The Qwer Old Fella's Marathon Method

5:30 am - 3.6 miles including the Fat mile. Hard work for an easy run. I'm hoping that the 'distance' will be easier to manage as the week progresses. Can't wait to get fit. This fat lark's a nightmare. Still coughing and spluttering along the route. Still yaking at the end of the run. But hey, that's all the fags and booze giving out to me; it's all good stuff. Resting heart rate 65.

5:30 am - 3.6 miles easy, including the Fat mile. Felt a tad better than yesterday. Got a bit carried away in sections and had to ease up. Didn't cough and splutter as much as yesterday and the yaking session at the end of the 'outing' was more of a retching bout as nothing came up. I hope this means that I'm winning the battle against the booze and cigarettes. The real test is tomorrow: will I buy a pair of much needed Nike Pegasus's or will I cave to temptation and splurge out on Merlot and tobacco? The tension's too much...

Resting heart rate 65.

5.30 am - 3.6 mile pootle, including the Fat mile.

Normally, I’m up and out of the scratcher and flying before the hullabaloo of the alarm clock but this morning, the cheeky dream-snatcher clipped my wings and gave me a good hiding. Bamboozled – didn’t know what was what. All those miles (7.2) I’ve clocked up have reined me in. Now, alarm bells are tinkling in my head: I know that the road to the 2013 Cork marathon podium will be a slog rather than the once-upon-a-time imagined saunter.  

I felt a chill in the air as I set off down the road. Autumn’s on the way and with it, all the connotations of transience – prolepsis, perhaps. But the chill soon wore off as I shuffled up the ever so gentle rise that takes me from my house to the Fat mile.

I’ve often wondered why people call the stretch of new road, which flanks the northern side of Tralee, the Fat mile; perhaps it’s where all those people that I see power-walking in the daylight hours give it some welly and shed pounds of lard.

As I trundled on along the Fat mile (8.30[ish] miling) I noticed clusters of posters trussed to lampposts: presidential candidates – all of the pictures airbrushed and strapped with vacuous slogans. And I was minded of a not so well known phrase: beware, for if you dream, the full phantasmagorical power of the darkness that lies within the soul may be unleashed. Shudder.

When I finished the ‘run’ and gathered myself, I felt an eerie silence and before dawn, it dawned on me that I was not coughing and spluttering and yaking. An improvement. Dare I dream?

Tomorrow, I will fly in my new pair of Nike Pegasus trainers - without a hangover.

 Resting heart rate 65.

5.30 am – 3.6 miles of graft, including the Fat mile.

So, I was up and out of the scratcher before the alarm had a chance to slap me about. Good omen. My feet told me – honest, they did – that they loved their new Nike Pegasus trainers. ‘Incredible cushioning and comfort,’ they said. ‘These shoes fit like a glove. We’ll fly in these.’

But when I stepped out into the morning darkness, my feet whispered, ‘Oh dear.’ The wind howled and growled and gave it root-toot.

‘This is going to be ugly,’ my left foot said, yawning.

‘Tell me about it,’ my right foot scoffed. ‘It’s hard enough lumbering around at this time of the morning with that 170lb burden. And now the wind’s going to make it even harder.’

'Yep,' my left foot said. 'At least he hasn't got a hangover.'

How right they were. My legs felt dead and every ‘stride’ felt like the last I’d take. Perhaps, I’ve lost a few pounds and my glycogen levels are low, I thought. But when I crawled through the front door and eventually summoned the strength to step onto the scales, my much hoped for explanation was dismissed with a simple reading that told me, no weight lost, fat man.

I remembered the fifteen minute window and gobbled a banana and gulped down a glass of apple juice. I removed my new shoes and threw them across the room.

'Tetchy,' my feet said in unison.

And then, my right achilles groaned, ''Will you two ever shut up? Imagine being me.'

Depressed, I checked my blog. Low and behold, two new comments, both encouraging. The zap and zest and zing of energy lifted me, and now I can’t wait to get out there again tomorrow – even if the wind fancies it’s chances.

RHR - 64

5.10 am – 3.6 miles relaxed, including the Fat mile.

Many magical moments this morning (apologies for the alliteration.). Let me start at the beginning…

I woke to the soft wheezes of my sleeping wife. The clock read, 4.40 am. For a moment, I wanted to take my pillow and smother the sleeping beauty which roused me from my slumber. For a few seconds, I listened to her rhythmical breaths and wondered what she might be dreaming about. Oh yes… Me, I surmised.

I took my pulse and that was the first of the magical moments. 57. No way, I thought. I took it three more times and it was 58. Now, after yesterday’s diabolical performance, I expected my RHR to be up near 70. But no, 58 pulchritudinous beats.

So I got up and dressed. My legs felt fine and the silence of my feet and right Achilles suggested that yesterday’s cumbersome traipse was merely a blip. I slipped into my glove-like Pegasus boys and headed out the front door.

The wind whipped in off the Atlantic Ocean and swirled and whirled and whirred and whispered its confounding secrets. I managed to decipher one thing: ‘Out again, fat boy. You’re a glutton for punishment.’ And then it scuttled away wailing, ‘See you up on the Fat mile…. Up on the Fat mile… The Fat miiiiiile.’

I did the dramatic shudder thingamajig and gave my right Achilles tendon a cheeky little stretch. Then off I went. As I jogged along my street, all seemed well with the legs. Good stuff, I thought. The wind’s done one and this codger feels like a whippersnapper.

Just as I hit the Fat mile, I noticed a vertically challenged man standing at the corner. ‘Top of the morning to you, mister,’ he said. ‘Would you be kind enough to give me some directions?’

I stopped and jogged on the spot. He was a mighty strange looking fella. His wrinkled skin suggested he was pushing on a bit but there was a powerful sprightliness about him.

‘Can you tell me the way to Tipperary?’ He said.

‘It’s a long way,’ I said.

‘You’re a funny expletive,’ he said. ‘But take a care fat fella or I’ll have them there swanky runners off your feet quicker than Bolt can run the hundred.’

Not wanting a ruck at this time of the morning, I told him the way.

‘Now, you can have a wish,’ he said. ‘But be quick about it and it has to be for you and only you. No altruism. And no, I will not tell you if you’ll run sub 2.23 and win the 2013 Cork marathon outright.’

Jakers, I thought. This fella’s for real. He’s a living, talking leprechaun.

‘Sub 2.23,’ I said. ‘That’s about 5.27 minute mile pace and at my age.’

‘Sure it is,’ he said. ‘But when you hit 142lbs (the weight you keep prattling on about) you’ll be ready for three months of 100+ mpw with a few hills and threshold runs. That'll bring you down to 133lbs and then we’re ready to rumble.’

‘Rumble?’ I said, perplexed.

‘10k multi pace training,’ he said. ‘We’ll have your 10k time down to 31.15 before the end of summer 2012. Then you can get stuck into my revolutionary 10 by 10 marathon training that’ll deliver a sub 2.23, even for a codger like you.’

I started laughing. ’10 by 10?’ I said.

‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, etc etc etc.’

‘But my wish?’ I said.

‘Will you ever hurry it up and spout it out,’ he said.

‘How do I combat the wind?’ I said.

‘Your diet,’ he said. ‘The Irish are prone to suffer from the wind – it’s the Guinness and cabbage.’

‘No.’ I said. ‘How do I run in the wind?’

‘Like a hot knife slicing through soft butter,’ he said, as he vanished in a plume of smoke.

So, along the Fat mile and all the way home, I ran like a hot knife slicing through soft butter. Got in the door and I’d knocked a couple of minutes off my usual 30 minutes. And, I felt easy. I stripped and hit the scales. 1lb lighter. The wife walked in.

‘Jakers,’ she hollered. ‘Would you ever put some clothes on? The kids’ll be up soon. And I’m telling you - as sure as this beautiful and green land is full of little green leprechauns, I’ll smother you in your sleep if you wake me again at this ungodly hour with all your running malarkey.’

'But sweet pea,' I said. 'You'll never believe...'

'You're right, I wont,' she said. 'Any chance of some breakfast for a starving woman.'

RHR 58.

Post lunch power nap - 20 minutes geriatric stretching. Just thought of something, that leprechaun fella didn't grant me my wish. Oh well, maybe next time.

5.30 am – 3.6 mile weekender.

Birdsong. The fizzle and sizzle of soft rain simmering on overhead wires. An incessant veil of mizzle dims a streetlight. A cat slinks across the road – pauses – and then struts away into the darkness. Somewhere, out there in the predawn blackness, the thrum of a car. I’m not alone.

I break into a gentle jog. My fingertips gently grip the cuffs of my jacket. My sleeves swoosh against my torso and set the tempo for my legs. Nice and easy. Tomorrow’s a rest day. Keep it sweet.

The wet road glistens and shimmers under the street lights. My legs feel tired. Not stiff or sore, just tired from the week’s work. The week has flown by and the blog has helped - massively. The encouragement has motivated me in the mornings, when I could so easily have yielded to the scratcher’s temptation of comfort and warmth over the pain and coldness of the dark streets. And now, as blebs of rain stream down my jowls, I realise that something’s missing…

I've read many of the other blogs and noticed how many runners link up in the mornings and work together at clocking up the miles. Whereas, I’m alone and suffering.

The little fella in my head tells me to stop gabbing and moaning. ‘Sure, why don’t you start your own little jogging group,’ he says. ‘You know, one where you meet up in the morning and get the job done together. Committing to others makes it difficult to quit when the going gets tough.’

‘Tis a fair point he proffers, I think. And so, I decide to start a group – a very special group – of runners. These runners – with all their faults, foibles, and follies - will be introduced next week, as I ratchet the miles.

Join me on my journey to winning the 2013 Cork marathon in sub 2.23 - aided by the mysterious running guru. And now, to add a bit of spice, you can expect conflict and drama on the recession ravaged streets of Tralee, as my group of gifted and troubled runners hit the roads with me.

RHR 58

Scheduled rest day - 0 miles, but what a day…

Yesterday, I placed an ad in the local rag and on the local radio station inviting applications from runners wishing to join my group. Inundated, so I was. Plethora of applications from all shapes and sizes and abilities.

When I woke this morning and waddled down the stairs at 5.30 am to watch Wales beat Ireland in the quarter final of the Rugby World Cup, I nearly tripped on the knoll of envelopes in the hall. And then when I logged on this morning, my inbox was chock-a-block with applications.

So, after watching the Welsh rip the soul out of the Irish nation, I began to plough through the candidates. Flummoxed by the overwhelming interest and exhausted from reading myriad requests to aid me on my journey, I closed my eyes and dozed (see nap time).

The doorbell startled me from my slumber and groggy-eyed I rose and opened the door.

‘Jakers,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Tis rude to keep a man at the door, but to keep the only living leprechaun with eons of knowledge at your door, is downright foolish,’ the vertically challenged man I met the other day said. ‘Sean. You can call me Sean.’

Seconds later he was stretched out on my sofa.

‘Now, I haven’t much time,’ he said. ‘I’m dying - and unfortunately, you’re my only hope.’

‘What are you waffling on about, now,’ I said.

‘If you don’t win the 2013 Cork marathon in a sub 2.23 (yes, I know you’ll be 48 and you’re only running 3.6 miles a day at 8.30 pace at the moment – and that’s nearly killing you.) But fear not, with my help and the right training group, you might just save my life and with that, bring back to life the magic that’s missing from this country.’

Flabbergasted, I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

‘I know about the blog,’ he said. ‘Not a soul on there believes you’ll do it. They don’t believe in me either. They think it’s impossible for a man of your age, in your condition, with your conditions, to run sub 3 hours, never mind run sub 2.23 with less than 20 months training.’

‘I don’t know what you’re on kidda,’ I said, sitting down and trying to comprehend what was happening.

Then, what happened next was unbelievable. But, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow… The wife’s nagging me to put the bin out, soak the beans and pulses, and what’s more, the X Factor’s about to start.

6.30 am – 6 undulating miles in the Kerries. 50 mins – 8.20 pace.

Enjoyed this morning’s run. It felt more like a sub threshold 10 – back in my day. Yesterday, the running guru – Sean - suggested the route. ‘The rolling hills and the scenery will do you the world of good,’ he said. ‘Instead of taking a right out onto the Fat mile, take a left and head out on the Fenit road and take a left up into the Kerries. The boreen will bring you back onto the Fenit – Tralee road. You’ll do a 5.6 km loop. The run’s tough enough, but it's a beautiful 6 miles.’

Then he pulled out a strange contraption that looked like a piece of dead bark.

‘What’s that?’ I said

‘This lad,’ he said, holding it up. ‘Is my hobbledeegook. It’s worth millions and one day, it might just be yours.’

‘Go on then,' I said, humo[u]ring him. 'What’s it all about?’

He pointed his hobbledeegook at the floor and then it happened. Now, this might surprise you: I’m prone to a bit of exaggeration, but the veracity of what I’m about to tell you is unquestionable – Zeus strike me down where I sit typing, if I spin a yarn.

'Japers and jaspers, I'm always one for afters,' he said. 'Sean, Sean, the all singing, all dancing, leaping leprechaun wants home.

And then, a portal appeared, hovering in the middle of the room.

‘Step in with me,’ he said, showing his toothless mouth and pointing to the portal. ‘There’s nothing to be afeard of.’

‘Where will it take us?’ I said.

‘My home. The secret valley of leprechauns, where I reside, alone,' he said. His green eyes glowed and wispy hairs dangled from his nose. 'You will hear the shifting susurrations of a thousand mountain springs sluicing pebbled beds. Like a mother’s whispered hushes and shushes in a once upon a time lullaby, words of wisdom will come to you. You will drink from a special spring and cleanse your palette. By sipping from the spring of truth, you’ll be ready to begin your journey,' he continued and stood. 'A journey you must undertake if you are to save my life and bring back the magic to the Emerald Isle. Furthermore, if you run the sub 2.23 at the 2013 Cork marathon and therefore save my life, I will give you my hobbledeegook and all its secrets. The hobbledeegook will offer you riches beyond those found at the end of rainbows.’

‘You're full of it, kidda.' I said. 'Anyway, the wife'll be home soon and she'll have a savage hunger on her; she'll need a powerful feeding. But just so that I know, will I find out about your revolutionary 10 by 10 marathon training thingymabob?’

'For sure,' he said, winking. 'Come on and I'll show you your training group and many more things that will bedazzle you.'

I stood and for a moment tried to think of an excuse. You see, the wife's always giving out to me for going walkabout.

'Okay, but we better not be long; she's mighty fierce if she's not fed,' I said.

Tomorrow, I'll tell you what I saw...

RHR 58

5.30 a.m. – 3.6 miles including the Fat mile. 28 mins – call it 8 min pace.

Wicked wind blustering in off the Atlantic. I dropped in two thirty[ish] second efforts in the last half mile, which is slightly uphill (less worries about injuries working on the uphill sections when carrying copious amounts of lard). The idea was to stretch the legs a bit and to open the lungs. Yep, I felt the burn and remembered the agony on proper VO2 max workouts. Mind you, I was probably only running 7.50 pace during this morning’s brief efforts.

I have to say, it wasn’t really much of an effort stepping into the portal the other day. Intrigue got the better of me. There wasn’t any fancy-dancy, swirling-burling, jiggery-pokery, razzamatazz flummery; we just stepped through and there we were, slap bang in the middle of leprechaun land. And what a land.

We sauntered through a meadow fringed with myriad saplings until we arrived at a pool surrounded by huge mountains. Thousands of silver streams slithered down the mountain sides, each with a unique tone, blending to orchestrate a mellifluous composition. I heard harps and violins as the streams merged with the pool. We sat on a grass bank, canopied from the sun’s glare by a weeping willow. The ends of the willow's branches tickled the pool’s surface and about the water’s edge, a fuss of gnats skirred. Birdsong trilled.

‘So,’ he said softly, like how a butterfly might sound if it were able to speak. 'What do you think?'

‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘Beautiful. It’s paradise.’

‘Ah,’ he said with tears in his eyes. ‘Now you can see why, after all these years, I don’t want to leave this world. For when I leave it, this place will vanish with me.’

I looked at him carefully. His lips quivered. More wrinkles seemed to have crept onto his face and, for sure, he’d lost some of his sprightliness.

‘If you were to do it lad,’ he said, looking through me. ‘You could open this world up to others. Imagine that. Dare you dream of that?’

We sat in silence for a moment. I tried to take everything in. Why me? What’s all this got to do with running? Unfathomable, I thought.  Then the strangest creature I’ve ever seen waded out of the water…

RHR 56

Starting to double up the runs, but keeping them short so that I’m not on my feet too long in one go – less chance of getting injured, especially carrying the extra poundage. 4 miles planned for tonight – might be a touch ambitious.

3:45 p.m. – 3.5 miles. Out and back. Bailed out. Turned back after 1.75 miles of gentle climbing. Legs were shot. Even jogging back was hard work. Where was the running guru when I needed him? Reality check. Hope I’ll be okay for the morning…

5.00 a.m. – 5 miles, including the Fat mile loop, plus an extra 1.4-1.5 miles. 42 mins – call it 8.20 something pace.

After yesterday’s catastrophe, I wasn’t looking forward to this morning’s run. I had penciled in a 5 miler but wasn’t averse to calling it a day at 3.6, if struggling. Although I felt tired, it wasn’t like going ten rounds with Tyson in his prime – more like having the occasional clout off him - so I pushed on and ‘knocked-out’ a cheeky little 5.

I invested in one of those bizarre, green, Adidas Climaproof, all weather jackets and yesterday afternoon, when I was about to try it out, my eldest daughter (9) went skits.

‘You look mad,’ she said. ‘What if my friends recognise you? You’re so embarrassing; you think you’re a teenager, well you’re not – you’re a silly old man. Mum, will you ever have a word with him?’

‘Sure, couldn’t you just, you know. You do look a bit odd,’ the wife said. ‘And don’t be out too long, I’m kinda hungry.’

‘He looks like a monster covered in snotters,’ my daughter said.

Off I went, without my green jacket. But I wore it this morning, when they were all sleeping. Like a monster covered in snotters, I thought as I chugged up the road. That’s exactly what the creature looked like as ‘it’ waded out of the pool, the other day in Leprechaun land.

‘Here’s Finn,’ Sean the running guru had said. ‘Be sure and to take a care now. He may well be wrecked.’

‘Wrecked?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the barrel of poteen he’s carrying,’ Sean said. ‘If that’s half empty, he’ll be full of the wind and be right for some blackguarding. If, however, it’s nearly empty, then we’re done for.’

‘Top of it to you, Finn,’ Sean said. ‘Will you not tip your hat to your new running partner, this young rapscallion next to me.’

He gave a grimace that would've set Tyson on his toes.

Running partner, I thought. What’s this all about?

Stood at the water’s edge, with all sorts of vegetation dangling from him, Finn let out a belch that made the very earth we sat on quake.

‘Mind and to take a care,’ Sean whispered. ‘Finn can go a bit in a tear-up. I’ve seen him wipe out an army in seconds. He has the temper of a red haired woman in the mornings.’

Finn plonked himself down on the bank and took a swig from his barrel. For sure, he was the biggest man I’d ever seen. A genuine giant of man. He wiped his mouth and put his barrel down and then turned and stared at me. I think he was trying to suss me out.’

‘Hello.’ I said in a high pitch voice that sounded like a frightened prepubescent boy. I felt the shame burning on my cheeks. ‘How’s things,’ I said in my deepest gravelly voice, trying to rectify the situation.

Finn gave a grin, showing his crumbled black teeth, and pulled a headband out of his trouser pocket and to my amazement it was as pink as the socks the man is wearing in Jake K’s picture of the Long Beach Half. He put the headband on and fixed his hair over the band and shook his locks.

‘When do we get started,’ he said with a eunuch’s pitch…

RHR 56

Nightmare! Terrible night's sleep. Woke in agony. The right side of my mouth felt like a thousand bees were having a tear-up. High-tailed it to hospital. Doctor plied me with pain killers (solpadol) which might as well have been honey. Useless. Mixing it up with NSAID's. Doctor gave me a stash of antibiotics and I'm hoping they're going to kick in soon. Excrutiating pain - worse than childbirth, I reckon. Funny thing is, all the aches and niggles have vanished from my legs. Hope to be out on the roads tomorrow. For now, I'm off to the scratcher - better make the old lady's breakfast first.

Toodles 'til tomorrow...

Woke at 1 a.m. in pain - popped a few pills and nodded off. Up again at 4 a.m. in pain - popped a few pills and got up. With the nippers and the old lady in snooze-land (she eats chocolates in her sleep), I decided to have a serious and realistic look at my goals and training - no leprechauns or nonsense.

Managed to plot out a tentative plan up until October 2013. I'm still tweaking it and hope to have it sorted soon. Needless to say, so I'll say it, the short term goal (up until the end of December) is to get the weight down to 142lbs.

Pills seem to be doing their job, but I think it'll be a few days before I get back out on the road.

Mouth's still giving me gyp and the pill popping's spacing me. Dentist on Monday (lovely - I don't think so) and I'm hoping to start training again on Sunday - if , and only if, the antibiotics have rooted out this nasty infection.

6.30 a.m. - 3.6 mile jog.

8 hours pain free sleep, so I decided to take myself out for a little turn.

Jogged the loop without a watch and felt fine. I could tell I'd missed a few days. I knew that my nemesis was awake and eager for my return. And, of course, I was right. The scales gave me the truth I expected. 170lbs. A two pound increase. Oh well.

RHR 60

Just a quick message to say thank you to those who have asked about my health. I had two teeth removed, ended up with a debilitating infection and an awful condition called 'Dry Socket'.

I'm on the mend and hope to be back running and blogging soon...

Thanks again for the concern and good wishes; it's nice to know that people care.

5 a.m.: The alarm screams. Hullabaloo; what on earth… I realise. I lie there in the scratcher and remember that I need to get up and get out on the road. But I get the twinge – in my mouth. Best not run today. Let it heal and start again in a couple of days. All the same, up I get. Got to keep the discipline.

Guilt ridden, I decide to tackle the mountain of ironing. How many real men get up at five and plunge into the ironing basket? Not many. Yep, that’s the sort of mental fortitude and toughness that sees you through the final stages of a 2:25 marathon – when you’re 45 +.

So there I am, iron in hand, skimming the clothes, full steam ahead, when I pick up my new Nike running top. Silky soft. Little reflector thingamajigs all over the shot. Wicks away sweat before you start to sweat. Top stuff. What Garmin is to weekly mileage, Nike wicking is to comfort and freshness on the run. Do I iron it? What if somebody sees me out running in a wrinkled Nike running top? Just wouldn’t do, would it? Got to look the part.

My mind drifts back to my late teenage days, not long after the summer when I broke 9 for 3000m – a time when men were real men, a time when you weren’t a ‘real’ runner unless you had at least two stress fractures in each leg, a time when worn-out Plimpsoles evinced your running credentials: the more holes in the soles, the more miles in the legs.

My first Tuesday club night with the men. There must have been four or five sub 2:14 marathon warriors (standard for most clubs) and a plethora of sub 2:25 B string wannabes.

In the changing rooms, men growled and stared and grunted as they slipped into their Plimpsoles and ever so short shorts and sweat-crusted, cotton T-shirts; perfect for a gelid December night. Stories embossed on the eyes of each man. Each story a bitter indictment of pain and disappointment, each story hinting at the despair of each runner’s meaningless journey towards the nothingness, and each story riddled with the fear of missing a training session.

Men, with tufts of hair sprouting from chins which blunt razors failed to shave, looked at me with disdain. The young pretender.

Out there in darkness and the cold of the December night I felt the insecurities of youth. What if I couldn’t hang in there with them, I thought. If they drop me, I’ll be the laughing stock. Got to stay with them, no matter what.

A burst of steam from the iron burnt my hand and snapped me out of my reminiscing. Tomorrow, when the alarm screams, twinge or no twinge, I'll be up and out there - on the road, like a real man.

5 a.m. - 3.5 miles progressive - just like a Kenyan. Mile splits: 8:38, 8:08, 7:30, and 3:30 for the final half mile. And yes, I got myself a cheeky little Garmin. Got the Forerunner 110 – it doesn’t tell you how many goji berries to sprinkle over your granola, but it does distance and pace; what an invention. Back in my day we ran hard for an hour (5.10 pace) and called it a short 7 miler. But then we measured the run on a map (7 or 8 times) with a piece of string and recorded it as a nippy 11. Oh yeah, those were the days. Great to be out there again and felt better than I thought I would, all things considered.

When I got back, I gave the ironing basket the eye – the look that suggested you know the score kidda: I took you out yesterday. Full of the joys, I considered some strength and core work. Decided that mopping the kitchen floor would count as stretching, strength and core work rolled into one plus, I’d earn points with the old lady…

Turns out, when I was in the living room eating my granola - with a healthy sprinkling of goji berries - and trying to fathom my Garmin, the old lady was in the kitchen ferreting for her breakfast. She only went and slipped on the wet floor. Pancakes everywhere. Went berserk, so she did. Ho hum.

5:00 a.m. – 3.5 mile slog. No watch. Cold. Wet. Miserable. The sound of my rasping breath echoing in the morning darkness, accompanied by the trudge of my feet slapping the pavement. Went to bed last night knowing that this morning’s outing would hurt. Indigestion.

At the dinner table last night, it kicked off. Pandemonium. Now you know what the old lady’s all about went it comes to nosh… Well I put the dinner out for the Queen and the two princesses and they gave me the eyes. Cinderfella, the look said. What do you think this is?

‘What?' I said. ‘It’s buckwheat and stew.’

‘I’ll buck you out the window, Cinders,’ the old lady said, fussing her fork through the gastronomic delight sat in front of her. ‘And what’s this brown yuk?’

‘Elk stew,’ I said. ‘It’s delicious.’

‘Elk stew,’ the youngest princess said, ‘What’s an elk?’

The oldest princess, who is a nine year old teenager and thinks she’s American because she goes to stage school on Saturdays and watches so much cable/digital/satellite T.V. said, ‘An elk like, don’t you know, it’s kinda like an American thing. Yeah, the Americans gorge on it. Sophie was telling me, like, when she was Stateside shopping, she ate elk stew. All the celebs are feasting on it. It’s the new super food. Purges the system. Better than quinoa.’

‘That’s right princess,’ I said, kowtowing and shuffling away from the table. ‘And buckwheat’s low G.I.’

‘Low G.I. my eye,’ the Queen said. ‘This buck stuff looks like papier-mâché.’

Anyway, they ate it. Of course, it wasn’t elk stew. It was a recipe that Sean the leprechaun gave me…

5 a.m. - 3.5 miles easy. 28 mins. A.P. 8:00. Cold. Dry.

Felt better than yesterday; nice chug around my regular loop. Will drop in a couple of 5 milers this week and start next week off with a 7 miler. Intention is to build up to 40 mpw through November. Target weight for end of November is a wobbly 159lbs. Weight today, a rather grotesque 167lbs. I reckon by the end of January I should be coming in around the 142lb mark. I'll be clocking 60mpw by the end of January (easy pace should be 6:30). Will drop in a few hill sessions in January and introduce some threshold runs in February. By the end of March I hope to be knocking out 80mpw- then I can start knuckling down to some proper training. For now, 3.5 miles @ snail pace is hard enough. RHR was a steady 56 this morning.

5 a.m. - 3-5 miles. Tired. Slow. Like a somnambulist. Biting breeze. Creaking limbs.

Serious strength  and core work-out: 5 push ups. 10 crunches. 5 transverse abs crunches (each side). Plank - collapsed after twenty seconds.

Replaced the old scales with digital ones. Weight - 164lbs (3lbs lighter than yesterday, according to the new scales; for some reason, I think I'll stick with the new, all singing, all dancing scales).

RHR 55

5 a.m. - 5 miles easy. 41:37. A.P. 8:19.

Woke to an amusing stiffness - from my core and strength workout yesterday. Lumbered out of bed. Dressed and took to the streets. Odd how an extra 1.5 miles can feel so deadly. Oh well.

On the bright side, I've dropped another pound; better be careful not to shed too much weight too quickly. Don't want the body to gorge on itself. Perhaps I might treat myself to some kumquats and a juicy pear. The pear is suppossed to be excellent for boron. Never tried kumquats, but Keats mentioned them in The Eve of St Agnes. If the old lady lets me out of the house today, I might purchase a handful of kumquats and gobble them up.

RHR 56.

Deeply saddened to hear that the legend with the lethal left hook and the heart of a thousand men passed away.

R.I.P. Smokey.

5:00 a.m. - 3.5 miles relaxed and untimed. Enjoyed this morning's pootle.

The old lady didn't let me out yesterday, so I didn't get the chance to scoff a handful of kumquats. But today was a different matter...

I must confess: I didn't nibble on kumquats; I chomped a filthy MacDonalds - oh, it was delicious. Sweet chilli chicken wrap with fries and a strawberry milkshake. Now, as I sit here typing, I can feel the badness glugging and sludging in my guts.

Must run hard tomorrow.

Did the big strength workout from Monday, again.

RHR 56.

5:00 a.m. – 5 miles with 4 easy and a 0.5 gentle pick-up in the final mile.

The best laid schemes of mice and men: intended to work hard after yesterday’s feast, but decided that it was better to knock out the 5 miles rather than bail out after 3.5 miles.

So the run went swimmingly. The big, bright, beautiful, insouciant moon (note: must stop employing adjectives to carry weak nouns) sat over Jupiter and while I plodded along I had an epiphany. But the veracity of the epiphany necessitated my digital scales delivering some unlikely information – I had to have dropped 1lb from yesterday. So I gave my new fangled scheme a boost and banged out the 0.5 mile pick-up and it worked. When I weighed myself, I’d shed 1lb. Ho, ho, I thought. I’m going to rake in some serious coin.

As with all great schemes, there’s a catch. Here’s the rub: I need to pluck up the courage to pitch my proposition to ACorn. ACorn is the missing link (metaphorically speaking – I don’t mean he’s gorillaesque because he bangs out thousands of push ups, I mean, I need him to facilitate my scheme/business idea).

For now, I need to think it through, but my idea will make me rich and famous (not so wise for a guy on a mafia hit-list - not that I am) and ACorn should make some serious wedge from the kickback I give him…

RHR 56 and rising with excitement.

Must make a batch of chia bars today and a pot of red lentil soup, lightly spiced with cayenne pepper and paprika - not quite the same as a Sausage and Egg McMuffin. Ho hum.

5:00 a.m. – 3.5 miles. Lay in the scratcher and listened to the wind howling and the rain peppering the windowpane. Didn’t fancy it. But up I got and away I went. Legs felt heavy and tired.

Made quinoa (as a cereal) for the three ladies. Added some organic pear and organic apple, milled goji berries and flaxseed, a sprinkle of ground cinnamon (great stuff) and simmered in almond milk. Compliments to the chef.

Thought some more about the idea I want to pitch to ACorn…

Magazines and chat shows and reality TV are bloated with blancmange[rs] who have molted lard by eating healthy and exercising. Fair play and all that. What if you took a 46 year-old man who smoked and boozed and ate rubbish food and presented with high cholesterol and high blood pressure, and you managed to transform him into a sub 2:25 marathon runner in 20 months? Perhaps at the 2013 Cork marathon. Sounds amazing. Hold on, there’s more. The sub 2:25 is merely a piece of the jigsaw…

When the aforementioned fella turns fifty, he breaks the world record for the 50-55 year-old master’s category, which currently stands at 2:19:29. Sweet as an almond. But there’s more. What if, and only if, (apologies to the wise guy and Godfather of modal logic, John Lemmon) the amazing chap does all of this by eating Sausage and Egg McMuffins as part of a balanced and healthy diet. Now we are getting somewhere.

McDonalds will want more than a quarter pound’s worth of flesh from this fella. They’ll want him all over the world eating Sausage and Egg McMuffins. Ho, ho. You with me ACorn?

So what ACorn needs to do is whisper the secret in his good lady's ear who, in turn, needs to have a chat with her good father – who has some serious connections with McDonalds – and he drops the proposal on the CEO’s desk, over a Latte. Oh yes – rubs hands.

Nothing in life’s easy. Lots could go wrong with this plan (I will present and address those concerns tomorrow). One thing’s for sure - imho - we get one chance at this adventure, so we should grab the quarter pounder with both hands and get munching.

RHR 56.

Rest day - woke at 6:10 and felt like I wanted to get up and out on the road. Decided to stay in bed. That's a wise head on a tubby body. Allow the body time to recover from all those strenuous miles.

So, on my active rest day I plan to walk to the wholefood/organic shop in town and scan the shelves. I'm reading Patrick Holford's, The Optimum Nutrition Bible; I fear I might metamorphose from a T-Rex into a brontosaurus. I've given up booze and smokes and now I'm considering giving up everything - slurps his coffee.

Made a bean and pulse chill-ay this morning, think I'll have it with some rice - need to suss out what is the best rice. It's all very confusing and terrifying.

Problem to consider: health food shop is only a mile away from McDonalds. Maybe I should go back to bed...

RHR an incredible 52. That age group record - 2:19 marathon - for the 50-55 banding is looking more and more likely.

5:30 a.m. - 3.5 miles - slow and sluggish. Legs felt drained. Must top up on the water. I've planned another 3.5 miles this evening - could be quite a sight: might be mistaken for a drunk swaying back from an all-dayer at the pub. Ah, the bitter-sweet memories.

RHR 54

5:30 p.m. - 3.5 miles with a bit of zing. Felt much better than this morning; at times I seemed to be running rather than snailing. Spotted a few of the lads stumbling back from the pub. They looked stoated. Doubt they spotted me - I was zipping along. I can just imagine them tottering at the doorstep saying to themselves, 'You aren't zubed. Concentrate. Don't say too much. The more you prattle, the more you're scattering the fist of dirt over your casket. They fall through the door like an inuit at the end of a marathon on the equator and it all kicks-off. Ah, the bitter-sweet memories.

5:00 a.m. – 3.5 miles. No drama. Thought I may have struggled after yesterday’s double, but everything was tickety-boo. Got another 3.5 planned for tonight and a mammoth core and strength session: might go for 10 push-ups. Watch out ACorn and Jake, on the push up stakes, I’m coming after you. Be afraid, very afraid…

Okay, it’s time to be serious. Yesterday, Tom Slick asked a pertinent question – what is/are my goals? So here they are:

Short term – Shed more weight and when I get down near the region of 140lbs-147lbs, I’ll start training with serious focus towards my medium term and long term goals. I need to get down to this weight so that I lessen my chances of getting injured when I inject long runs and speed and tempo work. While the weight slowly vaporizes, my heart will become more efficient, as will all the other physiological stuff. My diet will improve. My strength will improve – yes, I know you’re quaking with fear and your stringy runners’ arms are shaking in the wind, kids. My flexibility will improve. My writing, hopefully, will improve. And so on. Race wise, I’m looking at a 15 miler in August 2012. It’s called the ‘Most Beautiful Race In The World’ AKA, The Killarney Maxi Marathon or something like that. It’s aided and if you check out the website – don’t know how to do all that high fangled link stuff – you’ll see that in one of the photo’s there is a sign saying, 'leprechauns this way'. It’s blarney: the leprechauns don’t live there. I’m the only human who knows where leprechaun land is and, of course, there is only one leprechaun left. And we all know that his future isn’t looking too rosy. He has revised the time I need to run in the 2013 Cork marathon – see below for details. Apropos of the 15 mile race, I’ll take sub 1hr 20 mins – it’s very aided: like, jump off a cliff, aided.

Medium term goals – get a decent 10k in the bank (low 31 mins – probably at the Irish nationals in spring 2013), run sub 2:25 for the 2013 Cork marathon, which will be my first marathon. This might seem ridiculous but I’ve a sneaky suspicion that I’ll achieve these goals, so long as I don’t drop dead on my first hill session or get injured.

Long term – in the spring of 2015, I want to break the world best for the marathon in the 50-55 year old age category. Stop laughing. I can hear you. I mean it, stop laughing. I’ll have you know, I’ve started doing push ups and, here’s a secret: I was a handy lightweight boxer. Yeah, you've ceased your chuckling now, haven't you? After breaking the world best for the marathon – he states nonchalantly – I’ll reevaluate things.

Now, back to more mundane things. I need to eat some nuts and seeds, drink some water and visit the health food shop – my new hobby.

RHR 53.

6 p.m. - 3.5 steady. Not bad, not too bad at all. Like yesterday, I seemed to have a bit more zip in the legs. Loads of folk out walking and jogging. Have to be more alert at night as the roads are plagued with cars.

Did my strength and core workout when I got back:

10 push ups - nothing to worry about ACorn and Jake. 15 crunches. 10 T.A. crunches on each side. 1 x plank (25 sec). My 5 year old daughter told me to get my buttocks down while I was planking. 'Is that it,' she said when I collapsed. 'Pathetic.' Ho hum.

11:00 a.m. - 5 miles. 2.5 out and back. First half of the run felt fine and dan-day, clipped along at 7:30 pace. Ah, but the second half was a different story. Wind and gentle incline - turned watch off so that I wouldn't feel destroyed when I crawled home. At least the miles are in the bank. Ran later today because I was up most of the night with a sickening child - nothing major.

On the food front, experimented with a cheeky little avocado and orange spread speckled with cayenne pepper. Jakers, what a creation. No more butter or margarine for the old fella. From now on, Bam's AOC spread will grace his homemade wholegrain bread (I haven't made any bread yet, but I intend to get round to it - it's a bit like P.N.F. , M.E.T., A.I.S., postional release and trigger pointing: you know you should do them, but you never get round to it. Well all that's a-changing).

On the positional release front, it's a must if you suffer with aching muscles and tendons. I especially recommend it for lower limb stiffness etc. Don't stretch. Do positional release. Amazing stuff.

RHR 52

5:00 a.m. - 3.5 easy. gentle plod. Felt okay, considering the scant sleep I've had recently. Intend to drop in a nap today, prior to getting out again for another 3.5 miles.

Busy day today: got to go food shopping - we pass McDonalds on the way to the supermarket. Will I cave to temptation? Time will tell...

5:30 p.m. – 3.5 miles progressive without watch. Slow first mile but picked it up nicely as the run went along.

I’m starting to get more organized. I’ve bought in rucks of quinoa, buckwheat, lentils, seeds, nuts, peanut butter and a new discovery – almond butter. Almond butter on a toasted wholegrain bagel is ambrosial. I also invested in oats – something I’ve never eaten. Oats remind me of baby puke, but I’m going to give them a try.

Everything seems to be going to plan. My only concern is that my weight seems to have stuck on 162lbs. I suspect my new muscularity[ossityness] – from my push ups - might be responsible for the scales struggling to give an accurate reading of my progress. I’m sure my body fat has dropped. I’ll keep a close eye on this. I think the weight will drop as the muscle-fuelled furnace fires fervently forever.

Had a chia bar before we went shopping. Managed to give McDonalds a miss, but the beautiful smell of grease and fat lingering in the air from the restaurant was so very tempting. Sometimes, I surprise myself with my steadfast resoluteness. The truth is the old lady wouldn’t let me go to McDonalds. Said we didn’t have time. Yeah, right. When don’t you have time to slip in a cheeky McDonalds?

RHR 53

5:30 a.m. – 3.5 miles recovery run. Don’t know what I was supposed to be recovering from, but it felt like a jog. Started slow and stayed slow to the finish. Will do something brisker tonight.

The ‘healthy’ chocolate nut fudge went down a treat. Nabbed the recipe off some ultra distance running site. The ankle biters helped me make it and apart from the fight over who would lick the spoon, it all went smoothly.

Ingredients: 8 pieces of dark organic chocolate. Half cup of coconut milk. 3-4 TBSP’s of organic peanut butter/organic almond butter – in fact any nut butter will do the job. Handful of almonds. 3-4 TBSP’s oats. Handful of raisins. Pinch of vanilla/splash of vanilla essence.

Method: heat chocolate gently in coconut milk (couple of mins). Stir in nut butter until you get a creamy texture – about 30 secs. Add in rest of ingredients and stir. Slop on to a baking tray/plate and smooth out into a half inch slab. Pop in fridge. Let it set and then scoff it.

5:30 p.m. – 3.5 steady. The rain was pinning down, so instead of a sharp blast I opted for a steady run in the rain. Great fun. Puddles everywhere. Cars, trucks and vans splashed me. It was like being a kid again.

So here’s the thing on the food front: sweet potatoes. I’ve had them cooked and mashed with cinnamon and nutmeg and all that palaver. But today I had them grated and raw with grated, raw carrot and grated, raw beetroot alongside grilled salmon in a lemon, chilli, and virgin olive oil dressing and some watercress and baby leaf spinach on the side. Superb. Tomorrow, I might try raw broccoli. But then again, come to think of it, that might being going a tad too far.

RHR 53 

5:30 a.m. - 3.5 miles progressive. First 2 miles slow and then increased the pace in final 1.5 miles; nothing startling.

Yipeeeeee. Lost a pound. I think this could be the start of something. If this weight keeps slipping away, the old body should find it easier to lug itself around the streets of Tralee.

RHR 53

7:30 a.m. - 3.5 miles progressive. First 2 miles slow and then picked up the pace. That's 40 miles for the week. Although that was quite a big percentage jump in miles, the worn out body handled the load well. Will keep the miles around the 40 mark for the next couple of weeks before easing up to 50 mpw. Pleased that the lard's slipping off.

When I was out this morning, I imagined myself running alongside Jake K in the Philly marathon tomorrow. We we're tearing it up. The African lads were about 100m's ahead of us and failing. Jake was working hard but he looked comfortable. Your old dad felt like he was out for a Sunday morning stroll. Jake didn't know that the old fella next to him was yours truly. I dropped in a cheeky, 'Stick at it, Jake; they're coming back to us.'

He took off his shades and gave me a hard look. I noticed his pumped biceps; even his acronium process has the look of a Greek God.

'Bam,' he said. 'Is that you?'

' 'Tis, lad,' I said. 'Now lets get away after those laggards, up ahead of us.'

We'd just gone through the 22 mile mark and disaster struck. I stopped and Jake pulled away.

'Go get 'em, lad,' I shouted after him.

 I watched as he reeled in the leaders and then eased away from them.

'Come on, soft boy,' a voice came from the crowd. 'You know you want it.'

There was Russ, stood with a Big Mac and Fries in his right hand, smiling like he knew the meaning of life. In his left hand, he held his new pink umbrella that he purchased in Target and now uses to shelter under, when he runs in stormy weather:)

RHR 53

8:00 a.m. - 7 miles easy over undulating countryside. Beautiful morning. Sun shining. Babbling brooks. The Atalantic like a sheet of glass. Started out slow and worked the hills a little and then picked up the pace in the final 1.5 miles. Good stuff.

I'm all excited waiting to see how Jake and Andrea do in the Philadelphia marathon; in honour of Jake and Andrea I'm going to sit with a tub of ice cream and keep an eye on their times - I think I've sussed how to follow them. I might even have the odd spoon or two of ice cream, seeing as the weight is melting off me at the moment.

I'm looking forward to reading all the race reports from this weekend. I noticed allie had a cheeky little win yesterday - amazing as she only got her legs back last week.

I shouldn't tell anybody but I can't contain myself. Maybe I shouldn't. Oh what the ... This is a secret, so keep it quiet: aleph is running in a race - The Secret City Half. Shush. I shouldn't have let the cat out of the bag. Ho hum.

5:30 a.m. - 3.5 miles slow. Gentle lung opener - intend to do a progressive 3.5 this evening.

When I finished my run this morning and stretched and did all the rest of the usual palaver I logged in and read Jake's race report on the Philadelphia marathon. If you haven't read it, go read it now.

Oh, to have a smidgeon of that man's grace and talent. I watched Jake and Andrea's times on the live feed on his twitter thingamajig. Everything was bang on up until 30k. I was so so excited for both of them. Then when Jake's final time didn't come up when expected, I thought there may have been something wrong with the 'chip' or whatever it is - I haven't raced in years and chips etc are all new to me.

When the news came through I felt a deep sadness for both of them. But then I read how they felt about the whole show and I couldn't believe how much character they evinced. Their outlook on life is something to behold. One thing's for sure, both Jake and Andrea will make the breakthrough into the big time. Respect. 

6 p.m. - 3.5 progressive. Enjoyed this run. See that? 'Run'. I felt like I ran the whole 3.5 miles. Reckon I must have started off around 7:30 pace and ended up around 6:15 pace.

Think I'll be tired in the morning.

RHR 51

10:00 a.m. - 7 undulating miles, which included 2 hills - each 1 mile long. Run took 56:10 so AP 8:02(ish).  Beautiful fresh morning. A touch of Christmas in the air. I'm looking forward to all the presents 'you all' will be sending me - please, no coupons for McDonalds.

Something struck me when I was out running (it wasn't a car) - remember the picture Jake put up of all those lovely looking oatmeal cookies? Of course you do. You were all thinking, I'd love the recipe for those yummy looking cookies. Not a chance. Notice the way Jake and Andrea are always eating ice cream and then they tease us with those cookies. I think that's a step too far. We should all plague them with messages requesting the recipe.

 Now, I'm a big fan of the old Jake-meister, especially after he told me one of his friends said I was like an "Irish Emeril Lagasse".  So, here's me thinking they meant some kind of Ethiopian distance runner who's making waves etc. The old ego gets the better of me and I look up this Lagasse chappy and low and behold, I realise I'm the butt of some checky little joke - those rapscallions. Ho ho. They like a laugh up there in Utah - must be the lack of oxygen. I watched some clips of the Lagasse chappy and thought he was class. Although, he's a tad too svelte to look like your old dad.

RHR 51

5:30 a.m. - 3.5 miles slow. Nice jog in the rain. Legs a bit heavy after yesterday's 7 miles on the hills. Left hamstring's giving me a bit of gyp. Did a bit of positional release on it and it has eased. Looked like a contortionist bent round pressing my hamstring with my thumb. Couldn't get the elbow in there. I'll whack the ice on it after tonight's outing and maybe flush it with a bit of heat. That way, all those nutrients from my quinoa, buckwheat, sweet potato etc should fire in there and attack the badness. Here's hoping...

5:30 p.m. - 3.5 miles slow. First three miles, the old hamstring wasn't too bad. Final half mile, the old hamstring had me hamstrung. Defo a problem with the biceps  femoris. Iced the area and did some M.E.T. work. Reckon there could be a deep rooted problem with the somewhat weathered piriformis and quadratus femoris. I'll ice and M.E.T. and do some serious positional release. I'll have to skip tomorrow morning's outing and see how the day goes. One of the problems of being decrepit and a touch overweight and showing off (throwing in a 7 miler over hills when not ready - and knew wasn't ready). At least Arsenal are winning (soccer).

Might ice before going to bed. Ice, now there's a thought. Ice cream. Hmmmmm. Ben & Jerry's  Caramel Chew Chew. See y'all laters.

RHR 47

I'd like to thank ya'll (thanks allie for showing me how to spell 'ya'll' correctly) for your concerns about my hamstring. Haven't run in a few days. It's a grade 1 strain to the origin of the biceps femoris tendon. Short head or long head? ya'll (I'm a fan of ya'll) cry.

Treatment and rehab is simple, but the cause is more problematic. Will have to run some tests on my worm-baited body.

Aleph asked where I learned Positional Release (PR). So, for aleph, here goes. Many moons ago I trained as a physical therapist and actually wrote a book called, 'Complete Sports Massage Therapist' (ISBN-10: 0750654783) - check it out, the blurbs's at 'the vanguard of [blurbing] excellence'. Your old da was quite famous in his day (if I say so myself and I do) until I gave it all up for a quieter life away from the razzle-dazzle and rigmarole and pizzazz of the paparazzi, snapping me in my pyjamas leaving hotels with A class female celebrities. Wink wink. Truth is, I was a mediocre therapist - a dilettante; a quack.

Hope to get out for a jog/test on Sunday. Ya'll just have to sit tight and wait and see what happens to poor old little me. Penelope Pit-Stop?

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...

5:30 a.m. - 3.5 mile jog. Managed to get round without pulling up in agony - result. Ran slowly. Like a warm down after a session of blistering 200's:  8x200m's in 25 secs with a 200 jog recovery; yeah, right - in your dreams, lad.

I'll need to keep it nice and slow for a while as it will take some time for the hamstring to heal.

But the big news is the weight. I haven't run since last week and I thought the timber was stacking on but it turns out that I've lost a pound. Holymolypololy. If you wanna shed the lard, don't run, but be sure and to eat Caramel Chew Chew. Bought a lesser known brand of ice cream today (thanks Jake) when I was out doing the weekly shop. Still caramel flavour - has to be caramel, nothing touches the taste of caramel. I'll have to wait and see if I burn some more blubber on the cheaper caramel ice cream...

5:30 a.m. - 3.5 mile jog. Nice and easy, again. All the muscles in my left hamstring were giving it some big chat this morning: 'Slow down fatso.' 'Why we carrying Biceps Femoris?' 'Come on, lad - slow down. Walk. I've got some news for you, kidda, there isn't a sinlge soul getting out of this place alive. So stop and walk. Go home and get back into bed.' 'Tis futile, all this jogging malarkey, so it is.' Of course, I soldiered on.

While I was plodding along I saw the hill I'm going to use for my first session of reps. It's a beautiful boreen (there's a new word for you, lads) that snakes up a hill for about 1.5 miles. Gentle but toughish. My first session will be 6-8 x300m on this baby. I'll build up to 10x300m and then look at doing some longer stuff on it. First though, I've got to get back into some steady running. It'll probably be late January before the hill and I go toe to toe.

I took Andrea's advice on the old hammy injury and did some cross training this morning. In fact, I didn't have any choice in the matter. Her-in-doors told me to clean the windows. I went at it like a good-un. Super sets. No recovery between windows. Form needs a bit of work - streaks running down every window of the house; got a feeling she'll have me out there again tomorrow. Ho hum.

Anyway, come here and listen to this: wolfed down some of the cheaper creamy caramel ice cream last night. Had it with pukka American pancakes, so I did. How about that? Pukka American pancakes. Made in China, so they were.

Come here, there's more... made a batch of health bars this morning. Get a pen and write this down, cause these are where it's at, ladies. Oats, milled flax seed and goji berries, pumkin seeds and sunflower seeds and sesame seeds, chopped organic apple, Chia bia, a good few dollops of organic probiotic yoghurt, and oodles and oodles and oodles of cinnamon all mixed together. Fudge into a batch of bars and let them set in the fridge for about half an hour plus. Oh ladies, I'm telling you - tickle your toes and sneeze and then tell me you believe in Bam-Bam Bars. Oooochy-coochy-ow-ah . Oh yeah.

Lads, it is with a huge lump of disappointment that I have to announce that this will be my last blog. Unfortunately, the real world needs me – that’s all I can say.

I have enjoyed my time here and the support and well wishes I’ve received have eased the early stages of my comeback. I hope to continue my comeback; however, 'The Road' now takes me to foreign climes and the nature of my business with the world precludes me from enjoying the chit-chat of social media etc. I will, however, give you a wave and wink after I win the 2013 Cork marathon. You’ll read about me in Running Times after my sub 2:20 aged 50 – that is, of course, if I survive the task that awaits me out there in the real world. If you live in Utah, don’t panic: I doubt my journey will take me through your part of the world.

I wish all of you well with your running and hope that you enjoy the remainder of your time on this merry-go-round. Keep smiling, lads: )