The Fat Bloke Diaries

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Episode Forty-Three – Four Seasons in One Day

Fat blokes always sweat in summer. We sweat in spring, winter and autumn too, but more so in the traditionally hottest season. I’ve known that for decades. All those years where the middle months have been characterised by an unpleasant dampness from dawn till dusk and beyond are lodged in the deep dark corners of my memory. Large lads can always tell that it’s officially summer by the pools of perspiration that form behind our knees. There’s a sticky sheen that covers our entire bodies and, if we’re not constantly on the move, our furniture.

But now I find that joggers (for astoundingly that is how I class myself these days – as well as being a fat bloke, obviously) sweat in any weather too. Not only that but we do so more efficiently than most, apparently. Fat blokes often leave little residual puddles of sweat behind them but joggers do it in pools. That would make a good bumper sticker.

I can’t see how this constant seepage can be all that efficient though with its stinging of the eyes and it’s lubrication of the bum crack. Surely firing off one big globule of perspiration on command would be the most effective way of ridding oneself of all that salty waste? You could really shock the cat. It’s a good job I’m not a scientist. I’d have grafted wings and night-vision goggles onto myself by now. And invented an invisibility cloak. Imagine the fun…

Running in serious heat draws up all kinds of problems with dehydration, sunburn (good job I’m oozing all that natural sun-screen) and intimate chafing. But running in the rain is worse. Sure, it’s cooler but the demotivational effect of the dreary weather outweigh that benefit. The words we use to describe rainy weather – dull, grey, miserable – could just as easily be used about me. I don’t like going out jogging when it’s raining, especially the downpours that we’ve had this summer. It’s not so bad if a storm strikes while I’m out, but if it’s been raining for hours before I’m due to set off, then you’re more likely to find me on my exercise bike than splashing along the local roads. But I’ve done it; rain is not the worst weather condition to go out in.

That would be ice. I’ve run on that too. Well, when I say ‘run’… in truth it was just a few uncertain glides away from my house, and a few even less certain slides back. Short of hammering metal segs (there’s a word to Google if you’re under forty) into my lovely new Asics there was no way I was going to get any traction on Barnsley’s icy steppes. The experiment has not been repeated.

It’s the conditions underfoot that bother me. I’m permanently afeared of causing further damage to my mangled hoof. This is the foot that I damaged years ago when I fell down a flight of stairs while shopping in Canada. The Beloved made me do it. Broken and dislocated, it took quite some time to heal (the shattered appendage, not the Beloved), as did the surrounding damaged tendons and ligaments. I don’t want to go through that again which is why I still, albeit mostly subconsciously, favour that foot. I’ll never make it to the South Yorkshire hopscotch championship.

My balance is terrible, it always has been. I wasn’t cut out to be a tightrope walker. Pratfalls are more my style, and they’re usually performed with no style whatsoever.

I don’t mind sploshing through puddles like a be-wellied five year-old though, but mud, ice, gravel and any uneven surfaces bring back memories of flying through the air, whirling shopping bags around my head and landing with a series of unpleasant cracking sounds. My foot and a rib provided part of this nightmare soundtrack, but I took out at least a couple of steps on the way down so I guess we can call it an honourable draw.

Wind is another element that makes running a less pleasurable experience. I don’t mean jogger’s belch (of which I seem to be a pioneer), but the constant strong current of air which seems to be always aimed directly at the runner. It never blows you along despite what the sprinters on the telly might say. Never have I got back home in a new wind-assisted record time. Never have I heard my Beloved say, “Ooh, you’re back early love, did you have the wind?”

And I’ve not tried running in fog yet, but I suspect that I’ll enjoy it. I’ve always loved the furtive, secretive nature of fog. Maybe I won’t have to invent that cloaking device after all.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Forty-Four – Ch-ch-ch-changes

I’ve noticed changes in my body recently.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like one of those “Am I Normal” junior school education films. I’ve not suddenly discovered a lower vocal range and extra hairiness (unless you count the latest grey tufts on my toes – maybe I’m turning into an elderly hobbit), but I have noticed that my legs have exchanged much of their flab for well-defined muscle. My heart is stronger, and my lungs are working much more efficiently too. And best of all, there’s a lot less jelly on my belly. And as every school kid knows, it must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t wobble like that.

These marvellous amendments got me wondering what the extremes would be? What are our limitations as humans, as individuals? How far can we really push ourselves?

For example, if you’d asked me this time last year what was the furthest distance that my body could ever run in one go, I’d probably have said around a mile, possibly two. Now my answer is more likely to be around ten miles, absolute maximum. Not right now, not anytime soon, but one day, with proper training I could maybe get there before my heart explodes and my knees crumble like dusty old sponge cakes. Perhaps.

That would be A Good Thing were I to achieve it, yet some other less desirable changes are inevitable with age. My hair will turn greyer and my forehead will expand. My muscles and bone density will weaken. There are other things that I can easily change on my own, like my hair style (short, easily manageable), fingernail length (short, easily manageable), or amount of hair on my back (short, difficult to manage), but other things are less easily alterable.

I’ve shown that I can amend some things about myself but there are certain unalterable pieces of my physical makeup that will always remain: I have blue eyes; I’m around five foot ten; I have a small mole that I’m not going to show you unless you ply me with a decent Scotch. Barring surgery or other unpleasantnesses, these statements will be true for the rest of my life.

I can’t shrink my feet from their perfectly proportioned size 10 down to a girly size 4 but I can take (thousands of) steps to make them stronger. And with help from the contents of my bathroom cabinet, I can even make them smell a little better. But how much, for example, can I reduce my waist size? Or increase the size of my thigh muscles?

There surely has to be an optimum weight for each of us individually. Skeletal structure, height, gender, age: all of these things will have a bearing on our own perfect size, but how would we recognise it if we were ever to attain it? When losing weight, how do we know when to stop? An elite athlete will know that he’s reached his own peak performance level if he wins gold or sets a world record. With ‘normal’ people and their less lofty targets though, the finishing line is not so easily recognised. There’s no flashing neon sign saying ‘goal reached’. I’m just a chubby guy trying to lose weight. I’m never going to be anorexic, so when do I know that it’s time to stop with the lettuce and treat myself to a pie? And how do I keep at that perfect point without reverting back to the old porkiness problems? I’m a long way away from it, but I would imagine that a stable weight is even more difficult to attain deliberately than a steady downwards creeping of the scales. Wouldn’t that be a lovely problem to wrestle with?

I guess our own fitness successes ultimately depend on how much we want to take ownership and achieve our goals. We can all do much more than we think we can, but what is it that motivates us to lose weight? Or to exercise? Or to get out of bed even? Is it fear of failure? Peer pressure? Perhaps the promise of some kind of reward?

A popular theory on motivation states that unless an individual can clearly identify their own significant and meaningful reasons why they wish to attain the goal, they will never have the power to achieve it. Personally, the reason I’m becoming a shadow of my former self right now after years of failed attempts is simply that this time I actually want to succeed. That’s something that I’ve not been able to say with any real conviction before. But behind that is the further question; why do I want it more on this occasion?

I guess I’m driven by the worry of not completing my upcoming charity run now that so many people are supporting me via cash and other ways. Basically it’s a desire for praise and approval, a desperate attempt to hear ‘Well done mate’ when I finally cross the line. But these are the easy answers. Maybe there are other reasons too; reasons that I wouldn’t want to admit in public. Maybe not even to myself.

I don’t think I’ve ever written an article with so many question marks in it. But sadly, as Johnny Nash said, there are more questions than answers. Unless it’s multiple choice. Then the answer’s probably ‘D – other’.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[corinnak]

Hi Shaun,
Another great post! I have been wondering a lot of the same things myself as I approach my goal weight, arbitrary though it may be. I'm not sure how you know you're at the optimal weight, but I do think that for us mere mortals, there is probably always some improvement that can be made. I agree that staying the same in the long term is going to be a major challenge as well, as one who has lost and regained not once, or twice but at least 5 or 6 times in my 35 years. I can tell you this: Don't count on giving up the lettuce or opening the pie floodgates or you will be back where you started so fast your head will spin. Cheery, I know.

Your questions on motivation are excellent - I suppose it is different for each person, and, as you note, not necessarily even something you even have to be able to name.

Congratulations on your progress so far!

 

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Episode Forty-Five – Ballad of a Not Very Thin Man

(in 3/4 time)

My trousers were all just a little too tight
My snoring woke up my Beloved at night
And my naked form was a horrible sight
So something just had to be done
Being a fat bloke had ceased to be fun

An exercise bike was the first weapon bought
As I toiled in the hunt for the thinness I sought
I sweated for hours and the good fight I fought
Gainst the perils of obesity
For a fat bloke I’d no longer be

On my big metal steed all the miles I’ll rack up
I’ll trot and I’ll canter; I’ll even gal-lop
Till the sweat in my shorts overfilleth my cup
So I’ll soon be reporting with joy
That I’m freeing my inner thin boy

The help of Beloved I can’t overstate
She’s been driving me on with the switch and the bait
And dramatically cut what’s served up on my plate
When dinner time circles around
The pies have been thin on the ground

I pedalled like mad but my weight stayed the same
And I still was the size of a Pantomime Dame
So the time came that I had to step up my game
My rhyming’s not too bad, and yet
I'll not be Poet Laureate

I couldn’t face gym and I dislike the pool
The athletes and jocks make me look such a fool
For I’m still a mere novice in exercise school
Group fitnessing isn’t for me
I crave something more solitary

Some tentative steps round the South Yorkshire streets
Brought a wheeze to my lungs and an ache to my feet
But I speeded my step and would not face defeat
For I’d splashed out on good running shoes
And would soon be announcing Big News

Shopping for kit has put me to the test
I’ve spent more on my trainers than my Sunday best
But it’s better than running in pants and in vest
Like they threatened forgetters at school
Who hadn’t brought trunks for the pool

I ran and I ran and my mileage increased
As I rampage around like a rampaging beast
And a shocking announcement eventually released
That I’ve entered a 10k road race
I just hope I can handle the pace

I gasp on the flat and I wheeze up inclines
I’d be lying to say that my body feels fine
But it’s good to see my BMI in decline
While my muscles and knees ache and groan
I’ve lost the best part of three stone

I’m nearly there now with just three weeks to go
And I’ll finish the distance no matter how slow
Come hell or high water or even in snow
There’ll be blood, sweat and tears, and some smiles
For a distance of six point two miles

I’m doing much more than a ten metre dash an’
It’s all for a reason, I’m raising some cash an’
I’m asking you nicely, I’m asking with passion
Please consider sponsoring me
Just Giving dot com, slash, shaunfinnie

 

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Episode Forty-Six – The Apple Tree Woman

My Beloved only runs with me on the shorter distances these days. We didn’t need to discuss it, it was just one of those things that couples who have been together for a long time automatically know, like which one of you is in the wrong when you argue (for you single people reading this, it’s the male one, every time).

One day we both just realised that the distance was more than she was comfortable with. I went out alone. Neither of us needed to mention that it was going to be a ‘long run’ day. She didn’t offer to come and I didn’t ask her to. But she still braves the elements on the shorter, faster runs of under two miles. She’s far quicker than me over these distances and her motivation and pacesetting are hugely appreciated, especially as I get closer to my date with destiny and the Great Yorkshire Run.

Recently though she’s been distracted during these still impressive jogs by an unexpected source. We live in a pretty rural area, and we run as much as possible on the paths and lanes away from the main roads. So it shouldn’t really come as much of a surprise when every half mile or so she suddenly pulls up and calls me back. And like a fool, I fall for it. Every time.

“What’s up?” I’ll ask, backing up (‘Beep! Beep! Wide vehicle reversing’) and trotting breathlessly on the spot beside her. It’s at this point that she’ll point into the depths of some wild hedgerow and say “Look at all those blackberries”. That’s it. That’s why she’s stopped me, to look at some blackberries. Or maybe this time it’ll be apples, or wild cherries perhaps. These last ones actually turned out to be plums, but what do we know? We’re displaced city kids.

You can imagine how frustrating this is, when I’m training hard for my ‘event’ (get me, talking like an athlete). It throws all my pace and timing out, starts me cooling down just at the point when I should be warming up… and makes me sound like a fat bloke who’s taking himself far too seriously.

This has been happening all summer and is getting much worse now that we’re into peak foraging season, so now I’ve begun taking even these shorter treks on my own. My beloved Beloved has started going for walks in the daytime while I’m working, replacing me with a basket as she plunders the free fruit along the way. Nature will always exact a price for Her bountiful harvest though, and I think that She may be a little annoyed at how we’ve covered our front garden with bark chippings instead of the lush green vegetation that was there before. Mother Nature may love weeds but we don’t, so out they went. So maybe the wasp that launched a vicious attack on the Beloved’s fingers as she reached into the berry bush was working to higher orders? Or maybe lower ones. There’s an old proverb that roughly translates as ‘God made bees but the Devil made the wasp’. I’ve always heard it told in German, but I think that when it stung her she may have been screaming the Swahili version.

So I mostly run solo routes now, short ones and long ones, like the 10k that I did last Sunday. It was just me, the road and my music, the usual eclectic mix.

[WARNING! Music geek alert!]

I was listening to Meat Loaf as I hit the bottom of the Hill of Doom for the second time. Todd Rundgren’s dramatic ‘motor cycle’ guitar chords kicked in powerfully and I was transformed from being a fat bloke into The Barnsley Bolt. I almost literally flew to the top like the proverbial album title, singing along quietly under my non-existent breath.. Strangely enough though I don’t recall ‘Bat Out of Hell’ finishing with a refrain of “Come on you lardy bugger, get up there”.

I’ve discovered, as so many have before me, that longer songs with a faster beat help me to run better. There’s no way that I’m going to stop in the middle of a track so the length of the remix helps, but who’d have thought that I’d ever listen to techno. I’ve no idea how some of this stuff made it into my collection, but I’ll keep it there if it makes me run faster, if only so that I get the track over and done with quicker. And anyway, the Beloved dislikes that kind of bum-tish bum-tish even more than I do, so it’s a good job she’s not with me.

And we’ve not fallen out over her not increasing her training at the same rate as I am; we’ve turned it to our advantage. Like tonight, for example. I went jogging alone, at a speed and distance of my own choosing, and I came back to a freshly made apple and blackberry crumble. It was delicious, and made even better by the fact that she got many of its ingredients for nothing.

If you don’t count the wasp sting.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

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THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Forty-Seven –The House at Pooh Corner

I’ve never understood the attraction of finding my legs unexpectedly higher than my head. Even less enticing is landing on my behind / back / head with a painful bump.

For this reason I don’t run in icy conditions. I don’t like running on any surface that might cause me to slip, which is why this weekend’s Big Run filled me with a little trepidation.

I’ve been jogging for a while now and have built up quite a little portfolio of circuits around the bit of South Yorkshire where I live. To keep things interesting I run these loops in both clockwise and anticlockwise directions, and have recently taken to combining them into longer routes in preparation for my upcoming 10k road race. This explains why I found myself running up both the dreaded Hill of Doom and Gravel Hill in one training session this week. It would be my last long run before I start winding down towards the 10k. I wouldn’t want to see all my hard work ruined due to an avoidable injury at this late stage.

The Hill of Doom – the really long, very steep path through the woods – was difficult as it always is, but I made it in the gasping, red-faced, light-headed way to which I’m now accustomed. Far harder was Gravel Hill, as I’d known it would be. This steep, long, loose surfaced incline is the one I’d been avoiding, the one that I was worried about. I’d never actually ran all the way up it before, its two-steps-forwards, one-step-back nature has always made me wary of it, but this time I went for it and, barring a few minor slips, got to the top in one piece.

But the gravel wasn’t the only cause for concern underfoot. Once I’d started looking for them there were lots of things on my run that could have sent me head over heels (or something similar). Cherries, plums and windfall apples litter the path on some sections that I run on. These are usually avoidable by carefully running into the road and around them, but some sections of my route run through woods. The muddy trails are one thing, but another cause of slippage on the tracks between the trees took me completely by surprise. I was running in the early morning after overnight rain, and the path was surprisingly and almost completely covered with slugs. Now I dislike slugs as much as the next man, but I wouldn’t deliberately step on them. Sometimes however there are so many of them that the inevitable happens. You know that horrible slime that they leave behind? They must be full of it because they are more slippery underfoot than a sack of eels in a tub of Vaseline, as I’ve sadly found out to my regret (and the slug’s too, I would wager). Heaven knows what would have happened if I’d actually trod on some of the rabbits that I’ve startled with my exercises.

And sadly it’s not just the wild creatures themselves that cause slippery conditions either. You might like to re-read the subtitle of this piece for a clue as to the distasteful nature of the following paragraphs.

Every runner has to contend with their share of dog poo. If you jog on pavements, footpaths or parkland, you’re going to have to avoid something unpleasant that some little doggy has been glad to get rid of. Personally I’ve never done a Christopher Dean impression through one of these little gifts, but by the extended footprints that I see on my runs, plenty of others have done. And I live in the country, so as well as the usual dog and cat mess, I have to sometimes sidestep some more exotic waste produce. Horse droppings, cow manure, fox and badger scat; I’ve had to dance a nifty fandango around them all. With the noises I’ve heard coming out of the deep dark woods sometimes, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a pack of wolves in there, happily preparing a biological skid pan for me to produce a You Tube-worthy performance on later. On one memorable occasion I delicately hurdled a small mound of what were clearly human leavings. How did I know it came from a person? Well, the strip of toilet paper placed delicately on top of the pile gave me a clue. Moles can’t fold that neatly. And I’m not sure that they can eat that much sweet corn. Perhaps it was a fellow runner, caught short around the number two mile marker? But can you imagine them leaving the house that morning?

“Now do I have everything? Watch… water bottle…tub of salt (in case of slugs)… roll of Andrex…”


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

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First, an apology. This week's FBD will be a little later than usual. I'm sorry, but I'll be a bit busy on Sunday...

There will though be photos of me participating in The Great Yorkshire Run on www.shaunfinnie.com/fatblokediaries.html
If all goes well they should be up late Sunday afternoon.

Thanks so much for all the support that I've recieved - to both me personally all through the FBD journey to get to the point where, amazingly, I'm about to run in a ten km road race, and financially in support of the British Heart Foundation. The work that they do with the cash we've raised together will help people up and down Britain and, through their groundbreaking research into heart disease, throughout the world.

If you haven't yet sponsored me you still can, through the following secure website
www.justgiving.com/shaunfinnie

I promise that there will be a full and frank account of the day, a bumper sized FBD sometime next week - but I might need to get some sleep first.

 

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I did it. I got all the way around The Great Yorkshire Run. One hour thirteen minutes is pretty slow, but I achieved my goal of jogging solidly all the way around - no walking!



I'm shattered but happy now - I actually enjoyed most of it.



There will of course be a full Fat Bloke Diary report later in the week, but in the meantime there are some photos at http://wwww.shaunfinnie.com/fatblokediaries.html

 

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Episode Forty-Eight – I’ve Seen All Good People

I had planned a sprint finish over the last forty yards or so. Even though the Great Yorkshire Run route featured an uphill final section, it wasn't in the same league as the Hill of Doom, the steep, long incline that I include in my training runs. Over the last few weeks I'd pictured myself doing a little leap of triumph or maybe pumping my fist in the air as I crossed the finishing line. I had dreamed of writing about these things afterwards.

Of course it was nothing at all like that in the end. I simply passed under the arch with the big clock on it (the one that bore no resemblance whatsoever to my actual running time) and just managed to crack an exhausted smile.

And then I began to wonder just how on Earth was I ever to find the Beloved in such a crowd.

Another thing that I was going to do was start this week's FBD with a motivational quote, something that had helped me through the run's difficult times. Something like John Bingham's, "The miracle isn't that I finished; the miracle is that I had the courage to start". But then I realised just how little that sounds like something I’d say. I'm much more likely to cite the words of American comedienne Wendy Liebman, who quipped, "I go running when I have to; when the ice cream truck is doing sixty".

So what can I tell you about my first (and quite possibly only) 10k run? Well overall it was everything I'd hoped it would be, and more. The course was flat as expected, apart from the aforementioned incline towards the finishing gate. It surprised many non-locals into a gasping walk. Not knowing what to expect they'd not left anything in reserve. Being Sheffield-born, I had plenty left in the tank; it was just that by then my engine was only firing on one cylinder. But even this nasty final incline was made more bearable by the excellent idea of having loudspeakers playing music from the 'Rocky' movies as we runners approached it. It was cheesy but it raised a smile, raised our spirits and raised our knees just that little higher. Who could resist putting in that little extra effort when someone's gone to the trouble of playing 'Eye of the Tiger' for you?

It was little details like this that made the steep entry fee worthwhile. I'm told it was expensive (I have nothing to compare it against) but the Great Run guys have got years of experience, and seem to have got most things right. Between their excellent planning and the much-appreciated time management and organisational skills of my Beloved, all I had to do was turn up, go to the toilet seventeen times, and run.

And even here I couldn't fault the event organisers. They had provided lots of lovely blue portaloos. But it seems that there are never enough facilities for some people. I couldn't help but notice a lady with just her head sticking out of a big privet at around the 8k marker. The middle of a road race seemed a strange time to be pruning a bush...

And after a truly horrible week, even the weather gods smiled on us and provided a cool, overcast morning, just perfect running conditions. And it would have been pretty good performing weather for the bands of musicians, singers and drummers that were stationed along the route too. They did a sterling job of entertain us and keeping our minds' off the business of relentlessly putting one foot in front of the other.

I'd seen the numbers, I knew roughly how many runners to expect, but it didn't really make sense until I saw the huge snake of people lining the starting road stretching back and back into the distance. Leaving my Beloved to join them felt strangely like the first day of Big School. And as we were lined up in ability groups I was the snake's tail.

I've only ever run alone or with my Beloved before and (though she won't thank me for telling you this) she's quite a small person. To find myself in a crowd of thousands of real runners – some of them much bigger than me - was quite daunting. They must be all so much fitter than I am surely? And their tops all fit so much better. And they were all much thinner - apart from the guy in the panda costume who managed to clear a space for himself by loudly declaring, "You know, I can hardly see a thing in this..."

I'd actually hoped that I could use the fact that the crowds were so heavy as an excuse if I wasn't able to run. It would make a change from my previous excuse of it being me that was so heavy that I couldn't run. As it turned out, I didn’t need it. I was able to run my own race pretty much from start to finish.

I had awoken to one of life's little coincidences as my radio burst into life with a timely piece of advice from Simon and Garfunkel. "Slow down, you move too fast...". I repeated this mantra to myself as I stood by the starting gate, along with that other old chestnut, "It's a marathon and not a sprint". Well technically it was less than a quarter of a marathon but you get the idea. It certainly helped, as I made a real effort to jog easily and well within myself for at least the first kilometre, just to see how things panned out. As it was I started off slowly and gently, taking in the events of the day, and pretty much stayed at that rate right to the end. My split times (another nice touch, provided on the Great Run website) showed that I kept a fairly constant speed throughout. People streamed past me, going full speed right from the off, weaving in and out of the crowd. Good luck to them. I couldn't have done that if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't.

As this was an out-and-back route, it wasn't very long at all before I saw the eventual winner come towards me like a speeding cheetah. I could only waddle in awe as he flew past in the other direction, on his way to a winner’s medal, which he can proudly display beside his Olympic silver. I'd expected the sight of the first runner coming the other way to be a depressing one, to fill me with thoughts of despair that they were almost done while I had almost all the course still stretching out in front of me. In fact it was an inspiration. I reserved my feelings of despair for when I saw the sweep up bus coming out of the city centre while I was running back in. it was already half full of poor souls who wouldn’t be completing the run under their own steam. Being caught by the sweep up bus is every runner’s nightmare. I did my pathetic impression of a 'kick' to try and get me a little further ahead of it.

It was an honour to run the same course as the Kenyan superstar and the other elite runners of both sexes. They were fleet of foot and had the wind at their heels. I was heavy of leg with wind elsewhere (as is my usual running style), but it didn't matter on the day. Despite what my left knee might be telling me today, I made it round the entire course in one piece and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I was officially placed 4,734th (out of a field of over 7,500) with a time of 1 hour, 13 minutes and 54 seconds. I didn't quite make gold, silver or bronze positions, but I did get a lovely medal of some random grey base-metal, and that's good enough for me. I wonder what the guy who came in 4,735th received?

I even managed to overtake some people including - to my great delight! - the panda. I never did catch up to the trio of Thunderbird puppets, which was a shame, and I was disappointed when a guy in a Dalmatian suit flew past me like a speeding... well like a Dalmatian, actually. Mind you, that's not as bad as the story a friend tells of being passed by two guys in a pantomime camel costume.

My own personal nemeses (or should that be nemesissies?) were just behind me at the start, and they were just behind me at the end. I've never really been too keen on Morris dancers. I appreciate that the dance should be preserved as part of our English heritage like the Changing of the Guard or Stonehenge, but watching it as an art-form leaves me cold. So I was dismayed to hear the unmistakable jingle-jangle of their tiny bells and the clack-clack of their wooden staves as we set off. Three times I thought I'd rid myself of them as they stopped to put on a display of dancing along the route. But three times they proved that as well as being annoying historical relics they were actually pretty decent runners. So three times they caught up with me. There are very few things now that can fill me with terror more than the approaching tinkling of dancing men in ribbons and bells as they try to sneak up behind me. Morris-ninjas they were not.

The thing that I remember most about the other entrants was the sheer number of charity running tops on display. Playing 'I-Spy Charity Shirt' kept my head both active and focussed on the job in hand. Alzheimer’s. Breast cancer. Children's hospitals. War veterans. Many, many others, too many to mention, some with photos of lost loved ones attached. All these runners had great causes and touching stories to go with them, just like me. That's when I realised that I belonged among these people. That's what made the struggle over the final couple of kilometres worthwhile. These thousands of people were running, walking, struggling through the distance to make real differences to real lives, just like I was. And we were all better people for it.

Will I do it again? I can't honestly say. Right now I'm just so pleased that I did it and I raised a considerable amount of cash for (and hopefully a little awareness of) the British Heart Foundation. Maybe I'll run this same event again next year, maybe not. I know that I have no burning desire to enter a load of other 10k events or - heaven forbid! - even longer ones. But I guess deep down I know that I'll have to keep some form of exercise going. It would be a shame to let all that hard work on my waist go to waste. It's been a great journey, and I can't let this be the end, just the beginning of my new life as a thinner bloke.

Like recovering alcoholics though, I guess some of us never really give up being fat blokes; we just learn to control (some of) our urges. The slippery slope from fitness to fatness is only ever one letter change away. And one large pepperoni pizza. But right now, as I'm typing this, I'm no longer a fat bloke.

I'm a runner. And I have the medal - and the t-shirt - to prove it.

© Shaun Finnie 2009