The river of liquid cheese slowly coursed its way through the greasy lamb and bacon landscape, navigating the occasional deep-fried onion ring, before slipping over the burger bun and dripping, with the gentlest of patter, onto my chip-infested plate.

“You’re not taking this race training very seriously are you?” said Frosty.  Looking back at him across the Wetherspoon’s table, I took a sip of my pint as I considered his question.

Sunday 13 September

The sky was an early morning shade of grey and Regent’s Park thronged with runners. Maybe I should have been more concerned with my lack of training but my little head was revelling in the fact that I had woken up at 5am and was not tired, had eaten breakfast and that the t-shirt in my race pack meant I had successfully infiltrated this herd of joggers.

Shortly after Gingell and I arrived, Matt (aka blankbadge) showed up.  It was good to finally meet him, although he maintains this has happened before.  After being spoilt for choice when it came to picking out a portaloo, we made our way to a wet bench where we busied ourselves safety-pinning our race numbers to our tops (475, since you ask) and fastening our timing chips to our laces to measure our start and finish times.  It may also be worth remembering that the top of your race number should line up with the base of your breastbone, remember this well else the real runners may turn on you.

Eventually we were led through a presumably thorough warm up, although I don’t really have anything to compare it to, before being separated off into our holding pens.  There were four; ranging from orange, for those whose predicted running times were a death wish, through white (Gingell) and onto more sensible segments such as green (yours truly) and pink (Matt).

Then we waited.  The excitement began to fade and the cold set in, and then half an half hour later there was a stirring and we began the slow collective walk to the start line.  In front of me a grey haired man with a beige hearing aid, a young girl with a big wig and a neck tattoo, a middle aged couple repeatedly sucking face, all of humanity decked out in garish white shoes.

And then we were off.  The group slowly spread out and with that I was able to find a comfortable speed without tripping over anyone.

If you want to talk training and technique then it’s probably best to head on over to Gingell’s blog but at that stage all I knew was this; if I don’t finish this race Gingell will mock me relentlessly, therefore I must finish this race.  The reason I fail at running is because I don’t pace myself, therefore I must keep pace with these running experts around me.

Whether they were running experts or not I shall never know but it seemed to work.  The first two kilometres were pleasant; I took in the park scenery and was generally impressed by lots of smiley marshals who had matched their yellow tops with metallic accessories.

After that I began to experience the dullest of aches in my belly but it was nothing compared with my usual running pains, this was probably because I was keeping a sensible pace. At three kilometres there was a water stand, further on someone attempted to play the didgeridoo (either that or someone spiked the water stand), at four people were chanting my name (well, they were chanting the name Jon, that’s good enough for me) and then onto five, seconds before crossing the finish line I saw Gingell cheering me on and then it was over.

I had run five kilometres in 30 minutes 42 seconds, which for a non-runner is rather impressive.

As I picked up my goodie bag I felt drained but I also felt a real sense of achievement.  After stretching (I just copied Gingell) I sat, wrapped in my space blanket, sucking on my Powerade, thinking.

Prior to the run Matt had asked me why I was doing this race and I hadn’t really been able to come up with a satisfactory answer.  Running was a way to bond with Gingell, running was something people wouldn’t expect me to do, running was something that I was good at, yet also a sport.

Ultimately, I may be forced to admit that I like running.

Related Posts

Bupa Great Capital Run – Race Report
It’s been a very full weekend

Someone once asked me to undress him using only my teeth.  While in principle this sounds like an interesting task, there is one thing that cannot be undone with the mouth alone, and that is the zipper of a man’s trousers.  You know how you have to hold them taut at the top when you unzip your own?  You can’t do that without hands.  It took about eight minutes just to get his trousers down and completely killed the mood.

The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl, Belle De Jour

This is a problem that those who wear jogging bottoms will never face but one that they should.  Equipping the masses with pairs of trousers that have zips, buttons and belts instead of giving them customised hoodies should be our first line of defence in the battle against teenage pregnancy.*

You might be wondering why I have turned my mind to the breeding habits of chavs and here’s a clue.

If you move beyond the Vogue pose and the awesome t-shirt that Baines bought me (Staffs Uni designed this top for an eight-year-old but that’s alright because I have the upper body of a small child) you will notice that I am wearing a pair of Adidas trousers.

It’s okay I am not, as my sister put it, “chavving it up” I have merely taken up jogging with Gingell (if you’d read her blog post on Monday you would have known this, there’s still time to catch up before she finds out).

For the past two weeks Gingell and I have jogged 5km from our house, along the canal to the incinerator and back again.  As my housemate has already transcribed some of her thoughts about jogging to LiveJournal I think that I will share some of mine too (one of them being that zippers would definitely slow if not reduce chav spawning).

Thoughts about Jogging

It always amazes me the range of magazines that are out there, I know women that buy hair magazines before taking a trip to the salon.  Another niche market beyond my comprehension is that of running magazines.  Jim Fixx is a guy who wrote The Complete Book of Running in the seventies and Jim Fixx’s Second Book of Running in the eighties (because Complete must mean something different out in America).  Here’s what Bill Hicks had to say;

Remember Jim Fixx though?  That guy used to write books about jogging.  What do you jot down about jogging, you know? ‘Right foot, left foot… faster, faster mmm, go home, shower.’  OK.  Thanks, Jim, for putting that literary mind to the jogging issue.  But I know how to jog… being the biped that I am.

Love All the People, Bill Hicks

This was similar to my response when I first encountered a running magazine but there truly are developments; Gingell talks about different fabrics, she cites techniques, she has a pair of pimped out £10 socks.

When I was jogging along the towpath in the Stokie sunshine the voices of Bill Hicks and my father (“Exercise is bad for you”) were running through my head, so it’s understandable that a lot of what I thought was heavy on the cynicism.  I came up with a slogan for jogging (“Like walking… but shit”), I suggested less active sports (say extreme sleeping), I reasoned that anything that makes you forget how to breathe probably isn’t a good idea (shut up, that was a perfectly innocent thought until I typed it on the blog).

As with most of the things I mock, I secretly like jogging.  I am athletically inept and live a life that lacks a proper structure and a balanced diet, and yet, I seem to be able to do this jogging thing.

All this is rather convenient because the most recent challenge I’ve been set, by Gingell (who else), is to “Run at least one mile a week.”

Wish me luck as I go undercover as a healthy person who enjoys exercise.

*If you think that this episode of Jeremy Kyle has run for too long and you’re impatient for the paternity test, well, I’m not even sure I should tell you.  Read this article to discover another shining example of the law failing to keep pace with technology.