Why I Am Not A Better Blogger

I was inspired by BookMama’s post the other day, saying how she believes that she should have a notebook handy to jot down little Ideas for blog posts but I don’t think a notepad would get the job done for me though, as it occurred to me that the time I am most likely to come up with stuff is on my morning run.

I include this for comedy purposes only ... In real life I am a bronzed Adonis

My running partner and I have a mutual agreement that there is no need to talk whilst running as it tends to get in the way of the breathing process. This affords me plenty of time to think, and while much of that time may wondering what possesses me to get up at 6am to put myself through the pain of a 5 mile run, and how I wish my running mate would “Slow the #*!& down!” (I am not a very nice person in the morning), I try to spend as much time as I can manage thinking about things far more pleasant than running, which is just about anything else.

A number of times I have worked out what I wanted to write about, and even semi-composed the post in my head. The problem is, and this will not be news to the people that know me in the real world, that I really am quite a forgetful person. Actually that is an understatement. So by the time I get out of the shower it is gone. Never to be seen again … well at least not in any controllable way.

This is why a notepad would not be helpful as I cannot just whip out a pad and pencil half way around my run and jot down my notes. This is a problem I fear even Emily can not solve (as a more robust individual, running is no place for any gadget I care about … The cartoon is more accurate that I care to admit).

This is when I started to drift off into imagining some form of neural implant that transcribed my thoughts etc …. But that is just the nerd portion of my personality taking advantage of my weakened state and attempting to take over.

So I will go on record and say I would be a far better blogger … if only I didn’t loose all of my A-Game material in the shower!

Think thin err…. Tuesday???

OK, better late than never.

A couple of weeks ago I announced that I was going to keep you updated with my progress in the battle of the bulge.

My plan is to go running 3 mornings per week, and although last week did not go according to plan, I am on target for reaching this week’s total despite my impending trip to London.

Last week my running partner proved to be surprisingly fragile once more (I will point out that neither of us look all that fragile), and although as he pointed out I was free to run without him, I find it very difficult to drag my sorry carcass out of bed at 6am if I am not motivated by the need not to leave him on my doorstep in sub-freezing conditions.

However we were back in action this week providing entertainment for the more athletic types also frequent the park that we choose to plod around. I do admire people that can motivate themselves into exercise without the fear of turning into Sherman Clump.

So once I had caught my breath and hosed myself down, it was time for the moment of truth. Now I am not expecting miracles and I did start from a rather bulky figure to begin with, but I will confess to being a little concerned that my week off and the odd moment of weakness over the past 2 weeks might have made me look rather silly on only my second public weigh-in.

96.0 kg (sounds much better than 211 lbs)

That’s a reduction of 2.5kg (This is where I like old units. 5.5 lbs)

Well, it’s a start. Small steps and all that. Still having pudding cravings though.

Think Thin Thursday

Think Thin Thursday

This morning my fellow masochist running partner and I failed to come up with an appropriate excuse to avoid effort managed to overcome our logistical difficulties (did I mention my ear! [1] [2] [3] [4]… ok maybe I did), and hit the pavement (as I have pointed out I am rather robust and my running partner is not ballet dancer either) for only the second time this fine year. [Wow that was quite exceptionally bad grammar. You can come up for air now.]

Lets say it was not the most enjoyable jaunt around the park I have ever had. I could feel every one of the runs I had missed, aching in my muscles, telling me that I had left it for far too long. More importantly I could tell that I may have been dragging around a little excess baggage in the form of chocolate / hot dogs / M&S Bread and Butter Pudding. Oh how I will miss thee :’(

Now I don’t want to get all Bridget Jones on you, but I have decided that enough is enough. Don’t get me wrong, I am unlikely to go on a Diet as such, but do I really need to finish the packet of sausage, just because they will get left in the fridge, and just because my wife is eating for 2, do I need to share this part of the experience. After all she will loose weight breast feeding, Moobs dont do that!

So I weighed myself and in this era of honesty and transparency, I will declare that I came out at 98.5kg. Not necessarily as bad as I had feared, but a good chunk over my wedding weight. Now in previous efforts to shed the pounds, I have struggled to maintain the focus (It was a mistake to mention the M&S Pudding … mmm … must resist) so I have decided that I will name and shame myself. I will do a check in every 2 weeks and publicly (well, to the 6 or 7 people that read this blog) declare my weight.

Right … I need to post this before I think this through.

I have lost my Superpower

It was not so long ago when I was indestructible. Now I am not talking about the arrogance of youth that makes them believe that they are indestructible, I actually was indestructible. If only I had realised at the time!

That is the only way that I can explain how I managed to play rugby for nearly 20 years with no injuries worth noting. Sure I would ache on a Sunday, but there was something noble and satisfying about aching that said that I must have put everything into the game.

That however was before turning 30. Everyone asked me the “is it weird”, “do you feel old now” type questions on the big day, and genuinely I didn’t. However, unbeknown to me this must have been the expiry date on the indestructibility. It would seem it was only valid for the first 30 years as now I seem to be falling apart. I feel like Clark Kent, in Superman II, when he gives up his powers and gets battered in the cafe. Only I don’t have a crystal castle in which to regain my powers.

Let me explain. About half way through last season I got a smack in the face, and bizarrely the whiplash caused me to have pain in my left shoulder. Bad enough in fact to make need 2 weeks off, this had never happened before. Injuries just aren’t meant to last 2 weeks!

Then at the end of the season I tweaked my knee, so innocuously that I actually do not remember doing it, but again this caused me (or at least gave me an excuse) not to train over the summer.

The thing is, I am still carrying the effects of these injuries up to this day! Now I will admit that I have not had any proper treatment on them, but how would I do that? I can not go into the doctor and say my shoulder and my knee ache a bit, but not enough to stop me running or playing rugby … just a bit.

In fact I did go to the doctor about the knee, and her advice was to stay off it! How exactly am I supposed to stay off of it? Is she really suggesting that I stay at home, or should I request a wheelchair for my slightly aching leg?

The reason I mention it now, is that I am finding it increasingly difficult to find a position in which I am comfortable enough to fall to sleep. This caused either of 2 things, I either go to bed at a sensible time and spend ages rolling around trying to get settled (which isn’t helping the popularity with Mrs Geek, I am obviously doing it just to annoy her), or I stay up until I am so tired that I fall in spite of the discomfort. Neither of these sound like an ideal solution.

So why not just give up rugby? Well …

To look at me you might, if you were being polite, say that I am somewhat robust. What can I say, some people eat to live, I live to eat! Rugby is the main thing that stops me from ballooning into Pavarotti (apart from the lack of singing talent … and the continued breathing)

And the fact is I am only 31. My dad played until he was over 50. I really enjoyed, as a young man playing alongside my dad (or even better for the opposition against him). I would hate to think that my son will not get to do the same. But what chance have I got of that? 10 more years of not sleeping properly? I could be mighty cranky by then.