The One At The Doctors

It’s ages since I’ve been to a doctor’s surgery, years even; I think the last time might have been 2003 when I had to get a ridiculous amount of inoculations to ward off Japanese Tetsi-Fly Flesh-Eating Syndrome (was it?) during my round the world travels. To everywhere but Japan.

I made an appointment at the local health centre this morning to get a diagnosis of why my left foot has been hurting so much recently and, as is the norm whenever I visit a doctor, the ailment for which I’ve made the appointment is nowhere to be seen (or felt) when I arrive. However, I’m glad to see from the list in the waiting room that my doctor has a degree in sports medicine so I have half a chance of avoiding the usual “drink plenty liquids and keep it elevated” retort.

Doc: “Morning. What seems to be the trouble then?”
Neil: “Well… I’ve been doing a bit of running lately in preparation for the London Marathon next year…” did he narrowly avoid spitting his cup of tea all over his desk just then? “…and I’m getting these sharp, shooting, agonising pains in my left foot. I’m wondering whether I might have cracked a little bone and I really think I should could get an x-ray because I’m just about to ask people to sponsor me and I want a proper diagnosis so that I can actually complete this madness and, and…”
Doc: “Right, first things first. You’re not the lightest of runners are you?”
Neil: “Well.. I..”
Doc: “Do you have the proper running shoes?”
Neil: “Em.. yeah, I do NOW but up until Sunday I was just using my crappy old trainers.”
Doc *rolls eyes*: “Right, let’s see the foot then.” He prods and pokes and taps and squeezes without causing the merest hint of pain. “Well, I’m pretty sure nothing’s broken here.”
Neil: “But I should still get an x-ray to know for sure, right?”
Doc: “Less than 20% of foot stress fractures show up on an x-ray so no, I wouldn’t recommend that. But here’s the telephone number of the Edinburgh University Sports Injury Clinic if you want to pay for a full biomechanical assessment.”
Neil: “They can rebuild me and give me a bionic foot?”
Doc: “No. But they’ll make sure you’re running properly with the correct shoes and not doing anything untoward to cause this pain. Personally, I think your body’s just reacting to the shock of dealing with something new and unfamiliar. Have you thought about doing more cross training?”
Neil: “Running angry you mean?”
Doc: “No. I mean cycling or anything which gives you a similar workout without putting heavy pressure on your foot. Have you ever been to a gym?”
Neil: “Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, oh that’s a good one Doc… I was once IN THE VICINITY of a gym; passed it on the way to the office so, yeah!”
Doc: “Well, give it some thought, see how your new running shoes work out and if the problem persists, definitely call that number I gave you... not here you understand, the number in EDINBURGH. Okay?”
Neil: “Thanks Doc, I will.”

At this point, he didn’t appear to be reaching into his desk to give me a lollipop so I took that as my cue to leave and affected my famous little Keizer Soze limp to take me to the door. Join a gym… ha ha ha ha ha, aye right!

The One With The New Shoes

I got a call from the running store on Boxing Day informing me that the shoes I ordered (“freakishly extra wide” for “special” runners) had arrived, so this morning I went to collect them. And here they are. Pretty, huh? I was a bit disappointed they didn't have flashing lights or wheels in the heels but how cool is the personalised initial on the side?

As I tried them on, they seemed to gently and seductively wrap around my feet and I devoured the explanatory blurb on the box in an effort to discover more…

“Comfortable and cushioned training shoe constructed for the neutral runner seeking a responsive ride. (Yeah baby!) The interior PHANTOM LINER and lightweight mesh upper will keep your feet feeling great as you run the miles. With our patented padding technology of Baby Pandas & Angel Tears™, blisters are a thing of the past and you’ll never feel any pain anywhere ever again.”

Okay, the last sentence isn’t entirely true (I still get the odd blister) but from the first moment the young oik assistant let me try them out on the store treadmill, I knew this was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. Let’s just hope the doctor doesn’t tell me my foot is already broken when I go and see him on Tuesday.

The One On Christmas Day

Remember last year when I said there’s no better place to be on Christmas Day than St. Andrews? Well there isn’t, and I’m back here again, this time with all my siblings, partners and children (the partners and children of my siblings, that is… not mine... 'cause they're back at the kibbutz) and at 8am this morning I was down at the West Sands with chipper twins Rona and Keith to go for a run. I had a brief jog yesterday afternoon when I was “working from home” and felt no ill effects in my left foot so naturally assumed that my body had simply cured itself and one more run in my shitty old trainers would do me no further harm. I was wrong.

Two thirds of the way to the far end of the sands, the foot-throbbing was back and I had to stop and watch the twinnies run effortlessly into the distance. I hobbled about for a while hoping the pain would just disappear miraculously (why does healing take so long?) and occasionally clutched a fencepost for support, pretending I was doing a bit of stretching for any passing dog-walkers who might have given a shit.

Eventually the twinnies reappeared on the horizon and seemed to be coming back at quite a sprint so I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d have to suck it up and start jogging again to try and convey the impression that stepping onto the first rung of running competence might be somewhere in my immediate future. And here’s where I learned some invaluable lessons about marathon training.

(i) When you are in agonising pain, STOP f#cking running.
(ii) If you think running a marathon is a “race”, you better be training for the Olypmics.
(iii) Leave your ego at home on the mantelpiece (alongside the dignity you discarded when you chose the saggy-assed jogging pants) because no good can come from trying to keep up with runners who are fitter and more experienced than you.
(iv) See rule (i)

Anyway, the rest of the day in St. Andrews was gorgeous in every respect, despite me not being able to run and catch a two year-old in the park before dinner, and my secret Santa got me a lovely long-sleeved, skin tight, base layer running top which accentuates every single small ripple of your muscles and six-pack / spare-tyre ‘cuddly’ bits*. I’d post a photo of me modelling it but I’m sure you’ve just finished your turkey and stuffing and I wouldn’t want you to see your Christmas dinner consumption in reverse.

*delete as appropriate

The One With Gillian Anderson Part 2

It's been a week now since my left foot sustained the LIFE THREATENING INJURY that might just mean I have to give up this RIDICULOUS MARATHON ENDEAVOUR and go off and smoke a nice cigarette instead. But after four days of no-one taking any notice whatsoever of me curled up in the corner whimpering for sympathy and attention, I decided it might be best to remove the fake intravenous drip and go back to something productive. Like dreaming about Gillian Anderson in lycra.

Ever since I gave up smoking and began this exercise lark, I’ve had a lot of trouble sleeping. I’ve had no trouble getting to sleep (especially with the latest Stephen Hawking “page-turner” by my bedside) but my body, and especially my brain, seems to want to operate in sleep shifts of four hours maximum and wakes me up unexpectedly with scant respect for how I might feel about the situation. This morning, for instance, I was awake (and I mean WIDE awake) at 4am, which was especially annoying because only moments before, Gillian Anderson had started revealing the top of her left thigh to show me her new tattoo before the Sweet-Effin-Jesus-Will-You-PUH-LEASE-Let-Me-Finish-Just-One-Dream alarm clock kicked in.

It’s gonna be another week till my foot feels pain-free enough to pound the streets again. If only I could find suitable, calorie-burning exercise to do at four in the morning.

The One At Lunchtime

Some of the running articles I’ve been reading advocate finding a training partner. They say stuff like “Enlist the help of a friend,” in a tone that’s just a little too cheery for my liking before underlining that, “this is great for companionship or for the rivalry, or for both!” I’m sorry, “companionship”? Isn’t that something for sad middle-aged, singletons who spend weekends huddled by the fire, wrapped up in patchwork shawls, supping a hearty broth of winter vegetables, when they articulate the relationship they have with ALL 15 OF THEIR CATS? Well I can assure you sir that is not me because I do not, repeat NOT, own a shawl. Not a patchwork one anyway.

Anyway, like a cow’s opinion, it’s a moo point because I prefer to run on my own so I can…

a) go at my own pace.
b) stop whenever I want / cough up a lung, whichever comes first.
c) run in quiet areas where my saggy-assed, cotton jogging pants won’t be subject to a lot of finger-pointing and ridicule… Nike-clad 5 year-olds can be so cruel.

But yesterday I bucked that trend when valued work colleague Eric B (seen here with pal Rakim during the time of their successful hip hop revolution in the mid 80s) persuaded me to go jogging with him at lunchtime. This was more than a little daunting and embarrassing for me, not only because Eric is very fit and attends the gym regularly, but because my own hip hop revolution dissolved and died somewhat in 1988 after the release of the much misunderstood “Stickin’ It To The Gangsta Hamster” album.

However, I needn’t have worried. Eric was polite enough not to mention the 1980s and instead educated me in the importance of “stretching”, a process by which the muscles in your legs should be warmed up and then “stretched” (hence the name) to prevent injury and ensure longer lasting muscle freshness. Who knew?

The other thing I learned during our 40 minute excursion is that when you’re very fit, you can run and talk AT THE SAME TIME. This is an astonishing feat to me and one which currently, I have zero ability to perform but Eric gets through a mind-boggling myriad of topics, from Gaza to Gazza, whilst I can only retort with the odd thumbs-up (or down) coupled with a barely audible, “Muth… Effin… Hol… Swee… Eff… Chr… Jes... stard!”

It was my toughest workout so far in this ridiculous venture but I felt great, if a little sleepy, for the rest of yesterday afternoon. By the evening I was grateful for a comfortable seat at the SECC to see Coldplay live in concert. And by 10am this morning I could barely f#cking walk from the indescribable waves of pain shooting up through my left foot.

Oh f#ck!

The One At The Running Store Part 2

It’s my wee sister Rona’s 40th birthday today and she’s in Scotland for a few days so we arrange to meet at ‘Run 4 It’ on Lothian Road so we can spend three quality hours debating lycra v supercotton and compression vest v base layer. Actually, that’s not quite true; in reality, we arrange to meet at Starbucks for large coffees and sticky buns and ‘Run 4 It’ just happens to be across the road.

But this is fortuitous because I’ve finally decided to abandon my initial, run-in-any-old-shitty-trainers-and-hope-for-the-best strategy and get something more appropriate instead. Unlike last time, I am well armed with all the right information when a different sales assistant approaches…

Sales Assistant: “Good morning sir. Lovely day.”
Neil: “It certainly is young man, aren’t you a strapping lad. Now see here… I’m running the London Marathon next year and require a new pair of running shoes with a neutrallie gaitness and a 2E width for my freakishly-wide feet. Can you show me please what you have in a size 8?”

I think the young oik must have had a wee touch of the cold because he made a sort of stifled snorting sound before disappearing through to the back of the shop. Alas, like last time, none of the shoes in stock were of the required width so he agreed to order them, promising a pre-Christmas delivery. For now then, I shall revert to my initial shitty-old-trainers strategy which I’m still convinced will be absolutely no problem whatsoever.

The One Where I Finally Remembered The iPod

Last year I received a lovely little iPod Shuffle as a gift for being the World’s Best Best Man™ and it really is the perfect size and level of technology for my limited attention span and level of technological kno… um… sorry, I drifted off there for a second.

Rona told me that her iPod was a Godsend when she started training in January but as yet, I’ve always managed to forget to take mine out with me when I go running, probably because of my limited attention sp...

Anyway, today I had it in the office and took it with me at lunchtime when I jogged down to the Gyle shopping mall (probably a mile and a half away) to buy a birthday present for Rona. On the way down, the weather was overcast but dry (“with an outside chance of precipitation”, as Heather on TV would say) and I enjoyed a selection of fine rocking tunes which definitely seemed to put the slightest of springs in my step. However, when I emerged from Marks & Spencer after 15 minutes of shopping, the heavens had opened and it was “p#ssing it down big style like an elephant with a bladder control problem”, as Heather probably wouldn’t say.

The first two minutes of running in the rain were truly miserable but remarkably, after I was as wet as I could get, it was actually quite refreshing and, dare I say it without sounding like a complete running w#nker, slightly spiritually uplifting.

Now I’m no scientist (certainly not since the funding for my ambitious TWIPAS – Turn Woman Into Pizza After Sex – Project was withdrawn by Congress following allegations of “playing God”) but there’s something chemical going in your body when you run. (probably all the little numskulls in the left hand side of my brain screaming “WHAT THE F#CK?” to the ones in the right – see Fig. A below) and it must make your emotions rise very close to the surface. Get the wrong song on your iPod and you could, I would imagine, quite easily find yourself bawling like Kate Winslet at the Golden Globes… were she to somehow win two awards on the same night… when the ceremony takes place in five weeks time!?!

Anyway, not that this happened to me or anything, but let’s just say that for safety’s sake, Sarah Mclachlan’s “When She Loved Me” from the ‘Toy Story 2’ soundtrack is now safely stored back out of harm’s way on iTunes.

The One With Gillian Anderson Part 1

In the middle of November, things got really busy in the office (hence the considerable gap till the next post). I was working long hours and weekends which made it hard to get out running as often but very easy to lapse into delirious, stress-induced, nicotine-deprived daydreaming about Gillian Anderson and how good she would look wrapped in lycra, jogging beside me (or ideally, just in front of me) for all 26.2 miles of the London marathon.

However, I remember today in particular because it was the day I started a new early morning stretching regime – a subtle procedure combining the Zen movement of yoga and the hands-on dexterity of Yoda – which a friend assured me would “set me up right, so it will” for the day. It did.

The One With The First Jog

Today my running plan says “Rest” but since I went to see the new James Bond film last night (only 6/10) instead of doing another “Easy 15-20 minute jog”, tonight is my first venture out on to the mean streets of Linlithgow.

Arriving home from work promptly at 5pm, I immediately sling (haul?) on my saggy-assed, navy cotton jogging pants (ladies – did your hearts just skip a beat there?), pull (heave?) on the heaviest, moisture-absorbing sweatshirt I can find and strap (force?) myself into some ill-fitting training shoes to pound (obliterate?) the pavements outside. At least I get the timing right, arriving back home precisely 20 minutes later. I have absolutely no idea what happened to the “easy” and “jog” bits.

The One With The Preliminary Plan

The running magazine Rona gave me back in August outlines a sixteen-week training plan for first time marathon beginners which should commence in January in the run up to the April race.

[Right, that is the last f#cking time I am ever calling this event a “race”. By any stretch of the imagination, this is not a thing in which there are any winners and losers. Just losers.]

However, Rona also sent me an eight-week “preliminary” - from the Latin “pre” meaning “before” and “liminary” meaning “being seen in public wearing lycra during daylight hours” - plan for people like me who view the mantle of “beginner” as still some way off in the distance.

The plan starts today and, in warm, comforting, Woganesque tones, it states “Easy 15-20 minute jog”. Starting as I mean to go on, I completely ignore this blarney and go and play an hour of five-a-side football instead. I’m sure something approaching a ‘jog’ was apparent during that hour but the best result is how much easier it is to breathe without coughing up a lung. There might be something to this non-smoking lark after all.

The One At The Running Store Part 1

Even after only a week of non-smoking I can feel myself putting on weight (I suppose the six square meals a day don’t help) so I’m going to need the most supportive shoes possible to get me started. Edinburgh has two specialist running stores that I know about so today I decided to visit both to see which one deserves my custom.

Many years ago during the 1980s there was a famous sketch on ‘Not The Nine O’clock News’ in which Rowan Atkinson goes into an electronics dealer to buy a new stereo but has absolutely no idea what to ask for. He ends up getting the piss ripped out of him by Smith & Jones when he doesn’t know the difference between 3 amps and 100 watts. This is all I can think about as I enter ‘Run 4 It’ on Lothian Road at 10am this morning.

Sales Assistant: “Good morning sir. Lovely day.”
Neil: “Hi there, yes, I’m looking to buy some running shoes because I’m.. ahem.. running the London Marathon next year.”
SA: “No problem sir. Have you ever had your gait assessed before?”
Neil: “Um.. no, I don’t think so, but I did give it a good oiling last winter when it got a bit squeaky.”
SA: “No sir, your running G.A.I.T., we need to see how your foot plants itself on the ground before recommending a shoe. Do you have a tendency to over-pronate at all?”
Neil: “Well I’m keen to see the proper use of semi-colons observed at all times but I wouldn’t say I was excessive.”
SA: “PRONate sir. Assessing how your foot rolls as you run?”
Neil: “Ah yes, very good young lady. Carry on.”

And so she asked me to take off my shoes and socks and walk up and down the store so she could observe all the gaitin’ and pronatin’. Have you ever tried to walk when someone asks you to do precisely that? It’s really hard, thinking consciously about putting one foot in front of the other and resisting the urge to throw in a little catwalk spin when you reach the changing rooms at the far end.

After several minutes of this lung-bursting activity I received the diagnosis that I had a fairly neutral gait and was offered several styles of shoe to try on. It was at this point that the neutrality of my gaitness (is that right?) was attributed to the freakish width of both feet and none of the eight different pairs of shoes I eventually tried on was even close to fitting.

SA: “We could get the extra wide shoes ordered today if you’d like sir?”
NS: “I’ll leave it for the time being thanks,” I replied, spotting the perfect opportunity to get out and go to the other store before I caved and bought whatever they told me to buy.

I’m not naming the other store on Dalry Road, just along from Haymarket beside the golf shop, because they took bloody ages to ask me if I needed help and their literature was a bit snooty and precious about running… “We don’t DO specialist shoes for moonwalks.” Reminds me of a Trevor and Simon sketch from the early 90s.

So I’m going to save myself a bit of money and do any exercise in my old training shoes meantime. I’m sure that will be absolutely no problem whatsoever.

The One Where I Actually Quit Smoking

At quarter to one this morning I smoked my last cigarette. Work was busy so the only time I thought about cigarettes was the 153 separate instances when colleagues asked chirpily, “So how’s the non-smoking going then?” After I'd mumbled "Fine thanks", I'm afraid I didn’t quite catch their follow-up question because I happened to have my fist in their faces at the time.

And now I have to go to bed before I light up my socks.

The One With The Nicotine Patches

I bought seven days worth of nicotine patches today (I’m hoping that equates to somewhere in the region of 140 cigarettes) and Christ are they expensive! It’s almost cheaper to smoke. But once I’ve applied four over my mouth I guess that negates the problem of inhaling, right?

The One Where I Decide To Quit Smoking

If I’m going to run a marathon I can’t continue to smoke cigarettes. For one thing, the rush of wind as I sprint along will make them hard to light. Ha, ha, ha. So since November 1st has been a significant date for me in the past (started a new primary school; started working; started my round-the-world trip) I have chosen today to make a concerted effort to stop smoking.

However, I received a proposition earlier which will mean drinking, eating and sneaky smoking tonight so not wishing to appear rude, I said “absof#ckinglutely” and have postponed the effort for another day. Saturday was such a stupid day to try and give up something anyway. Same for Sunday. Let’s go for Monday because they’re always such stress free days.

The One With All The Swearing

Today I was on a “Volunteering Day” with some colleagues from the office which essentially involved me sneaking off to the bushes for fly cigarettes at every opportunity while others dug holes and planted fruit trees for the scurvy-ridden children of Craigmillar.

As we were sitting drinking cups of tea at the end of the day (2pm) my phone rang and a girl called Natalie from the NAS informed me ever so matter-of-factly that I had been successful in securing a place in the 2009 Flora London Marathon. I think my initial reaction was something like, “Oh Sweet Jesus F#cking Hell, I’m Really F#cking Gonna Have To F#cking Do This Now, Right?” but all that actually squeaked out of my mouth at the time was, “Oh right! How.. um.. lovely!”

I called Rona and she’d been successful with her application also so we will be “running” this motherf#cking thing together next April.

F#ck.

F#ckity F#ck.

The One In Chicago

It’s official. I am now the only Sutherland child not to have run a marathon. This morning, Keith completed the Chicago marathon in four and three quarter hours, a remarkable feat considering the temperatures were in the 90s. Sh#t, it looks like I’m really going to have to do this. Only the fickle, gnarled hand of fate can now stand in my way. That, or the NAS telling me their places have been vastly oversubscribed and gosh, darnit, really sorry Neil but you’ve been unsuccessful in gaining a place, especially because you lied so blatantly about your vest size.

The One With The Application Form

Today is the closing date to submit my “Flora London Marathon 2009 Gold Bond Registration Form” to the NAS. I’ve had at it home now for four weeks. I only posted it two days ago. Well, it had all types of confusing questions like…

1. “What size running vest would you like?” The tick boxes only went up to “XL” (WTF?) so I ticked “S” for a laugh.
2. “What name would you like on your running vest?” - ‘Lightningboy’, obviously.
3. “Will you be wearing fancy dress?” - “See question 1”.

Anyway, it’s now in the post and with any luck there will be thousands of applicants for the limited number of places and I’ll miss out and be able to tell everyone that I was THIS CLOSE to running a marathon and it was so totally somebody else’s fault that denied me the opportunity… “I really wanted to do it, you know…”

Yeah, that would be a result… *lights cigarette with satisfyingly smug sigh..*

The One Where I Decide To Run A Marathon

Today is the day I decided to run a marathon. Actually, maybe it was yesterday? Or perhaps not till tomorrow? I know it was the weekend I was staying with my sister Rona and her family down south in Oxford but I’m writing this five months later and can’t quite remember the exact day or time she TRICKED ME INTO AGREEING TO DO IT, MAKING ME SIGN A PACT WITH THE DEVIL IN MY OWN BLOOD IN THE PROCESS.

I’ve never wanted to run a marathon before. EVER. Even after my brother Stuart ran the Glasgow marathon in the 1980s in some ridiculous time of an hour and a half, or something. I’ve always thought it was a pointless waste of effort and time; time that could be much better spent in any number of preferable ways (head-shaving and tin foil-chewing spring to mind), not least of which is lying in your bed with a hangover on a Sunday morning in April watching the “race” on television as other idiots shuffle round London in ridiculous costumes trying to avoid getting interviewed by John Craven / Hazel Irvine / That Hot Blonde Who’s Married To The Scottish Rugby Player.

But all that changed at the beginning of last year when Rona decided to run the London Marathon in support of the National Autistic Society (NAS). During 2007, Rona’s beautiful wee son Tommy was diagnosed as autistic and she and husband Al received some wonderful advice and support from the NAS. I don’t think she’d mind me saying that she was never the most sporty of individuals (unless Soho bar-hopping, red wine guzzling and drinking-The-Signals-under-the-table can be categorized as sports) so to see her go from a standing start (literally) on January 4th to completing the marathon on April 13th was truly inspirational.

This, of course, was when the sibling sorcery began and she first of all tricked twin brother Keith into signing up for the Chicago marathon in October, informing me of his agreement with a conversation that went something like…

“You realise when Keith does Chicago, you’ll be the only one NOT to have run a marathon? It’ll be like that time you dropped out of university and had to spend the next 20 years looking at all our graduation pictures at Mum’s; only this time it’ll be marathon medals. Is that what you want?.. eh?.. Eh?.. EH?”

No. Indeed. That is NOT what I want and in tapping into the one thing that might actually provide some motivation for attempting this madness, she has unleashed the big brother beast which WILL NOT REST, day or night, until rightful ‘golden child’ status has been reinstated with a lavish ceremony during which a bejewelled crown will be gently and reverently placed once again upon my golden haired head. I am off. And “running”… right after I finish this cigarette…