Where is My Mind...Again?

The post race running is continuing with no indication of any troubling ramifications of having run 95 miles over the highlands. A slack five mile jaunt along the river yesterday showed banjo string-taught ligaments and lead-like legs but I reckon that's minor hangover compared to the seriously disabling effects of years passed.

The actual hangover itself, ie the one caused by the over zealous consumption of alcoholic beverage, is something that stopped bothering me some years ago. It's merely a default condition that's occasionally bettered by short periods of clarity and sobriety that are quickly banished by a wee top-up.

But how do we, as runners, manage that activity? (I mean the one of running, not banishing our few periods of clarity and sobriety), when the weather has been so damned hot. Well for me it's all about dragging my sorry carcass out of my scratcher at early-O'clock and getting the miles in before the sun speeds up across the horizon.

An hour or so in the early morn in running shoes and shorts sets me up nice for a day in uniform. One where I wear black, fuckin' itchy trousers that I defy only by the donning of long johns.

Long johns? I hear you ask. In this weather? Yes, long johns in this m@]her-f@ckin weather!!! I prefer to sweat like a hairy hog than suffer nine hours of itchiness on my sensitively-skinned legs.

Luckily for me I was able to take my heavily encased legs into the outdoors yesterday for the 22nd Great Amazing Children's Party in Battersea Park. Yes it was hot, yes the sun beat down, but the kiddies loved climbing on the fire engine.......or so my lads tell me.....I was plotted up in the VIP tent with Des O'Connor, Elaine Paige, Paul Young, Darius Danesh and Linda Robson. Oh, and some boy bollocks band called Blazing Squad whose photo and autograph I ripped up and called 'mugs.'

I've attached a photo above of the gorgeous Ms Paige sitting on my motor. She was great, a really lovely lady and a good sport, too.

So.....as I sit here sipping a wee glass of vino collapso I'm considering my next move, sporting wise. I should tell you that I've had an invitation to meet another man in the squared ring over three rounds.

I asked Mrs Mac what she thought and the reaction was negative:

'I don't want to watch someone trying to hurt you....I'd rather be a promoter's WAG than a boxer's'

I love her and respect her wishes but I sense unfinished business. After my last foray back between the ropes I've suffered unflattering comments regarding my defence and my ability to remain a biped for two minutes. It hasn't always been that way..... I've experienced the high of having my hand raised by the ref before. I know how it feels to celebrate and not commiserate.

And there's this song.....it's playing in my head.....I can hear it.....it's my ring entrance tune......it's getting more distinct.....I can feel the gumshield between my teeth..... I can feel the sweat on my brow......the adrenaline is coursing through my veins....I'm a gladiator facing death or dishonour.....I'm tapping my gloves together and slipping from toe to toe atop the sprung canvas....

Seconds out....

As Bob Dylan said: 'Play it fuckin' loud'