Billy Bunter rides again

Last Saturday I was awoken at the ludicrous hour of 7 Am in the morning. Then in my bleary sleepy state presented with a Banana. I had either had a fantastic night out with the lads and had woken up in the Monkey enclosure at Wellington Zoo, or I was going running.

What the fraggle!

Wembley hated running too

 

I am embarking on an exciting new life with a wonderful woman, and as part of this excitement I have decided to get back in shape. I could bore you with tales of athleticism past, but unless you were a professional sportsperson who really cares about how far you could run at high school or what social rugby team you used to play in. No-one.

But suffice to say my body was a little more carrot shaped back when I was younger,  around circa 1623 AD I think. Now I am more, well stout.

I am not he who stole all the pies, but I am perhaps a member of a successful Pie gang. Pastry McCoy has a nice ring to it.

 

But a new life, a new family, a new home, a healthier lifestyle and the opportunity to walk up stairs without making a noise like a randy moose.

My girl likes running. I can’t explain why she enjoys it.  Running for me seemed quite pointless.  Unless you are being chased, or are chasing someone (or a delicious pie), it seems a stupid thing to do.  So when friends of mine suggested to my lovely lady they belong to this running club, no one was more surprised than I, when I volunteered to join up with them.

Yes lardy lardison, from the clan MacPastry, from the isle of gourmand has decided to take up running.

Madness.

Back to last Saturday, we arrived at lower Hutt to be presented with a mixed bag of runners. Some too fit to be fair, and others who seemed  more at my pace.

The atmosphere was jolly, except within a metre of me, as I had suddenly become an  75 year old hater from 1947. There was muttering and swearing and that was just getting out of the car. But there was an introduction,  and then we were off to run five k’s.

At first it was a closed in herd of runners, but pretty swiftly the gazelle like athletes were off to beat their last time with the same determination I have with enjoying a delicious raspberry slice.  Then the herd broke up into a steady stream of runners.  I took it easy trying to pace myself. I am not one of life’s marathon runners, more of a cheetah. A cheetah designed to sprint into bakeries and pubs and cinemas and indulge in deliciousness.

yum

 

And I guess that is why I am running

Right so running, running, and more running.  Wow I am doing awesome.

“Right how much have we run?” I asked

“There are markers spray painted on the track.” My beloved panted.

I kept an eye out as we trotted along.  Around halfway there I was looking ahead to see if we could see the first runners returning to the start when I saw the marker. 1KM.

What? Sure I have run elevenity million billion miles by now. ONE MILLION!  But no, while my lardy arse thought I was running a marathon, apparently I hadn’t even made it to the shops yet.

I made it to two k’s before I had to stop to walk. I got my breath and trotted on again. This continued, stop, start, walk, run.  Except the walking got longer and longer, and the runs got briefer. 

I have to say there were some very nice people on the run.  One woman was very encouraging, and there was a an older chap who gave me advice and wanted me to run with him . But by that stage I knew I would only hold him back.

I managed to give it one final push to the finish line so I actually ran over it, I say run, more like a determined stagger. There was a photographer cheerfully taking a picture of my misery. I weighed up whether I had sufficient energy to punch him right in the zoom lens, but thought it would be bad form not to finish on my very first try.

So I did it.  I will not disgrace myself by telling you my time, or where I finished. The organisers were very encouraging, and my friends and girl were very supportive. I was an ungracious irritable troll.

Five kilometres seems like a long way, but is it? Are we so soft as a culture that we can’t make five k’s without some sort of attack.

I am not built for running, I do not like running. I will never like running, it is rubbish. However I do need to get fit.  So this Saturday you will find me shivering and muttering.  I will remember my iPod, and I will do it again to the sound of Protobot and the Ruts.

I hope to eventually get the level of health where I can run the track and still beat some smirking sports paparazzi to death with his 35-105 zoom lens.  Or be a good weight for my wedding.

Sigh the things we do.

P.S.

Running sucks!