FBD23

The Fat Bloke Diaries

Episode Twenty-Three – The Incredulousness of the Very-Short Distance Runner

At long last there are no more excuses. There is no ice or snow underfoot. It’s quite light now when I get home from work. The ground isn’t totally waterlogged. My shins no longer ache after I’ve been stepping out for just a few moments.

Finally I can start running regularly.

Of course I still have to make it past the local pub a mere 34 steps from my back door. The landlord has been known to physically drag me as I pass when business is quiet. And he’s also locked the doors at closing time, refusing to let me out until I’ve had at least a couple more beers. These are my excuses and I’m sticking to them.

And I have to actually want to go out running. This is by no means a valid assumption, especially if I’m running alone, or there’s football on the telly or something unusual has happened, like there’s a ‘y’ in the day.

But I’m slowly getting the better of my reluctance. I’m going out more frequently and for longer distances. My running-to-walking ratio is improving too, although I can’t yet see myself running up the hill that comes out of the subway. That’s the underpass beneath the motorway, not a sandwich shop. There’s very little chance that I’d be able to run past one of those, I’m still carrying the mentality of a fat bloke. I’d be the first in line for a marinara meatball foot-long, especially if I could justify it with the excuse of having already done my exercise for the day.

Even at the peak of my physical fitness (which would rank around the lowest trough of most people’s) I never imagined myself wanting to go for a run. Now I do indeed look forwards to it most days and – whisper it – kind of enjoy it. Not the continuous bump, bump, bump of low-level discomfort in my knees and hips with every footfall, obviously. Or the gasping for breath when I try to push the speedier section of my run-walk-run pattern to the end of the next minute. And especially not the looks and ‘encouraging comments’ from my friends and neighbours. Bless ’em all. But I am certainly enjoying the feeling of satisfaction when I finally heave myself all the way around my designated loop and the sense of a goal well achieved.

Best of all I love using the excuse ‘I’m soaking my legs’ for luxuriating in a hot bath for over an hour afterwards. The stereotypical woman apparently takes a glass of white wine into the bath with her, surrounding herself with candles and the soothing sounds of the late, lamented Walrus of Lurrrve, Mr Barry White. Allegedly. Don’t shoot the messenger, ladies.

I’m a stereotypical northern fat bloke, and I’m also allergic to candle smoke, so for me it’s a can of beer and the soothing sounds of football commentary on Radio Five Live. Perfect background noise.

Not only is bathing restful and relaxing, but it also gives me a chance to catch up on my reading. I’m no longer getting through many books at bedtime as the increase in exercise means that I usually fall asleep as soon as I hit the pillow. There’s another benefit, or at least my Beloved thinks so.

A further and far more unexpected side effect of my jogging is the unexpected expulsion of waste gasses en route. It’s OK, you can continue reading. I’m talking about the attic, not the basement. I think that my rear has more important things to do when I’m running (like powering me forwards) than to let anything sneak out that way.

I’ve heard of people getting gas (from either end) during yoga classes, but not while running. Just about every time I set off on the latest leg of my quest for thinness I find that I only get about as far as the dirt track near the church before the bubbliest burps in Barnsley pass my surprised lips. Despite my hastily gasped apologies – especially if we’re actually passing the house of God at the time – I’m usually admonished severely by my Beloved.

Am I normal? This is a question that my doctor is tired of hearing, but I never thought that I’d ask it of this particular occurrence. Does the mixing of the gut gas affect other joggers, or perhaps it’s just those of us with an extra-bouncy mixing bowl? Or perhaps it’s just me.

The BBC never broadcasts that part of the London Marathon.

Back to Index