Men or machines?

Men or machines - finishing in style

This entry will be very different from all of the other blogs so far. For a start, I'll come straight to the point. It rained, we did it, it hurt. We finished in 20 hours and 38 minutes, making us the 61st fastest team out of 544 entries. The blog will also be different in that I seem to be quite incapable of summoning the glib, self-mocking story-telling style that runs through the other entries. It's now Sunday evening and  I am sitting with my feet up, trusty G&T on one side, peanuts on the other and every time I think about what we went through in the last 48 hours, my eyes fill with tears, I choke with emotion and I can't speak. It's like all the protective layers of humour, bravado and self-mockery have been stripped away and I am left raw and defenceless. I gave it everything; we all gave it everything and there is nothing I can do to keep my emotions in check. I have had glimpses of this feeling before; when I cycled for 18 hours from London to Swansea; when I cycled the Etape du Tour, finishing at the top of Alpe d'Huez; when I did a half Ironman. But none of those come close to how I feel now. Perhaps if I describe the event in the kind of detail that has been missing from my descriptions of the training sessions this will put it in context.





Michael fiddling with his kit


The event started on Friday afternoon, with the 4 of us coming together from various corners of southern England; Michael and I travelled together from London, meeting Martin at the finish point in Brighton to drop Martin's car and gear for the finish. We then drove to the start near Petersfield where we met John and his wife Sam and son Jack at the campsite with a number of other competitors. The lovely English summer's day gradually gave way to the not so glorious English summer's evening, but there was a good, light-hearted atmosphere as we registered, got ourselves organised and shared a bottle of wine and a few beers. We turned in pretty early and it really only struck me how nervous we all were when I lay in my sleeping bag completely wide-awake with my mind running around in circles, fretting about the routine for the morning. I was sharing a tent with Michael and I could tell he was nervous as he fidded endlessly with his kit until in my usual polite way I asked him what the f**k he was doing and he realised it was just nervous displacement activity and got into his sleeping bag. None of us got much sleep, a couple of hours maybe, as the rain came down in the night. It was something of a relief when our 'wake-up' call came at 4.30. The next hour and a half was a frantic race to get everything packed and into the car for Heledd to collect later and get to the start line at 6.00. It was now raining steadily and Sam had already been heard using the words 'again' and 'never' in close proximity.



We lined up at the appointed hour; the Gurkha's commanding officer gave us a quick pep talk and the traditional Gurkha bagpipes (?) struck up as we set off. The really speedy teams who run the whole thing disappeared off into the distance and the rest of us quickly settled into a pace amongst other groups of similar abilities. We were walking at around 6km per hour and despite the continuous rain, the first 2 checkpoints seemed to pass pretty quickly. John confessed a little later that as we crossed the start line, his sciatic problem kicked in and his hip was grinding away really from the off. I too quickly realised that the shin problem I had set off in training a fortnight ago was far from ok and likely to be a problem from early on. Nonetheless, we pushed on to the third checkpoint where Heledd, having retrieved my car with assistance from Paul, was waiting with hot soup, snacks and changes of clothing. None of us was really suffering by this point, but seeing a familiar face, the feeling of re-fuelling and renewing gave us all a lift.




Team at CP 3. Wet but cheerful

 We passed though the fourth checkpoint, pausing just to banter with the ever-friendly and hugely encouraging Oxfam and Gurkha organisers. The walk to the fifth checkpoint seemed to take just that bit longer and although the rain finally halted, we met Sam and Jack there having completed the first half of the event in just 9 hours. I know now that I wasn't alone in feeling somewhat daunted by what lay ahead; by now we had travelled further than any of us had managed in training, we were pretty much soaked through and we were tired. Worse, though, the aches and pains of having been on the go for 9 hours were beginning to make their presence felt. By the time we reached the next checkpoint, all of us started the running repairs as soon as we had grabbed a cup of tea. John and Michael hit the medical tent for some blister treatment and Martin cracked out the Ibuprofen gel which I had been slathering on my shin since checkpoint 2. For the first time, getting up and getting going again was really hard; not just psychologically, but literally. My legs were starting to seize up, the soles of my feet were swollen and sore, my ankles and knees felt as though the bones were grinding together and my thigh muscles front and back were rigid. For the first 100 meters or so, it was an effort just to move, but gradually everything eased as I warmed up and we were soon moving at a reasonable pace again.

We were on familiar territory now, covering the same stretch that we covered on the single day we trained together. We knew what was in store; two slightly shorter sections, with some quite sharp ups and downs, followed by a morale-sapping 14km stretch to checkpoint 9 in the dark. I thought that knowing the stages might make it easier, but I knew when we arrived at checkpoint 7 that I was in trouble. The pain in my legs had now reached such a point that every aspect of making another stride forward hurt. My heels, blistered and battered, the balls of my feet, tenderised so that every pebble felt like standing on a nail; my toes, blistered and squashed; my ankles, arthritic and unable to stop me stumbling on the uneven ground; my shin, so long providing ambient discomfort, now sending shooting pains up my leg with each stride; my thighs aching and weak. We still had 30km to do, just under one third of the distance and it was now getting towards dark, with the temperature dropping. We saw Sam and Jack again at 7 and the enormous emotional lift and encouragement was wonderful.






 

The distance from 7 to 8 was a little shorter than average, but it seemed to drag. Each of the sections was just that little bit harder than I remembered them, with the toil up to the checkpoint itself, past the 1km to go marker seeming interminable. My sister Emma and my father were due to meet us at 8 with some hot food and snacks and even thinking about seeing them made me start feeling emotional, so as soon as they saw us and came bounding over, I was struck dumb, choking back tears of pain, hugging my sister and my lovely niece Jemima tightly and trying not to cry. We took on some wonderful food; Emma had prepared some hot chicken wraps which had a spiciness that cut through the sugar-sweet sickliness of all of the energy bars and gels that by now I was heartily fed up with. We paused for a little longer than we should have, but by now I think we all knew that thoughts of a finishing time were secondary to just finishing; and even now, with 20 km still to go and in a world of pain that still had 6 more hours to run, we knew we would finish. In jest, Emma pointed out the sleeping figure of Ted in his car seat and asked if I wanted to call it a day and I realised that nothing in the world would stop me now; yes it was hurting, yes there was still a long way to go, but like the Terminator, I had no choice. There's a line in the first film where Kyle Rees is trying to get through to the incredulous Sarah Connor about the danger she is in and he says; 'That terminator is out there. It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.' This became our mantra, repeated at frequent intervals. I also received a timely motivational message from my business partner and friend, Paul; 'Pain is just weakness leaving the body. Welcome it, because with each scrap of pain, you are getting stronger and stronger. Welcome the pain, enjoy the pain. The more it hurts, the stronger you get. You can walk to the moon, so these south coast hills are a minor irritant to be bested.' Corny? Amusing? Maybe. But guess what, even now when I read that again now, it still makes my eyes fill with tears.

So off we set, four machines, grinding out the miles, putting one foot after the other again and again, hour after hour, ignoring the pain. Stage 9 was the longest stage, not too demanding in terms of hills, but long and boring. Night fell, with a beautiful sunset bathing the rolling green countryside, the clouds now broken up and soaking up the deep red dying rays of the sun. Our footing became less certain as we stumbled into stones, bruising our already painful toes. With agonising slowness we ticked off the miles, passing the most desolate support point where a small group of Gurkhas, in the middle of nowhere, manned a water stop. Eventually we started the descent from the gallops on top of the downs towards the back of Lewes prison and I knew that we were getting close to Kingston Hollow, the 9th checkpoint and the end of the section we had completed in our training some weeks ago. From here, just the final 10km. I did a final sock change then we all got our heads down and pressed on. The routine which had emerged over the hike was that 2 of the others would move slightly faster, with the remaining one walking at my somewhat slower pace. I don't know if the guys had a quiet word out of my earshot and agreed that they would take it in turns to walk at my pace, or if they even had to say it, but I am embarrassed at quite how grateful I was that they did.

The long, steep hill from the checkpoint was nowhere near as hard as I thought it would be; the pain had sort of levelled out and whilst I couldn't wholly shut it out, I was now in what I called 'perma-plod' mode, where I just watched the beam of my torch on the ground and moved one leg, then the next and so on, never varying the pace, landing with as little force as possible with each step. We had a few small difficulties finding the route to the final checkpoint, way off the road, tucked into a valley just north east of Brighton. We could see the bright lights from a distance but finding the path was a little more difficult. We had made the decision not to stop here with just 5km to go, not because we didn't want to, but because now even the slightest pause meant renewed agonies as we got going again. The climb out of the checkpoint was longer and steeper than expected, but was now just frustrating rather than demoralising. We were getting into the very outskirts of Brighton and the orange glow of city lights and, although the 3km to go sign took an age to arrive, we were now getting closer and closer to the finish. I raised my head occasionally to see if I could glimpse the racecourse, but hadn't really allowed myself to think about the end at all.

Suddenly, having seen no other groups for some time, we caught up with 2 other groups and our tight band of 4 mingled temporarily with people who had been through the same experience, the same torment and who were now within spitting distance of the finish. The legs that I had dragged so painfully for so long suddenly shook off the exhaustion, my mood which had been silent or laconic, stubborn determination for so long, suddenly lifted and I was able to catch up the few yards to my team mates as we entered the racecourse perimeter. John, limping from badly swollen ankles but still laid back and smiling. Michael, surprisingly sprightly and shrugging off the painful blisters and Martin, quietly authoritative and in apparently good shape. As I caught them up, the urge suddenly struck me to run past them, just as a joke. I intended to stop just after passing them, but instead I turned and called for them; 'Come on you lazy bastards, why are you walking.' As one, they sprung foward and we closed up into a tight formation, John and I in a front rank with Michael and Martin right behind, in step. The feeling of being with a close-knit team, guys I'd barely known before this but who I had now been through the fire with, bunched together as we jogged the final few hundred yards, gave us all an enormous shot of adrenaline. We passed one or two spectators and other competitors, cheering us and clapping in disbelief as we ran past. The course opened up and we moved into line, four abreast as the finish line came into sight.

A very welcome sight



 

Running to the finish

We checked our pace to make sure we were in line and were into the final few meters, guide tapes funnelling us towards the line, the finish banner clearly visible now. The cheering from the supporters, Gurkhas and organisers, as they saw us coming in, rose to a crescendo; we linked hands and came across the line with our arms raised in triumph. A sea of smiling faces, clapping and an absolutely overwhelming surge of emotions; total relief, elation, a complete sense of release as the gritty determination we had held so close for so long just spilled over in tears and smiles of elation. My father, as I knew he would, had come to meet us at the end, at 2.30am. Sam, who had endured the same lousy night's sleep in the tent and Jack were there too. I hugged my father and Sam at the same time, completely overcome and completely overjoyed. Without question the hardest thing I have ever done and the most extraordinary feeling at the end. Even now, a day on, I can still feel that surge of adrenaline and emotion as I think of crossing the line and, looking at these words, I am frustrated at their lack of ability to describe what it really felt like. We were presented with medals and photographed on a sort of podium, arms around our team mates, before heading off for a very welcome Gurkha curry and cup of tea.



Medals all round

There was a bit of kit admin before heading off; I was heading to a  comfortable bed at Emma's house, dropping Michael to get the first train back to London. Sam drove John back to Hereford and Martin got a massage and a few hours sleep in the tent before driving himself back to Cambridge. I hobbled into the shower at 4.45 am, having been on the go for 24 hours on the back of a 2 hour sleep, but when I lay down in bed, already completely seized up, my mind was still racing. How ironic,  I thought to myself, I am now going to struggle to go to sleep. And that was the last thing I remember until I was woken several hours later with a cup of tea.



Will we do it again? Never say never, but I don't think so. I don't care about getting a better time; I don't think there were many 'veterans' ahead of us. I don't think you could replicate that feeling of relief and joy at finishing yet I am sure you would have to endure the same pain. There will be other things though, and in John, Martin and Michael I think I have a team I would do pretty much anything with. Maybe something on a bike next time. Sorry Heledd. Sorry Mother.



Emma, Bobby and Ted at Emma's



We'll be back......







Running like Clockwork

No training this weekend, so if you are looking forward to the meticulously recorded training schedule, described and analysed in painstaking detail, I am afraid you are going to be disappointed. Not for the first time. Michael told me that with just one week to go, my training should be tapering, by which I think he meant 'stopping abruptly'. So, instead of tramping determinedly around the country, I spent the weekend watching the Grand Prix, the cricket and the Tour on TV with my feet up, resting for the big one next weekend. Just one week for the remaining aches and niggles to disappear and just one week to finalise the fantastically complicated logistics exercise of getting 4 of us and our kit from A to B. One week too for the pre-traumatic stress disorder to build nicely and I have my sister to thank for her extraordinary motivational pep-talk for revving that one up nicely.

My sister, Emma, recently returned from 3 years swanning around in the deserts, shopping malls and beach clubs of Dubai, is one of the central planks of our support team, living as she does now conveniently close to the route we will travel next weekend. She has always had the ability to make me collapse in hopeless fits of giggles, even when she was a 3 year old, singing in church on Christmas day. Not during one of the noisy bits, where everyone else is singing, but one of the bits where the chap in the frock is mumbling quietly to himself and everyone else has their heads bowed in pious silence. With assistance from the perfect acoustics of the high-roofed church, her clear, piping voice rang out as she sang; 'The farmer's in his wife, the farmer's in his wife. E-I-Addio the farmer's in his wife'. I also remember trying to play the recorder as I walked towards the nativity play stage in my shepherd's dressing gown and head tea-towel as she stepped out of the audience in front of me, looking the wrong way and with the same piping voice calling; 'where's James?' You trying playing; 'while shepherds watched' on the recorder when it's all you can do not to burst you are laughing so much. On Sunday, we were talking through the plan for next weekend and, knowing my tendency towards injury, Em asked how I was. She then started telling me about a Philip Pullman story, Clockwork, which is about a clockwork man who starts falling apart. Bits literally falling off him yet he determinedly walks on. Well, thanks Em for those carefully chosen words of support. I'll remember that as I stagger across the Downs, discarding unwanted limbs! Needless to say, the phone call rather lost the focus on support teams logistics as the tears of laughter mingled with the hysteria of terror.

So, pre-traumatic stress disorder. The jury is still out on post-traumatic stress, but I think it's just obvious. If you know you are going to do something that is going to hurt, your brain does stuff to you. Once you have done something that hurts, your brain does stuff to you. The worse the pain, the more your brain has to do. Now, I have never been shot at, if you exclude the numerous air-gun shots inflicted on me by my brother as a teenager. (Henry - that's why you can't have an airgun, your brother will shoot you and it will hurt!) Nor has anything really bad ever happened to me, but on the few occasions where my body has been tricked into pouring on the adrenaline in life-saving quantities, such as when I crashed a motorbike at 80pmh, I have a tendency to relive the incident again and again in my head until I can't distinguish real memory from imagined. I expect that's not unusual.

Pre-traumatic stress, then, is just another version of this - and for the last few nights, I have been doing Trailwalker in my sleep. Not in a helpful way, because of the uncertain, meandering nature of sleep thinking and it's been more about the tortuous logistics. However, I suppose it is a form of training. All I know is that if my head is already starting to spin a week before the event, my brain already knows it has some serious motivational talks to deliver to failing bits of body next weekend and is preparing the way so that it all runs like clockwork on the day. Let's just hope bits aren't falling off.

I'll do a post after the event and then that's probably it. You still have time to sponsor us if you haven't done so already, following the link up on the right hand side of the page. If you are interested in following our progress we set off at 6.00am on Saturday and aim to arrive at the finish early on Sunday morning. Martin will be tweeting and his id is Martw00. Think of us and just be careful if Michael calls you - you never know what he'll end up talking you into!

London - love it or loathe it, it's my home

I have always had a bit of a love hate relationship with London. I am sure everyone who lives here loves it and loathes it in some way. You can't avoid the bad stuff; another week goes by and another teenager is stabbed to death for no apparent reason, the main road through Brixton is shut for the second time in 2 weeks and the assumption is that another drug-dealing, gun-toting local has cashed in his life-insurance policy prematurely. The back door of the office yet again looks like the local tramps and deadbeats have mistaken it for the public toilet and it's only 8.30 on Monday morning. Over the years I have had to cross off a number of things that I can do; shops that I am allowed to visit, roads I am allowed to use, that sort of thing. Mainly for my own protection but also for those with me. For example, I can't go to Argos in Streatham any more. Having queued there to return a hoover for the 3rd time in 1995 (actually it felt like the whole of 1995), I looked the manager in the eye and vowed never to return even if Argos was the only shop left on the planet and I was desperate for cheap electrical goods. I now can't go to Lillywhites in Piccadilly ever again. Tom is off to Canada on a rugby tour and needed a scrum cap. We sweated our way on a super-heated underground to the premier sports emporium in the capital of the country that invented rugby, but the surly and completely disinterested assistant didn't know what a scrum cap was - even though he worked on the floor that sold rugby clothing. He looked a bit bemused when I delivered the crushing news that never again would I visit this football shirt-replica swamped excuse for a sports shop.

The same is true for roads. For years I couldn't leave London on the M40 because of that idiotic junction by White City; Battersea Bridge northbound will never see me in a car again; the North End road junction with the Cromwell Road will be similarly starved of my presence - and people ask me why I cycle around London! I don't have much choice.

And yet, still I live here. Ok, so I sneaked off to Hong Kong for a couple of years, but other than that, I have now lived in London since 1986. That's 25 years. Before that I hadn't lived in a single place for longer than 2 years, if you exclude boarding school. In fact, I have lived in West Norwood for most of those years - and, if you don't know it, no, it's not an endearing and vibrant little suburban village; it's actually a bit of a dump. The high street is scruffy and full of pound and charity shops, the ratio of people to fried chicken and kebab shops is about 1:1 and the total number of bars you'd want to go to is zero.

But here's the thing; you can only really lay into something in public when it's yours. If someone insulted my children, they'd need more than a scrum-cap for protection; insulting them is my job. If someone else has a pop at London, or West Norwood, I get all defensive. So there must be some stuff about it that's good - not just the familiarity of a comfortable pair of old slippers. This is partly why this weekend, instead of striking out for the countryside to train, I decided to trade in the rolling green belt of Surrey for the urban jungle. You see, I get to the bit about training for Trailwalker eventually.

Ruskin Park - Camberwell

The last few weekends I have trained alone and, whilst my own company doesn't necessarily rule out stimulating conversation, I thought I'd come up with a plan that allowed others to benefit too. The plan was to leave West Norwood early on Sunday morning and walk/ hike/ jog up to Tower Bridge and then a long tour down the Thames, hooking up with some company for the last section.

I left West Norwood at around 7.30 in glorious sunshine, oiled up like a well-greased chicken with factor 175 suncream. I wasn't risking the torching I had last weekend nor the snake-like sloughing of forehead skin (don't say that too quickly!). Visitors to London Bridge last week must have assumed I was visiting outpatients at Guys for treatment on a nasty case of leprosy.

A brisk walk through Brockwell Park, home to one of the coolest outdoor pools in the world. And I mean temperature cool. Actually, it's cool in both senses of the word. Then on through Herne Hill, known locally as Col du Herne, home as it is to the single remaining venue from the 1948 Olympics, the Herne Hill Velodrome. A little delapidated it may be, but my kids learnt to ride bikes there and I now meet the Dulwich Paragon there. On past King's Hospital; very special memories there of the boys' arrival many years back. It won't surprise the fearless foursome that my chief concern, faced with a wife who didn't exactly rush herself through childbirth (I'll be ironing my own shirts tonight!), was how I would manage mealtimes during the 'birthing process'. In one of the anti-natal (yes 'i' is correct), I had latched onto the warning that the father would need a good supply of snacks to get through a prolonged period of huffing and puffing. Anxious to avoid the 'business end' of childbirth, I focused on the head-end until in complete exasperation Heledd yelled; 'Oh, for god's sake stop going on about food all the bloody time, I am trying to have a f***g baby here.' I tried not to take offence, but it was pretty hurtful.

Tower Bridge

So, on through Camberwell, past Edwards Cycles and on up the Walworth Road towards London Bridge. My commuter route in the late 90s and again now I work in London Bridge. Probably not London's smartest streets, yet on a sunny Sunday morning, Burgess Park was a green haven of tennis and dog-walking. Even the now empty tower blocks as you approach the Elephant and Castle had a quiet dignity to them; low cost replacements for the streets remodelled by the Luftwaffe, not pretty but home to many a struggling Londoner. Round the Elephant, and 2 extraordinary buildings that have changed the traditionally low-rise skyline. The 'Strata' tower or 'Razor' and the 'Shard', not yet finished but already visible from miles around.

Shard in the background

City Hall

Still walking at this point, and beginning to understand why the tramps use our office doorways due to lack of alternatives, I took a quick break in Starbucks. Then it was onto the Thames path starting at Tower Bridge, such a stunning landmark, standing out against the bright blue sky. For the next few miles, the tourist landmarks hit you one after the other; a mixture of old and new; HMS Belfast, with the wax models of the chap having his appendix out. A survivor of one of the most famous sea battles of the 2nd World War and now a floating museum and conference venue. Boris' wobbly jelly of a building, tilting to one side; Hays Galleria, Southwark Cathedral, the Golden Hinde. On past the Globe, the Tate Modern and the South Bank. Then the classics; the Eye, Big Ben, Parliament.

Southwark Cathedral

By this time, it was around 10.00am and the tourist numbers were swelling; I must apologise to the large group of Germans who may have overheard me deep in conversation with my camera. It had chosen this moment to stop working; perhaps the cornucopia of architectural eye-candy was too much for it. It required some firm but perhaps somewhat agricultural words of encouragement and, with my iPod blocking my own hearing, I may have spoken a little louder than I intended. A little behind schedule now, I decided to run once I had moved on from the delights of Westminster to the wastelands of Vauxhall and Battersea Power Station. That's an odd one; a distinctive but hardly beautiful fixture, beloved and hated in equal measure; abandoned and left mouldering for years whilst plans to re-build it have foundered. It sort of sums up London in many ways. Is it an iconic and historical landmark or an eye-sore occupying much needed development land in the heart of the capital? Yes to both.


Battersea Park. I love Battersea Park. When we were fed up with the manicured lawns of Dulwich and the open dog-shit acres of Brockwell, we'd go the extra mile to Battersea to wear out the boys in the zoo, or at the adventure playground, or just walking around the lake, eating genuinely good food at the cafe. I was still running, feeling no pain and doing the now traditional diesel-chug, where I break no land-speed records but keep ticking off the miles.

Lots Rd Power Station

At this point, I diverted from the river and up to Clapham Common to meet up with the rest of my team for the latter part of the day's training. Paul, Karen, Heledd and I, post-bacon sandwich re-fuel, set off from 'between the commons' and off down to Plantation Wharf, past the old Candle factory, picking up the Thames path again past acres of new flats housing London's young professionals. Down to Wandsworth Bridge and across up the north side of the Thames, past the old power station on Lots Road that used to provide the electricity for the underground, but which now stands idle and derelict. What is it about London power stations? On past chintzy Cheyne Walk, where one posy resident parks his two cars, number plates '2 B' and 'NOT 2B' alongside the main road. Cock.

St Mary's Battersea

Over Battersea Bridge and past the Church of St Mary's, where William Blake was married, built in 1777 and now sitting alongside the ultra-modern apartment blocks that flank the bridge, we finally stopped for the promised coffee break that had been the condition of Heledd accompanying. The continental feel of Battersea Square, a delightful pavement, thronged with young Londoners idling away a sunny Sunday morning. Then back up to Clapham Common and shoes off. 36km, feet a little sore, left shin a bit stiff but otherwise fine.

So I might moan about London; I may even have said that while I was in Hong Kong, I didn't miss London at all. But where else in the world could you see all this walking from your home? And on days like this, with the sun shining and some great company, how can it get better? Well, I'll tell you how. An enormous side of English beef and a bucket of sparkling wine. Not from Australia or France; but from Denbies Vineyard in Box Hill. Yes, Box Hill, in England. English Sunday lunch, with the Wimbledon final and the sports section of the Sunday Times. London. Home.

Tomatohead goes west.

Medium term I'll be fine. No ridiculous Rooney-esque hood wearing and forced celibacy while the implants take effect. Brushing the wiry and lightly greying thatch forward will see me through the next few years without too much difficulty, and when that starts to fail, I have reserves in the form of a pair of eye-brows that would give the Archbishop of Canterbury a run for his money. With that and the ear hair and a little imaginative topiary, baldness will only need to be admitted when I am about 60, by which time I imagine it will be the least of my problems, with the full set of real and imagined ailments that are queuing up. However, in the short term, I have a problem. Even those who barely know me cannot fail to notice my forehead. Not only is it a bit more expansive these days, but today it is glowing bright red, throbbing and pulsing like a like a dangerously over-heating nuclear isotope.

Pretty village with no shop

Yesterday, I was outside enjoying the glorious Somerset sunshine, listening to some of my favourite music and the big orange fella in the sky exacted a terrible revenge. I also have a lower arm and leg 'tan' and an Arkansian neck to go with it. No, I wasn't sweating around Glastonbury in the dry mud in wellies, though I was quite close. I decided to forgo the comfort of the family car in travelling from a Saturday party in Bristol to Vobster Quay diving school (on my parents' doorstep in Somerset) where Henry was getting Padi qualified. Rather than be wafted in hung-over and air-conditioned comfort, I decided to hike the 20.5 miles as my weekly long training session. I did think about getting some sun cream, but there wasn't much open in Bristol and when I got out into the country, there was nothing. Not even a village shop selling water. So I got a little 'tanned' and today it hurts if I frown. It also hurts where I got stung by stinging nettles and torn apart by brambles as I jumped into the hedge to avoid the young Sebastian Vettel wannabees. My route took me on the smaller lanes and roads, but in places a surprising amount of traffic hurtled around, making the best use of the warm tarmac and hugging the bends, little expecting a sweating, panting vision in lycra to be staggering along towards them sucking furiously on a camelback. So, somewhat de-hydrated after some vigorous partying on Saturday, hatless and without sun protection, dangerously low on fluid and with no food, you certainly couldn't accuse me of over-preparation. The good news is that I made it in a little over 5 hours with a mixture of walking and running - the bad news is that it was painful, and I can no longer con myself that I have time to gradually increase the workload in preparation for the big one. I covered just one third of the full distance and if you had told me to turn around, and do the whole thing again, twice, I wouldn't even have had the energy to hit you. So, it's time for some more sophisticated forms of self-delusion.

Last week, John, one of the fearless foursome, sent me a link to an article the Telegraph. The email didn't come with an explanation, just the link. I think he was trying to tell me 2 things; the first was to give me some handy tips on how to write a blog from someone who is clearly very good at it; the second was a reminder that whilst our challenge may seem pretty hard core and extreme, compared to the stuff that some people get involved in, ours is merely a gentle walk in the country. This screwball (the blogger - not John!) runs ultra-marathons for fun and has just set off on the epic 3220 mile race across America from LA to New York, covering around 50 miles a day every day for 2 months. Check out http://www.runningandstuff.com/ram/ if you are fed up with my whining about sunburn and sore feet and want to follow someone a bit tougher!

The point for mentioning this, and, as usual it is slightly tangential, is that the piece of mental trickery I am going to rely on to do triple the distance I did this weekend is this. Anyone who has ever done a longish run, bike ride, swim or whatever knows that the maximum distance you can ever do is the distance you set out to do. I know that sounds thick, but what I mean is if you set out to run 5 miles, you might fail and only do 4, you might succeed and finish, but you couldn't even do 5 miles plus 20 yards. I can cycle 100 miles, but if only set out to do 50, I can't do 51. So, if I set out to hike 100km, I might make it, but once I get to Brighton, I will not be able to walk another metre. Not on Sunday and probably not for a good few days afterwards. I am similarly sure that once this James Adams chap reaches New York, he will go no further.

Tomato-head

The other thing I am going to have to do it is to convince my team that finishing as a team is more important than finishing in a 'good' time. I did 20 miles on Sunday at a pace that would have us finishing in 15 hours and I now know, with absolute certainty, that I can't sustain that pace over the full distance, and I'll need the full force of the team's encouragement to get me to the finish line. We had a team call last week to agree our 'goal' and agreed that a good time would be good; I think we also agreed that we want to finish as a foursome and this is more important that beating the Gurkhas. So, unless one of us is badly hurt and can only crawl, we help eachother through the bad patches. Guys, I think I am going to need quite a bit of encouragement.

I've not peaked yet

I suppose this week was always going to be a bit if an anti-climax after the taste of the real thing in the rain last weekend. For starters, I was a little stiffer and more tired than I expected to be, so getting motivated again was hard. Then there is the fact that with the team so dispersed, I train mostly alone and it's pretty easy to 'listen to your body', when it is begging for a rest. It's more than that though. I'm not much for thinking too hard, preferring precipitous and often ill-considered impetuosity as a way of guiding me blundering through life, but it strikes me that this motivation thing is quite important.

One thing that has been front of mind over the last few weeks as No 1 son has been playing GCSE catch-up, paying for his lack of diligence early on, is how you motivate a teenager. Threats of physical violence are met with peals of derisive laughter and attempts at earnest career advice with the rolling eye treatment. Incidentally, two politicians have managed to get right up my nose; first Michael Gove, with perfect timing, talks about abolishing our totally devalued exam system, where A*s are doled out like Olympics tickets to Fifa cheats. Now I know Tom is pretty unlikely to read the article in the paper and would probably not get as worked up about it as me, but that's not the point. The point is that his Mum and I have lived through the pain of these wretched exams too and I don't like being told they are worthless. Then there was Cameron, saying how he wants absent fathers to feel like pariahs. Really? We all make mistakes and when we do, is it really the best thing to do to heap further scorn and humiliation on us? If I am scared of jumping off the high board, is it better to ridicule and humiliate me further, or to encourage me to jump in because the water's lovely?  Maybe I was just being a little over-sensitive on Father's day. Both of them may well have a point, but I am not sure I'd look to either for motivation.

Anyway, as I made my way to Box Hill early this Sunday morning I started to wonder about my own motivation; not just how I needed to raise myself from the anti-climax following the highs of last weekend, but the wider question of why am I doing Trailwalker and why generally do I go for these daft endurance events as I subside kicking and screaming into injury-prone middle age.

I kept mulling this over as I did 5 laps of a fuller circuit than I had managed last time I was here, two weeks ago. And I think I have reached a realisation; not some Damascene moment as I hopped across the stepping stones over the much swollen river Mole; more a recognition of something I probably knew anyway but, for me at least, seemed reasonably profound.

Obviously the whole exercise thing is just another manifestation of the 'mid-life crisis', but what does that mean? One of the proudest moments of my life was persuading my wife to let me buy an Audi TT with the line: 'Look, I am 40, what's it going to be...sportscar or mistress?' To her credit, she replied; 'Look, you're 40 - what's it to be, Soprano or Bass?' The sports car, the guitar, the tattoo; that's just displacement activity, another symptom, like doing Trailwalker. I have been trying to understand what lies beneath it. And that was what struck me; it's the need to deny that you have peaked. If you have peaked and everything you have done in life so far has been an exercise in getting gradually better, whether that is at sport, at work, at being a parent, all you have to look forward to is gradually accelerating decline.

What happened today was that I managed to pick myself up from the slightly flat feeling after the high of last weekend and show a marked improvement over the last time I was here. I ran all of the flat and downhill bits on an extended circuit at walked up the longest, steepest bit of the hill, completing a 4km circuit 5 times. And I felt like a machine. We still have a few weeks to go and I am pretty sure there is still some room for improvement too. I am in the zone now where I can pour on the effort and still get up and do it again the next day. Well, I may not dominate CS7 tomorrow, but I'll be there.

What's more, as I wobbled down Box Hill for the second time, I ran into an old cycle-buddy. Splattered in mud from head to toe, he was training for a mountain-biking tour across the Alps. 8 days of clean air, merciless gradient and endless competitive banter with a group of like-minded nutters. What's not to like about that? Maybe that could be next year's challenge. I've not peaked yet damn it! I'll show you.

Dancing with the Devil's Dyke

I've never really liked dancing. There's plenty of evidence that doesn't support this statement; those that have witnessed the jogging on the spot, flailing-armed style of 'Dad dancing' that I made my own long before fatherhood, might be surprised that I don't like dancing. Those that saw me at the work Christmas party in 2000 would be surprised. (I met someone last week who had been there and the first question she asked was - 'Do you still have those yellow pants?' - and, no, she wasn't American!) Those who saw me shirtless in a Paris gay-bar sharing a podium with a man dressed only in a 'cock-sock' might be confused at the notion that I wasn't actually a raging exhibitionist. The thing is, and I am sure I am not alone here; I can only really dance when I have rinsed away the inhibitions with sufficient booze. Over the years I have perfected the ability to drink just enough - as a youngster there was only a short window between getting sufficiently loaded to pluck up courage, grab a girl and get on the dance floor before losing motor control and having to lie down and sob.

I know this is particularly long pre-amble, but I will get to the point soon. I was thinking about the nature of exhibitionism in relation to this blog - it is after all the ultimate vanity to commit words to the ether and expect people to read them with interest and it occurred to me that that I find it easier to write without really knowing if anyone is reading. Much like dancing; knowing or caring that I am being watched makes me self-conscious. The reason I bring it up this week is that this weekend saw our team of 4 meet up and train together for the first time and one thing that came out is that the guys all seem to read this blog. Now, writing this, I know they are going to read it to see what I say about the hike we did across 30km of the South Downs Way, taking in Devil's Dyke and Ditching Beacon. Suddenly I feel like I am on the dance floor without the benefit of a number of strong cocktails to get my arms waving.

I'll start with Saturday, which saw me link up with my new cycling club for the second time. I rolled into the Herne Hill velodrome at 8.30 to join the club ride, hoping to find a group I was able to stay with after the sobering experience of a fortnight ago when the steel-limbed Frenchman gave me a demonstration in hill-climbing. True to form I grossly over-estimated my own ability and joined the second of 4 groups leaving Dulwich and was forced to make a quick re-assessment and drop back to the slower 3rd group after the lung-bursting first climb over Crystal Palace hill. Thereafter, all was well and I mostly kept up through the morning as we circled the North Downs. So hurrah! I seem to have cracked the cycling club thing. It also didn't rain, which was a bonus.

So to Sunday, when it did rain. All day, sometimes quite hard, often horizontally and usually accompanied by strong winds whipping in from the south coast. Michael and I met up in Balham; he lives in North London with his wife and 3 young children, so I imagine his day ended with having to talk his wife down from the ledge and untying the children having left them all day. Like the other 2 team members, he works for IBM and is the one responsible for putting the team together. He's a runner and would love to have had us running the Trailwalker so I have had to let him down gently on this one. We drove to near the end point of the hike to meet John and Martin, the ex-army duo who also work at IBM. John had driven all the way up from Hereford with a pal who was to help ferry us around. He stayed on in Hereford after leaving the army, so I was pretty confident that if there was any need for us to get involved in unarmed combat we'd be in good hands.

Martin, from Cambridgeshire, had volunteered to be map-reader in chief and, being an ex-army officer, had the immediate trust of the civilians in the team and the scepticism of the military men. Apparently, you never trust an officer with a map. However, despite some discrepancies between the map and instruction provided by the organisers, navigation was spot on, a factor which I am sure will help us when we have to repeat the section at night having already hiked 50 miles or so.

So, one of the biggest questions for me - did we get on? The event is going to mean us going through the fire together and if we didn't gel as a team, this would make it a much harder event. Those of you who are thinking that walking is easy and anyone could do this - you're wrong. I have done lots of nutty things and I reckon this will be right up there as one of the hardest. Well, the good news is that we did get on. Sure it rained,  yes it was not the ideal day to go for a hike, but I think we all thoroughly enjoyed the day. We all have lots in common - age, marital status, children; 3 of the team work in the same company albeit they don't have much to do with eachother at work. Most importantly though, and partly because of the ravages of time and an enduring love of putting ourselves through insane amounts of pain, we have a shared lexicon of injuries. Never have I spent so much time comfortably discussing torn hamstrings, prolapsed discs, heart murmurs, deep vein thromboses, sciatica and all manner of other things medical.  I was amongst friends and the miles slipped by with relative ease. The only regrets were that these guys don't seem to completely share my views on the essential need to construct the day around good food stops; and that I completely forgot to take any photos until Michael and I stopped on the return journey to buy coffee in a petrol station.

The other time that I can dance without being self-conscious is when I am surrounded by friends. Now I can dance with Dulwich Paragon and with my Trailwalker team. Don't worry though, guys, I can explain the podium thing and it's not how it looks!

The Grand Old Duke of York

When the boys were young, I used to sing to them. Not the sort of singing that would lull them gently to sleep; that sort of singing would require a slightly better voice than I have been (dis)graced with. Mostly, the singing I did was to wind them up and one of the old favorites was a variation on 'the Grand Old Duke of York.' Not the fabulously vulgar buffoon and "boorish freeloader" with the antlered daughter. The Duke of York I had in mind was the one who kept going up and down hills with his 10,000 men. The variation to the song went something like:

Oh the Grand old Duke of Pork (somewhat prescient given some of the tittle tattle)
He had 10,000 sausages
He marched them up to the top of the grill
And he marched them down again.

There is a reason for mentioning this; my cunning plan for this week has been to put aside the bicycle and to start to up the mileage on foot. On Thursday I did my best imitation of a well run-in diesel chugging into the office and then my equally impressive imitation of a slightly disabled, lumpen buffoon as I attempted to run/ walk home again at the end of the day. Still, 20km in one day is more than I have managed to date and it didn't actually feel too bad. So it was time to raise the bar again on Sunday.

Having raided the bar on Saturday, the rude shrieks of the alarm clock at 6.30am were less than welcome, particularly as our handsome and endearingly stupid cat had spent most of the night scrabbling on the radiator as he tried to squeeze through the window to do away with the insolent pigeon on the roof. Nonetheless, I set off in the car to Box Hill; site of the 2012 Olympic cycle race, which I won't be seeing because they gave all the tickets to Fifa. (Did you see that?? Sepp 'I'm not vindictive' Blather and his odious cronies are being given freedom of London, chauffeured around in limos at our expense with free tickets to all the best events)

Stepping Stones at Box Hill

Anyway, Box Hill, I must avoid getting too worked up about Sepp, my systolic readings are going off the scale; not to mention the tourettes. The idea was that I get in some training on hills, leaving the car at the bottom, walking up and jogging around and down back to the start. I have no idea how long the whole circuit is but I managed to do it 5 times in just under 2.5 hours. And for pretty much the whole time, that wretched verse of nursery rhyme, bastardised with references to tasty pork-based snacks, played around my head in an endless loop. Clearly, this type of event is best done in a team, where the cameraderie helps to stop you from suffering from spatial isolation psychosis. I am quite excited, for next weekend is the first time our team of four will meet up and train together. Excited, but slightly nervous. Less nervous having bested the grand old duke himself , but keen not to disgrace myself in front of my team. We are heading to the South Downs to see what's really in store for us in just over a month's time.

Speaking of which, thank you for all those who have sponsored us already; those of you who intend to but haven't got around to it yet, thank you also. Keep it coming.

It’s not fair

This has nothing to do with training for the Trailwalker – I am just writing today because I am cross. And not in a good way.

I didn’t get any Olympics tickets. Not one. I applied for a whole range of obscure sports that usually play to empty rooms and I have not got one single miserable ticket. It’s not fair. If I had known about that website in Germany selling tickets weeks ago, I could have bought some. If I was a civil servant I could have just allocated myself some between moaning about my index linked final salary pension and ambling to catch the 5.00pm train home. If I was on the Olympic committee, not only would I have prime finish line seats for the 100 meters, but I’d probably have a holiday home in Tanzania and a custom built yacht staffed by impossibly athletic blondes. Not that I would want that, obviously.

At least I have the pleasure of paying for the damn things with my taxes over the next 50 years and putting up with the much overdue but shambolic re-vamping of London’s creaking infrastructure in anticipation of coachloads of foreign dignitaries, hangers on and assorted scots and northerners crowding up my city to watch my Olympics with tickets that I should have had. It’s not fair.

And whilst I am on the subject of unfairness and crooked or incompetent committee men, what the hell is going on at Fifa? If it’s as corrupt as it seems to be, yet again we are being made fools of, taken advantage of as a bunch of cheats take our money and give us one solitary vote for a bid that was, by all accounts, the only one that made sense. And another thing. Twickenham and the RFU – we finally have a plan which sees Clive back in charge where he belongs and some wretched idiot goes and screws it up. Why? Is rugby going the way of football, where the lunatics take over and enrich a handful of celebrity-shagging louts whilst impoverishing the rest of the sport? All it needs is a bit of money and some catastrophically incompetent management and it has both of those.

And another thing. No I don’t want speed humps down my road. Not a single person has ever been knocked over on the road – it is a road to nowhere, a loop that gets you back where you started. I certainly don’t want speed lozenges or cycle-friendly humps even if I knew what they were. What I would like you to spend some of the remnants of my taxes on, Lambeth, once you have paid your chief exec £270,000 a year and blown £500k on that bloody awful communist propaganda newsletter, is to repair the roads. They don’t need lumps of useless tarmac to slow cars down, they need some of the mariana-sized trenches filled in so that whole families are not lost when they inadvertently try to drive down the road.

Mind you, I am not as cross as Paul, who still hasn’t got his Sky TV and Broadband he ordered a month ago and is now trying to book cinema tickets online. He’s stuck in automated call-handling hell and his bald head is now the colour of a ripe tomato. ‘I mean…why is life so difficult!!!’

I'm no Paragon - yet!

Paragon – ‘A model of excellence’ according to the dictionary. Sunday was the day I had set aside to try out my new cycling club; Dulwich Paragon and I was a little nervous. In all the years I have been cycling I have never really found a group to cycle with that was quite right. The Triathlon club I used to be with, Crystal Palace, went at about the right speed but I had small children at the time and these guys liked to set off late, mess about for a bit, get punctures and, being triathletes, at least one person would usually fall off.  So I wouldn’t get home until mid-afternoon, by which time my poor, long-suffering wife would be holding the boys tied up and at gunpoint in the kitchen.  Then I’d have to spend the afternoon wearing them out in the park, which just made them fitter and me even more tired. In Hong Kong, I hooked up with a small group that was perfect but then I came back to England.

I have cycled alone, cycled with the odd mate (they know who they are – and they are odd!) but I have never cycled with a cycling club. In fact, I have always shied away from it a bit and in turning up on Sunday to ride with my new club, I had to confront why this was.  As I set off over Crystal Palace hill, I started to ponder why, after 17 years of half-serious cycling; I was now taking the plunge. Why I hadn’t joined before was simple; I was scared. Scared of being humbled, scared of the sleek-looking fitness machines I had often seen out on the hills making a mockery of my middle-aged pretentions to be a cyclist.

I’d like to say that I needn’t have worried, that I slotted right into the group and made them gape in awe as I launched my muscular lycra-clad 91kg up yet another fierce climb, my teeth gritted in determination as I swept past them, gleaming thighs pumping and then punching the air two-fisted Cavendish-style at the finish. But that would not be true. Sadly, that’s not how it was.

I knew I was in for a tough time when, having hooked up with a small group who were going for ‘an easy 50 miles’, I was out of breath as we set off down the long hill from Crystal Palace to Elmers End. It’s a long downhill, with a couple of level sections and I had to push hard to keep up and this was where my weight ‘advantage’ counted for me. I stuck with the group for about 10 miles, but with my lungs attempting to climb out of my chest and on the verge of full aortic aneurysm on the first serious hill, I urged them to leave me behind and watched despairingly as they slipped effortlessly away.

I tried not to be despondent – chastened, but not downhearted. It was a lovely spring morning, the lanes nearly empty and the North Downs green and lush despite the impending hose-pipe ban. Obviously, my club riding strategy needed a re-think but I am not actually training to take part in a time trial, so I just set about getting the miles done at my own pace. Despair is maybe too strong a word; I knew I couldn’t keep up, so wasn’t really that put out at being dropped. But fate wasn’t finished with me yet; it still had a helping of hope to throw in my face and another slice of pain.

40 miles into the ride and heading for home, up my old favourite nemesis, Ide Hill. Higher than the Tourmalet and the same gruelling exposure as Ventoux. Tugging once more at the gear-lever and glancing down to check I really was in the lowest gear and out of nowhere, a blue and white arrow shot past me. A knife-like pair of buttocks wrestling in tight lycra shorts like a pair of Labrador puppies, steel hawser thighs, popeye calf muscles and the now familiar words ‘Dulwich Paragon’ spread across the arse. This was Serge, the Frenchman I had ridden with earlier, closely followed by the rest of the group – and we were together again. Well, they waited for me at the top of the hill and then they made me stay with them. And I did, for the most part; wedged between them to shelter from the wind on the flat and getting there as quickly as I could on the hills. (They waited at the top) We stayed together until, utterly spent, I peeled off to go over Crystal Palace hill and back home. I confess that once they were out of sight, I rode so slowly that an old lady, her shopping basket laden with groceries, easily went past me – and I swear she turned to me and smiled mockingly as she stuck the knife in!

So I am not ready to join the speedsters yet – my imperious dominance of CS7 (one of Boris’ cycle superhighways – and my cycle commute) just means that I am faster than the assortment of hybrids and mountain bikes that barge rudely through the traffic in the morning. I am no Paragon yet – but I have a plan…

Vicarious training and a bad case of hypochondria

A bit of a lost weekend training-wise – unless it counts to watch other people running around energetically whilst watching in comfort from the stands. Saturday was the Twickenham Sevens – the latest round in the world series that takes in Dubai, Hong Kong and others. Somewhat belatedly, the RFU seems to have woken up to the enormous potential to lure both men and women, girls and boys to a springtime fancy-dress frolic with instant gratification rugby in the background and with partying and drinking in the foreground. Still, all the fun meant that any training on Saturday was out and, with a combination of the prince of hangovers and a 200 mile round trip to collect Henry and then go to Tom to take the 16 year old birthday boy out for pizza, so too was Sunday.

I had a plan though. A run on Friday and a run on Monday – 10km to and from the office in London Bridge. Friday was great – left the house at 7.00, took a while to get going but by the time I reached the Elephant and Castle, I was chugging along like a well run-in diesel. Admittedly, a few joints and muscles spent the rest of the day seizing and throbbing respectively,but with a nice bottle of chilled white wine and a G&T at lunchtime to celebrate Nigel’s birthday, proper lubrication was restored.

Monday not so good though. Tried the route in reverse – from London Bridge to West Norwood, but never really got going. Tried some stretching and bending somewhere in a park near Camberwell but that didn’t help much so I just had to man up and dog it out. A little humiliating to be overtaken by a rather chubby lady running to catch the bus, but I was able to console myself that her cholesterol was probably off the scale and her blood pressure a ticking time-bomb just waiting to blow.

There – it’s out now. This is an interesting mental development in my unwilling but inexorable slide into middle-aged decrepitude - a new-found and quite heroic level of hypochondria. Maybe I should keep this to myself, but am I alone in ignoring my complete lack of medical knowledge ( I even failed Biology ‘O’ level in 1980 for goodness sake!) to devise a theory for every ache and pain, every small defect blown 100 times out of proportion? Today’s miracle of mental leaps of ignorance was a slight cough – it was just a tickly, slightly annoying frog in the throat – well, it started in my head as throat cancer then became a tape worm.

I know it sounds ridiculous – but as I ran past Kings Hospital in Denmark Hill, it seemed quite clear. The tapeworm explained both the throat and the feeling of bloatedness and fatigue. (Nothing to do with the 10 pints of lager on Saturday obviously!) And now my foot hurts a bit – it’s probably just a bit of muscle stiffness, but oh no! In my head the metatarsal has sheared in two, the jagged bone ends grating together. I could be osteoporosis or something even worse…You know, maybe I should just put away the box set of House DVDs and find something more positively inspiring. Maybe this is just the middle aged way of dealing with pain. When I was younger, doing these crazy endurance events was just about ignoring the pain because you knew you were invincible. Maybe now, the only way the body can cope is to throw something really dramatic at you mentally so the reality doesn’t feel too bad after all.

Off to the gym at lunchtime for a spin class – let’s see if I can get through that without triggering a pulmonary embolism or exacerbating my Lupus and setting off a bacterial shower - and let’s hope there is a defibrillator on hand just in case...

A bit more about the challenge

It occurred to me I ought to say a bit more about the event I am signed up for on the off chance someone stumbled across this blog and had sufficient time on their hands!

Periodically, I take part in quasi-sporting events involving covering long distances, usually on a bicycle and sometimes on foot. I use the term ‘quasi-sporting’ because they generally require little or no skill, just an elevated capacity to take a beating over a prolonged period. More often than not, the attraction of the challenge is sufficient to sustain me through the training and the event itself, but on this occasion, I am looking for some sponsorship.

I have joined forces with a team of like-minded individuals (they are all middle-aged and nuts too), though apparently much fitter than me and we are going to complete the UK version of the now famous ‘Trailwalker’ event. Invented by the Gurkhas and started in Hong Kong – the UK version of this involves travelling on foot from one end of the South Downs Way to the other (Petersfield to Brighton) in under 30 hours. Now, I have never gone this far on foot before, so
I have no idea how long it will take, but I am pretty sure I’ll make it. It’s roughly equivalent to two and a half marathons with Ben Nevis and Snowdon thrown in, so I am keeping the week after the event reasonably free.

I would be very grateful if you could support us by donating via the site at our Virgin Money Giving account. If nothing else, you know it will make me feel just that little bit more committed to taking another beating. On the plus side, someone will benefit from your generosity. Oxfam, who seem to be everywhere in the world where there is some sort of humanitarian crisis, are the co-organisers with the Gurkhas. The Gurkhas, despite the rather cavalier way we seem to have treated them until Joanna Lumley got stuck in, have served alongside our armed services for 200 years – and I, for one, feel a lot safer knowing they are on our side. I will take some inspiration from their motto: 'Kaphar hunnu bhandamarnu ramro' or, in English - 'It is better to die than to live like a coward.'

I used to do a bit of hill walking and even the odd mountain climb in my increasingly distant youth but I re-discovered some of the joys of hiking whilst in Hong Kong, a place most people think of as a teeming metropolis crowded with millions of fortune seeking money men. Of course, they are right, but I also discovered some of the amazing and deserted scenery of the New Territories. The attached picture is one of many completely deserted beaches on the first stages of the Maclehose trail, which makes up most of the original Trailwalker event in Hong Kong. Somewhat dauntingly, I was only able to complete the first 2 stages before bowing to heat exhaustion and fatigue - so I am looking forward to doing 5 times the distance I did that day. At least it wont be 32 degrees with 98 percent humidity. Will it?

The First Post

Right - on 16th/ 17th July, I am supposed to be travelling on foot from Petersfield to Brighton, some 100km away across the South Downs within 30 hours. I have done some daft things in my time, including the odd Triathlon (the classic early mid-life crisis), some insane cycle rides (classic mid mid-life crisis) and I suppose it is a natural progression to walking (classic late mid-life crisis) Whenever I enter these events, I entertain fanciful thoughts about transforming my now slightly pudgy and used body into a gleaming, muscular machine. Then I go through a period of good intentions, then I take some action to force myself into starting training in earnest. Usually, this involves throwing a large sum of money at the latest pointless fitness gadget. Last time it was a function-rich Polar monitor - heart rate, speed, cadence, 15 training zones, GPS etc etc. One day I'll figure out how to use it as a watch too! This time, I have decided to harness the power of electronic media to set myself up for a very public humiliation if I don't knuckle down and get training.

The good news is that I am not in total disarray. Admittedly, I tore my hamstring back in October while showing my playboy brother how easy it was to drop a ski waterskiing for the first time. That then morphed into a prolapsed disc, which I tried not to let get in the way of the winter skiing. Since then, I have tried running and cycling and am now showing signs of near normality. That is, I can run for about 20 minutes. So, some work to do still.

I have joined a gym, signed up to join Dulwich Paragon cycling club and have bought some heart-breakingly expensive trainers. I have about 8 weeks to go so I expect some pain.

Weight 91kg
Bottles of wine this week: 2
Diet: Fish and chips, Curry
Miles run: 2
Miles cycled: 90