The advice I was given was to get plenty of RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation).  Perhaps unwisely I’ve been online a few times to try and get a better understanding of what I should and shouldn’t be doing.  I should apparently only follow the RICE theory for a couple of days after the injury, and I should only apply ice for twenty minutes at a time (with a rest in between ‘icings’—although the suggested periods of rest differ from website to website, from twenty minutes to four hours).  Wednesday night, immediately after feeling the pop in my knee, I should have done the RICE thing immediately.  Instead, I walked nearly 3 miles to get home (stupid male pride prevented me from asking for a lift home), and, thinking I’d walked it off, slumped on the sofa watching Flight Of The Conchords on BBC4.

Thursday night I should have done the RICE thing again.  Instead I went to the pub for my mate’s birthday (sausage, egg and chips, a few shandies and a couple of hands of poker — it was worth it).  I also forgot about my fucked knee whilst running across the pub car park in the rain.  All told I’ve done nothing much to help the situation, and when I have tried to help the situation I’ve got it completely wrong.  Friday night I sat with ice on my knee for two hours solid.  TWO HOURS.  That’s a bit more than the recommended twenty minutes.  (Apparently this can lead to nerve damage.  That may explain the aforementioned anaesthetised sensation.)

Not my knee

Despite considering myself to be fairly unfit and not especially active, being unable to do the little bits of exercise I previously took for granted is getting me down.  Wednesday night 5-a-side football was fast becoming the highlight of my week and I was really starting to enjoy running (ME!  ENJOYING RUNNING!).  At lunchtime I went for a short walk to the shops just to get out of the office, and found it really tough.  I’m wishing I hadn’t bothered now, as my knee is throbbing.  It’s not painful but it’s uncomfortable.  I feel so pathetic.  I feel old.

On the plus side, there isn’t much swelling around my knee.  I read that swelling is a tell-tale sign of damage.  Plenty of rest is the order of the day (or the order of the rest of the year, to be specific).  It’s demoralising that I’m still hobbling around though, and I’m annoyed I can’t walk a couple of hundred yards without feeling like my leg is going to drop off.  This does however give me an excuse to be a lazy fucker for the foreseeable future.  Every cloud…

I had it all planned out.  Sort of.  Increase my mileage by approximately half a mile a week until two weeks before the race, by which time I’d be up to about thirteen miles (half a marathon), then a couple of shorter runs and lots of rest to conserve energy before the run.  Simple.

After my mate USC (below) described how he’d done a similar thing to his knee and ended up under the surgeon’s knife, on crutches and completely out of sporting action for eight months, I went to the drop-in centre to get my knee checked out.

USC

I felt like a bit of a fraud as she prodded, stretched and massaged my knee, asking “Does this hurt?  How about this?  Or this?” while I sat shaking my head.  Eventually the nurse told me I was suffering from knee-gah! (© The Fiver) having damaged my anterior cruciate ligaments and I should refrain from strenuous activity for six to eight weeks.  “Definitely no rugby,” she said, bizarrely (I think she meant football).  What about running? I asked.  The same answer: Nothing for six weeks.

This is, not meaning to be crude, a bit of a shitter.  I was really getting into the whole running lark, and although no more running this year (!) will set me back no end, I’m still determined to run the kilomathon.  It just means I’ll have to work harder in 2010.

The crowning turd in the water pipe (© Blackadder Goes Forth) was that I went for a weigh-in at Boots today and found I’d GAINED three pounds.  I’ve been running twice a week and playing 5-a-side and I’ve GAINED weight.  I could very easily embark on a murderous rampage right now.

With exercise completely off the cards for THE REST OF THIS YEAR I have to discipline myself to eat very healthily.  I think over the last few weeks I’ve used running as an excuse to not be particularly careful with what I eat.  This must stop.  I hate eating healthily but it looks like it’s back to making my own shitty, flavourless soups to take to work every day.

Anyway, I’m off out now to run down some motorcyclists in my car.   AAAAGGGGGHHHHHH! 

That I can describe myself as “reasonably fit” without too much sarcasm is something of a triumph and a surprise.  I don’t do exercise, generally.  The only mildly energetic pursuit I normally indulge in is a spot of cricket in the summer.  Now, as sports go, cricket can be a fairly sedentary game at the best of times.  This year I took over as 2^nd team captain, meaning that I had an excuse to exert myself even less than usual.  Saturdays this summer typically went something like:

• 10:45 — give girlfriend some bullshit excuse about having to leave early for cricket.
• 11am — meet Miserable Musical Macca, Mr Tickle and Ugly Smug Cunt at Cob Corner.  Full English with toast and fried bread plus black pudding and tea (one sugar).  Chat intelligently about the issues of the day.

• 12ish— trip to Co-op en route to cricket ground.  Buy Nuts or Zoo or both (depending on attractiveness and/or chest size of cover model and/or likelihood of toplessness), some sugary sweets and a bottle of Orange Lucozade (if I’m feeling hungover).

• 1:30onwards — if we’re fielding I stand at first slip shouting encouragement to the lads I get to do all the bowling and running around.  If we’re batting I sit on the balcony occasionally looking up from my copy of Nuts or Zoo or both to cheer on the lads doing all the batting.
• Around 4:30 — tea.  I love playing cricket because it’s one of the few sports which stop halfway through for a meal.  I usually gorge myself, knowing full well I’m going to get my team-mates to do all the batting and bowling.
• 8ish — game finishes.  If we’ve lost I’ll have a few pints of Guinness and maybe console myself with a kebab.  If we’ve won I’ll have a few pints of Guinness and maybe celebrate with a kebab.
• My only real exercise of the day is staggering home about midnight.

Apart from four games I missed due to weddings/stag weekends, I did the above every Saturday from mid-April to mid-September.  This is no doubt the primary reason for me putting on weight, not that I’m trying to blame anything other than me and my generally slothful existence and penchant for unhealthy food.

This all makes me especially surprised at how quickly I’ve got into this running malarkey.  I actually feel really motivated to get out there and run further and quicker every time, knowing that I won’t feel completely and utterly fucked at the end of the run.

Tonight, arguably, I’m going to attempt something very, very stupid indeed.  Wednesday nights — as you loyal readers will know — is my 5-a-side night.  A normal Wednesday night involves driving to football, playing football, driving to the pub for a couple of diet cokes or beers (depending on mood), before going home.  Tonight I’m going to jog 2.7miles to play football then jog the 2.7miles home afterwards.  That’s 5.4miles, plus the two or three hundred yards I will probably run during an hour of 5-a-side.

*collective sharp intake of breath*

There’s no need to worry.  I’ll be fine, honest.  Well, probably.  Possibly. 

I’ve created an iPod playlist of songs which for some reason I think will help me.  Crucially the playlist lasts 29-and-a-half minutes, the target I’ve set myself for each 2.7mile leg.  I know you’re all dying to know what songs make up said playlist so here you go (in order):

• So Alive — Ryan Adams
• Bend And Break — Keane.  Yeah, that’s right.  Keane.
• Yesterday’s News [live] — Whiskeytown
• Under The Gun — The Killers
• Fans — Kings Of Leon
• It’s Getting Better (Man) — Oasis
• Goodnight — Easyworld

It’s by no means perfect but I’ll see how I get on.

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Cleave and I have spent many, many drunken evenings together.  He is by far the biggest drinker I’ve ever met, and he’s especially fond of Guinness.  I’ve seen him drink two gallons of the stuff and barely be affected.  He once called me on his way home from the pub (he may have been driving but let’s pretend I didn’t say that).  I asked how much he’d had to drink.  He said he couldn’t remember, but he had six Guinness hats, and you got a free hat with every three pints.

from left to right: me, Cleave, Sages, and Ranny Ranny Ranny Don't Drift On Me Ranny, with the World's Biggest Pencil (sadly obscured), circa 2001

This brings me onto the in-no-way-exaggerated Best Thing I’ve Ever Seen.  It was Christmas Eve, probably 2001.  We were in a bar, and we were already fairly well-oiled.  Cleave and his brother ordered a Fish Bowl from the bar (literally, a fish bowl filled with alcohol).  I’m not sure exactly what was in it but I remember the bar staff pouring in — amongst other things — a bottle of white wine, four bottle of orange Reef and a few shots of vodka.  The bowl was passed around for us all to have a sip, and when it found its way to Cleave he nonchalantly discarded the straws everyone else had been drinking from, put the Fish Bowl to his lips and started drinking.  Within a few seconds the whole bar was watching as Cleave drank the first half of the contents of the bowl without fuss.  He paused for a moment, the bowl still to his lips.  He looked to be struggling.  Surely even Cleave couldn’t finish the whole thing.  Surely not.

Suddenly everyone started chanting his name.  Cleave got a second wind, and in one inhuman effort he polished off the rest of the contents of the Fish Bowl.  The place erupted.  It was awesome, it was unbelievable.  It was not — however — The Best Thing I’ve Ever Seen.  It was only part of it.  The best was to come.

Cleave put the empty Fish Bowl down on the table and just stood there.  Everything stopped.  Everyone stared at him.  He stifled a burp.  His cheeks puffed off.  Sensing danger, I took a step back.  Cleave put his hand over his mouth.  And then it came.  A great big tsunami of vomit.  The hand pressed tightly over his mouth served to spray the contents of Cleave’s stomach left and right in two jets, one of which I saw, in slow motion, coming towards me.  I was maybe three yards away and just managed to dodge the stream of watery, orange vomit that flew past my left shoulder.  The first wave of spew subsided, quickly followed by the second, as Cleave spluttered like an old engine.  This time a jet of sick flew past my right shoulder.  I turned around to see a young chap sitting at a table — fully five yards away from Cleave — being showered with vomit.  He just sat there like a stooge in a gangster film being machine-gunned to death as vomit hit him square in the chest for about ten seconds.  This was The Best Thing I’ve Ever Seen.

From Cleave downing the Fish Bowl to the Little Britain-esque projectile vomit completely ruining some poor chap’s Christmas Eve, it was a truly epic moment and I will never ever ever tire of telling that story.

And on a slightly less vomit-related note, in honour of Cleaver Las Vegas I had Elvis on random as I drove up north, and hereby present my top five favourite Elvis Presley tracks (in no order): 

• Anything That’s Part Of You
• Kentucky Rain
• Just Pretend
• Burning Love
• Are You Lonesome Tonight? [Laughing version]

In other news I went for a run, had some McDonalds, got drunk.  The usual.

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Not only did I chalk up 4 miles last night (in 45 mins — getting quicker, just) but I’ve actually splashed out some of my hard-earned (actually that should probably just say earned) cash on:

            a)      entry into the kilomathon, and

            b)      some proper running trainers. 

Oh yes.  I’m a bloody jogger and I’ve got the proper trainers to prove it.  Don’t expect to see me wearing Lycra shorts (sorry for the mental image) or a fluorescent yellow tabard any time soon though.

At lunchtime today I went to Derby Runner in Spondon.  I explained my situation to the very helpful chap in the shop: “You may not have noticed but I’m a little on the heavy side and need some trainers that will stop my ankles, shins and knees hurting when I run.”  He made me take off my shoes and roll up my trousers (revealing black socks — a fashion faux pas with tan shoes and a chocolate brown suit?).  He told me to relax and stand still, before he asked me to take turns standing on one leg while he stared at my feet intently.  He then complimented me on my “strong arches for a big man” and said he knew what sort of trainers I needed.

Derby Runner

I then tried on five or six different pairs of trainers, and was shocked that Nike were the comfiest.  I had prepared myself for spending anything in the region of £90 on some snazzy Asics or New Balance trainers, but I left with a £40 pair of — admittedly last season’s — Nike Pegasus, which I seem to recall being cool at school.  Fifteen years ago.  But whatever, they’re comfy and have plenty of cushioning in the heel, despite my worry that I’ll look slightly ridiculous wearing them.

Nike Pegasus, may have been cool circa 1994

A quick internet search shows that Runner’s World gave this trainer a 67% overall score, while Running Times described them as “light but not particularly flexible.”

Maybe I’m easily pleased, but I’m pretty chuffed.  I went for the Pegasus 25 (last season’s) instead of the Pegasus 26 (new ones), primarily because they were about half the price, and I still have this niggling feeling in the back of my head that I’m going to sack off this running lark in a few week’s time when it starts getting colder and I get a bit bored.

It was nice to go into a shop, announce that you don’t have a clue what you’re looking for, and still feel like you’re leaving with a bargain.  The chap was very helpful, explained everything in the least condescending of layman’s terms, and didn’t try to sell me something I didn’t need.  Thank you kind man at Derby Runner.

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A handful of people are excused:

• My girlfriend, who went on the run with me and was fully aware of my (relative) well-being,
• The three friends with whom I went for a cricket net on Saturday morning,
• The former colleague who texted me on Tuesday night asking for the name of a stripclub in Newquay.

If you are reading this and are not mentioned above, rest assured I hold you in utter contempt.

But moving on, the three mile run took 35 minutes.  Despite being unfit, I found it quite easy.  We ran at a gentle, comfortable pace, and I was barely out of breath and didn’t feel especially tired afterwards.  Now, I am rarely surprised, but upon returning to the house after the run, my girlfriend shocked me with what was probably the first compliment she’s paid me in the seven years we’ve been together.  The words, now etched in my brain forevermore, were “You’re actually fitter than I give you credit for, aren’t you?”

Tonight we’re going running again.  Not sure where yet or indeed over what distance, but hopefully we’ll go further and/or at a slightly quicker pace than the average of 4.9mph we managed on Friday.

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I’m not sure if he was joking, genuine or completely taking the piss, but today a friend asked if I fancied taking part in the world’s first kilomathon, a 26km road race from Nottingham to Derby in March.  For those without a calculator handy, 26km is 16 miles.  SIXTEEN MILES!

I’ve gone through a range of emotions since this was suggested.  Initially I completely dismissed it.  Imagine that — ME running SIXTEEN MILES.  Then, I started to genuinely consider it.  This could be it.  Training for this kilomathon could be the thing that motivates me to get out there and do some ruddy exercise.

Me running

I spoke to a colleague who runs a bit.  “I’d need to do, what, a couple of runs a week to train?”  He winced, in that way that seems to suggest he thinks I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.  “You could start off doing a couple of runs a week.  Then maybe build up to doing more.”  Sounds tough, I thought, my interest tailing off.

But this is exactly the type of thing I should be doing.  My vague desire to lose weight and get fitter isn’t really working out for me at the moment.  (I don’t think I mentioned it but I didn’t lose any weight last week and I doubt I will this week.)  I need a specific challenge, and running a 16 mile race in less than five months’ time seems to tick the right boxes, doesn’t it?

Me stopping to catch my breath, mid-run

But I know me, unfortunately.  I start things with good intentions, but as soon as I get bored or it starts getting tough I give in.  I’ll feel a twinge in my ankle, maybe I’ll start coming down with flu.  I’ll take a few nights off.  A few nights will turn into a week.  Suddenly I’ll decide I’m out of practice and that injury/illness has put too big a dent into my training regime.  I’ll find a way to give up without feeling like too much of a complete and utter fucking failure.

So should I do it?  I guess I could do it for charity.  That would give me motivation to actually see it through.  It sounds like a lot of effort though.  *Sigh*

On a less-energetic note, driving to and from Cornwall last week I spotted loads of brilliant place names, and — tragic nerd that I am — I decided upon my top five: (in no order) 

• Indian Queens
• Cricket St Thomas
• Ballywatticock (Northern Ireland)
• Goonbell (next to the also-brilliantly-named Goonown)
• Westward Ho! (the only place name in the British Isles with an exclamation mark in it)

But back to the kilomathon.  I’m going to do it.  I’M GOING TO RUDDY DO IT*

*maybe

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