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

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