5:30 a.m. - 160m[ish] jog - no good: hamstring is kaput. What's worse, I know (even without getting on the scales) that I'm putting on poundage. It's Jake's fault that I'm putting on weight: all his chat about ice cream sent me off on one. Every night I've been scoffing Ben&Jerry's caramel Chew Chew - I can't stop chewing the Chew Chew. Okay, so it's not Jake's fault. It's my weak will. Ho hum.
Not all bad news. I did a bit of an ACornesque workout this morning. I set out to test the leg and could feel it twinging like a curse word, from the off. Got back and sat on the sofa and thought, what shall I do? Go back to bed would've been the wise thing to do. But your old fella isn't so wise. Didn't do that. Went to the freezer to fetch some ice for the leg and nearly had a breakdown. Chew Chew everywhere I looked. Caramel taste filled my mouth. No one will know, I thought. Go on, get in there lad; wolf it down. One day isn't going to make a difference. 5:45 a.m. and my right hand's frozen to one of the many tubs of Chew Chew.
And then it happened. On each of my shoulders a little Bam appeared - one with horns and one with a halo.
'Go on,' Horny said. 'Get in there, you know you wanna, lad.'
'Don't do it,' Halo said. 'Do some strength work instead.'
This went on for a while. So, anyway, I sated my desire for Chew Chew and did some strength work - nothing too exciting: scooped ice cream from tub to mouth several times @ 2 second recovery. What a hero. Monster session. Bleeding from the eyes. Eyeballs out. One serious VO2 max blast.
Anyway, I think I'll be out for a couple of weeks with the old leg and then it'll be Christmas. The big test will be if I can stay off the booze and get back 'running' again. A nice tub of Chew Chew followed by a glass of merlot and a Marlboro Light sounds perfect right now.
I'll fight it. I must: I've set a goal of winning the 2013 Cork Marathon and then I mentioned something about a sub 2:20 aged 50. Why do I say and do these stupid things? Okay, I'll be good and stick to the comeback. No smokes. No booze. But there has to be one last tub of Chew Chew. Oh baby, Daddy's on his way to chew chew you. Toodles, lads... |