My last long run (until the really long one) went pretty well. I was only doing 15 miles and so decided to try and keep the pace up a bit and subsequently did it a full 20 minutes faster than last time (and wasn't all that tired at the end). There were loads more runners out than usual, which makes you think that many people have just realised that the Marathon is only a fortnight away (I bet they wish they had their own countdown clock now) and are furiously trying to get into shape.
The positive side of this was that it was easier to pace yourself against other people.
One guy started running at my shoulder and said "It's you, isn't it?" I had to admit that he was right. I am me (and I am seen as a bit of a god in running and rowing circles, so I expect this kind of thing. None of the others have said anything, but you can see from the way that they studiously ignore me that running or rowing near me is one of the best things that has ever happened to them in their lives). He told me that he read this weblog and that it had inspired him to carry on with his training (presumably because he thought that if this chunky idiot is doing this then anyone can) and I chatted to him for a while, which was helpful as he was a bit faster than me so I upped my pace even more. I realised I wasn't going to be able to keep up so told him to not let me hold him back. He darted off, only to turn round a few seconds later. "I think I've dropped my glasses," he told me. He went back to look for them. So he may be faster than me, but if that happens on the day, then I might end up beating him. It's like the story of the fat tortoise and the myopic hare.
I hope you found your glasses, mate. Good luck on race day.
We're like a little community: we feel each other's pain.
As usual my response to a successful run was to go out and get pissed. I'm not sure that my body can cope with this see-saw of exercise and abuse, but it better get used to it, cos that's how it's going to be from here on in.
I went out with the mint salesman Al Murray for a few pints. On the way over to his I was frantically scouring the streets for an elusive 555 (I've been looking for one for weeks, even though it is only today that I actually need it, and haven't seen a single one. I can't afford any delays if I'm going to finish by August).
At one point I was thinking about how ridiculous and mental it is for a 36 year old man to be so concerned about this pointless game. I smiled sardonically to myself and as I did so I caught the eye of an extremely drunk man in a football shirt who was walking by at that instant.
"What are you fucking looking at?" he slurred with quite some ferocity. I considered telling him that I was looking at number-plates mainly or possibly at that second at a very drunk ginger-haired man with a red face. But I chose to ignore him and carry on walking (maybe the most sensible option). Luckily he was so drunk that he apparently forgot that I existed the minute he was two metres past me. The one time I've been beaten up in London came from a very similar misunderstanding, so I was slightly shaken.
In the pub, after a couple of pints, the barmaid came over to me and said "Can you settle an argument? The lads over there have a thirty pound bet on that you are that chef from off of "Ready Steady Cook". Are you or aren't you?"
Al Murray almost choked on the Trebor mints that he had been scoffing all night (he really does eat them all the time, so I guess it's OK for him to advertise them - he's even aware that when consumed in large numbers that they have a laxative effect, but he still can't stop himself. He loves them so much).
"No, no. I'm not," I replied.
I bought the man who had staked thirty pounds on me being someone else a pint.
But it would explain why the other bloke really wanted to punch me. And I did have to wonder that if the bloke who'd talked to me during the run had also thought I was the chef off Ready Steady Cook (he did after all need glasses). Possibly the chef off Ready Steady Cook is also running the Marathon and has a weblog about his adventures.
Ah fame, you are a fickle mistress.
