor bugger. At the 5 mile mark it becomes clear that I have finally hit what I was waiting for. I’m tired. Not lack of sleep tired, running fatigued tired. I’m creaking. It’s not a huge slog home, but I’m feeling it. Later, hilariously, I go to watch Newcastle beat Chelsea with an injury time winner and stay out to celebrate in the pub. Probably the most productive day of the year so far.

Day 19 – Despite having a decent drink yesterday, I wake up feeling pretty good. Not good enough to get out for a run though, nee way. After yesterdays tired run, I decide to try and leave as big a gap as possible to recharge. I spend my day being very middle aged Dad, tidying the front garden and taking my daughter out for a walk because I say it’ll be ‘good for her’. I feel quite good so decide to skip the treadmill and go out – I want to try and limit the treadmill as I don’t want to get fucking sick of it. I head out for a 3 miler and a mile and half in I feel great. Actually too good for someone who did a 10 miler the day before. It is too good, and the last mile and a half are an absolutely shit show.

Day 20 – It’s Monday and like an unwelcome chat from a stranger on the Metro, that wind is back. My new protector case has finally arrived for my iPhone and it’s a thing of beauty. After replacing the temporary brick one I had loaned to put round it, it makes my phone about half a stone lighter and less likely to pull my pants down in public. Short treadmill in the evening in an attempt to try and get some recovery going after the tiredness had set it. I don’t feel tired, although I wear one of my old running tops that was always tight anyway. This makes me look like an ex Geordie Shore cast member who’s let himself go.

Day 21 – I’m trying to avoid ‘treadmill fatigue’, which in basic terms means ‘avoiding getting fucking sick of it.’ I therefore decide that if I can find the time to get out, I’m going to get out. I’m also trying to find a 3 mile local route that I haven’t done before to keep things interesting, somewhat fresh. I suppose this is the running equivalent of asking your partner to try a new position. It’s actually quite difficult to do (the new position one as well) because I’ve pretty much run everywhere within a 3 mile radius of my house. I end up mashing up a a couple of runs I do, mixing it up by running in the opposite direction than usual. It’s quite a good run, and around 3.2 miles, so I make a note of doing it again at some point. On a personal milestone, I hit 5,000 miles on Strava. I feel nothing.

Day 22 – It’s work running club tonight and I forget my Garmin, because I’m an idiot. I get back to find the boiler isn’t working, the water pressure is dropping like a Pardew team post Christmas and it’s got a drip. We had this problem in our old flat and although I’m not worried that it’s neither fixable or going to rip my eyes out money wise, it means we don’t have hot water. So I can’t have a shower. Like an elderly Aunt at xmas that I’ve been expecting but hoping wouldn’t turn up, my niggly Achilles is also back. After my treadmill run I give myself a sink wash like I’m a Victorian child and empty about half a can of deodorant onto my pits.

Day 23 – It’s not cold this morning, which is just as well seeing as we have no bastard heating or hot water. By lunchtime, it turns out I might not have any till Tuesday and it IS going to rip my eyes out. The weather is a bit milder so we can live without the heating, but I’m not sure how I’m supposed to wash myself. Cold water like a monk I imagine, or I’ll just start to smell. My body is starting to ache and tire a little now. I walk into town on lunch and the walk back feels heavy legged. I go out for a run later and despite being strapped up, my Achilles is really sore when I run. Uh oh. A mile and a half in though it calms down and I actually end up doing one of my faster times. You really don’t want to know how I washed myself.

Day 24 – The boiler will be fixed by the end of the day, although we’re still a week from payday so I’m going to have to offer the engineer my vintage football programs or sex as payment. Meanwhile, on the RED challenge there is only a week left, and the biggest obstacle now is can my Achilles hold up. I Google some stretching exercises and hope for the best. At lunch time I run out of oranges and in a moment of weakness end up buying a half price big bag of Kettle crisps, which I destroy in about 20 minutes. Fat twat. I feel like I’ve put on about half a stone, and the mental side of that hits me when I get on the treadmill and every step feels like a heavy pounding.

Day 25 – It’s the last ‘Big run’ of RED and I’m stretching my Achilles out and praying to many gods. The weather is perfect for running; overcast, calm, dry, cold without there being a nip in the air. I decide to reattempt the route I sacked off last week due to the wind/being a soft shite. It’s a canny 10 miler that will take me down to the Fish Quay and along to the mouth of the Tyne. It’s basically a mash up of the North Tyneside 10k route, and a good indicator to see if I can still attack the two killer banks next to the Priory without stopping or dying. The answer, thankfully, is yes. This turns out to be a comfortable and, dare I say it, enjoyable run and my body (even my dodgy Achilles) feel good during and after. Winning.

Day 26 – I wake up feeling a bit ropey. The kind of ropeyness I’d get back in the day when I’d hammered the Aftershocks all night down the Bay and rolled in at 3am. This feeling doesn’t really go away, and at about 9am ish I reluctantly decide to go out for a run. 0.3 of a mile later, I’m going to absolutely hurl chunks if I don’t stop. I trudge back to the house feeling like shit, holding back the gagging. I’m supposed to be going out for lunch and then heading to the Ice Hockey, but both are abandoned as I head to my bed and try to ward off the feeling to spew my guts up. I get up late afternoon and feel better if not a bit groggy. By 7pm I’ve picked up and, aware that the streak and RED is in real danger, I stupidly decide to get on the treadmill. It goes surprisingly well, and I get through 2 miles despite the lack of eating anything all day. Disaster averted.

Day 27 – The fallout from yesterdays virus/bug/vomit inducer is still very much in play. I have a pretty awful nights kip, a mixture of getting too much sleep during the day and also being really, really, hot. Like I’m sweating the swine out. My stomach is feeling canny tender at work, and I spend more time on the bog than usual. I’m also spending most of the day breaking wind, as my guts are all over the shop. I decide if I do go out for a run, to go on a route of quiet streets. I can fart enough as it is during a run, but I fully expect my flatulence to power a full Armada towards victory. Plus, the follow through odds are looking favourable. I’m lucky that I’ve only shit myself once during a run, but it was like a murder scene and the clean I did on the dunes is something I never want to have to describe to anyone. I decide to treadmill instead, and it’s a great decision, as I spend the majority of the evening camped out on the shitter.

Day 28 – My stomach still isn’t right. I have this constant urge to go to the toilet and drop the kids off at the pool. It’s making things quite uncomfortable at work and pardon the pun but I’m actually bored shitless of it now. This reminds me of the bug I had when I came back from Africa. I ended up plastering the new Terminal 5 toilets at Heathrow in all sorts of different shades of brown. Some hipster came in after me and was thrilled, thinking it was part of the new modern decor. I battle on and after sitting through what is still arguably the greatest Simpsons episode ever with my daughter (the one where Santa’s Little Helper goes to Canine Discipline School) I play Runners Trots Russian Roulette and head out for a 3 miler. It’s awful. My head isn’t in it, my legs aren’t feeling it, and my arse feels like a danger zone. There’s also a horrible gusty wind that has appeared from somewhere that, despite me running in a loop, is in my face the whole way round. Fuck off Tuesday.

Day 29 – It’s work Running club tonight. The bug/virus that I’ve had appears to be on the way out. It should be, I’ve spent the last 2 days pretty much shitting it out. I realise after this I’m on the home straight. Treadmill tomorrow – easy. Friday however has given me a logistical issue. I’m out with work for a meal straight after we finish. It’s going to have to be an up early and out run. We know how that went the last time. To compound matters, the BBC weather forecast has it pissing down of rain that morning. Highly predictable middle finger stuff this. The running club goes well – they’ve got faster- and it’s nice to just have a no pressure social run to break up the monotony.

Day 30 – I’ve decided that I’m definitely going to stop the streak on February 1st and not go for my normal Saturday long run. I’ll take a deserved rest and head out on the Sunday. NUFC are at home but I’m not drinking so my head will be clear, apart from the waking up with the depressing reality of how shite they are. Taking of depressing realities, Saturday will also be the day we leave the EU. Back to today and away from political clusterfucks, it’s an easy Treadmill 2 miler in the evening. Second wind anyone?

Day 31 – Up at 5:30am(!) and you know what, it’s alright. I used to be hop out and get out kind of runner. Not anymore, I literally have to drag myself up these days. Today, as I really have to, I manage to get up with little fuss. It’s a little bit rainy and a little bit windy outside as predicted – but it isn’t cold. I go out in my hat and gloves equipped for what winter has to throw at me, but by half way round I’m actually a bit hot. I get back to the end of my street and press my Garmin to stop the run. How do I feel? Delighted? A sense of achievement?

Relieved. And knackered. Proper knackered.