The Fat Bloke Diaries

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES


Episode Thirty-Three - Too Hot to Trot

A holiday in Florida is meant to be fun. Now my idea of fun never used to involve running, but since I've started taking my health a little more seriously, strapping on my Asics has become part of my life. And besides, my stomach's built-in desire for growth never takes a day off.

My seat on the plane proved to be a good barometer of my loss of girth since last time I'd flown. Not only did the table fit (in previous journeys I've actually missed meals to avoid my embarrassment at not being able to fully lower it) but the seatbelt fastened without having to slide it to its fullest stretch. A definite result.

With the aircraft full of pre-schoolers, all over-excited at the prospect of meeting Mickey Mouse, there was very little chance of getting a restful nap on the way out. This wasn't much of a problem, as I don't need much sleep anyway, but when a hefty dose of jet-lag joined my normal sleeping pattern it came as no surprise that, while the rest of my holiday home slept soundly, I was fully dressed for running and quietly doing some light stretches at 5:30 on my first morning away. I was wide awake and ready for the dawn. Unfortunately I had no idea what time sun-up was in that part of the world, so eventually I just went for it.

I jogged a gentle lap of the resort's beautiful lake just as I'd planned to (though in my plan it should have been a little lighter), and got back just as my Beloved - and the sun - was rising. She'd quite sensibly grabbed more sleep than me, but in doing so had missed the rabbits, ducks, lizards and the most beautiful Floridian sunrise. Then again she'd also missed out on worrying about alligators and snakes, and giving every fallen twig a very wide berth, just in case.

I was actually concentrating so hard not treading on any wildlife that I totally missed the security guard who was in turn concentrating so hard not running me off the path as he trundled along on his special silent security golf buggy. I swear that he had it set to 'ninja stealth mode'. He apologised most profusely as I leapt out of his way and took an unplanned diversion onto the beach for a little while. Apart from filling my trainers with perfect white sand, this was an exhausting pastime in itself, even moreso than running on the asphalt. My already tired legs struggled with the unstable ground, and I was very glad to trudge my way back to the path. And it wasn't just for the better running surface: I have no idea if snakes burrow in sand. It was frightening enough seeing them swimming in the lake.

Running through the early morning mists that steamed around the palm trees as the first rays of morning light hit them was a slightly surreal but beautiful experience for a boy brought up around Yorkshire's grim factories. As the lakeside track wound its way into a wooded marshland boardwalk section I noticed that it was still almost pitch black in there, but there was obviously enough light to rouse the critters of the Everglades. It was with a little fear in my soul that I trod the uneven boards to a deafening chorus of chirps, croaks, shrieks, growls and farts which grew louder with each slightly springy footfall. Only one of those noises was mine. The rest came from the birds, frogs, long legged beasties and God only knows what else that was lurking in there. I half expected to find someone in a pith helmet hacking through the dense undergrowth and uttering the words, "Doctor Finnie, I presume". It was all a little bit too Jurassic Park for my tastes.

I didn't make any pretence of speed on that first morning, I was just a fat bloke plodding gently along. But nobody lapped me, although I did see the same super-serious speedy guy three times as he ran by in the opposite direction to me.

Although I found it pretty difficult, I was very glad to get that initial run out of the way. And the next one. But it got easier each time I went out and I started speeding up a little as I became more confident that I wasn't going to succumb to Death by Foreign Exercise. I found that I was much happier running very early in the morning though. The later I left it before going out, the hotter, more humid and the more difficult it was. The strange thing was, the higher the sun rose over the horizon, the more runners there were Either they were gluttons for punishment or I was the only insomniac jogger in the entire State at that time. Probably the latter. But it was a fabulous location to run in and the satisfaction of stepping out made a great holiday even better.

And for any readers of long standing who may be wondering, this simple closing statement will speak pages, if not volumes. That normal-sized seat on The Hulk roller-coaster was very comfortable indeed, thank you very much.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[mrsklamc]

And for any readers of long standing who may be wondering, this simple closing statement will speak pages, if not volumes. That normal-sized seat on The Hulk roller-coaster was very comfortable indeed, thank you very much.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

Hooray! Hooray! Hooray for you! Or as my former boss from England would say, "Good on you!"

I continue to fail, and fail, and fail, at losing 30 or so pounds. But your posts encourage me to believe there is hope, if I can just get some discipline into it- with a good laugh along the way.

 

[corinnak]

That sounds like a fabulous way to start the day. That is fabulous that you were able to find a way to work your workout into your trip! Congratulations on that Hulk seat, too!

 

[sharper_fin]

Thanks, thank you. My weight loss to date is 26 pounds. And counting. I'm certain that by keeping my running going (there's no 'if' about it), I'll lose more in the coming weeks and months. I don't know what will happen after my Big Run in September though...

 

[corinnak]

Maybe you'll find another race to train for.

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Thirty-Four – Blame it on the Weatherman

It seemed inevitable that I would put some weight on while I was on holiday in Orlando. Over two weeks a diet of pizza and other tasty but nutritionally dubious delights was bound to have an adverse effect on my waistline, and my liver. Indeed, my first meal on U.S. soil was almost inevitably that great American classic, a bacon double cheeseburger. This was my own choice of course; I’m not looking for absolution of my own dietary sins. It tasted disgusting and wonderful at the same time. And just to be on the healthy side, I washed it down with an extra-large Diet Coke; I do like to fit in with the locals when I travel.

I know that I should have been eating more healthily, but the sad fact is that it's very difficult to feast on anything but junk in the tourist areas of Central Florida. Dining with concern for my heart and colon was always going to be a challenge. For example, it's almost impossible to locate a vegetable that isn't either ice-cold shredded lettuce or a slice of tomato (don't start on that 'tomato is a fruit' thing), and even these are only to be seen on a burger or a chicken sandwich. Even on the one occasion that I found something that was described as a salad, it consisted solely of lettuce and croutons.

So it was with some trepidation that I tiptoed onto the scales the morning after I returned home. Surely I would have reverted to my default Standard Bloater Setting? But do you know what? I was exactly the same weight as when I'd left dear old Blighty. Maybe running in Floridian heat did some good after all?

I've heard that in higher altitudes the air is thinner. It stands to reason then that at sea level the air would be thicker. Now I've been to the top of mountains, and I've been on ocean liners, but I've never been running on either. I did run in Florida though and the air did indeed seem much heavier there than at home. Or maybe it was just my clothing? Even the wikkiest of wikky material couldn't shift that amount of sweat away from me. It was like I'd been hosed down with several gallons of jus du Shaun. Nice.

The weatherman told me that humidity rose to almost 90% over there and, with the density of the air, I can believe him. Mind you, I'd have believed whatever he said as I've never understood humidity levels at all. If it reaches 100% is that like running underwater? It certainly felt like it as the holiday passed and the weather deteriorated. The thunderstorms were some of the worst I've ever seen, and the flood warnings came thick and fast. At one point I swear I saw an entire zoo float by.

In those conditions it was imperative that I look after my feet. Lotions, powders and frequent drying all helped, but it was always likely that I was going to develop a few hot spots. To be honest I'm just glad that I didn't succumb to trench foot. At least my feet fared much better than those of my Beloved. She didn't manage to run with me at all while we were away. Due to an incorrect footwear choice she suffered early holiday blisters. And she also had a nasty reaction to some insect bites on her legs that made stretching them painful. She patched herself up enough to continue shopping but not enough to get up for a five a.m. jog. At least that's what she told me.

To be honest I think that I missed too much of my training. I know that I was on holiday, and I should feel smugly self-righteous about making even the smallest efforts to run while away, but I simply didn't cover the same number of miles that I would have done at home. I really didn't want to fall too far behind schedule but with temperatures that high, and in such severe rainfall (four months worth in just three days) it was difficult.

I found the physical act of running there much harder than it is at home, even though the ground was much flatter. But I persevered, getting out for six runs of around a mile and a half each, and also walked between five and twelve miles every day. I’ve come back hopeful that I'll see some benefit from it when I take to the streets of South Yorkshire again.

The comparison is going to be interesting.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[pjlla]

Wow... two installments in a row like that. How exciting for us! Great job on riding the Hulk and on not having any trouble on the plane. It must feel great. Thanks for continuing to share your trials and tribulations with us!......P

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Thirty-Five – Strange Things Happen

My plan was to have a brisk warm-up walk to the running track and make a few circuits there before settling in to the serious business of another mile, maybe a mile and a half, on the undulating roads back to home. After keeping my running up in the much more arduous conditions of Central Florida this was, to slip into office parlance for a moment, an achievable stretch objective. My Beloved (a much faster runner than me, but with far less stamina) was going to accompany me, taking various short-cuts along the way so that we could spend much of the morning’s exercise together.

We left the house under a gloriously clear morning sky, I set my watch as is my habit and began, full of expectation and fruit juice. We upped our pace a little as we passed the chip shop (which was teasingly doing bacon sandwiches even at this early hour) and by the time we reached the training field we were power walking at a fair lick in preparation for breaking into a trot when we hit the oval.

And that’s when my plan fell to pieces.

Barnsley Council has apparently got the builders in. I don’t know what they’re doing, but I do know that it involves erecting high metal fencing around the local football field, cricket wicket and – worst of all from my point of view – the running track..

Though understandably disappointed, we’re both adaptable. We’d run on the road beside the track many times by now, so it was no big deal, we just set off down the hill and over the motorway bridge as we’ve done on lots of occasions previously. John Denver provided the unlikely mental soundtrack to this homecoming run, his lilting ‘Annie’s Song’ going through my head (all Sheffield United fans will recognise our much-loved terrace anthem). It set my internal metronome ticking as I gently strode in the sunshine, my Beloved holding herself back to match me pace for pace.

Perhaps my expectations were too high. Perhaps the heat and humidity training hadn't helped at all. Perhaps I hadn't run as much as I ought to have done while in the States. It doesn't really matter. The hard fact was that the same course that had taken me thirty minutes to cover before I went away took ten minutes longer now. And worse; I'd actually managed to run the entire distance non-stop last time. Now I was reduced to a walking pace in less than ten minutes. I couldn't breathe as deeply as before, my legs weren't pumping as smoothly and worst of all I felt nauseous and light headed, a state which stayed with me long after I got home. I kept trying to run it off, but the power in my legs and lungs simply wasn't there.


It was the same on my next run, although I did push myself to a full fifteen minutes that time. I improved, but I guess that I’m about four weeks behind in the training plan that I was exactly up to date on before I went away.

At one point I left my Beloved recovering on a roadside bench (told you that she has no stamina) while I ran on a while more. When I returned she had got her breath back and was watching me running towards her.

“You’re not really running”, she ventured. “That’s more like… a very fast walk”.

I might have been out of breath but I couldn’t let that one go. “All four limbs are off the ground at the same time”, I gasped. “If I were a horse it’d officially be called a jog”. I delivered this retort confidently if breathlessly. But truthfully, given the way I felt, if I actually were a horse I’d probably be turning myself in at the nearest dog food factory.

It’s time to get real. I didn’t make any progress while I was in America, but I didn’t regress either. That’s better than I expected. So if I pick up my training where I left off instead of unrealistically aiming for where I should have been by now if I’d never been away, then I should be OK. I’ll still be hitting the 10km distance around the time of my charity run; it’ll just be a new experience for me. I won’t have broken myself in over that mileage before.

I think I need another holiday.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Thirty-Six – In Praise of Learning

It’s always a good day when you learn something new and the lessons have been coming thick and fast this week. For example I’ve discovered that:

· downing a big jug of coffee raises my heart rate sky high. Not a great idea before what should have been a gentle jog. When they say that caffeine helps you to focus when running, I don’t think that they meant quite that much.

· 4x4 drivers are just as likely as Barnsley boy-racers to aim for a strategically placed huge puddle. And running after a heavy downpour is great for variable speed training; timing sprints past the puddles really gets you warmed up.

· I shouldn’t use Prog Rock as the soundtrack to my run. Not only does it show me to be the aging hippy that I am, but the frequent tempo changes messes my pacing up.

This last one’s going to be difficult for me to change. The music of Yes, King Crimson, Asia etc makes up much of the track list on my MP3 player. I love their musical complexity, but using it to time my footsteps is asking for trouble. The constant changes from, say, 7/8 to 4/4 has in the past seen me stupidly trying to do some freaky little hopping jig every 13th step like a demented rhythmless rabbit caught up in a Riverdance line-up. My head has no idea where my feet should be going and tries to wing it. My feet, having no brains of their own, just try to obey orders.

I’m rambling now. That coffee must have kicked in.

When I jog my heart might pound like a Carl Palmer drum solo (ask your granddad or, more likely, Wikipedia), but the running, combined with the other bits of exercise and eating more healthily, is having a positive effect. I’ve lost over two stones (that’s 28lbs or almost 13kg if your measuring stick differs from mine – about the weight of a full-grown male North American bobcat, if you have one handy for comparison purposes) and I can now touch my toes – just – for the first time since I was a boy. Heck, I haven’t even seen my toes for over thirty years until recently. Last time I saw them they hadn’t got any hair. Now they have plenty, and it’s all grey. I must be getting old.

But age shall not weary me; the running will do that instead. Training for my upcoming Great Yorkshire Run 10k goes on apace and I’ve now heard that highlights of the day’s events will be shown on Channel Five. Watch out for the gasping fat bloke near the back. To increase my motivation I’ve now told the British Heart Foundation that I’m raising funds for them. Most of us know someone who’s been affected by heart or circulatory related disease, and the BHF does great work both in helping sufferers and attempting to reduce the number of people affected in the future.

They’ve been very encouraging and, bless them, they’ve even sent me a running vest to display my support for them on the day. They claim that it’s the biggest size that they have, but I’m not so sure. I can’t be the biggest bloke ever to do a fund-raiser for this worthy cause, can I? Am I still that much bigger than average? I guess ‘normal’ runners must all be skinny, because this extra large top doesn’t even come close to fitting. I had to roll it onto my body like a red and white condom. To continue with that analogy would be inviting trouble, but let’s just say that it’s snug. That’s not snug as in the nice, comfortable back room of a friendly 1960’s local pub (it’s nowhere near that large), but snug like a sausage skin that's about to burst. And you certainly wouldn’t want bits of my insides splattering the top of your cooker.

Maybe it’ll fit by September? Fit, maybe, but not fit to be seen in public.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[JCJRSmith]

I just started back into the gym after a long layoff brought on by kidney stones. I discovered a great series of podcasts called PodRunners - and they are free.

They are available on iTunes, Zune Marketplace or from www.djsteveboy.com

My Zune is full of Yes, Genesis, Jethro Tull, Pink Floyd, etc, - great music, but it doesn't do well for trying to keep a certain pace when exercising.

 

[corinnak]

Shaun, I hear you on the running clothes sizing. It seems like a lot of stuff does not even come in XL. When I started, I actually bought a men's XL because the women's were all too not XL enough. At that time I didn't consider what the XL men were wearing if their shirts were MY size....

Congratulations on your loss and the rediscovery of your toes!

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Thirty-Seven – Head Over Heels

You know the dream; everyone’s had it or at least heard of it. It starts when you’re in mid-air, serenely taking in the details of the perfect blue sky and wispy clouds. You just start to really enjoy the sensation of almost flying when reality bites as hard as it ever can in a dream. You’re not flying, you’re falling.

Suddenly it’s a nightmare and you’re sleeping self is flooded with sheer panic. Seconds become hours as you pat at your chest, searching in vain for a ripcord. It’s futile of course, as your not wearing a parachute. My partner says that this is the point when I start to ‘run’ in my sleep, churning the bedclothes. Presumably I’m trying to fly. Either that or I’m chasing rabbits.

But nothing helps. Nothing stops your relentless descent. You continue to plummet and the ground looms larger and larger. Buildings, cars, even cows all appear to magically grow as you rush towards them and that inevitable and very final sickening thud…

It was at this point the other night that my dream changed direction suddenly in the way that only dreams and cheap television dramas can. I was lying on the ground having fallen, but this was more ‘real’. There was no aeroplane involved. I had simply tripped over while running.

Some dreams are impossible to decipher, I have no idea what brings them on (but the green-speckled cheese from the back of the fridge is looking suspicious). Others, like this one, are easy to explain. That hill that I regularly take past the ruined old railway station is far too steep to run down. The covering of loose gravel even makes walking down it when tired treacherous, so I really shouldn’t try to jog it. It’s a fear of mine that I’ll slip, tumble, fall and end up face down in a cloud of dust with gravel rash along my arms, legs and beautiful face. I could be disfigured for life, and probably crack one lens in my glasses, which will look great on a poster if I should ever sell the film rights. That would make me look hard. Half-blind, but hard.

This hasn’t happened yet (the falling, not the cinematic cash-in) but the mere thought of it makes taking that particular route just a little more difficult and slows me down just a tad. The images, both at night and by day, of plummeting down that nasty slope are enough to make me think twice each time I approach it. I don’t know much about sports injuries (and long may that ignorance remain) but I know that they’re more likely to happen when you’re doing something tentatively rather than striding out (or down in this case) with confidence.

Falling is never a good thing for a runner. Falling equals failing. It’s only one little letter away. Half a pen stroke really. Falling through the pack; falling off the pace; falling behind in training. Sadly, this latter is something that I’ve been doing recently.

I’ve been putting in the hours that I should, but my training plan seems to have suddenly taken a leap in difficulty. The learning curve has gone from linear to exponential and I’m getting to the vertical bit at the end. Previously every target had been demanding but achievable, but in the last few weeks the increases in distance have been more than my body (or more precisely my fitness level) can take. I haven’t wanted to because I’m male and we don’t like to admit our failings, but I’ve had to take a step backwards. I don’t know how many steps are in a week, but that’s how far I’ve stepped back in my plan. I’ve told myself that it’s no big deal, that I’ll still reach my goal, but it’s disappointing. And disappointment breeds disappointment just as surely as a small slip when going downhill on gravel and at speed can eventually lead to freefall.

That’s why I’m staying away from that particular steep gravelly hill this week. I don’t want to risk the headfirst dive of death. It could injury me physically and emotionally; neither of which would help my long term fitness and fund-raising goals. So many people have been incredibly generous to date, and I wouldn’t want to fall from grace with them.

Not all things that fall are bad though. My weight is continuing to head steadily downwards, and as a direct result of this, so are my trousers. It’s got to the point where I don’t even need to unfasten them to take them off. This can sometimes be a good thing, but is probably a little inappropriate for the office. Especially as performance reviews are looming.

I’m going to have to start wearing a belt.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[corinnak]

And maybe some better fitting trousers one of these days as well! You can't believe how much the right size clothes changes your appearance when you've lost a bunch of weight.

You are right to be wary of that hill. A fall is the surest way to fully derail your training plan, as I learned last fall, er, autumn.

It is good you're scaling back your training - your body can only improve so fast, and sometimes it needs some time to regroup. You'll get there. You've got plenty of time still.

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Thirty-Eight – Step In Time

Rotherham isn’t like Walt Disney World.

I’ve been running around a lake again. I’m starting to make a habit of it, but this one was much closer to home and wasn’t in such wonderful surroundings as the last one. Rotherham has a reputation for being one of the unhealthiest towns in England, but I have to give their town council some credit, the country park containing the lake is a brilliant place for running, boating, dog walking and other healthy activities. The locals have no excuse if they don’t use the facilities.

I’m not very local to Rotherham but nevertheless, use them I did. Just like the Floridian lake that I trotted around a few weeks ago, this one is bordered by an extremely well-kept path, perfect for runners and even chunky plodders like me. But as it’s over twice the size of that particular lake in the States and would be the furthest distance that I’ve run to date, I was determined to take it steady.

People have told me to take baby steps but I think they were talking metaphorically, that I shouldn’t try to push my exercise envelope too far in one go. Unfortunately I’ve taken them at their words and am almost literally tip-toeing the miles away. I take bigger strides while walking normally than when running. It’s not great form, and it looks a little comical, but at least it’s propelling me forwards.

And it served me well on this day. I started slowly and didn’t speed up. The minutes ticked away and I continued to trundle gently on. Five, ten, fifteen minutes and I was still moving. Better still, I was still breathing; that’s always a bonus. But it was at about the halfway point that trouble struck, and apparently the trouble was me.

I rounded a corner past a clump of trees and found myself face to face with another runner. We were both clad in shorts, running shoes and shirts of the wickiest moisture wicking material to be found this side of Whicker Island (a bad joke for any Monty Python fans reading) but in truth that’s where the comparison ended.

He was tall and lean, striding out confidently. He looked totally in control of all his body parts. I’m a fat sweaty bloke with nothing but a shed-load of good intentions to keep me going. We had almost nothing in common.

And another difference between us was that I didn’t have a number on my shirt or a chasing pack of other runners. You can imagine my horror as it very quickly became clear that I’d stumbled upon a race.

They all ran straight at me in a wall of competitive testosterone. Even the lady runners were more of a man than I’ll ever be, sprinting towards me with their washboard abs glistening beneath half a running vest. Poor ladies; I wonder when they’ll be able to afford the rest of it.

There was only one thing to do: I lowered my head and shuffled on, like an extremely plump salmon struggling against the tide. There was jostling. There were mutterings under breaths. There was even a little stumble as some legs got tangled. For these things I am truly sorry but honestly, it wasn’t my fault. They were upon me before I could move out of the way. And anyhow, they were obviously much swifter and more agile than me. They should have treated me as a natural course obstacle.

But I got past/through them eventually, and I turned the volume up (I’ve discovered that Jane Wiedlin provides a much better running soundtrack than Captain Beefheart) and continued my ugly jog around the lake. On and on I plodded, past the stupid Labrador (as if there are any other kind) trying to make friends with the suspicious flock of geese; past the water-skiers trying to make wiping out look cool; past the courting couple trying to make making out in public look appropriate; even, surprisingly, past the world’s most enticingly aromatic barbecue,. I figured that I must have around another quarter of a mile to go when I saw the best sight of all; my Beloved waiting at the very spot from where I’d started. How did I get there so quickly? Time flies when you’re having fun. And when you’re running too, apparently.

Someone said to me afterwards ‘Well done mate. I bet you felt a real buzz after that’…

My reply was simply a puzzled look. There was no buzz. No natural high. No endorphin rush. Just a lot of exhaustion and a bit of pleasure regarding a goal set and achieved.

I must be doing it wrong.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Thirty-Nine – Art for Art’s Sake

And did Shaun’s feet in these strange times walk upon England’s parks so green?

Of course they did. With weather like we’ve been having recently it’s almost been my patriotic duty to tread my nation’s glorious greensward. And it’s felt so good to have soft fragrant grass beneath my feet rather than the unforgiving surface of Barnsley council’s finest tarmac that I’ve wanted to get out for several gentle strolls.

Unfortunately I’ve had to keep my running training up so that’s meant I’ve usually been pounding the streets, but then came the day I’ve been waiting for. My training plan simply said ’90 minute walk’. I knew exactly what to do.

There’s a sculpture park near where I live. It is to my lasting shame that I have never set foot in its grounds, but this 90 minute walk gave me the perfect chance to rectify that.

They have several Henry Moore pieces. I’ve heard of him. And an Antony Gormley; I’ve heard that name too, they talk about him on The Archers. There’s also lots of other works in various states of comprehensibility by people that I’ve never heard of. But best of all, they have a lake. Regular readers will know that I’ve developed a delight of running around lakes. There’s a good reason for this. They’re pretty flat. You don’t get too many lakes clinging to the side of mountains.

But I wouldn’t be running around this one. Walking is so much less stressful than running. There’s no pressure to better your previous time, or beat any other runners. You can take your time while walking, take in your surroundings. It’s quite possible to spot a rabbit in the distance while walking, gently amble up to the creature, watch it watching you watching it, and then pass on your way, all without disturbing the beast or breaking stride. Try that while running and I guarantee that your even and dramatic footfall would have you watching Benjamin Bunny’s fluffy tail diving into the nearest bush long before you can start peeling the carrots and onions.

The sculptures are, at the very least, interesting. To some people they’re dreams and nightmares made real, physical poetry. To others they’re twisted bits of metal. To the local flock of sheep they’re just very expensive scratching posts.

The growing lambs are a sure sign that the best weather of the year is finally here. And lots of people who started the New Year with all the best intentions to run are back out on the streets again, their lycra tops and shorts shining as brightly as the moment they came out of the Christmas wrap.

On this particular day though running was, for me, not a priority. It was hot enough just walking. We’re officially in the middle of a heat wave, and I don’t mean that we’re mingling with the ’70’s funk/disco pioneers. When the mercury rises this high it definitely puts a stop to my Boogie Nights.

It's been far too hot for fat blokes. Just waddling to the chip shop has been too much effort. How the women that work there manage to fulfil this excellent public service in this weather I simply do not know. But happily I avoided their delicious yet deadly fare. It was too hot to do anything except wander around the fields looking at the sculptures and the sheep. But the heat was still pretty much unbearable. The lambs had the right idea, sheltering beneath a bronze that might have represented a woman in the glorious agony of childbirth. Or maybe a battleship.

My yellow shirt became first spotted with several spots of sweat. These slowly merged together into a strange Rorschach inkblot. I think it was either a butterfly or a deep pan pepperoni pizza; whichever, it pretty soon blurred into a series of huge soaking patches. I wasn’t running, but my back was. I could feel rivulets starting from the nape of my neck and finishing somewhere around what my Granny would have called my ‘fundament’. I know where she meant, but it didn’t feel much fun.

Although it was hot – too hot – it was fabulous to enjoy the Great British countryside. Long may it remain as large and available as possible.

We’ve all heard of Carbon Offsetting - where a big company pays someone else to plant trees in their name, thereby reducing their net Carbon Footprint

This got me wondering. Can ‘larger gentlemen’ do something similar? If I pay my really healthy mate to run a marathon in my name, can I eat several extra pies, safe in the knowledge that my total Fat Footprint is being lowered?

Lard Offsetting. It has a nice ring to it.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Forty – Take it to the Limit

It’s time to step things up a gear.

I’ve been running (albeit very, very slowly) for about seven months now. How time flies when you’re having fun. Or even when you’re running.

I started off at the baby-steps level of just tentatively trying a thirty-second trot a couple of times during a long walk. To start with even that was difficult. But now, after gradually increasing the time running and decreasing the walking part, I can actually run for the best part of an hour without needing to take a break or call for International Rescue. Mind you, I have to do my standard warm up first; three quick stretches and some deep breaths. That’s it. Any more than that would make me look far too serious, as if I were a proper runner or something.

My general fitness level is much higher than it was a few months ago but my weight has reached a plateau. Somewhere along the line I’ve lost over two stones. I think it might be in the pub, but I daren’t go in there to check; I might drink it back on. But the decrease in my mass has stopped for now. I must have shaken loose all the easy calories. Now I’m struggling to throw out the ones that have got a good toe hold, and I'm not losing any more weight.

So it’s time to push it. Push it real good, as Salt-n-Pepa once said. Those girls had a lot of drive, even if their grasp of English grammar was a little inadequate. I took their advice to heart and last weekend real good did I indeed push it.

While all sensible people were glamming up for a Friday night of drunken debauchery (I can’t ever remember bauching in the first place, let alone de-bauching), I was clambering on to my mighty metal steed (my static bike) and pedalling for over 27 miles. At first I typed that I was peddling for over 27 miles, but I’d have had to have a large supply of ‘stuff’ for it to last that far. Send in the ROFLcopters, as I’d say if I were young and hip.

On Saturday I just ran for a gentle two miles. I love the way that I say things like this now. Until a few months ago I had never run more than a few hundred yards in my life. These days even two miles requires a ‘just’ prefix.

Sunday was the big one. Four and a quarter miles. That’s about two thirds of my target distance and much farther than I’d attempted before. I'm delighted to say that I managed it, especially as it included the dreaded Hill of Doom, a long incline so steep that I have to drop my little Fiesta down into second gear to drive up it. As I approached the hill my jog slowed to something marginally faster than the pace of a sleepy snail with painful bunions, but I made it all the way to the top. And then I made it all the way down the other side again and back to my house. I even felt pretty good when I got home, but I must have been tired because a big chunk of the afternoon is missing to me. I dozed off. It could've been that I was sitting in the sun. It could have been that there was some tennis on television. But I think it's more likely that I was just worn out after what was, to me, a really long run.

Taking the leap to over four miles was too much, I know that now. In truth, I knew it at the time but the allure of pushing myself to complete the circuit was too strong, like the pull of that one more pint when you’ve just said you’re leaving the pub.

I felt better for the snooze though, and over the next few days I felt my damaged calf muscles knitting themselves back together. They tingled in a bizarre but not unpleasant way, like my veins had been filled with those bright orange Moon Rocks that fizzed on your tongue as a kid.

As my legs recovered and strengthened themselves they started this really weird twitching thing, as if they’d been taken over by space aliens. They were jerking and jumping spasmodically. You know the bit in Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video where the zombies start to dance in a strange staccato way? It was like that. But seeing as I’m white, middle-aged and English there was obviously no rhythm to my movements. It was unusual, but there was no real soreness.

The strange thing is that however far I jog – one mile, two or even now four – my minutes per mile ratio hasn't altered. It still seems to be about a stately twelve. It appears that I’ve found my level. Now I know that I couldn’t keep up with Usain ‘Lightning’ Bolt for very long, but I doubt that he could down a pint of Black Sheep’s Riggwelter in less than five seconds. All skills are relative.

And one final thing this week; I’ve mentioned before that I think it’s a good day when there’s a lesson learned, and here’s a really important one. I found this out the hard way so that you (especially all you men reading this) don’t have to: Always put your underwear on before applying copious amounts of Ralgex deep heat spray to your knees…


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[corinnak]

Shaun,
I have to tell you, you're through the hardest part. That nudge over the 4 mile mark is a turning point and tough as it was, you are on the other side! Great work!

As for the pace, there's nothing wrong with 12's. It is a good, happy pace. There are ways to get faster, but "speedwork" isn't as glamorous as it sounds and will never make you or I into Usain Bolt anyway, sad to say.

It's a great day when a run of any distance merits a "just."

I also must say that I was cracking up over your Peddling/Pedaling typo!

 

[sharper_fin]

Shaun,
I have to tell you, you're through the hardest part. That nudge over the 4 mile mark is a turning point and tough as it was, you are on the other side! Great work!

It seems that you're right. Today I ran five miles. I can't say that it was easy, but I made it, and am now pretty confident that in six weeks time I'll be able to say "I did my 10km charity event, and I ran all the way".

 

[sharper_fin]

Episode Forty-One – Time is Tight

[WARNING! Today’s FBD features gratuitous full-frontal nudity

[STRONGER WARNING! The nudity in question belongs to Shaun]

My weekends are very precious to me.

I relish not being at work and having all that time to myself. I love it so much that I don’t want to waste a single moment of it sleeping. Carpy Day-o, as Del-Boy might have said. Or was it Harry Belafonte. Anyhow, I like to make the most of my leisure time so much that I get up at silly o’clock on Saturday and Sunday without any prompting or assistance. On workdays I almost have to be prised out of my bed by a team of burly Sherpas when the alarm bursts into life, but it’s turned off at weekends. It’s been tuned to Radio Two for some years now. I’m getting to be an old fart. I always woke up to Radio One when I was a young fart.

At weekends however I need no rousing, I rise with the lark, wide eyed at around five or five thirty, all excited like a kid on Christmas morning. There’s so much fun to be had, so much leisure time to fill. So many sofas to laze on, so little time.

But a big part of my leisure time these days is filled with exercise. Or preparing to exercise. Or recovering from exercise. Or reading about how people who are better at exercise than me exercise when I’m not exercising. Surely that burns off some calories in itself?

There’s no doubt about it, this fitness lark takes time. Let’s say that I intend to cycle for an hour. That’s a fine idea, but it never takes just an hour, does it? There’s getting changed into shorts, shoes and a shirt, specifically one that I don’t mind getting drenched in ‘Shaun’s natural body lotion’. That takes about ten minutes. Then there’s the warm-up. Hmmm, so now I’m at ten and a half minutes.

Finding my MP3 player and fixing it to the static bike via its new-fangled hi-tech restraint – also known as the cloth bag that my Beloved sewed together just for this very job – takes another few minutes.

Eventually I’ll clamber aboard and cycle hard for the allotted hour before dismounting in a state of dripping wet through-edness. (Sometimes I loathe the clumsiness of the English language, and specifically my terrible grasp of its subtleties). Then I have to recover from this unnatural exertion before I can do anything else. So that’s twenty minutes doing the ‘fish out of water’ thing on the dining room floor.

I love a bath after exercise. I’m not one of these who can just take a quick shower and get on with the day. Showers are functional and perfunctory. Having all the time in the world to immerse myself in a tub is a luxury. It’s what makes the muscle burn worthwhile, knowing that I’ll get to soak the injured part of me afterwards. In this case it’s legs. It’s very unusual for it to be anything else.

I once read that cold water baths are good for overworked muscles, so that’s what I’ll usually start with, running just the blue-topped tap. I kneel for as long as I can in the chilly liquid, letting my legs get the benefit but being very careful not to deep-freeze ‘little Shaun and the twins’. After their incident with the Ralgex last week I don’t think that they could take the other temperature extreme.

Then I’ll pop a bath bomb in – some manly aroma (if there is such a thing as a manly bath bomb) like Coral Reef Dredgings or Eau de Bison – but I’m always very careful where I place the fizzing ball. Those things can effervesce incredibly violently sometimes and there are certain non-frozen bits of me that I wouldn’t care to have them bubbling against. I’ll settle back with a book, maybe a glass of something red (not Tizer), or perhaps some football on the radio. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is my little bit of therapeutic heaven. If I put my ears below the surface even the shouty bloke next door constantly testing his lungs and my soundproofing can’t get to me.

I’ll remain in this blissful state until the water goes cold. Then I’ll top it up with hot and settle back again until my skin goes as wrinkly as Cliff Richard’s neck. Then, and only then, I might have a shower to rinse off the indulgence of the last hour. And to wash away the image of Cliff’s neck.

So suddenly this ‘hour of exercise’ has taken up the entire evening.

I run. I cycle. I stretch and I soak. It takes forever.

Which leaves me with one question; however did I ever fill my free time before I started exercising?

© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

[sharper_fin]

THE FAT BLOKE DIARIES

Episode Forty-Two – Mad Dogs and Englishmen

It was my birthday last week. Middle aged. According to Shakespeare I’m in my fifth age. Big baby, fat kid, fat teenager, fat bloke, and now not-quite-so-fat bloke who is trying to do something about it, sitting in wise ‘grumpy old man’ judgement of others and passing on experience in the form of these FBDs. I’m sure that’s what The Bard meant to say… “All the world’s a Pizzahut, and men and women merely diners. They all have their starters and their entrees, and one man in his life eats many slices”. This would be the same scribe who offered the advice, “Get thee to a bunnery”.

The woman who shall now forever me known as my Beloved bought me some lovely new Asics running shoes. They were a wonderful surprise; she’d bought precisely the model that I would have picked out myself. Probably because I had picked them out myself. The girl done good, as sports commentators are wont to say.

I’ve run about 150 miles in what has suddenly become my old pair, so I'm now going to alternate between those and my shiny new pair. Not alternate during the same run obviously; that would be silly and involve far too much hopping. It’s time to up the mileage by any means necessary, but double the number of shoes might not necessarily result in me running double the distance.

I’m starting to enjoy running, though I still like the resting afterwards much better. Last week I mentioned how I love a long soak in a cold – and then a hot – bath after exercise. It’s one of life’s great simple pleasures for me. But it’s not always possible. Sometimes all that I have time for is a quick shower.

That happened this week. I had little time available so just had a quick hose down and jumped out of the shower. Of course this meant that I didn’t have time to cool down properly, so by the time I got out of the steamy shower room I was sweating like the proverbial porker again. I was so wet that I may as well have not bothered drying.

This might not have been too bad were it not for the fact that I wasn’t in my own home. I was at the office, and I needed a shower because I’d been running at lunch. This is another of those moments when anyone who knows me will be staring open-mouthed at these words. Me. Giving up valuable eating time. For exercise! Who’d a thunk it?

Fortunately I remembered my running kit. It would have been a terrible thing for the good citizens of Sheffield (and the more common ones) if I’d forgotten it. I would have been forced, in time honoured school run tradition, to do it in my vest and pants.

Even clad in decent sports attire I was dreading seeing someone I knew, someone who would notice me struggling on my sweaty way. But strangely enough when I made it back to the office itself, when I’d successfully run out to the bingo hall (it’s a classy area) and back in the baking heat, I was so very disappointed that I hadn’t seen a single person that I knew. There was nobody to see my personal victory. I even hung around outside the building, taking much longer than usual over my post-run stretch, all the while searching for a witness.

The showers aren’t actually in the office of course. That would be a little distracting, especially when that blonde from upstairs comes back from her lunchtime run. The local Starbucks would be devoid of male staff from my workplace that day. And it would be similarly off-putting (but for very different reasons) if I were to shower in the office. Business would be ruined and the UK economy would sink to uncharted depths, all because of my need to de-sweat.

The showers in our building aren’t bad actually but they could be better, especially in the temperature department. I found ‘off’ and also ‘thermo-nuclear’ but nothing in between. I could just about stand three drops or so hitting me at a time. It took a while to wash my hair. No time for conditioner. It’s a good job I keep it short; I don’t look good frizzy.

But the scalding water and the cloud system that it created within the shower room meant that however much I towelled I was still more than moist by the time I returned to my own office. It was like I’d sprung a thousand little leaks; every pint of water (and there were many) that I poured into my mouth just seeped straight out again through my skin. No part of me was dry. I eventually settled for a pair of fans on my desk on their highest setting. They were spinning so fast that my work surface almost took off.

That would have been more entertaining for the guys at work than me buying birthday buns.


© Shaun Finnie 2009