STOP PRESS... Marathon completed in 5:56:28 (hours, mins & secs... NOT days)... STOP... Wee sister Rona finishes in awesome 4:52:36... STOP... Body still in one piece, just... STOP... Never, EVER doing anything like this again, EVER!... STOP... then again...?!?
Sunday, 26 April 2009
Saturday, 25 April 2009
Thursday, 23 April 2009
The One With The Global Position Thingy
In an hour’s time I’m heading to the airport to fly to London on a jet plane. My bags are packed, I’m ready to go and quite frankly I am ever so slightly sh#tting myself. On the plus side though, all my immediate family are going to be there, even my wee-est brother Keithy who’s skipping parole and jumping (bail) on a flight from Texas in order to feed me cut-up Mars bars every 5 miles or so on Sunday.
If you’d like to watch out for me on television, my running number is 41484 and I’ll be the one in the maroon running vest and white shorts. And knees pads. Near the back. Beside the guy in the deep sea diving suit. But you know that already. I’ve tried to find out whether there’s some kind of fancy on-line GPS tracking system you can use to tell whether I go “off the grid” and jump on the tube instead, but it all seems to be connected to Adidas’s text update service through the website below and that’s all far too complicated for me to research further, much less understand.
http://marathon.mhub3.net/
With luck, I’ll get back on-line on Sunday evening with news of the outcome. Either that or I’ll buy an iPhone and post an update from my hospital bed. Meantime, many thanks to Alasdair & Sheena, Ken & Christine, Linda, Kate and Kirsty for their kind sponsorship in the last few days, it’s very much appreciated. Here goes nothin'...
If you’d like to watch out for me on television, my running number is 41484 and I’ll be the one in the maroon running vest and white shorts. And knees pads. Near the back. Beside the guy in the deep sea diving suit. But you know that already. I’ve tried to find out whether there’s some kind of fancy on-line GPS tracking system you can use to tell whether I go “off the grid” and jump on the tube instead, but it all seems to be connected to Adidas’s text update service through the website below and that’s all far too complicated for me to research further, much less understand.
http://marathon.mhub3.net/
With luck, I’ll get back on-line on Sunday evening with news of the outcome. Either that or I’ll buy an iPhone and post an update from my hospital bed. Meantime, many thanks to Alasdair & Sheena, Ken & Christine, Linda, Kate and Kirsty for their kind sponsorship in the last few days, it’s very much appreciated. Here goes nothin'...
Sunday, 19 April 2009
The One With A Flock Of Seagulls
It’s been a tortuous week; mentally, far more than physically. I can only recall two decent nights worth of sleep in the last nine despite all manner of sedative drugs, not to mention extra-fluffy pyjamas. Here's what happened last week...
Saturday 11/04 & Sunday 12/04: Back in the pool both days for more “running”, “walking”, “cycling”, “flapping”, “flailing”, and assorted “near-drownings”. Feel like an idiot walking up and down the pool while pensioners glide by me with effortless front crawls. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the bright orange, blow-up armbands? Or the flowery bathing cap?
Monday 13/04: Like Rocky after getting hammered by Clubber Lang and watching old Mickey die, I return timidly to the gym this evening unsure whether my body can take any of the exertions it needs and uncertain whether my mind has the will to even try. Strap on the knee supports and get back on the bike (literally) for some low impact cycling, followed by some treadmill “power” walking, followed by some cross-training, followed by some ice cream.
Tuesday 14/04: Long, sh#tty day back at work is not helped when my knees become very sore in the afternoon after last night’s exercise. And an even more exhausting night follows watching Liverpool and Chelsea fight out a 4-4 draw. Knackered.
Wednesday 15/04: Back in the pool for more of the same as before. But without the armbands. Or cap.
Thursday 16/04: Back to the gym for more of the same as before. But without the knee supports. Apparently it will help build the strength in my knees quicker if I don’t wear them, says my gym instructor Leann. Or wreck them quicker if I push too hard, says one of the 138 conflicting voices in my head.
Friday 17/04: “Working” from home today because I have another appointment this afternoon with my Manual Lymphatic Drainage Therapist & Clinical Aromatherapist, or “Helen”, as I like to call her. She does her stuff and says very optimistic things about my chances of running this weekend and then makes me a cup of tea. As I drive home, I finally decide that one way or another I will be lining up at the start for the London Marathon on April 26th. All thoughts of a target time of five hours have disappeared and I’m at peace with the fact that if I have to walk the entire 26.2 miles then so be it. It’s not how I envisaged or wanted it to unfold but for all sorts of reasons I need to complete this thing. More importantly, I want to complete this thing. There… it’s decided.
Saturday 17/04: I need to try running this weekend so in an attempt to rediscover some nostalgic mojo, I drive to my old home town of Falkirk to soak up the atmosphere of its big public park where I used to go running and play mini golf when I was young. Power walking around the grass is certainly easier on the feet and legs but I’m too sh#t scared to break into a run. Have an ice cream to calm my anxiety… it never fails to help.
Sunday 18/04: Last weekend I made the mistake of watching a film called ‘Unbreakable’ which I’d taped (‘taped’, how quaint) ages ago. If you’ve never seen it, it was made by the same guy who made that one about the kid who could see dead people and like that one, it also stars Bruce Willis, but this time he’s not a psychiatrist who’s actually – Plot Spoiler Alert - dead.
Anyway, in ‘Unbreakable’, Samuel L Jackson plays a weird character who has some kind of brittle bone syndrome and in one particularly horrific scene, the weight of his unfeasibly large afro hairstyle makes him keel over and fall down a flight of stairs shattering almost every bone in his body. When I watched it, I realised it was exactly what I’ve been envisaging will happen if I ever try running again. With a large afro.
But I can’t put if off any longer so today I went out and started with half an hour of walking in the glorious sunshine. Returned to the house to collect some juice and do some stretching and then stood outside my house for what seemed like hours trying to…
a) remember how to run, and
b) pluck up the courage to start.
When I finally begin, it feels like I’m trying to run without having my feet touch the ground but every contact I make with the concrete sets off one of the 138 screaming voices in my head… “What. The. F#ck. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing. I. Thought. We. Had. Agreed. That. This. Was. All. A. Big. Mis… WARNING. WARNING. Six. Inch. Kerb. Ahead. Pull. Parachute. Cord. Now. Pull. PULL.”
Anyway, I manage a couple of miles in a sort of stop-start, run-walk fashion, which I know doesn’t sound a lot, but it felt very good to me. I RAN.
Favourite iPod moment of the day was Hothouse Flowers singing ‘I Can See Clearly Now’. I loved this band twenty odd years ago (Twenty?!? WTF?) and I’d quite like it if this is the song that’s playing when I cross the finish line next week.
This may be the last time I write here before the marathon next Sunday. If you’re trying to spot me on television, I’ll be the one in the maroon running vest at the back beside the guy in the deep sea diving suit. Either that or I’ll follow the advice of a friend who last week offered the helpful suggestion, “If your knees are f#cked and you’re gonna just walk it, you might as well dress up in a chicken suit.” Thanks pal.
It only remains for me to say a very big thank you to Murray & Helene, Linda & Kenny, ‘Amish & Vanda, John & Anita, Rachel, Kathryn, Mer (all three ladies in wonderful TX), Marc (the cousin), Mark (the published author), Karen, Alison, Steve, Stuart and Val for their kind and generous sponsorship in the last few weeks.
www.justgiving.com/neilsutherland
Saturday 11/04 & Sunday 12/04: Back in the pool both days for more “running”, “walking”, “cycling”, “flapping”, “flailing”, and assorted “near-drownings”. Feel like an idiot walking up and down the pool while pensioners glide by me with effortless front crawls. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the bright orange, blow-up armbands? Or the flowery bathing cap?
Monday 13/04: Like Rocky after getting hammered by Clubber Lang and watching old Mickey die, I return timidly to the gym this evening unsure whether my body can take any of the exertions it needs and uncertain whether my mind has the will to even try. Strap on the knee supports and get back on the bike (literally) for some low impact cycling, followed by some treadmill “power” walking, followed by some cross-training, followed by some ice cream.
Tuesday 14/04: Long, sh#tty day back at work is not helped when my knees become very sore in the afternoon after last night’s exercise. And an even more exhausting night follows watching Liverpool and Chelsea fight out a 4-4 draw. Knackered.
Wednesday 15/04: Back in the pool for more of the same as before. But without the armbands. Or cap.
Thursday 16/04: Back to the gym for more of the same as before. But without the knee supports. Apparently it will help build the strength in my knees quicker if I don’t wear them, says my gym instructor Leann. Or wreck them quicker if I push too hard, says one of the 138 conflicting voices in my head.
Friday 17/04: “Working” from home today because I have another appointment this afternoon with my Manual Lymphatic Drainage Therapist & Clinical Aromatherapist, or “Helen”, as I like to call her. She does her stuff and says very optimistic things about my chances of running this weekend and then makes me a cup of tea. As I drive home, I finally decide that one way or another I will be lining up at the start for the London Marathon on April 26th. All thoughts of a target time of five hours have disappeared and I’m at peace with the fact that if I have to walk the entire 26.2 miles then so be it. It’s not how I envisaged or wanted it to unfold but for all sorts of reasons I need to complete this thing. More importantly, I want to complete this thing. There… it’s decided.
Saturday 17/04: I need to try running this weekend so in an attempt to rediscover some nostalgic mojo, I drive to my old home town of Falkirk to soak up the atmosphere of its big public park where I used to go running and play mini golf when I was young. Power walking around the grass is certainly easier on the feet and legs but I’m too sh#t scared to break into a run. Have an ice cream to calm my anxiety… it never fails to help.
Sunday 18/04: Last weekend I made the mistake of watching a film called ‘Unbreakable’ which I’d taped (‘taped’, how quaint) ages ago. If you’ve never seen it, it was made by the same guy who made that one about the kid who could see dead people and like that one, it also stars Bruce Willis, but this time he’s not a psychiatrist who’s actually – Plot Spoiler Alert - dead.
Anyway, in ‘Unbreakable’, Samuel L Jackson plays a weird character who has some kind of brittle bone syndrome and in one particularly horrific scene, the weight of his unfeasibly large afro hairstyle makes him keel over and fall down a flight of stairs shattering almost every bone in his body. When I watched it, I realised it was exactly what I’ve been envisaging will happen if I ever try running again. With a large afro.
But I can’t put if off any longer so today I went out and started with half an hour of walking in the glorious sunshine. Returned to the house to collect some juice and do some stretching and then stood outside my house for what seemed like hours trying to…
a) remember how to run, and
b) pluck up the courage to start.
When I finally begin, it feels like I’m trying to run without having my feet touch the ground but every contact I make with the concrete sets off one of the 138 screaming voices in my head… “What. The. F#ck. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing. I. Thought. We. Had. Agreed. That. This. Was. All. A. Big. Mis… WARNING. WARNING. Six. Inch. Kerb. Ahead. Pull. Parachute. Cord. Now. Pull. PULL.”
Anyway, I manage a couple of miles in a sort of stop-start, run-walk fashion, which I know doesn’t sound a lot, but it felt very good to me. I RAN.
Favourite iPod moment of the day was Hothouse Flowers singing ‘I Can See Clearly Now’. I loved this band twenty odd years ago (Twenty?!? WTF?) and I’d quite like it if this is the song that’s playing when I cross the finish line next week.
This may be the last time I write here before the marathon next Sunday. If you’re trying to spot me on television, I’ll be the one in the maroon running vest at the back beside the guy in the deep sea diving suit. Either that or I’ll follow the advice of a friend who last week offered the helpful suggestion, “If your knees are f#cked and you’re gonna just walk it, you might as well dress up in a chicken suit.” Thanks pal.
It only remains for me to say a very big thank you to Murray & Helene, Linda & Kenny, ‘Amish & Vanda, John & Anita, Rachel, Kathryn, Mer (all three ladies in wonderful TX), Marc (the cousin), Mark (the published author), Karen, Alison, Steve, Stuart and Val for their kind and generous sponsorship in the last few weeks.
www.justgiving.com/neilsutherland
Friday, 10 April 2009
The One With A Proper Sport
It’s Good Friday, it’s a beautiful calm, mild day with hazy sunshine and I’m due to be playing golf in Gullane at 9am this morning. I’ve hummed and hawed all week as to whether the combination of my twisting (but majestic) golf swing and walking five miles up and down hills will have a negative impact on my knees. But in the end I decide to wear my running tights and knee supports under my trousers and head out to the links to meet good friends Hawaii and Dave.
Three and a half hours later I’ve recorded seventeen pars and one bogey for a seemingly effortless 72. Golf is such a great game… what the f#ck am I doing trying to run a marathon?
Three and a half hours later I’ve recorded seventeen pars and one bogey for a seemingly effortless 72. Golf is such a great game… what the f#ck am I doing trying to run a marathon?
Thursday, 9 April 2009
The One In The Pool
It’s been seven days since I last ventured out for a run and although my knees feel more stable now when I walk, I’m still too scared to inflict any heavier impact upon them. So early this morning I slipped into my skimpy Speedos and headed to the local swimming pool for what can best be described as "a moistening". Because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s swimming.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I can’t swim. In fact, if you ever find yourself flailing in the shallow end and you’re less than ten feet away from the side of the pool, I will not hesitate to descend the pool steps in a cautious manner taking care not to slip and crack my head open and then reach out my arms to point you in the direction of safety. Any more than ten feet, I’ll throw you a ring.
I just find swimming the most boring (and tiring) activity ever conceived. There’s the water for one thing… it gets everywhere. Luckily though, I hadn’t gone to the swimming pool today to swim; I had gone to “run”… or at the very least, “walk”, up and down the length of the pool for half an hour with a little additional “cycling” throw in for good measure. It didn’t make me feel like I’d made any inroads into all the running I’ve missed in the last week or so but doing something must be better than doing nothing, right?
Incidentally, I noticed from the updated information poster by the side of the pool that “running” and “bombing” are still very much frowned upon in the public swimming arena. However, there was no mention at all of “heavy petting” so I… um... never mind...
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I can’t swim. In fact, if you ever find yourself flailing in the shallow end and you’re less than ten feet away from the side of the pool, I will not hesitate to descend the pool steps in a cautious manner taking care not to slip and crack my head open and then reach out my arms to point you in the direction of safety. Any more than ten feet, I’ll throw you a ring.
I just find swimming the most boring (and tiring) activity ever conceived. There’s the water for one thing… it gets everywhere. Luckily though, I hadn’t gone to the swimming pool today to swim; I had gone to “run”… or at the very least, “walk”, up and down the length of the pool for half an hour with a little additional “cycling” throw in for good measure. It didn’t make me feel like I’d made any inroads into all the running I’ve missed in the last week or so but doing something must be better than doing nothing, right?
Incidentally, I noticed from the updated information poster by the side of the pool that “running” and “bombing” are still very much frowned upon in the public swimming arena. However, there was no mention at all of “heavy petting” so I… um... never mind...
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
The One With The Second Opinion. And The Third.
This morning I went to see an old friend who gives massages. To be fair, she’s actually a Manual Lymphatic Drainage Therapist & Clinical Aromatherapist which means that although I usually go home afterwards feeling like I’ve had a good “going over”, I sure do smell pretty.
As usual when I arrived, she told me to take off my clothes but unusually, she then invited a friend to join us. Struggling to stifle a broad grin, I expected a flurry of camera phones to appear but it turned out her friend was a physiotherapist who’d been told of my knee trauma so they both examined my lower back closely and decided the problem had definitely originated there as a “soft tissue” issue. You see, the back bone is apparently connected to the hip bone and the hip bone’s connected to the *breath* thigh bone and so on and so forth, all the way to the knees and toes, knees and toes.
Anyway, they reckoned I shouldn’t have had the steroids shots yesterday adding more fluid to already fluid-filled knees (also, I don’t think they liked the new breasts) but I suppressed the urge to open my flesh with a scalpel to see what’s really going on and instead managed to lie back quietly for an hour while experienced hands tried to fix me.
As usual when I arrived, she told me to take off my clothes but unusually, she then invited a friend to join us. Struggling to stifle a broad grin, I expected a flurry of camera phones to appear but it turned out her friend was a physiotherapist who’d been told of my knee trauma so they both examined my lower back closely and decided the problem had definitely originated there as a “soft tissue” issue. You see, the back bone is apparently connected to the hip bone and the hip bone’s connected to the *breath* thigh bone and so on and so forth, all the way to the knees and toes, knees and toes.
Anyway, they reckoned I shouldn’t have had the steroids shots yesterday adding more fluid to already fluid-filled knees (also, I don’t think they liked the new breasts) but I suppressed the urge to open my flesh with a scalpel to see what’s really going on and instead managed to lie back quietly for an hour while experienced hands tried to fix me.
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
The One Where I Was Asked To Cough. Twice.
In an effort to combat the inflammation caused by a build up of fluid and grinding cartilage, an orthopaedic surgeon stuck a needle into my left knee twice this morning to give me two steroid shots. I’m not sure if I’ll ever run again but my new breasts sure look pretty.
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