“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.

‘Tropical the island breeze’

Madonna, La Isla Bonita

Running on holiday? Are you off your tits? Possibly. Traditionally a holiday should be an opportunity to relax, spend time with the family, and drink quite heavily during the day time without fear of being escorted from your desk and out of the building. If you’re a regular runner like me though, it can also be a fitness shitness disaster.

Taking a week or two break from running on the face of it is not the end of the world. There are those that argue it’s good to give the muscles and body a rest, ease those aches and pains and be fresh and recharged to start again. It probably is to be honest. Unless you’re spending the week vegetated in the sun, eating and drinking your body weight in shite. That’s probably not good. Tried going for a run after a prolonged period of doing that? It’s like wading through treacle, whilst being repeatedly booted in the stomach.

Whenever I go ‘on holiday’ in this country I always take my running gear (more of that in Part 2), but abroad? It’s like hot and stuff. Could I actually join the sad sacks and run whilst on my family get away? Yes. Yes I could. In Menorca.

First off, an interesting fact about Menorca – they invented Mayonnaise. Already I’m a massive fan. Mayo goes with everything; chips, salad, pot noodles. For the record, this will complete my full set of Balearic Islands. When I was a young pup back in the 90s, we went on a couple of family holiday to Mallorca. That was until 1996 when, being the youngest sibling and having just completed my GCSEs, my parents informed me that it was ‘so long suckers’ and they would now be pissing off on holiday on their own. Tough love.

When I turned 18 in 1998, I went on a lads holiday to Ibiza. I’d love to now tell you some fantastically stories from that holiday but for legal reasons I’m unable to. All I’ll say is that my weeks memories are sketchy, other than the Weekend at Bernie’s type incident with an unconscious Norwegian girl we found in our apartment and a lass from Dundee who threw up all over me. I came back as pale as I went, that’s all you need to know.

Since then it’s been Greece all the way for me, and my return to these isles two decades later should be a far more chilled and relaxed one as I now have my own family in tow. Whilst in those heady days of 1998 I was just praying to wake up at some point during the day and not be covered in my own vomit or dead, this holiday I’m planning to be up every morning and out for a run. What a fucking hero.

Thanks to the genius of Google Earth, Maps, and Street View, I’m able to dive into my resort well in advance and see if I can figure out any potential routes. Now, just to get this straight, I’m no masochist. I’m not looking to smash out a 10k or meticulously plan this out military style. I am on friggin holiday. 3 or 4 nice 5ks, that’s the idea.

The resort itself looks compact, and also pretty flat (get the fuck in) and I find a loop which should cover the 3 miles. I discover what appears to be a viewing point and decide that’s where I’ll finish my run. Using my noggin here. There should be a nice cooling wind off the sea, or at least a breeze of some description at this point. It’s also a 5-10 minute gentle stroll back to the apartments – gives me ample time to cool off and look fresher ie not fucked when I get back there.

So with research done and Garmin packed off we pop to Cala Piques. I get a big 10 miler in the night before we go – an insurance run just in case I get to Menorca and simply can’t be arsed. Unfortunately, it pisses down and I have to chuck my rain sodden running shoes straight into my bag. By the time we arrive at the apartment and unpack, they are honking. I leave my trainers outside to dry out in the Med heat and decide to do the first run Monday morning.

This isn’t a travel blog, so all I’ll say about the resort and apartments were that they were fucking fantastic. There you go, stick that shit on Tripadvisor. The first couple of days are great and, as predicted, I eat and drink a fair amount of crap.

On the Monday morning I put operation ‘Sun Run’ into action. I set my alarm far too early for anyone who’s supposed to be abroad on a break and I’m out stretching by the pool at 7am. I say stretching. These are more like wake up slapping and trying to convince the bloke cleaning the pool that I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s hot. Already. You have to remember, I’m born and raised on the North East coast and spend most of my winter running through wind and hail – fighting off both tears and hypothermia.

I set off on the route and its quiet. Like, deathly quiet. There are literally no signs of life anywhere. Everything is shut and the streets are completely deserted. But then again, it’s 7am in a family holiday resort. What sort of idiot is up at this time?

The route turns out to be great. It’s both as flat and as safe as it looked on the maps, no climbing banks or falling down manholes. It isn’t very exciting however and there is little of note either landmark or view wise. Near the end of the route though I do pass the Hipódromo Torre Del Ram, which is basically a Horse Racing track. Turns out it’s the Ben Hur type of horse racing – horses pulling small chariots kinda stuff. Here I see the first sign of life, as a local is racing around on what I assume is a training run. Sadly, he doesn’t appear to be carrying any weaponry. If you’re going to race chariots Roman style, then you should be trying to hack your opponent up. Or to the death frankly.

Once I’ve passed the fun free but family friendly race track, it’s a quick cut through a few streets of villas and then I’m at the home straight on Avengunda des Pont D’en Gil. This is my scenic finish with sea breeze I was talking about earlier. The Pont D’en Gil itself is basically a naturally created hole in a cliff that small boats can pass through. Like an exotic Marsden Rock, but without the pollution and souped up Renault Clio’s overlooking it.

The path itself to the Pont D’en Gil is off road and looks like the kind of terrain that would sever my ankles in half. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Instead, I run along the Avengunda to the viewing point and stop. It’s boiling. I’m boiling. I stand on the cliff edge and take in the cool breeze. This route is either pure luck or pure genius. When I get home and upload my runs, it turns out this bit is a well covered Strava segment. I can see why. Great minds think alike.

I get up the next four mornings and repeat this run, tweaking it slightly as I get to know my way around the resort more and to keep it interesting. I deviate off to overlook one of the coves one day for example to give myself some more scenery. As the week goes on and I drink and eat lots of crap, getting up is becomes harder and harder and the runs more leggy. Still, I’ve got out, and it’s 15 miles of running I wouldn’t have done normally. I’m also running quite fast, averaging about 27 minutes for 3.2 miles give or take so I’m hardly taking it easy. What I’m trying to say is job well done.

The other big bonus from running on holiday is that when I get back I don’t have ‘Runners Dread’. That’s the mental anguish when you’ve not been able to run for a while due to injury, work, or drunkiness and just know it’s going to fucking hurt. And usually, it does. Not a drop of that on my return, straight out on the Sunday and feeling cracking.

The verdict? I’m really glad I finally bothered my arse to take my running gear with me. I should have been doing this years ago if I’m honest. It’s fairly ball ache free if you do it right. Prep a route, get out before it gets too warm (I would say get out at night when it gets cooler but you’re on holiday so don’t be a complete tit) and do nothing more than a 5k.

Or you could just eat your weight in Paella, drink till you fall over, and not give a shit. Personally, I approve of both.

Muchos Gracias Menorca, it’s been great.

‘One does not simply walk into Mordor’

Boromir – The Fellowship of the Ring

Now, for those of you unaware, I am from Newcastle upon Tyne. Well, I’m from Whitley Bay via North Shields for all the picky twats. I was born there, went to uni there, my wife is from there, my daughter was born there, I work there and – most importantly – I am a long standing NUFC season ticket holder. I am from Newcastle. Fact.

11 miles down the road, as the crow flies, sits Sunderland. This is definitely not my city. Relations between the two cities is problematic. I wouldn’t necessarily use the word hate. Actually, yes, hate is the word. The two cities historically don’t like each other. This mainly comes down to the old tribal ritual of football, although it goes a bit deeper than that. Two big cities, two big rivers, competing against each other in industry as well as on the football pitch.

Now when I was younger, I bought into this nonsense. The Mackems – as we call them – were all knuckle dragging inbreds who didn’t take baths and ate their young. When I got older and went to university, I had a revelation. People who looked different to me, might fancy the same sex, and worshiped other Deity’s were not actually the savages I’d been told they were. They were not going to sacrifice, eat or hump me without my expressed permission. They were different to me, but they were normal. Just like the people from Sunderland.

I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not holier than thou when it comes to this. When the Mackems get stuffed/relegated I’m the first one fist pumping and dancing the Macarena. So why am I telling you all this? Because on a mild Sunday in May, I crossed the divide and travelled the 11 miles to Mordor. Sorry, I mean Sunderland. In the interests of clarity, for the rest of this blog, anything negative/piss taking about Sunderland will have ‘Bantz’ attached to it. This is just so everyone is very clear that I’m being jokey and not a right nasty bastard. Well, maybe a little.

The Sunderland City Half Marathon is in its 9th year. The Jarrow Arrow Steve Cram appears to have something to do with it, although I can’t figure out whether this is his brain child or he just pushes it as a figurehead. He’s a proud mackem anyway, and a damn finer runner in his day so either way it works. See, I’m being lovely.

I’ve never been able to enter before due to logistic reasons. It always falls on the last day of the Premier League season and we (NUFC) are always at home. Basically, in order for the run to take place then Sunderland will need to be playing away. Kick off for our last game is always around noon, so there is not a snowballs chance in a sauna of me being able to do it. I also like to drink heavily at the last home game of the season. It’s a thing. Not this year though. Due to the mackems pretty much playing non-league now or something (Bantz!), their season has finished meaning the toon have been given an away trip to Fulham. Game fucking on.

Training for the run has gone well. Perhaps too well. I’ve even managed to fit in a couple of 13 milers in the run up which is unheard of. Usually I’ll complete regular 10-11 milers with the half arsed assumption that I’ll find the extra two mile from somewhere. It’s not very scientific, but I get away with it.

The biggest challenge of the day therefore is not if I can complete the run, nor if I get a great time. It’s whether I can get there in the first place. Ladies and gents, I present to you the Tyne and Wear Metro. Or as it’s called in my house, the Fucking Metro. For those who aren’t aware of this shit show, the Fucking Metro is a light railway system that covers 60 stations around the North East. Badly. I know the Fucking Metro really well. I use it to commute every day and due to it’s general wankyness I’ve probably spent more time in it than my house.

Today, it’s the only way I’m getting to the run and home again. My whole run relies on it. And that’s usually when it’s epic shitness comes out dressed in drag and doing the hula.

I arrive at the Fucking Metro station to find a couple of other hardy local souls suited and booted for running. Being a right anti-social twat, I give them the ‘Yes. Yes I am’ nod before strutting off to the other end of the platform in an attempt to look like I know what the actual fuck I’m doing.

Unlike many Fucking Metro journeys this one is painless and uneventful and, in exactly the time it promised, it’s delivered me to the Norths answer to Mos Eisley (Bantz!). The station isn’t far from the start, about a 5 minute walk and it looks like the weather is going to be kind. Yes it’s a clear and sunny, but there is a welcoming light cool breeze in the air which should prevent me from cooking.

The start is situated on the road right next to Keel Square, as per my fucking boss of a map below.

The Square itself has a few stalls and info points, including the customary pom-pom woolly hat one. I’ve never understood how this is a thing with runners, even in the winter I couldn’t run in one without having to take it off 10 minutes in as, pumped full of my unfit sweat, it expands to three times the size and weight and nearly breaks my neck.

I put my bag in the pub. Yes, that’s right, the pub. It’s a bit left field granted, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t a tad worried when I first was relayed this info. I envisaged some small mackem radge, jogging pants tucked into huge socks, extending his hand and telling me it would be ‘cushty for a quid like.’(Bantz!) Instead, it was upstairs in The Peacock in a decent function room. You were just dumping it somewhere and expected to remember where you’d put it, but I’m led to believe this was a late change of venue for baggage so I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. It seemed secure, and my bag was there when I got back. Although if anyone wanted to nick a travel pass and a Mars Bar multipack then knock yourself out.

There are two runs today. The 10k is starting at 10am, and the Half Marathon 25 minutes later. There seems to be a lot of people doing the 10k, and from the spiel I’m sure this is the actual banner event of the day. The local ‘dee-jay’ is trying to whip the crowd up by constantly mentioning that the mackems won their 1st Leg Play Off game last night, so it’s a real ‘feel good’ day. I’m writing this after May 26th. If you don’t like football, Google that date plus Sunderland AFC. Chortle. (Bantz!)

The 10k-ers are off and after a quick piss stop I get into the pen. I say pen, there isn’t really a pen. They have some sort of markers by the side of the road indicating where you should stand if you run certain paces. I position myself somewhere between 1:50 and 2 hours, but in fairness there’s only about 20 yards between the two of them. If I had OCD this would proper annoy the shit out of me and I’d be moving forward and backwards till I figured out exactly where the fuck 1:54 was.

It seems like there’s loads of space in the pen and, as the race starts, it becomes evident that there will also be plenty of room out on the course. As soon as we get going it feels like I’m thrown into some sort of Hunger Games/Running Man scenario, we’re into the city centre streets and hanging quick left and rights. We’ll repeat some of these streets later on as well, a snip of my Strava below hopefully illustrates it.

It’s feels a bit like when I go for a run and have only done 3.80 miles, so I go circling round my neighbouring streets and alleyways till I’ve made that extra 0.20 up. You’ve all done it, admit it. I don’t mind this though to be honest, I’m getting to see the city centre and it adds a bit of Zombie Apocalypse experience to the proceedings.

This pretty much sums up the first 3 miles, before we then head South out onto longer sections of straight roads and into what many would call Suburbia ie the places what people live. We’re starting to get some climbs now as well, nothing to wet your kegs about or plant a flag, but enough to make your work a bit harder and curse a bit louder. This seems to stretch the field about a bit further – I could swing a giraffe around my head and still fail to hit anyone.

We’ve come south into Grangetown which, according to its Wikipedia page, is famous for traffic congestion. That’s literally its claim to fame. Even then, they opened some sort of new diversion route in 2018 which cleared most of it up. I could find nothing more of interest about the area other than two facts that appear at odds with each other. It has a Chinese take away called Buddha Belly (chortle) and a highly successful Slimming World. Accidental Partridge this bit.

Anyway, we’re back into the city centre now and repeating some of the streets from the start. However, I think I now see the method in this madness. We’ve done 8 miles and so far we’ve seen nothing of real interest, save from the fact I now know where the Poundland is. That’s all about to change, cue the scenic bit.

So, at mile 8 I’m now heading out of the centre and over Wearmouth Bridge. Ever seen the Tyne Bridge? Well, this is like the smaller shitter Meccano version (Bantz). Once over, it’s a sharp right and a steep long drop that’s going to take us down to the riverside. Now, when people ask me what I’ve learnt from running, one of them is thus; What goes down, must come up. You gan down a hill, you’re going to have to gan up a hill. Other runners are flying down this bank like gazelles. Not this clever shite. I slip on the brakes. There’s a big bastard hill coming soon. I can feel it.

The run along the River Wear is pretty nice. I wave to Charon the Ferryman (Bantz!) and admire the University Campus and Marina which I’ve never seen before. Then what do we meet…a big bastard hill of course. I won’t lie to you, I feel smug as fuck as I pass panting runners who flew down the bank and are now dying on their arses.

Suddenly I pop out of the Marina like a new born, birthed onto the sea front. Again, I’ve never been to the sea front at Sunderland so it’s a nice surprise. I enjoy the refreshing sea coastal breeze and admire the view of the half sunken Statue of Liberty on the beach (Bantz!).

I’m on Mile 10 now and dare I say it but I’ve never felt so comfortable at this stage of a Half Marathon before. The extra training and 13 mile runs leading up to the race appear to have really helped. I’m not going to PB I’m certain of that, but at least I don’t feel like I want to stop/cry/hurl/die.

We run out of prom and I take a sharp left with a short climb into a park. No ordinary park, this is Roker Park. This used to be the site of Sunderland’s home ground until they demolished it and moved out to the Stade de Plop (Bantz!). It’s a nice park, although my what should of been tranquil run through it is spoilt by the sound of my dad spinning violently in his grave.

Out of the park and we’re back on to a Prom for the last mile. I’ve hardly got anyone around me now, apart from a really annoying woman who’s obviously fucked but keeps sprinting past me before stopping, then doing it again. I hear this is called Jeffing in the technical running world. I know what I call it; Absolute Bollocks. Stop it.

The end is nigh. Simply back over Wearmouth Bridge and then finish where we started. As I turn on to the road leading to the bridge, a fresh and athletic looking lady is sprinting down the road and shouting encouragement. I later find out this is Aly Dixon, local girl and elite Marathon runner, drafted in to motivate us for the last few hundred yards. Her cheery not looking at all knackered machine like demeaner is one part beautiful and one part piss take.

The end is funnelled with large crowds shouting friends and relatives home. I go for the sprint finish and the legs feel belter. I cross the line in 1:54:38, my second fastest Half Marathon time. I’ll take that all day and then some. It’s then a smooth funnel through to pick up bags and medal and I’m back where I stood 2 hour earlier. Seamless.

All in all it’s been a satisfying day. The Fucking Metro worked (and also on the way back like a friggin Utopian dream), the race was well organised, the weather was canny, there was loads of room to run, and I ran a comfortable and canny near perfect race. Would I do it again? Absolutely. As of writing, they haven’t yet confirmed the date for 2020. Fingers crossed for the 10th May – the mackems don’t have a game as their season has finished (it’ll hopefully be over by Christmas tbh – BANTZ!) and NUFC are away that weekend. If it’s the week after, then I’m fucked basically.

Cheap bantz digs aside, well done Sunderland. A well organised and nice course with just the right amount of runners. See, I told you I could be a right soft bastard.

PS Enjoy League One. (Bantz!)

‘I’m not sure what to say, except it’s Christmas and we’re all in misery’

Ellen Griswold – National Lampoons Christmas Vacation

A big hello to all my subscribers. I’m sure the both of you are overjoyed to see me back spouting shite. Last November I promised a Christmas special. I also promised to cut down my drinking on a match day and paint the front door. In short, here is the Christmas special. Four months late. In April. Enjoy. 

2018 in Review 

I will never have a better year of running than 2018. That’s either a great achievement or a depressing fact, dependent on how wank my last run has been. Personal records what I broke in 2018 were…drum roll… 

• Most miles in a year – 1,142.7 
• 5k PB – 24.00 
• 10k PB – 50:55 
• Half Marathon PB – 1:54:52 
• Most Times Undercarriage Chaffed – 17 

The Half Marathon one is especially worth being a two shits about. Ten bastard years I’ve spent trying to break 2 hours. I was always so close yet so far – the closest I’d ever got was a flying 2:03 at Blackpool in 2016, where I died a thousand deaths on the last 5k as I hit the Lower Prom and the mother fucker of all head winds. Two years later I returned, attacked the shite out of it, and finished 9 mins quicker. One day they’ll make a film about it.  Daniel Craig will play me.

Like any Christmas special, you need a flashback/montage filler. With that it mind, click below to view my race reports from 2018. You’re welcome. 

Blackpool Half Marathon

North Tyneside 10k

Quayside 5k

Great North Run 

Red  

Every January friends, acquaintances, people from work, randoms, all ask me the same question: 

‘I’m going to start running in January, what advice have you got?’ 

My answer is always the same. Don’t start running in January. The weather is shite, it’s dark pretty much most of the day and you’ve had an obscene amount to eat and drink over Christmas. You will hate it and give up. I’m a runner (ahahahahahaha) and I really struggle to motivate myself in January due to all of the above. Which is where RED comes in. 

I won’t go into the big speal about RED, but you can read all about it here https://redtogether.co.uk/ and importantly sign up in the process. Basically, every January you’re encouraged to Run Every Day in support of Mental Health. Whether that be your own, or to raise awareness or money for the cause. Very important, very worthwhile. You get some lovely red laces. You can also join the Facebook group for support although, to be honest, I found it to be full of people complaining that they didn’t want to run every day and it was too hard. So how supportive you’ll find that crowd, I’m not sure. The clue was in the friggin title to be fair. The point is though (as there is one) I did complete the challenge and ended up posting 115 miles. 

2019  

So, what does 2019 have in store? Well, not this years North Tyneside 10k thats for sure. Having had no problems in the past getting into this race pre-xmas, this year it was sold out well in advance. I could have kicked/flicked/death stared the cat. I am really annoyed/pissed off about not getting in to be honest. It’s my local race and I’ve been getting faster year on year. It’s also a race with a capacity for 2,200 that only 1,700 turn up for. I can’t get in, yet I guarantee 500 knackers won’t even bother getting their arses out for it. Piss take. 

Instead, like Frodo’s dangerous journey into Mordor, I will be running the Sunderland City Half Marathon on the 12th of May. Usually I can’t run this. Newcastle are always at home on the last Sunday of the season with a wanky 12pm kick off making it logistically impossible. However, due to the mackems basically playing non-league football these days the fixtures have been kinder and it’s on. Review will follow, where I’ll be really kind. Honest. This year also sees me do Great North Run numero 9. Can I finally break 2 hours there? Can I shite, unless they remove at least 30,000 runners from the pens or put me at the front. Still, I do love that run…