A Dirty Tale of MILFS

It had to happen sooner or later. I had to mention the 'R' word before the Advertising Standards Authority got on my case.

Yep, I'm gonna witter on a bit about the 'R' word; that favoured pastime of skinny, Max Wall lookalikes and lardy burds trying to lose weight. The title of my blog suggests that I ought to mention the 'R' word and my plans to enter a number of Scottish ultra marathons this year might gain some momentum if I do.

So, I've mentioned this running club that I occasionally frequent, right? It's not really a club, more a group. A group of David Lloyd gym members that gets hounded into running on specific times and days by another David Lloyd gym member who doubles as a coach.

This club is perfect for me because its members are either:

1. Attractive MILFs with more time, money and silicone on their hands than sense (great to run behind for the scenic value).

2. Older, well-off women trying to lose a few pounds (great to run ahead of to boost one's ego).

3. Fellas that have considerably more ambition than ability (great to kick dust in their faces and doubly boost that character facet mentioned in 2).

4. Devoid of real runners that might whup the arse of the author (a trebling of the character facet mentioned in 2).

So I arrive at this club on Wednesday, change into Max Wall clobber, meet my fellow runners and coach and leave the warm and air-conditioned confines of the David Lloyd gymnasium that was once a mental hospital (when encountering the baseball cap clad idiots in the weights room it seems that many of the building's former residents simply refused to leave).

I arrive at Horton Park, a place that once saw many a mental defective getting an airing, and line up with my fellow mental defectives....err...I mean runners, on the start line of our training session. The journey to the park, a distance of maybe a quarter mile, is conducted at an amble. This apparently serves as a warm up and the Garmin clad, distance obsessed, buy-any-gadget-available lot include this in their run summary.

The initial instruction from coach is to:

'Do the 2.5 mile loop warm up.....go on then.....go on.....go!'

For me the warm up transcribes as: 'Run like fuck employing your well worn arse breathing technique and reach the finish line first.'

And if that's what's painted on my tin, I make sure there's no Advertising Standards Authority interference. What I notice as I streak around the 2.5 mile loop is a slight moistening of the ground caused by the recent damp weather.

I arrive at the finish line in around 17 minutes and do a few hill reps as I await the arrival of the rest of the group.

As my fellow club members arrive many complain of the mucky conditions under foot. I really am perplexed by this because it's what one might expect when running off-road after rain but it's certainly not a recreation of the Somme.

Next up on coach's schedule is some sprint drills. No problem.....around me I have MILFS trying to ascertain the condition of their make up in the reflection of their opposite number's sweaty face; older, well-off women wondering if a private taxi might take them home; and fellas with great ambition being hamstrung by their lack of ability.

So off we go in a long, snaking, single file stylee with the back marker sprinting to the front. It takes me not too long to realise that this lot seriously ain't at home in the damp. Every time we encounter a puddle, my fellow runners proceed to dance about it like that twat Wayne Sleep. This pisses me off because I've spent many years dropping up to my waist in Scottish peat bogs. A bit of mud is fuck all to me.

The others' desperate avoidance of any mixture of earth and water causes me such consternation that I start to intentionally land in puddles. Each wet landing results in a cry of:

'Aw!!! My nice white trainers/socks/legs!'

This makes me target the most clean and actually kick muddy water at them whenever the chance arises. Those that I manage to splatter are far too polite to swear or shout at me and generally just say:

'Aaaawwww!'

The more vocal occasionally escalate this to:

'DAVID!!!!'

The sprint drills continue for around twenty minutes although the word sprint is about as loose as a whore's fanny.

Then there's the warm down, which for Yours Truly is another belt around the 2.5 mile loop as quickly as possible. The amble back to the club is conducted in silence apart from the occasional mumbled grumble about extra washing powder.

Once back inside the club the group disperses and I head for the showers to flash my bits at any towel wearing prudes I can find.

Twenty minutes later I'm as clean as a vicar's rap sheet and I'm heading out the door with my bag on my shoulder. In my mind now I can see myself whistling nonchalantly as I travel through the club's cafeteria but in actual fact it's unlikely I was whistling. This has nothing to do with the fact that I can't whistle, because I can, nor an extreme dislike of Roger Whittaker; it's more due to a with a belief that nonchalant whistling is the sole preserve of milkmen and posties. And while I appreciate and respect the delivery of mail and milk as an honest job of work, I'm still desperately clinging on to my employment as a firefighter.

'Dave,' I hear called to me from a dark recess of the cafeteria. 'A word.'

It's the coach standing by the rack of daily newspapers and he's shifting about uncomfortably. I go over to him and say:

'What's up, mate?'

'I've had a complaint about you,' he says nervously. 'Well, a few complaints actually. The other runners say that going running with you is like taking a naughty child to the park. They're asking for the club to pay for the laundering of their kit because you've showered them all in shit. I'm sorry mate, if you behave that way again you'll be barred from the running club.'

Well............I've been barred from the occasional pub............I even got barred from the Tate Gallery once..............but it's the first time I've been barred (or threatened with) from a fucking running club.

I'm wearing that like a badge of honour.

Laters.