The Fat Bloke Diaries

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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