Good grief. It’s you.

Wallace

Hot on the heels of the completing the Great North Run (see here for that review), it was time to run in my other annual local event – the North Tyneside 10k. You can read my review of it in happier, ‘normal’ times here.

I’ve always been a big fan of this run. The start is fairly local and hassle free to get to, the finish is within walking distance of my house, and it’s only a 10k. I can be back home before dinner time (lunch if you’re southern). Belter.

Due to the C-word (not that one) this years was going to be a bit different. Usually held on Easter Sunday every year, on a warm Spring day with a palatable sea breeze, the 2020 version was on it’s 3rd rearrangement when it finally happened on October 17th 2021.

To be honest, I had completely forgotten about it until my Bib and info arrived in the post the week before. I was still basking and slightly limping in the glory of getting round the Great North Run patched up and drugged up a few weeks beforehand.

Having said that though, I was well up for this. 10k feels like nowt nowadays (I’m not being prickish here, but it isn’t to me anymore really) and any chance to get out and do anything venturing on normal now feels like a special occasion. Interestingly though, the structure and organising of the race was EXACTLY the same as every year. Same numbers, same time, same drill, no C-word restrictions. This really was a return to normal.

So, with an extra layer than usual for this run, I got myself down to the start in plenty of time. I always find the start of the NT10k a fascinating place. It’s about as sophisticated as a 19 year old chav from Byker strutting down Shields Road with his top off when it hits a barmy 13c. Everyone just mooches about the Sports Centre, then a few people head towards the start line about 5 mins before the gun is due – which then triggers a surge of everyone following like Sheep. Every year. It’s the kind of human behaviour Scientists get funding to study.

I’ve already mentioned in previous blogs my fondness for people watching in Pens. This is less of a Pen of course, and more of a Mosh. Being a Cool Kid, I plonk myself middle of the pack. As per usual, there are a lot of Running Club vests kicking about. All tribally hanging out together like a shit West Side Story.

Also as per usual, we seem to just start without any fanfare and the most pathetic sounding starting gun that Alex Baldwin probably wished he’d borrowed (too soon?). The start, say the first half mile, is always the only part of the NT10k that I don’t like. It’s too crowded, and due to no Pens there are lots of groups of slower eager beavers at the front that it’s difficult to get past. Before you start, I’m not having a go at slower eager beavers. Run your own race and all that. It can just be canny frustrating if you’re caught behind it.

By the time we hit the Fish Quay the field has opened up as it usual does and you can really start to enjoy it. It’s a perfect day for running, fairly mild for October and no wind. I actually wish I hadn’t layered up as I’m already hotter than Phillipa Forrester in the 90s.

I am feeling pretty good though. Well, comfortable. Even when we hit the killer hill going up to the Priory, I get up in fairly decent pace whilst cursing the shite out of it. Then we’re onto the coast proper, and it’s 4 miles of flat prom all the way to the Lighthouse.

I get past the Spanish City and from then on I feel like I’m cruising to the finish. I run down here all of the time and muscle memory is helping me home as I feel like I know every single pavement slab. Foot on the pedal for the last mile where I hit a very respectable 8:20 pace and ‘fly’ home in 53:10, the second fastest I’ve ever run this. My PB for this course is 52:38, so with my gammy foot I’ll take being 32 seconds off the pace all day long.

This years finishers t-shirt is also a pretty snazzy light blue number, and they’ve learnt their lessons from the infamous ‘Tit-topgate’ year. Then it simply a 15 min walk home and it’s like I never left the house.

So, all in all, a successful rearrangement and an enjoyable jaunt on a crisp Autumnal Sunday morning. See you next Jesus resurrection day!

“All I do is keep on running in my own cozy, homemade void, my own nostalgic silence. And this is a pretty wonderful thing. No matter what anybody else says.”

Haruki Murakami

A question popped up on the @UKRunChat twitter feed the other day; ‘Which Running books changed your life?’ It’s the kind of question that most people have to really think about before giving an answer – a bit like ‘what’s your favourite album?’ or ‘why is there a turd on our kitchen floor?’ For me, this was an easy answer: Murakami’s ‘What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.’

It’s not only my favourite running book, it’s quite possibly one of my favourite books ever. I re-read it once a year, usually when I’m going through a phase of shite running or shite life events.

What makes it so good? It has to be Murakami himself. He’s normal. He’s likable. He doesn’t fill the book with deep bullshit waffle. His love of running – the why and the when – is scattered subtlety throughout. His pros and writing is chilled to the point I can physically feel my blood pressure dropping as I read. Then again, this is a book written by a Philosopher with a giant Jazz collection.

The question not only got me thinking about the book, but also my version of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. How did I start, and how did I get here? On with the bollocks…

The Beginning

In the beginning, there was this fat kid. I know this is all starting a bit Hollywood, but this is going to be one of those stories of weight. Isn’t it for lots of runners? The point is though, it’ll evolve beyond that. I’ve always carried extra poundage, it’s in the genes. I’m not making ‘being fat isn’t my fault’ excuses but a fair bit of it truly isn’t. My old man played a lot of football and was skinny as a rake. As soon as he had to retire due to dodgy knees, he piled it on. Not from eating tonnes of shite either, just from not doing exercise anymore. It was his genetics, which the swine then gave to me.

So, when did the running journey start? Well, there’s a long and a short answer; it involves death and injuring my knee.

Like many children of the 80s and 90s, running was punishment. It was bestowed upon you in PE when someone had acted the knacker and you were all forced to lap the field instead of playing football. Not great for someone carrying extra timber. So, I hated it, and it was never going to be something I would do for ‘fun’. It can fuck off over there. Once it has, it can then fuck off some more.

Then in the middle of the noughties, in my mid 20s, a couple of big things happened. Firstly, in 2005, my dad suddenly died of a massive heart attack. Being northern and a male I dealt with it the way you’d expect, bottling things up and consuming quite a lot of alcohol. And when you get a beer belly on top of an already belly, well, that’s quite a belly.

Then, whilst playing 5-a-side (in goal, not much effort required) I cracked my knee and went from minimal amount of exercise to fuck all amount of exercise. I was given a strapping and told to rest. Belly belly belly. As part of my ‘rehab’ I went to see a lovely Physio who recommended that I should go swimming. It would be a good gentle way of building the knee up again she said. I mumbled ‘whatever’ and pissed off to the pub.

It was whilst in that pub that I bumped into my cousin, who also hamstrung by the family genetics, was just so happening to go swimming every Saturday morning as part of her health kick to get pregnant. I should come along with her – if nothing else we can chat shite in water. So that weekend, hungover as a bastard, I got up early and reluctantly dragged myself to meet my cousin at the pool. It was hard work, I was hugely unfit, but I kind of enjoyed it..

So I started going every Saturday morning. And then every Sunday. And then I started with the odd weekday morning before work. And then I was going 7 days a week. I felt amazing. My knee felt great, I had more stamina, and lost a little bit of weight. My cousin also managed to fall pregnant – the two are unrelated.

I was feeling so good I decided to crack out my bike and start cycling for the first time in years on the weekends. My knee had completely healed and I lost a little bit more weight. It was on one of these bike rides that I had an epiphany. I’ll never know this epiphanies name, but she was hugely important.

Cycling was getting easier, I was completing a fairly decent local loop at quite a quick pace and without really putting in the effort anymore. One sunny summer morning I was cycling along the coast at Tynemouth on this loop, when coming towards me I saw a runner. Not a fast runner. Not a slim runner. Not a young runner. A short, stocky lady probably in her 50s. She’s ambling along, slowly, sweaty and grimacing.

Three different emotions evolve in my head during this brief encounter.

1. Christ. Look at the state of her. What does she look like? Snigger.
2. Actually, you know what, bless her, she’s out here and trying. Good on her. Patronising pat on head.
3. Hang on a minute, you’re being a dick. She’s out running and she doesn’t give a fuck. What are you doing hiding on your bike? This lady has balls. She’s amazing.

And that was that. If she could do it, not care about what other people thought, not built like a runner, pushing herself to do something hard, then what was stopping me? So I made a decision. Tomorrow morning I dump the bike, and I go for a run. Again though, harping back to that being Northern and Male thing, I wouldn’t do it from my door. I didn’t want to be laughed at – ‘lol, look at the fat bastard going for a run.’

So I drove down to Tynemouth the next morning at 6am, and I ran. And I was shit. I think I did about a mile, and it was painful, and I hated it. But I did it again the next morning, and then the next, and the next and kept going. Within a few weeks I’d worked out a 5k route and the rest dear reader, is history.

So, what do I talk about when I talk about running? A story, a slightly wanky X-Factor ‘journey’ from nothing to Half Marathon. I think all runners have a story, a journey, whether similar to mine or not. Look back at yours. Look at what you’ve accomplished. Be proud.

Right, enough of that sloppy shite. I’m off to write my next blog about why Zwift is both fantastic and full of arseholes.

“What happens in the future? Do we become ass-holes or something?”

Marty Mcfly

You don’t need me to tell you 2020 was a big steaming turd. Everyone plus your own brain is telling you that. Early 2021 is also looking like something my cat might puke up. Therefore this is the ‘piss off Mr Positive’ post you didn’t know you needed. We have to try and look forward with some sort of rose tinted glasses on, with some kind of hope. If not, what else have we got? Woah. Deep.

So, with that said, here are my 2021 goals. Some running related, some not, some achievable, some pie in da sky.

2021 Goals

• Renew the notbuilttorun.com domain – worth a paltry £1.29 when I bought it, a year later it’s worth an astonishing £15. A Dot Com Billionaire lifestyle awaits.
• Run Every Day (RED) in January – piece of piss this year. There is literally nothing else to do apart from go to work. Logistically this is a shoe in. Not even hangovers will hamper me this year.
• Run 1,000 miles – always the goal of every year, I hit it in 2019 and 2020 despite my body conspiring against me.
• Get a PB – Not overly optimistic about this one, I think my peak has come and gone. Still, if you’re not a runner dreaming of a PB then you’re dead inside.
• Run a Half Marathon – the GNR is in September. Surely? What do you mean no? What did I say about being positive? I’m down to run the Sunderland City Half in May which I’m not hopeful for. However, whatever the score is, I will run a half that day. Just maybe not in Mordor (bantz!)
• Run longer than 13.1 miles – the biggie. I want to run longer than a half. My ruined temple of a body probably won’t like that 26.2 malarkey so it won’t be that. I’ve got 16 miles in my head. That’s only another 5k to find. That’s a Parkrun. Talking of Parkrun..
• Run a Parkrun – I’ve been registered to run Parkrun since the early days of it, but never done one. For a few reasons. Saturday mornings are also long run day, so Parkrun has never been a viable option. Late to the party, but that’s what the cool kids do.
• Buy a Zwift Pod – There is only so much cheese I can listen to on the old treadmill, so I’ve ummed and ahhed with Zwift for a while. To be honest, £7.50 delivery is putting me off. That’s a mugging.
• Remain in Employment – 2020 has been a shit year for people losing their jobs. I lost a lot of good colleagues last year. I quite enjoy my job, I’d like to stay in it. Fingers crossed.
• Avoid catching/passing on COVID – Wear a mask rat lickers.

A pretty mundane and vanilla list of personal Goals I think you’ll agree. As we hit another lockdown though, hopefully our last (snigger), looking to the future has never been more important.

Running kept me sane in 2020. It’s going to need to be there for me in 2021 more than I thought.

Keep Safe you lovely bastards.

Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana

Groucho Marx

*Note – the draft of this was written pre The Plague*

February. It’s usually the best month of the year. It’s short for a start, paydays are as close as they’re going to be. Some of your utilities give you a break – no Council Tax or Water Rates to pay. You’re practically a fucking millionaire man. From a personal perspective, I also like February as it’s my birthday, even though I’ve now officially stopped counting the bastards. Also, by the end of the month we start to see the first glimpses of it getting lighter and milder – a huge relief to those of us who’ve been out running in shite weather and clarty conditions.

All good. Except this February I’ve probably had the worst running month of my life. Fuck off February.

It all started innocently enough. After my run every day January streak I decided to treat the family to a good old anti-running empty carb loading full English breakfast. My gluten free wife declined this mouthwatering invitation with a gentle ‘no fucking way’, but I still persuaded my 8 year old daughter to fill her boots down the local greasy spoon.

If you want to look deep into the psychology of said fry up, it was a reward for both the physical and mentally tough journey I’d just been on. For most though, you’ll see this as fat bastardness and an undoing of the good work from the past 31 days. Fair play to you.

But as I ate my 6th sausage dipped in egg yolk I thought, you know what, I’ve earned this. It’s a one off treat, and I’m going to smash the bejesus out of the rest of 2020.

Skip 7 days and it’s my birthday. I’ve turned 40. I’m properly not arsed. I do however treat myself to some badly needed new running trainers. This is where it’s starts going tits up.

As most of you know by now, every weekend in February was basically a shitley named storm. Wind, rain, more wind. Pre run, I stare out the window at the sky and already decide that this will be awful and painful. Running in it is not very nice. It’s proper wank, much harder work than usual and no fun whatsoever.

The night before my birthday I get invited to a work ‘kick about’. This seems like a really good way to end my 30s I naively think. I’m in good nick due to running and I’ll dazzle the young uns with my fitness levels and deft defense splitting passing. 30 mins in, *Crack*, as a lankey streak of piss, invited to make the numbers up, decides to launch me to the moon in a 50-50 that was 90-10 mine.

As Shakira once poetically put it, your hips don’t lie, and mine was screaming ‘I think I might now be in 3 separate pieces mate’ as I picked myself up and hobbled out the last 30 minutes. A post match couple of pints helps dull the pain, but I’m very much aware it’s not ower clever.

So I wake up next morning, in my 4th decade, to find I can hardly walk. Fitness levels better than they have been for most of those years, but now ironically limping pathetically. Life begins at 40 they used to say. Lies.

I therefore took a few days off running, mainly due to the amount of alcohol I had consumed but also due to my pensioner hip. A quick glance at Strava shows the description of my first run back after this was ‘Fat and Windy.’ For the next two weeks, all my runs were crap. Leggy and devoid of any enjoyment or pleasure whatsoever. You’ll understand that feeling if you’ve ever watched an episode of Mrs Browns Boys.

Then the coup de grâce. 7 miles into a planned 10 miler I start to get a slight painful niggle in my left Achilles. I once pulled my right one on a run (read about it here) and this felt familiar. Half a mile later I have no choice but to pull up, as the fear of ‘pinging’ it like the last time felt like a very real and shit outcome. Lamp post kicked and called a fuckknuckle, I walk the remaining 2 and half mile home pissed off and pretty sure this will keep me out for a bit.

There is nothing more annoying to a runner that being injured. For me, running is part of my routine. Plus, despite that last couple of weeks, I usually quite enjoy it. So resting, for whatever reason, is difficult. This injury doesn’t feel too bad. Like I’ve stopped before doing any real damage to it. It’s pretty obvious that it’s nowhere near as bad as the last time. If the last one was a tear (it was like I’d been shot) then this one is more like a strain.

I rested it for exactly a week, which is like 6 months if you’re a runner, and hopped on the Treadmill for a couple of miles. It was sore, but bearable. Champion. All sorted. I strutted into work the next week with my gear, ready to rejoin my colleagues on our weekly after work running group. Strapped up, giving it large like a war veteran about how I’d pulled my Achilles but was alright now and ready to go. Proper full of shit basically.

2.5 miles later, it’s another lamppost being kicked and fuckknuckle berated. I accept the inevitable and bunker down for proper rest and rehab but know I am in the shit here. I have two races (snigger) coming up. North Tyneside 10k in April, Sunderland Half Marathon in May. Unless something dramatic happens between now and then, I’m going to be in nowhere near any kind of shape to run them.

Fuck off February. And when you fucked off, fuck off over there some more.

‘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.