tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77135181176147973722024-02-24T09:45:13.014+00:00Subversive RunningA retired firefighter's attempt at making sense of life and death.Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.comBlogger107125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-2622441651409539272022-03-08T22:41:00.004+00:002022-03-09T15:57:46.868+00:00Victim<p>There's a damn good chance that I shouldn't be writing this blog post. If I decide that's the case, you'll never read this, and I've just wasted my time writing it. Anyway, here we go, let's see how we get on.</p><p>For 52 years of my life, I was a fucking tough guy. Even as an infant, my old man's practice of smashing my head into my younger brother's when we were naughty taught me to be tough. It taught me a fair bit about poor parenting too, so there was positivity in violence. Every cloud...</p><p>At the age of nine, I was a pain in the arse during the summer holidays. I did outrageous things like kick footballs, play a game called 'fighting in the dark' with my brother (you basically shut the curtains and fought in the dark), and got caught looking at the womens’ underwear section of my mum's Grattan catalogue. So my old man dropped me off at the Brixton and District Amateur Boxing Club with the instruction: 'Tire the little fucker out, will you?' I stayed for several years and enjoyed the skills and fitness bestowed upon me in that sweaty, dusty house of pain.</p><p>A few years later, I joined the army, boxed for my regiment, fired guns and stuff and generally became a life-taking, heartbreaking, steely-eyed dealer of death. Then I joined the London Fire Brigade. My efforts shifted and were centred on saving lives rather than obliterating them. I served for 27.5 years, loved the job and rose to the rank of Station Officer.</p><p>My reason for this whistle-stop historical tour is to illustrate that, as the Practice Nurse from the Community Mental Health Team told me: 'You, Mr Waterman, are a victim of your own success. You've spent your life pursuing masculine endeavours, and now you're existing quietly in a small town in Scotland. Did you really think becoming a mature student would replace all that gung-ho stuff?'</p><p>'Yes, Sir, I did.' I replied.</p><p>Deploying a wicked sense of humour, he responded: 'Yep, you really are mad!'</p><p>If the past two years have taught me anything, it's that you can be as much of a tough guy as you like, but mental health impairment is tougher. It's like a Ninja; it sneaks up on you quietly, lurking in the shadows, strikes hard, creating confusion and suffering, and leaves a long-lasting effect. </p><p>So if I can claim another lesson from the recent past, it's that I was never as tough as I made out. I could fight skilled boxers in the ring, I could deadlift 180kg, I could run 100 miles, but I was still the infant, sitting on the pram, fearing getting his head smashed into his brother's.</p><p>Attacks on your physical self are one thing. Generally, the attacker needs to be bigger and harder than you. But attacks on your mental health can come from all sources. I know massive, roided up bodybuilders in the gym who could pull your arms from their sockets and batter you about the head with the stumps. But the ones in my gym are like teddy bears and would be aghast if they upset you. Then you can get a 4-foot nine-inch woman child who will insidiously and stealthily break you down with unwelcoming behaviours, rudeness, ignorance and laziness. They might claim they're doing nothing wrong, smile sweetly and play on their apparent innocence, but the damage is being done. Chipping away at your well-being, denying you any peace, making you feel worthless.</p><p>Where's the tough guy now? The 87kg gym attendee that rack-pulls a quarter of a tonne? He's tearing skin from his thumbs; he's mumbling to himself, looking for help and support but finding none. He's a monster, you know; he's scary, he knows how to fight, and he's strong as fuck.Unfortunately, he's also a victim of his own success.</p><p><br /></p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-82991875264287769152022-02-01T22:41:00.004+00:002022-02-02T18:26:53.664+00:00The Long Morrow<p style="text-align: justify;">Someone once told me: 'Absolutely no one is interested in hearing about your dreams, let alone reading about them. They're boring, uninspiring and fucking tedious.'</p><p style="text-align: justify;">With that advice ringing in my ears, I'm about to speak about dreams. However, I have access to the analytical breakdown for this blog, and its heyday of 1000+ hits in 24 hours is long since passed. The visits to this blog are now in single figures if they exist at all. That suits me, however, as I'm not in the business of entertainment. As has been mentioned elsewhere, this is a mental defective's attempt at psychotherapy through the written word. So if you do happen to be reading this for entertainment purposes, it's gonna be dull, uninspiring and fucking tedious.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Following the 13 months Trauma-Focused CBT I undertook, I was assured that the symptoms that had plagued me were now absent and I no longer had the diagnosis for PTSD, Psychosis, Hyper-Vigilance or anything else that might enable me to get a part in the remake of <i>One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest</i>. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">'Fucking fantastic!' said I. 'That means I can terminate the taking of all the medication, then?'</p><p style="text-align: justify;">'Err...not quite. You need to continue taking all of those sense-numbing, impotence creating, mind fogging substances for another two years, at least.'</p><p style="text-align: justify;">'So I'm not better, then? If I were better I would need no meds, surely?'</p><p style="text-align: justify;">'Listen, you're a fucking mental defective. If you stop taking the drugs you're likely to turn into Charles Manson, kill everyone and everything in your immediate vicinity, before throwing yourself off of a motorway bridge and making a huge mess on the tarmac.'</p><p style="text-align: justify;">If I needed any convincing that my psychotherapist's ambition significantly outweighed his ability in his assessment of my recovery, it was last night when, under the guise of sleep, I travelled back in time to events in military olive drab and fire brigade red. Reliving historic events is old hat now; I've been riding that train for more than two years. But to believe I never left public service, and I'm simply waiting for the next event, and will be forevermore, left me feeling somewhat discombobulated, let me tell you. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">I remember as a child, having this recurring nightmare where I was cast adrift in space, unable to move or speak, floating about in the cosmos, looking down on the earth, my home and my family. And that was how it was to be for the rest of eternity, alone, lost, with no control over my existence. Fuck me, that dream terrified me, and it was made worse by the fact that when I woke up, my sense of spatial awareness and depth perception was altered. Age and experience have developed that dream into last night's episode of Mr Ben, but it remains the same. Alone, lost and with no control over my existence.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Boring, uninspiring and tedious...but enough to leave me in a dangerous condition after waking. My fairly recent routine is, to get up, put the kettle on, swallow the multiple pills prescribed to me, and hopefully, Sally Sertraline will do her stuff and leave Charles Manson locked up in a cupboard somewhere. Well, Charlie Manson came out to play this morning and it was only the comforting words of my best friend and smashing myself to bits in the gym that fucked Charlie Boy off out of it.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, if you do happen to be reading this blog, I apologise profusely for the boredom, lack of inspiration and tedium. My final comment on this tale of woe (put some positivity into it, you loon!) is this: If you were unlucky enough to accompany me last night on my travels, I think together we might have wished for boredom.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsXLpZDJ9Nngp2aLaQ5QlXwyzDAKximtWZ8jtfrercNRot1H66omtL_8qMPNMyUfQcAKZvu9hagb3B2S3WoR8UcEg58Gse0HgNNOhp8TGEFtPY32O_f1mTBaQ2lWo9atVssz6Zsv5nCgi9ms5oGkW37B0MWLI_shd_8X-ITKmDdHK33vol5OPDLjEa=s430" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="430" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsXLpZDJ9Nngp2aLaQ5QlXwyzDAKximtWZ8jtfrercNRot1H66omtL_8qMPNMyUfQcAKZvu9hagb3B2S3WoR8UcEg58Gse0HgNNOhp8TGEFtPY32O_f1mTBaQ2lWo9atVssz6Zsv5nCgi9ms5oGkW37B0MWLI_shd_8X-ITKmDdHK33vol5OPDLjEa=w443-h293" width="443" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-3629966109520575282022-01-27T14:46:00.006+00:002022-01-28T12:07:50.003+00:00A Tendency Toward Haagen Dazs<p> Psychosis:<i> Psychosis is a mental health problem that causes people to perceive or interpret things differently. This might involve hallucinations or delusions.</i></p><p>That's how the NHS defines the condition. It goes hand in glove with Complex PTSD if left untreated. Looking back over the past couple of years, from a more enlightened and medicated state, nothing I experienced seemed then or now hallucinatory or delusional. Everything happened to me or around me, and I understood it and responded to it in what I believed was an appropriate manner.</p><p>Elsewhere I've mentioned visits from a dead girl; I've also felt someones' lips brush my ear; I've listened to snippets of conversation taking place in the air, and I felt a garrotte tighten around my neck. All of these things happened with just myself present.</p><p>Sleep deprivation, exhaustion and confusion create a fertile ground for these experiences. I remember sitting in our lounge one summer evening watching TV as my (much) better half busied herself going in and out of the house watering her outdoor plants. As she moved through the lounge and left through the front door, watering-can in hand, my need for Haagen Dazs ice cream became too great to bear, and I rose to my feet to head to the kitchen. I ought to say that this newfound love of Haagen Dazs has replaced the no-longer-present unquenchable thirst for strong red wine. I suppose it's the craving for the simple sugars the wine once provided. Haagen Dazs tends not to result in being the best-dressed man in bed or a frantic run down to the off-licence at 22:55, however.</p><p>As I turned to face the kitchen, I felt a hard, circular implement press into my back, probably around 9mm in diameter. Before you tut and think 'wanker,' put yourself in my position: I'm a former soldier who was once very familiar with firearms. But, unfortunately, I had been living in a delirious haze for much of the year, experiencing events and situations denied to anyone else. Anyway, my thought process was thus:</p><p>I've just seen my (much) better half leave the lounge; I know she's outside. There's no one else knowingly in the house. Someone has just pressed a gun barrel into my back.</p><p>Fight or flight? I can run quickly but not nearly enough to beat a 9mm bullet. If I spin around rapidly, I might encourage pulling the trigger. So instead, I turn slowly to face the armed intruder and cock my right hand to smash my fist, straight, true and hard into the centre of the face I was about to see. I'm aiming to break and splinter bone, I want to spill blood and mucus on the floor, and disable the intruder. Hopefully, permanently. Because if I don't, a 9mm copper-jacketed round may well enter my chest, pass through my heart, killing me instantly before the sound of gunfire ever reaches my ears. </p><p>Or is this another psychotic episode where there will be no one at all in front of me? Like the garrotte I felt tighten around my neck as I lay in bed, maybe this is just death ideation.</p><p>As my eyes focus on the physical presence that is indeed in front of me, I see a watering can in hand, no longer pressed into my back. A beautiful, innocent face looking shocked at her husband, primed and ready for extreme violence. This was, and remains, the one and only time my hands have ever been raised to my (much) better half.</p><p>I breathed a massive sigh of relief.</p><p>'Please, please don't ever sneak up on me like that again,' I begged.</p><p>My ability to accurately assess time, distance and probability were all as clearly impaired as my thinking and general mental well-being. Nevertheless, that event, and several others involving unknown persons, led to Quetiapine, an anti-psychotic medication, being prescribed.</p><p>My doctor explained: 'This will buy you thinking time. At the moment, you've got a tendency toward an immediate aggressive response when you feel under threat. That served you well as a pupil at an uber-violent south London school, a soldier in the combat arm, or an operational firefighter at a busy inner London fire station. But it's not as helpful now you dwell full-time in polite society. Plus you're as mad as a box of frogs,' (Fuck it, if I'm gonna paraphrase, I may as well push the boat out...but that is essentially what he said).</p><p>So, the psychosis is now managed pharmaceutically. The reality is that Quetiapine simply sedates me heavily. There is no chance of me getting into trouble when I'm asleep most of the day. In that regard, it's a wonder drug, but not entirely different to the effect that strong red wine had on me. </p><p>Right, I'm off for (another) snooze.</p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-45219492650934733992022-01-23T22:10:00.005+00:002022-01-28T12:08:14.351+00:00Caring for a Chameleon<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Look into these eyes...what do you see?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBaijE5JYJiBS8pistFEVom8sJiDTPpgWqo4y8UDGXMOA-jJ0pHEHrhvKeCXj_7YiInwpw518Znq5unffn3mFzTynzh4AbJ7udrmltD5GhABcCnpWZTjlFVKO7N1L-s_B_P1h4ERUq2dMDRctYYABrtrJ6nHbYZnRw5LVrTxejKaV8WjFj1RrVbvZt=s3088" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBaijE5JYJiBS8pistFEVom8sJiDTPpgWqo4y8UDGXMOA-jJ0pHEHrhvKeCXj_7YiInwpw518Znq5unffn3mFzTynzh4AbJ7udrmltD5GhABcCnpWZTjlFVKO7N1L-s_B_P1h4ERUq2dMDRctYYABrtrJ6nHbYZnRw5LVrTxejKaV8WjFj1RrVbvZt=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Pound shop glasses...that's what. I've got some expensive prescription glasses that I should wear at all times, but they annoy me. So I take 'em off, put them down, then can't find them. Not necessarily because I'm blind as a bat, but because they seem to blend into the background, Chameleon-like. So this is me, wearing sight-damaging pound-shop glasses, in the magnificent National Library of Scotland. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">'What the fuck was a half-witted, tattooed Cockney doing in such a respected and majesterial centre of academia and research?' I hear you ask. I was there last week to view and photograph a 120-year-old copy of the London Scottish Rifles Regimental Gazette. I'm doing a PhD, doncha know? I'm researching a prosopographic history of the London Scottish Regiment from formation in 1859 to the end of the Great War. Mental defectives can also be Chameleon-like and mix amongst genteel, intelligent company. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I accept I might not appear to be a standard aspiring academic. I never have. When I did my undergraduate degree, I arrived at Manchester University for Summer School, and the administration staff believed I was a coach driver. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Anyway, I've been instructed that there needs to be some positivity included here if positivity does, indeed, exist. And of course, it does, but there are occasional hurdles that are pretty unique mixed amongst that positivity. For example, it was suggested that the person accompanying me to the Library was my full-time carer. That was in an attempt to overcome some bureaucratic red tape, but it wasn't too far from the truth.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Once was a respected Station Officer in charge of a busy, central-London fire station and a watch of challenging individuals. Now I need a carer to venture out of the house safely. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So anyway, expect some more positivity within this blog/journal (I'm only terming it a journal because journaling is a recognised therapy activity).</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So has any positivity resulted from journaling thus far? Writing the entry about the fatal RTA in Sutton was somewhat upsetting. However, it's kinda led me to understand some of my more extreme reactions to unpleasant events. I won't bore you with detail, but I've felt the need to mount a ferocious defence of several women that I've been aware of being victimised, harassed and worse over the years. The ferocity of that defence has possibly been over the top at times. Still, former friendships have been terminated without any confusion around the likelihood of that friendship ever being rekindled. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">My cod-psychotherapy has alerted me that I'm still rescuing that young girl in Sutton in executing that ferocious defence. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I’ve got you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">You’re safe here with me.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I'll not lose her a second time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Laters.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-5574406152773682172022-01-16T22:53:00.007+00:002022-01-17T17:26:51.316+00:00Rockabilly Psychosis<p>This PTSD lark is a constant round of fun and games, I can tell you. About 10 months or so ago I reckoned I was emerging from the depths of despair, a slightly broken, but put-back-together, guy ready to take tentative steps back into the world.</p><p>I was even the recipient of an invitation to a party...'I'm normal!' I told myself. Safe to mix in genteel company, in the presence of quickly quaffed alcohol and loud music. Why not? I thought. Once was in charge of a busy, central-London fire station and a team of pretty lively individuals. I can manage the polite conversation, soft-shoe-shuffling and sipping of port required at a celebratory get-together, surely?</p><p>Here's the thing. And I suppose it should have sounded alarm bells: I barely knew the host and had never met any of the guests. In the past, I would have convinced myself the guests would be so gloriously astounded by my dancing skills, my power drinking, and my war stories that I would be elevated from 'unknown guest' to 'must-have present henceforth' in the blink of an eye.</p><p>So with those thoughts in my mind, plus a bottle of port in my motor, and my dancing shoes on, I jumped in the new 1litre Fiesta Bad Boy, and headed over to Edinburgh for the party of the year. Let me just repeat that: <b>The Party of The Year.</b> Please hold that thought.</p><p>I arrived around mid-afternoon at a pretty remote house outside Edinburgh with huge grounds and a collection of smart automobiles outside. The kind where the cost of a bumper repair would eclipse the money I paid for the Bad Boy. I was dressed in my gym gear (come casual, they said) and strutted through the open door displaying as much non-existent confidence as I could muster.</p><p>The host, a former Royal Marine named Matt, was in the kitchen preparing food while sipping a glass of champagne and dressed like Michael Portillo.</p><p>'Hi Matt,' I boomed (booming is definitely a sign of absent confidence).</p><p>'Dave! What the Fuck? Have you got a change of clothes? Please tell me you've got a change of clothes! Serena (name changed to protect the nearly killed) will go fucking berserk!'</p><p>Before I could argue the definition of casual, in swanned Serena as if on a magic carpet of grace and elegance. Her eyes looked me up and down and her sneer said all it needed to.</p><p>'Err...I think I've got a pair of jeans in the car...'I spluttered.</p><p>20 minutes later, a freshly ironed pair of Levis replaced my jogging bottoms and one of Matt's shirts covered my tattooed arms. As the guests arrived I was introduced to Tarquin, Philippa, Theodore, Angelica, Rupert and Cordelia.</p><p>If I cursed my Mum and Dad for having the complete absence of creativity in calling me 'Dave' I cursed them 1000 times.</p><p>Clearly, the only strategy to overcome this nightmare of epic proportions was to employ the tried and tested trick of getting absolutely wankered. I drank red wine like a tramp drinks cider, then opened the port. By this stage, I couldn't give a flying fuck that I used a wine glass for my port. If I could have laid my hands on a pint pot that would have been the port receptacle of choice.</p><p>Of course, as my level of inebriation rose, my dancing and jokes improved exponentially. Along with the disappearance of my reluctance to fart and swear.</p><p>Now, this is all standard fayre for a Subversive tale of alcohol consumption. However, there are additions that had never been in the mix previously. My pals Kerry Quetiapine, Sally Sertraline and Ponsonby Propranolol. Their acquaintance with strong alcohol had never been attempted before.</p><p>The night wore on, and at around 02:00 there was just me and the two hosts left. We were outside, sitting around a small bonfire, drinking port. Then it happened:</p><p>'Dave,' said Serena. 'Matthew tells me you have PTSD. Why do you have PTSD?'</p><p>Completely taken aback, and with my mind awash with alcohol and anti-psychotic, prescription drugs, I attempted: 'I think I took particularly poor care of myself in the past and now I'm paying for it.'</p><p>'Matthew tells me that you are heavily medicated. You do realise those drugs do you no good whatsoever, don't you? So why do you take them?'</p><p>'Errm...' I spluttered, as I felt a dark, descending cloud of embarrassment and shame envelope me. 'My doctor thinks that the meds help, so I'm following his advice.'</p><p>'Listen, David,' said Serena, employing my Sunday name. 'All you need is to get all of this stuff off your chest. You need to speak to someone and just get it all out there. I'm that someone, so start by telling me about Grenfell Tower..'</p><p>'Errm...' I said, using the oft-repeated phrase that really translated as 'FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!' 'I kinda think that those end-of-life experiences are pretty sacred and should remain with me and those I accompanied on that journey.'</p><p>'END OF LIFE EXPERIENCES!' Thundered Serena. 'You're not a fucking poet, are you? So stop using such flowery language and just tell me what happened!'</p><p>And so the scene was set for the next 30 minutes. Serena demanding horror stories, me sinking lower and lower into my seat, and the mixture of medication and alcohol making bonds of destruction and annihilation in my mind.</p><p>When the seat could swallow me no further, and there appeared to be no end in sight to the cross-examination, I got up wearily and said: 'I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to bed.'</p><p>Serena angrily spluttered something about hospitality, but I was moving faster than Prince Andrew at a Fresher's Ball. I headed toward the very well-appointed, ground floor guest room I had been provided, where I closed the door and breathed a huge sigh of relief. This was such a mistake. Believing I could spring back into the world of parties, new people, alcohol and manipulative treatment. What a cunt I was. I wish I was at home. But I can't go anywhere yet due to my inebriation. I'll need to sit it out then escape in the morning.</p><p>Lock the door....yeah, lock the fucking door...they might be so pissed off with me they want to reiterate their anger.</p><p>FUCK! No fucking lock! Why is there no lock? </p><p>Then the sound of blaring dance music exploded from upstairs accompanied by pounding and thumping on the floor above my head. </p><p>What the fuck is going on? I don't understand what's happening. I knew Serena was angry by my refusal to talk...maybe this is her way of letting me know I'm not wanted. </p><p>They're gonna come down here and have a go at me, I know they are. They're going to come through that unlocked door, snarling and shouting at me. I need a weapon. In this well-appointed room, with tasteful paintings on the wall and a peach aroma infused en-suite, there's not even a baseball bat or a hunting knife. What the fuck is wrong with these people? </p><p>I sat with my back against the wall, waiting for the door to open, ready to engage in combat. Then I rang my (much) better half. Yes, it was 03:00 but this was an ambush situation.</p><p>'Hi babe, it's me. Listen, Matt and Serena are really pissed off; I've really upset them. They've been demanding horror stories. They're about to come into my room and there's no lock. I've looked for a weapon but can't find one but I'm pretty sure I can kill them both with my bare hands.'</p><p>I heard the words I'd just spoken. This isn't normal. I'm alcohol and anti-psychotic drug-affected, I'm far from cured of PTSD and Hyper-Vigilance and shouldn't be away from home. The Party of the Year.</p><p>'Dave, go to bed and go to sleep. Leave in the morning and come straight home,' spoke the voice of reason.</p><p>Four hours later I sneaked out of Matt and Serena's like a thief in the night, jumped into the Bad Boy and headed home where I locked the door, bidding a final farewell to alcohol, and took my meds. </p><p>A week or so later, my mobile phone screen showed an unknown caller desperately trying to get hold of me. Unusually, I answered:</p><p>'Hi, Mr Waterman?'</p><p>'It is, who's this please?'</p><p>'This is Dr Moreau from the Community Mental Health Team. We've received an emergency referral from your psychotherapist. I need you to come in and see me urgently. I have a report that you attended a party in Edinburgh, had a disagreement with the hosts, and planned to murder them both in their bed.'</p><p>I was impressed with the level of embellishment and pleased that I had such fantastic material for a blog post, but tried to explain the reality of the situation.</p><p>It didn't matter. As soon as I said: 'I can kill them both with my bare hands' I was never going to win.</p><p>So what now? Well, my medication was adjusted to slow down an 'immediate aggressive response.' I've had no further contact from anyone at The Party of the Year, and I'm not expecting you, Dear Reader, to invite me to a party anytime soon.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://youtu.be/hlIBdIjYM_U"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hlIBdIjYM_U" width="320" youtube-src-id="hlIBdIjYM_U"></iframe></a></div><p></p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-92153971533489564572022-01-13T17:33:00.021+00:002022-01-13T22:15:17.546+00:00In Lunar Shadows Slowly<p> As I sit to write this, I feel compelled to issue a warning. In the 15 years this blog has been in existence, I've tried, sometimes hamfistedly, to make it humorous. Unfortunately, in what's about to be written, you'll find no humour.</p><p>In 1999 the London Fire Brigade's fleet of appliances included five Fire Rescue Units (FRUs). They were specialist vehicles that attended the most extreme and critical incidents that the natives of London could throw at them. Post 9/11, 7/7 and other high profile disasters, the London Fire Brigade now have 15 FRUs. So in 1999, with just five FRUs serving the whole of the capital, we were busy, busy, busy. It exposed the 2% of staff that made up the FRU crews to many more critical incidents than a standard firefighter, but created an elite and experienced band of practitioners. As I look back, I can say that it was a pretty transient position; FRU firefighters often moved on rather quickly. Those that didn't and stayed for the long haul, are prone to illness, alcoholism, addiction and depression in retirement. That's probably not a surprise, right?</p><p>Back to 1999. I was a newly promoted Sub Officer, in love with my job, confident (arrogant, possibly), but cared greatly for my men and women. It was some time during the summer; I can't be precise when, but I remember the stifling confines of the Sub Officer's room on the third floor of Battersea Fire Station. It was a night shift, and we had entered the wee hours.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHpq2CkJvAOhw65PiOwGvBKO51FanCfw5od1qzu68J3WkRpiOWlZigXmXdYPE6PRglE_p1lE7W1eErjU9an5Ia5NZXgRq_cHJjCgGub7PLFWcgufpNvPyetXh8xlWcTtq0HnIxuItXuyoM7PrPAqtZj3HUqYYg2p8utk8MwrdKQho9K_8ctRV9KihU=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHpq2CkJvAOhw65PiOwGvBKO51FanCfw5od1qzu68J3WkRpiOWlZigXmXdYPE6PRglE_p1lE7W1eErjU9an5Ia5NZXgRq_cHJjCgGub7PLFWcgufpNvPyetXh8xlWcTtq0HnIxuItXuyoM7PrPAqtZj3HUqYYg2p8utk8MwrdKQho9K_8ctRV9KihU=w477-h342" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p>As I dozed on my perfunctory bed, the familiar sound of wailing alarms and bright lights roused me from my sweaty slumber. In less than 60 seconds I was dressed and seated in the commander's position of the FRU. Moments later, I was joined by my four-man crew, and we were barrelling through the empty London streets on our way to 'RTA: Persons Trapped' in Sutton Common Road. I settled down, with one ear on the main-scheme radio listening out for an informative message from the incident. I never ceased to marvel at the driver's skill and speed as he zipped through red lights and across mini-roundabouts to get us in attendance as quickly as possible.</p><p>As we rounded a bend in the road we came upon the incident. Two fire engines were already in attendance along with a couple of police cars, an ambulance and a high-speed ambulance car that replaced the London Ambulance Service's helicopter (HEMS) during the hours of darkness. At an odd angle in the road sat a white Ford Fiesta RS Turbo. It had obviously been on its roof and had resettled on its wheels. From my position I could see two occupants and I could hear one. A high-pitched, male voice shouting and swearing.</p><p>My crew dismounted, and without the need for instruction, set about preparing the hydraulic tools we might need to extricate the stricken vehicle's occupants. I followed protocol and reported to the Incident Commander. He was also a Sub Officer, the same rank as myself, but sported a partially fastened tunic and an unshaven chin. The few words we exchanged indicated he had no clue what he was doing and was relieved an FRU was now in attendance. I made a mental note that protocol could fuck right off and it would be my orders alone that would resolve this incident.</p><p>I approached the Fiesta which was surrounded by firefighters doing very little. An attempt was being made by a couple of guys to release the mangled passenger door, behind which sat a young woman of probably 17 years or so. She appeared to be unharmed but her eyes were only partially open and she was worryingly silent. Next to her, in the driver's seat, sat a pluke-ridden, shaven-headed young man of maybe 20. It appeared that a broken clavicle had punched through his chest exposing milky, white bone against his grey and bloodied shirt. And fuck me, he was letting everyone know about it. Not too much wrong with him, then.</p><p>I saw the person I wanted. Raya, a diminutive, Israeli HEMS Doctor, stood by the car trying to make herself heard by the firefighters surrounding her. </p><p>'Hi, Raya, what needs doing?' I asked.</p><p>'Dave, they're not listening to me. I need the girl out right now.'</p><p>Nothing more needed to be said. Raya and I had worked together several times before and we both knew what her words meant. While the firefighters were pissing about trying to ensure the safety of the girl's cervical spine, she was dying. I pulled away the two guys that had now prised open the passenger's door. I heard angry comments directed at me but they meant nothing. I pulled out my non-issue lock knife, cut the seatbelt, threw the knife into the footwell, and scooped the girl out of the seat and into my arms. Her eyes fluttered open and a huge, hooped earring and long, blonde hair, settled against my tunic sleeve. As I carried her gently to the waiting ambulance trolley I looked into her eyes and said: 'I've got you.'</p><p>She looked back at me, through deep, black pupils set against blue eyes. I realise this sounds dramatic, but I promise I relate only to what happened. There was a connection...both a physical one and a meeting of souls. Then, the girl's eyes fluttered again and she became lighter in my arms. I knew she had died. I literally felt the life leave her body.</p><p>I placed her body on the trolley and it was wheeled off to the waiting ambulance with Raya doing everything she could to turn the situation around. There was to be no turning around.</p><p>The rest of the incident is something of a blur, but we extricated the driver and he was transported to hospital, swearing and spitting. It was reckoned he had entered the bend at a high speed, lost control of the car, and rolled it. The police accident investigation team would establish precisely what happened, having closed the road due to it being a fatal event.</p><p>In 1999 I was a fairly green firefighter, despite achieving promotion pretty rapidly. Although not my first fatal incident, this event upset me deeply. I was the father of three daughters and a son so I felt the unnecessary death of a young person heavily. The connection established in life and death felt elemental and real.</p><p>The day that I realised something was <i>definitely</i> amiss was a few weeks after the event. I was off duty, it was late at night, and my body and mind were numbed by strong alcohol. I lay in my bed, knocked out by the booze. However, in the adjoining bedroom slept my five-year-old daughter and my waking was never a problem (despite that, I realise criticism of my parenthood is invited here). Sometime through the night, I heard my bedroom door open and a weight place itself on the end of my bed. My daughter often crawled into my bed during the night, so I pulled back the duvet and said 'In you get, Charly.'</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>I opened my eyes and looked through the gloom at the form sitting on my bed. It wasn't Charly. The huge, hooped earrings confirmed the identity of my visitor. She looked at me with her hands in her lap, then rose and left through the open door.</p><p>How did I feel about this, you may ask? The only word I can find is 'comforted.'</p><p>Let's fast forward 23 years. I'm in my weekly meeting with my psychotherapist and tell him the story above. I feel somewhat embarrassed to say that I failed to get through the telling of it without deep upset and tears. I was told that my experience was very common in the recent aftermath of trauma.</p><p>'What if I told you I saw her last week?' I asked.</p><p>We discussed this and settled that I had failed to let the girl go. EMDR, an end to the connection, and a period of mourning were suggested.</p><p>'I don't think I'm ready for that. She feels safe here with me,' I said.</p><p>I suppose this, right here, the writing of this blog is my attempt at letting her go. Cod psychotherapy carried out by a mental defective.</p><p>But...I'm still not sure I'm ready for this. She still feels safe here with me.</p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-69841722135974868552022-01-09T21:35:00.002+00:002022-01-12T17:51:41.795+00:00Creatures of My Dreams Raise Up and Dance With Me<p>Before we begin the self-directed therapy phase of this plan, I thought I might detail my descent into Randle P. McMurphy territory for posterity. McMurphy was, of course, Jack Nicholson's character in Ken Kesey's <i>One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest</i>. Now, I might be mad, but I'm not so bat-shit insane to think I might lay claim to anything approaching Jack Nicholson's charismatic display of lunacy in the brilliant 1975 film. But a Jack Nicholson reference is more palatable than the more accurate Norman Bates one.</p><p>I retired from the London Fire Brigade in May 2019. I had a pretty successful career, if we discount one rather large hiccup, and loved that job like Katie Price loves...horses (I know what you thought I would say there, but I no longer feel empowered to criticise others, having joined the ranks of cock-loving nutbar lunatics like Price).</p><p>I was convinced that a new page was turned. The book was closed on my previous career, and nothing I had experienced had any lasting impact on me, either psychologically or emotionally. In fact, I was regarded as so immune from impact, a colleague once said:</p><p>'You're a fucking psychopath, Dave. We're on our way back from the scene of utter devastation, and you want to stop the fire engine to buy cakes.'</p><p>Indeed, I wore that immunity like a bombproof coat for around eight months after retirement. Then I became aware that despite continuing hyper-vigilance, I was no longer going to bed knowing that I might be crashed out at any moment by bright lights and wailing alarms to some life-changing emergency. I suppose the ever-present fight or flight reflex calmed down, knowing the worst thing that might happen locally was the theft of a bicycle.</p><p>But fear not, Dear Reader, if you've attended multiple disasters over several years and decided you're too tough and hard to need any counselling, those disasters have the habit of returning to you at night. Yep, those dreams, reuniting me with the victims of Grenfell Tower, the Croydon Tram Crash, the Paddington Rail Crash, the Maryhill explosion, and a multitude of encounters that never made the press, became a nightly occurrence. My sleeping pattern was devastated, which led me to exhaustion and sleeping during the day. Whoever prefixed the term 'mare' with 'night' had clearly never really experienced the reliving of trauma because those dreams occurred during the day too.</p><p>Dreams are one thing. We all have them, and I hear you telling me to fuck right off and grow up. Flashbacks, however, are another. Usually occurring during quiet moments, but not considerate enough to remain absent while driving, being transported back 400 miles and any number of years is unsettling, let me tell you.</p><p>I remember being out with my wife in late 2019. We were joining some colleagues from Glasgow University for a few drinks, and I decided we would stay in an inexpensive hotel in the town. I arrived before my (much) better half, and as I rounded a corner and looked up at the multiple-floored, concrete building that was our hotel, I became suddenly cold and began to swoon (I know, I know...grow the fuck up). The last time I had been at this place was in May 2004 when I was choppered by RAF Puma from London to Glasgow as part of a nine-man team to recover casualties and victims from the Stockline Plastics factory explosion. This hotel had been our base for the duration of our stay. Even though most of our time was spent on the rubble pile amidst the death and destruction, we repaired here to shower and try to sleep. I never thought I'd see the place again. On my unplanned return in 2019, I checked in and was directed to a room that may as well have been the one I stayed in 15 years previous. I was right back there, with brick dust in my nostrils, the sobbing of heartbroken relatives in my ears, and blood on my hands.</p><p>Repeatedly being in the past, permanently exhausted and living among ghosts leads to confusion and paranoia. It's a slippery slope of denial. I believed I was tough and resilient, and the creators of my problems were the people around me. Showering and shaving became an effort. I'd always fancied growing a beard, but there's a massive difference between the impressively facially coiffured Brian Blessed and some apparently homeless, stinky guy wandering around in nothing but a grubby pair of Y-Fronts waving a fucking big knife about. Yes, that happened, and yes, the local constabulary were almost called. A discussion a few months later went something like this:</p><p>'I was going to call the police, but I was fearful of your reaction. I didn't want you fighting with the police.'</p><p>My reply: 'I think I probably would have thanked you.'</p><p>I suppose the lowest point arrived when the one thing that gave me purpose, my master's degree dissertation, was complete. A Travelodge in Inverness, a massive handful of Codeine, a bottle of Port and some soothing music was planned to see me off to sleep. Forever. </p><p>I wanted my suicide to have as little impact as possible on anyone else, and I knew that my permanent absence would bring an end to the pain I caused others. I still have the written note on my phone that details my thought confirmation. </p><p>However, I'm clearly not dead. So what happened? </p><p>Well, a few things, really. A few words that provided a glimmer of hope from someone I love. Another person I love needing support in the face of illness. 13 months of Trauma-focused CBT. Oh yeah...and fucking loads of powerful meds. Occasional blips have resulted in the manipulation of medication, always resulting in an increase. I suppose that deciding that I might bare-handedly despatch two party hosts at 03:00 in Edinburgh encourages a greater degree of pharmaceutical control. I guess the next level is the padded cell and straitjacket.</p><p>So here we are in 2022. I'm still breathing but now resemble Randle P. McMurphy <i>after </i>his lobotomy. I spend vast amounts of time asleep, have wholly given up alcohol, and rarely leave the house. But things are much better than they were 12 months ago. And I'm alive. Kinda.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1orH8XvK51Y5Gz1OwYjdsizL1opKY5qcbEYTKHZqJoKYhaMT1mL26mcfEM2Ce61ZuaFqaSGWkpli1cA8Su8062y88n1KSeJfc7TlJq7z1tGmz7pPh2j6t81Czc9__efV70mk4lITV0QnvBLhbR6l4Bt8WeWMyNYk06OKxZt8gPrsW70UOFWJdxVLv=s474" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="474" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1orH8XvK51Y5Gz1OwYjdsizL1opKY5qcbEYTKHZqJoKYhaMT1mL26mcfEM2Ce61ZuaFqaSGWkpli1cA8Su8062y88n1KSeJfc7TlJq7z1tGmz7pPh2j6t81Czc9__efV70mk4lITV0QnvBLhbR6l4Bt8WeWMyNYk06OKxZt8gPrsW70UOFWJdxVLv=w382-h233" width="382" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-19420035870252241022022-01-08T20:47:00.009+00:002022-01-11T21:39:49.802+00:00One Flew Over...<p>Here we are again. I did tell you 'maybe.' Last time we were here was in October when I told a tale of a flashback occurring in a centre of sporting endeavour while dressed like a dick.</p><p>What's happened since? I'll tell you what's happened since...we've entered a new year. New Year, New Me, right? Maybe. </p><p>2022 sees the completion of my 13-month long period of Trauma-Focused CBT. Emerging from that is accompanied by some definite improvements. But the therapy hasn't been the fix-all intervention I hoped for. I shan't detail why because I'm not entirely sure whether it was the approach taken by the psychologist, my occasional diversionary tactics, a surfeit of problems too significant to fix in 13 months, or a mixture of some or all of the above. But I'm here now on my own...except for my ever-present friends, Sally Sertraline, Kerry Quetiapine and Pedro Propranolol.</p><p>But I'm not on my own, am I? I've got my blog/journal that might serve as the recipient of the multitude of memories stored in my pre-frontal cortex that tend to tumble out like tangled jumpers from an overstuffed wardrobe. Maybe this will help rearrange them tidily, fold them up, put them in my hippocampus, and slam the fucking door shut. This, my friends, is cod psychotherapy about to be performed by a mental defective. Stay tuned for fun and games.</p><p>The plan, then...it's to relive the incidents that cause intrusion through the written form without reference to persons living or dead. The fact that no one reads this blog anymore will ensure freedom from sensationalism. Or I could enable the settings so that only I can see the blog. While that will surely maintain security, I really will be talking to myself. Again. I'm not sure how I feel about such confirmation of insanity. We'll see.</p><p>OK...in the next instalment of the Cockney version of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest' we're going back to 1999.</p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-46794512569097311802021-10-31T13:19:00.007+00:002021-10-31T13:42:55.918+00:00I am a Breathing Time Machine<p>I'm in the gym in East Kilbride. My journey from a Fire Brigade Station Officer in south London to a dedicated gym-goer near Glasgow is a story in itself; one of retirement, relocation and a spiralled journey into darkness. Let's see how we get on with this return to blogging, or 'journaling' as it's more commonly referred to in the therapy sphere, and maybe we'll shine a light into that darkness. Maybe.</p><p>So, anyway, I'm in the gym in East Kilbride; I'm kitted out in the type of clobber you might expect a dedicated gym-goer to be clad in. Should I admit to wearing a fucking baseball cap indoors...in a temperature-controlled gym? I'm not sure I'm ready for that level of honesty yet. Maybe we'll get there. Maybe.</p><p>I've just completed the third set of five squats with an Olympic bar totalling 100kg. My mind, very unusually, is quiet. The normal chaos that whirls around my brain is absent. This is one of the reasons I've become a swollen, protein shake chugging gym-goer rather than a skeletal ultra-marathon runner; the gym and hard, explosive, physical exercise quietens the chaos in my head in a way that running never did. An 18-month engagement with sciatica that left me broken and hobbling encouraged a departure from the sport of putting one foot in front of the other quickly, right enough. But I was never any good at it anyway. But weight training? I can dig that. It's generally done indoors, in the warm, with barely clad women training alongside you. So I ask, what's not to like?</p><p>Then the oh so familiar smell reaches my nostrils. The one you get following a fire; the one that I smelled every day at work for over 27 years. The one that told so many stories of devastation, destruction, pain and loss. On this occasion, the odour emanates from a recently extinguished bin fire outside. But a quiet, imaginatively fertile mind, and a familiar, very evocative smell are like welcoming hosts to an event of four years previous and some four hundred miles away. A flashback, some people call this event.</p><p>I'm not in a gym in East Kilbride clad in gym gear and maybe (maybe) a baseball cap. I'm in a tower block in west London clad in the orange of an Urban Search and Rescue operative and Drager full-face respirator. The smell of fire is in my nostrils despite the facial protection. My colleague and I are performing a task that we just need to get done. It's not a pleasant task. And I suppose this is the bit where blogging (journaling) about this type of thing becomes difficult. I was never asked to sign a contract confirming the experiences of individuals in death remain between myself and that person (and possibly the coroner) but I metaphorically signed one nonetheless. So excuse my reticence to detail. But my colleague is about to commit himself to a strategy I believe is unnecessary: if we take a little bit longer, and expose ourselves to this unpleasantness for a few minutes more, we can get the task done gently and with dignity. So through the muffled confines of a Drager facemask, in a building that's creaking and groaning loudly as if remaining upright is a huge effort, I shout 'NO!' very loudly.</p><p>But, of course, I'm not in a tower block in west London. I'm in the gym in East Kilbride, and the experience of a middle-aged gym-goer, lost in himself, staring into the middle distance, then shouting 'NO!' in the echo reverberating walls of a gym, is a disconcerting event for other gym-goers.</p><p>I return to myself. I realise what has happened. Others are looking at me with concern or amusement. I'm breathing heavily and shaking slightly but mostly I'm fucking embarrassed. I tell myself that this will all be forgotten in a few minutes and go back to the Olympic bar. But the side glances and sniggers tell me otherwise. This will be the chat around the water cooler; the mad bloke in the gym; the Cockney guy that talks to himself.</p><p>I make a mental note to record this event on my weekly 'Invasive Thoughts Diary' that I have to send to my therapist in advance of our weekly meeting by Zoom. The meetings where I've had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder explained to me. The meetings where the condition all makes so much sense but requires a multitude of prescription medications to manage it.</p><p>If I wear a different coloured baseball cap (maybe) and some different clobber at my next gym visit, maybe I won't be recognised as 'the mad bloke down the gym.'</p><p>Maybe.</p>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-50538258555346621012016-09-20T09:21:00.001+01:002016-09-20T15:48:46.311+01:00Raising Lazarus at the River Ayr WayAfter a Gobi Desert type dry spell in the ultra marathon world; and after a disappointing DNF in the West Highland Way, I thought I'd end this season with a bit of a gimme at the River Ayr Way.<br />
<br />
Now let's get this right, RAW is still 40 miles, and anyone equating water only flowing downhill with a coasting from start to finish is in for a bit of a kick in the bollocks, but I've done this race four or five times before (I'm sorry, I can't be precise because I don't keep a log of races I've run. I tried keeping a training diary once but the plethora of blank pages months after its beginning preyed upon my mind like Marley's ghost, so I threw it out), always with minimal training, and always achieved a finish (except the time I couldn't be arsed so went to the pub after 10 miles).<br />
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My training for this year's effort included three of four gym sessions a week with a blast on the treadmill and one 13 mile off-roader about a month ago. The gallus, over-confident side of my brain told me the 70 miles of WHW in June was enough to get me the 40 miles from Glenbuck to Ayr; its opposing sensible, cautious side did it's usual and remained as mute as a church mouse. Let's just say I'm gonna give the latter mentioned hemisphere a good slap and tell it to speak up in future.<br />
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Anyway, the day of the race arrives and Mrs Mac and I are in the little car park in Glenbuck surrounded by 80 or so others. There's a bit of an air of excitement, this being the 10th anniversary race, and folk are chatting happily. I say hi to a couple of runners I know but the vast majority are strangers- testament to the fact that ultra marathon running in Scotland has widened its appeal...or that's just a really pompous, self important belief simply because nearly 80 people have never encountered an ageing tattooed, Londoner on the start line of a race.<br />
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Somewhere in the glove box of the car is my race plan that I scribbled down on a used envelope the night before. I reckon I can comfortably average 10 minute miles for 10 miles, then each 10 mile section add a minute which will get me home for a sub 8 hour PB. Piece of piss.<br />
<br />
The race starts and my pacing is perfect. I'm happily tripping along, listening to my music, in my Hokas.<br />
<br />
Yes, you read that right....in my Hokas.<br />
<br />
Having launched an online campaign a few years ago against the bumper car-like monstrosities, and anyone that wore them, I'd gone and bought a pair in the hope they might be kind to the calf that I tore in April. I wore them briefly in the West Highland Way, coupled with a pair of gaiters, and they gave me blisters on my insteps. I blamed the gaiters.<br />
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Seven miles into this race, sans gaiters, the familiar soreness at my insteps indicate the gaiters are not the villain of this piece. It's those ridiculously clumpy, stupid looking breeze-block-cum-trainers. The soreness becomes full on blisters and the blisters burst and weep serum into my socks.<br />
<br />
Thankfully Mrs Mac is waiting dutifully for me at the shoogly bridge, just past checkpoint one, so I dump the Frankenstein's monster footwear and don my reliable Inov-8s.<br />
<br />
Off again enjoying the extra minute per mile I've allowed myself, I'm cruising along for a few miles when 'PING', my lower back siezes and sends signals of pain to my brain, which wakes up the sensible, cautious side, which then instructs: 'STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING!'<br />
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'FUCK OFF!' I reply, and keep going, but my stride is shortened to such an effect that those 11 minute miles are nothing but an unachievable aspiration and that scribbled race plan is catapulted spectacularly out of sight.<br />
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Sorn is a lovely little village about 17 miles into the route. The river runs through it, ducks quack and waddle about and there's a beautiful stone bridge where loving couples or families might picnic in the sun. On Saturday, however a dark cloud entered the village, limping along, swearing and cursing and demanding Ibuprofen (yes, I know the dangers of consuming NSAIDs during exercise but they're outweighed by the slagging one might get for another DNF).
<br />
<br />
Mrs Mac is there with a folding chair set up and feeds me a beef roll and coffee.
<br />
<br />
'Brufen' is all I can say.
<br />
<br />
I neck the little, red capsules of relief and set off walking, waiting for them to take effect. I realise that if they fail to improve matters, a DNF might be on the cards, as might a move to Antarctica where I can avoid any claims of blouse ownership and wuss-boy status.<br />
<br />
Sometime later the pain subsides and I'm running again. Not exactly Lazarus from the dead, but to me a remarkable turnaround. The rest of the race is really just a hang on for the finish affair, but just to make things a little more difficult, a poorly parked car blocking a gate, a misinterpreted instruction, and an idiotic optimism that the wrong way will metamorphosise into the right way added an extra three miles to my travel.<br />
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To make the effort worthwhile, meeting Mrs Mac at Tarholm bridge, where eight years ago a fledgling romance was embarked upon as the River Ayr tumbled beneath our feet, sealed the deal. An encounter with old friends, Tim and Muriel Downie, and Tim's company over those last few miles reminded me of the good people you meet along the way. And my friend and colleague from London, Aldo Diana waiting for me at the finish secured the realisation that, actually it's all worth it.<br />
<br />
But some training wouldn't go amiss.<br />
<br />
So I got the gimme that so nearly wasn't such a gimme. I also realised that my days of turning up to races having done minimal, if any, training are probably over. This, I think, is due to two possibilities, or maybe both playing in tandem. The first is that I've probably drained the well of liberty taking as far as expecting my body to do extreme things without adequate preparation is concerned. The other is that in four months I will be 50 and maybe the relentless march of time is having a negative effect. Or maybe both are giving me a two handed beat down in these increasingly grey and sparse years. Whatever it is I'll need to be more considerate in the future.<br />
<br />
But finally I have to say that Tarholm Bridge, and the vision upon it, were as magical eight years on as they were in 2008.<br />
<br />
Laters.Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-33508692456866439452016-06-09T07:00:00.001+01:002016-06-11T12:46:34.499+01:00The Four Goblet ChallengeWell, it's true that we haven't been here for some time, folks. I suppose the creative activity of the written blog has been taken over by the soundbite simplicity of the micro-blog. Facebook, with its meandering posts, photo albums and quizzes- the other day, after allowing a Facebook app access to all my photographs, I discovered that the Hollywood actor I most resemble is Charlie Sheen (WINNING!). <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">After smugly posting a self indulgent, soft focus picture of myself taken seven years ago alongside one of Charlie before he <i>really</i> smashed the granny out of cocaine and prostitutes, I discovered that a few of my mates were similarly compared to Charlie. Even my Jamaican pal, Radcliffe, my auntie Joan and my dog, Mason.</span><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Anyway, in this rapidly changing landscape of the blog, Facebook was quickly relegated to second division by its</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> limited-symbol, express-yourself-succinctly, bastard child Twitter. And just as I started to get the hang of that particular medium, and the reasons why perfectly sane individuals would post fuck all except a string of loosely associated words all preceded by a hashtag, along comes Snapchat. If you've yet to encounter this most modern phenomenon of the blog world, allow me to explain: it quite simply allows you to send a photograph from your mobile phone to a selected recipient, which is then viewable by that recipient for up to ten seconds before it disappears from existence like a politician's promise.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">So, if you're following my rambling logic here, my blog has been out of action because the once creative art of sitting in front of a PC and developing a considered, word processed account of an important life event, then posting it to Blogger or Wordpress, has been rendered redundant by the ability to send a soon-to-expire picture of your cock to your burd.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But why this revival of Subversive Running? I hear you ask. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Well, going back to its beginnings, the reason for the birth of Subversive Running was to diarise my 2006 journey toward the West Highland Way Race- a 35 hour, 95 mile expedition on foot from Milngavie to Fort William. It was also meant to be a foil to the plethora of boring, rather-gently-poach- my-testicles-in-simmering-vinegar-than-read -your- time-and-splits-obsessed-bollocks. In fact, my blog very quickly became nothing more than a rambling record of alcohol consumption, fighting with police dogs and of being verbally abused by horse riders on Epsom Downs, with zip about running. But its revival is to enable a return to its </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">raison d'être....yes, that's right, I'm running the West Highland Way Race again.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I had a quick scan back to the blog report I wrote following my failed attempt of the race in 2013 and it's a sorry tale of pain, exhaustion and the violent expulsion of fecal matter in a field in Dumgoyne. Indeed, following that race I went on record to swear I would never run it again. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If you care to look back at that report, entitled 'Bodily Movements in the West Highland Way Race,' and you access the comments section, some of those that contributed their thoughts said things like: 'Yeah, yeah..whatever. See you in 2015.'</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Well, they were a year too early but they were right. I'm back.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I've tried to keep away from public statements of my intention to race, preferring to use Facebook to record pictures of baked goods and fanciful ideas that I have a passing resemblance to Charlie Sheen...viewed through the eyes of a partially sighted drunken geezer in a darkened room fifteen miles away. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That policy came really good in April when I tore my left calf while running up a hill in a weight vest. It appeared then that the race was off and June would see me supporting my big, numb-skulled pal Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper instead- and assisting him to acquire his fourth finisher's goblet so that he could Lord it all over me for at least the next twelve months.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">But the God of calf repair smiled on me and said 'Son, if you're a good lad and you sit on your arse for five weeks I'll place you on the start line alongside your mate, Hooper.' And so he did.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">So, I've managed a clutch of 20+ mile runs with two 70 mile weeks since early May and I've done everything I can to ensure as good a chance I can of a finish. But, Dear Reader, this is about more than just a finish. This is the Four Goblet Challenge.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Both Hooper and I have three finisher's goblets sitting on our shelves at home (well, I have two and a half. One of mine was involved in a red-wine-meets-the-sound-of-breaking-crystal event a couple of years ago) and this is the quest for goblet number four.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Before I go off to stretch my hamstrings, bake some bread and do a quiz that tells me I resemble Brad Pitt (or maybe that should be Brad Pitt's arse) I'll leave you with a discussion Hooper and I had while running together last week:</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">'Here, Mart, you see if we're running this year's race and we've battled valiantly over Conic Hill, scrambled along Loch Lomond and suffered over Rannoch Moor?'</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">'Yeah, what about it?'</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">'And then we've stomped together up the Devil's Staircase, seen the sun rise on the Lairig Mhor and then hit the road into Fort Wiliam?'</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">'Yeah,' replies Hooper, warming to the romantic notion of shared pain and suffering and impending brotherly glory.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">'Well, in instances such as that I've seen athletes join hands over the final yards and finish together in a beautiful, sporting display of togetherness.'</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">'Lovely idea, Dave, I can picture it now,' says Hooper, dreamily.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">'Well, the thing is, I can sprint faster than you so you can fuck right off if you think that's happening.'</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Laters.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-59939002438286390892015-03-15T20:47:00.002+00:002015-03-16T07:37:38.268+00:00Drinking and Driving is So Much FunIf you're a user of social networking sites like Facebook you would have seen it today.<br />
<br />
Every single person who acknowledges being brought into the world through a woman's birth canal wishing their mother, aunt, gran, wife, neighbour and, in one case I saw, some Z-list celebrity, a happy Mothering Sunday.<br />
<br />
I avoid such frippery, preferring to look on from afar with snooty, snobbish disdain. Mainly because much of it is just stomach-churning, chintzy nonsense. <br />
<br />
But also because my old ma died 21 years ago.<br />
<br />
I used to get a bit upset at this time of year because my mum, Val checked out shortly after Mother's Day 1994. But they say time's a healer and it's true that the feelings of loss and sadness fade as the years pass. She's never forgotten, of course but memories of seaside trips to Southend and fishing with a net for sticklebacks in Keston ponds kinda replace the reminiscence of that night 21 years ago.<br />
<br />
I'd been to see my mum during the day. It was an 18 mile trip from my house in Surrey to my parents' gaff in Camberwell made easy by journeying on my motorbike. When I walked into the sitting room my brother, John followed in behind me. <br />
<br />
Mum was lying on the sofa, her 54 year old body ravaged by chemotherapy and looking like she'd been the victim of a concentration camp. She never carried too much weight anyway...I remember as kids we'd sit down to a meal on Sunday and she'd have a bowl of Brussels sprouts because there wasn't enough to go round.<br />
<br />
'Hello, David,' she said (I was always called by my birth name rather than the more common, Dave). <br />
<br />
She looked at my brother John and said, 'Who's your friend? Tell him to sit down and go and make him a cup of tea.'<br />
<br />
We knew then that things weren't looking good but the quacks reckoned we had another couple of months with her.<br />
<br />
We spent a nice day together watching the telly and chatting, my other siblings popping in through the afternoon. When I left I made mum promise me that she'd drink this highly calorific meal replacement shake that she'd been prescribed.<br />
<br />
'David,' she said. 'I promise that if I can take it I will.'<br />
<br />
I left, jumped on my motorbike and fucked off home. No kiss for mum, no 'I love you', no nothing. We'd been raised to not indulge in such endearing behaviour...I can't recall ever being kissed by my dad in 48 years.<br />
<br />
I got home and slammed into a bottle of Scotch. Mum hadn't even recognised my brother, there was no way she was gonna be here in a couple of months. As I sat in my chair pouring drink after drink I promised myself that next time I saw my mum I would kiss her and tell her I love her.<br />
<br />
It was 02:30 when the landline next to my bed rang. I picked the receiver up and groggily croaked, 'Hello?'<br />
<br />
'David, it's Dad,' came the reply. 'I think your mum's dead. She's lying next to me not moving. I don't know what to do.'<br />
<br />
Immediately everything came into focus.<br />
<br />
'Dad, what's her temperature like? Have you checked for a pulse?'<br />
<br />
'She's cold, son. I don't know how to check her pulse...' then he started sobbing.<br />
<br />
'I'm on my way, Dad,' I said and jumped out of bed.<br />
<br />
I made my way toward the pile of clothes on the dressing table and stumbled, almost falling over. 'Shit!' I thought. 'That bottle of whisky has properly fucked me up.'<br />
<br />
Never mind, it was 02:30 and adrenalin was driving me on. Clothes on, boots on, jacket and crash helmet on and I'm roaring through the streets on my motorbike heading into town.<br />
<br />
I got as far as Clapham before a police car pulled up alongside me at the traffic lights that control the junction into Brixton. <br />
<br />
I stared ahead, not looking at the car; a sure sign that the motorist in question is panicking. In my peripheral vision I saw the police car's passenger window open.<br />
<br />
'Oi,' I heard. 'Look at me.'<br />
<br />
I turned my head to see two uniformed coppers in their motor. The one in the passenger seat was young with an Elvis type quiff.<br />
<br />
'Pull up the other side of these lights, son,' ordered Elvis.<br />
<br />
I did as instructed and waited for the inevitable. There was absolutely no chance of passing a breath test and any romantic notion of outrunning the Old Bill in a haze of burning rubber and a flipped middle finger was dashed by my motorbike being registered to Yours Truly.<br />
<br />
Elvis made his way toward me and instructed: 'Take your helmet off.'<br />
<br />
I did as ordered and then decided to throw myself at the feet of human kindness and understanding.<br />
<br />
'Listen, officer,' I said. 'My mum's just died and I need to get to her house. Do me a favour and let me go.'<br />
<br />
I remember the following exchange like it was spoken yesterday.<br />
<br />
'You're joking?'<br />
<br />
'No, I'm not.'<br />
<br />
'How far have you come and where are you going?'<br />
<br />
'I left Ashtead about 30 minutes ago and I'm going to Camberwell.'<br />
<br />
'Right, if you've got this far in your state I think you'll make it. Tuck in behind us and we'll take you there.'<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later I was outside my mum's house shaking Elvis's hand.<br />
<br />
'Next time you'll get nicked,' he said as he climbed back into the police car.<br />
<br />
I climbed the steps to the first floor landing of the block of flats where my parents lived. I walked along the landing and knocked the door. <br />
<br />
My old man answered and just said: 'She's upstairs.'<br />
<br />
My youngest brother who still lived at home was sitting in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. As I made my way up the stairs I looked at him and saw his eyes red and raw.<br />
<br />
For some ridiculous reason that I'm fucked if I understand now, I knocked on my mum's bedroom door.<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
I walked in.<br />
<br />
Mum was lying there with her mouth agape. She was nothing more than a husk.<br />
<br />
I knew she was dead.<br />
<br />
'Mum,' I said. not expecting a response, although I've always been an unwavering optimist.<br />
<br />
'Mum!'<br />
<br />
Nothing.<br />
<br />
I left the room and closed the door.<br />
<br />
Too fucking late to tell her I loved her.<br />
<br />
Too fucking late to kiss her.<br />
<br />
If you take one thing from this story let it be that you indulge in endearing behaviour...<br />
<br />
<img src="webkit-fake-url://09ABE24F-86D8-4E4E-B60E-269D100BDE70/imagejpeg" /><br />
<br />
<br />
Footnote:<br />
<br />
<br />
I saw my mum two years later. <br />
<br />
<br />
I'll explain......<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-21796107208403040772014-11-11T20:58:00.000+00:002014-11-11T22:11:50.388+00:00In Answer to Your Question, Murdo....It seems planning, buying and cooking my next meal has taken precedent over everything else in my life, recently. Feeding myself seems to have become something of an obsession and other stuff is suffering as a result.<br><br>
Take training, for instance; I can't face any of that fasted cardio nonsense in the morning. I've got to load up on breakfast before I consider ever raising my heart rate. Then the gap between breakfast going down and lunch prep beginning leaves little time for the gym, regardless of the attraction of the mid-morning MILFs that proliferate David Lloyd Epsom at that time of the day. The afternoon is probably the time most likely to see me pull on a pair of trainers but a post lunch snooze always seems more appealing than a beasting on the treadmill.<br><br>
I realise all of this kinda suggests I don't work but nothing could be further from the truth. Regular readers of this blog will know my paid employment is as a fire-fighter in the sunny streets of Battersea, South London. But that's a feast or famine type of job (interesting description given my reference to food....maybe it is an obsession). Being a fire-fighter involves four days of blue, flashing lights; hot, red flames and black, choking smoke followed by four days of stand down that ought to result in the perfect time for exercise. <div><br></div><div>Alas not.<br><br>
In an attempt to kick start my training I decided to buy a road bike. I imagined myself streaking along the roads of Surrey, heading for the nearby zig-zag route up Box Hill that inspired so many two-wheeled lunatics during the Olympics. I acquired said bike but in actual fact it now sits in my lounge performing the role of an ineffective clothes horse.<br><br>
'Why is this?' I hear you ask.</div><div><br></div><div>'Because you're a lazy, food-gobbling, shiny arsed twat!' I hear you reply. <br><br>
Well, yeah...partly that, but also because I'm fucking terrified every time I go on the road and bastard lorries thunder past me. Also, because you get numpty fucking drivers with 50% of their attention fixed to the text message they're sending as they bear down on a totally inept cyclist wobbling along the road like a baby giraffe taking its first steps.<br><br>
There's a reason for my road-bound terror but I'm not sure the statute of limitation on relating operational incidents I've attended involving dead cyclists would yet allow me. Not that you need to hear this stuff anyway.<br><br>
But that statute of limitation....I'm not sure it applies to incidents involving animals, does it? I'll let you be the judge of that.<div><br></div><div>So I received a Facebook message from Murdo The Magnificent today asking me what the Fire Service's current approach to incidents involving cats in trees was (his cat had obviously taken refuge from Murdo's terrible singing in a high, leafy canopy).</div><div><br></div><div>I sent what I believed to be a detailed reply and mentioned my personal belief in the appropriateness of the emergency service's deployment to acts of animal welfare.</div><div><br></div><div>Murdo's cat decided that the lure of Kit-e-Kat was enough to tolerate his master's strangled rendition of 'Flower of Scotland' and lured him from the branches of his leafy retreat, so my advice was not required, but it got me thinking of the Bronze Medal for Animal Life Saving that I was awarded by the RSPCA some years ago.</div><div><br></div><div>You might think that an RSPCA Bronze Medal for Animal Life Saving is pretty inconsequential, right? I'll admit that it doesn't exactly sit as proudly on the chest alongside campaign gongs and medals for gallantry that one might see at a Remembrance Day service, but it once got me out of the shit when I flashed it to an RSPCA officer after being accused of kicking my neighbour's dog.</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, back to my awarding of this medal: We were called to a house fire in Battersea and arrived to discover a two up-two down terraced house with flame and smoke punching out of the windows on the ground floor. At the time I was a foot soldier in the fire brigade and as such received instruction that it was believed a resident was in the property. My task was to enter the burning house with a colleague and a charged hose and search for the individual concerned.</div><div><br></div><div>After starting my breathing apparatus set and checking my mucker was ready to go we entered the house and began our search. I would like to say that we charged in and rapidly cleared each room like you might imagine a black clad SAS seek and destroy team might as they hunt some soon-to-be-extinct terrorist cell. But the fact is that a Victorian house affected by fire becomes something of a death trap, with holes in the wooden floor and stairs that might collapse at any moment, so we move through the house without the luxury of vision and with our weight on our back foot, sweeping and stamping with our front foot as we proceed.</div><div><br></div><div>After discovering and extinguishing the fire in the downstairs lounge we completed our search of the house, sweeping and stamping every room, hall and landing, content that no human resident was present. You should appreciate that at this time not only was the house still full of black smoke, it was also heavily affected by steam resulting from our successful extinction of the blaze. All of this results in zero visibility....hold that thought.</div><div><br></div><div>Upon our exit of the property a neighbour is busy telling the officer in charge that the resident of the house is at the pub but her two dogs and two cats are definitely inside the building.</div><div><br></div><div>'Lads, get back in there...there's four animals need rescuing,' instructs our governor. So we do as instructed and head back into the smoky darkness looking for a couple of pooches and a pair of cats. </div><div><br></div><div>It doesn't take long before we discover two small dogs and a wee kitty hiding in a corner of the kitchen. We sweep them up in our arms and rush outside with them. They're placed in the footwell of an ambulance and oxygen is administered by the paramedics present. Luckily, because they're low to the ground, the animals made the most of the diminishing oxygen in the property and their natural instinct to move away from fire kept them safe. But, fuck me, we searched high and low for that final cat. In the dark and smoke we swept and stamped that whole fucking house to no avail.</div><div><br></div><div>When we came out we agreed that Tonto the tabby had probably escaped through a window so we packed up and went back to the fire station for a cup of tea. Of course, work still needed doing at the property, but we handed that over to a relieving crew from Tooting fire station. We'd done the heroic stuff, that was later recognised by the RSPCA, and happily left the shitty clearing up to Tooting.</div><div><br></div><div>Next day my governor received a phone call. </div><div><br></div><div>It went something like this:</div><div><br></div><div>'Hello ****, this is ******* from Tooting. Just to let you know that, last night, after the smoke cleared at that house, we found Tonto the tabby.'</div><div><br></div><div>'Ah, that's great. Really glad he's OK...is the householder happy?' replied my Guv.</div><div><br></div><div>'Not really, ****, we found Tonto on the upper floor where he'd been stamped flat into the carpet. We peeled him off and could have posted him in a large envelope.'</div><div><br></div><div>So this statute of limitation I mentioned.....</div><div><br></div><div>Laters (from a holder of the RSPCA Bronze Medal for Animal Life Saving)</div></div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-9597250814005850652014-09-13T11:33:00.001+01:002014-09-13T12:19:52.838+01:00A Subversive View on Scottish Independence<div>With less than a week to go before we discover whether a union that, at times has been slightly strained, but one which usually sees us rubbing along together OK, will be broken up for ever more.</div><div><br></div><div>No I'm not talking about marriage number three.....I keep asking Mrs Mac to tie the knot but she tells me she's got some shopping to do or has to paint her toe nails or something....I'm talking about the rather longer lasting union of the United Kingdom.</div><div><br></div><div>Yep, in six days time the Scots go to the polls to decide on the little matter of independence and I have quite firm ideas on this.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm definitely and solidly in the No camp.</div><div><br></div><div>Why? You might ask.</div><div><br></div><div>Well, I've thought long and hard about this but I'm not sure I want to get into a rambling piece about the unity of the working class and how Alex Salmond's plans for unbelievably low corporation tax will benefit large companies but won't ever be passed on to the working man and woman. I think I'd rather consider my affection for a country and a peoples that pretty much dictate where I spend my money, where I go on holiday and what I do while making untold journeys on Virgin Train's wonderful Pendolinos. But I will tell you of my attempt to engage with the debate and put how I attempted to put my opinion on independence to the test.</div><div><br></div><div>So I decided the only way to do this would be to come up to this strange land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based upon the number of their remaining teeth, and get amongst it. I decided that I ought to immerse myself in the debate, in the desire for yes or no, in the singing of Flower of Scotland, in the bagpipes. And in the longer opening hours and relaxed attitude to falling over at the bar. I was also travelling up to see Mrs Mac (who was on a week long course at Stirling University) to get another knock-back when proposing the change of her surname but that's not as poetic and doesn't translate as well into a suggestion that I'm actively involved in the referendum.</div><div><br></div><div>Long suffering readers of this blog will know that I'm often in Scotland and it's a place I love. I love it for its scenery, its history, its culture and its quirkiness. I mean, where else in the world can you go for a spot of lunch, order a steak pie and chips (for some reason I'm still yet to discover it's called a 'supper' regardless of the time of day it's consumed) to be asked 'would you like your pie fried or just blasted in the microwave?'</div><div><br></div><div>Where else in the world can you go out for dinner, pay the bill with a number of bank notes to be asked 'do you want your change?' Now, I consider myself quite a generous fellow and generally tip waiters and waitresses regardless of the level of customer service but to assume I don't want my change because I'm gonna give it to you anyway is a little rich (excuse the pun). By the way, if you are a waiter/waitress and happen to be reading this, shit customer service will get you a tip. But good customer service and some direction to the higher percentage ABV wines on the list will get you a ridiculously generous tip from someone who doesn't actually earn a great deal.....particularly if Mrs Mac is paying. As she was when this particular incident occurred on Thursday night.</div><div><br></div><div>But this is supposed to be a treatise on Scottish independence, not just a few recent observations from eating establishments. So allow me to continue.</div><div><br></div><div><div>So I boarded the train at Euston station for my journey north to engage with the independence debate. For anyone unfamiliar with it, Euston station is a pretty soulless place. It's pretty bland and utilitarian with scant concern for appearing attractive. Travellers tend to stand around on the concourse with their necks craned and heads looking up at the departures board waiting for notification of which platform their train's departing from which acts as a trigger for them to unceremoniously rush to their train in the hope of bagging a table seat.</div><div><br></div><div>Once on the train after unceremoniously rushing for it in the hope of bagging a table seat...and failing, I sat watching the minutes tick by to get us past midday. You see I have this rule that alcohol consumption should only ever begin after 20:00. Unless I'm on a plane or train in which case there's a generous time reduction to midday.</div><div><br></div><div>At precisely 12:00:01 I cracked open the small bottle of cider I had in my rucksack and began celebrating my journey to Scotland and my engagement and involvement in the Scottish independence referendum. The plan was to pay the extortionate sum of £8.00 for access to the onboard WiFi and research all there was into independence arriving in Glasgow an informed and enlightened man. I also planned to make use of the facilities in the bog to wash, shave and clean my teeth as none of those things had yet taken place due to an overly relaxed approach to journey preparation.</div><div><br></div><div>Probably unsurprisingly my plan gradually dissolved as the celebrations gathered apace and the onboard bar got a hammering. My iPad was used for listening to music and looking at Facebook rather than my important research into the potential fracturing of the United Kingdom and my planned visit to the loo to conduct my ablutions was forgotten in a wave of 13.5% red wine.</div><div><br></div><div>Having arrived at Glasgow Central I skipped through the streets with my Staffordshire Bull Terrier on his lead and my rucksack on my back toward Queen Street station. At least in my mind's eye I was skipping. To the skirt wearing, partly toothed locals who invariably wore pin badges proclaiming 'YES' or 'NAW' skipped probably translated better as 'lurched ungainly'.</div><div><br></div><div>A quick pint in the boozer before boarding the train to Bridge of Allan gave me time to log my iPad onto the free WiFi in an attempt to get a feel for which way Scotland was leaning in the forthcoming referendum. From the online edition of the Daily Record I discovered that Tatiana Williams, a 'voluptuous' transgender woman had spent £60,000.00 to achieve a sixty inch bum and that some Glaswegian police officers so adore a particular sandwich shop that they're willing to transgress parking regulations to get their roll and square sausage.</div><div><br></div><div>As I drank my Guinness and marvelled at Tatiana's massive arse I completely missed the opportunity to use the facilities to change my appearance from slightly drunk homeless man to slightly drunk fella that's used a pub toilet to wash and shave.</div><div><br></div><div>The second train journey of the day was unlike the first in that there was no onboard bar and therefore no celebrations. Neither was there any WiFi so my iPad once again become a tool for music appreciation rather than a portal into the raging debate over Scottish independence.</div><div><br></div><div>On arrival at Bridge of Allan I phoned Mrs Mac who informed me that I was to wait at the station where she would pick me up in 20 minutes. Great, I thought....time to wash and shave. So I dragged my washing bag from my rucksack, placed my iPad on a bin and used its front facing camera as a mirror to shave and wash my face with a few Wet Wipes.</div><div><br></div><div>After transforming myself from an unshaven, unclean, wine stained hobo to man on a mission to engage in the independence debate Mrs Mac arrives in her car and I throw my washing bag into my rucksack and we're off to a campsite which would be my accommodation for the next few days. The suggestion that she smuggles me and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier into her University dormitory meets with hilarious laughter and the directions to the Witches Craig campsite.</div><div><br></div><div>Now if you've ever been camping you'll know that a successful and comfortable experience depends upon the amount of kit you have and the time spent establishing your pitch. </div><div><br></div><div>Tent erection, sleeping station preparation, table setting, cooker building all takes time. Add in a trip to the local chip shop for dinner and a journey round the supermarket for provisions and we're talking four hours.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1GC0P20VdBxRntHGuQrLp089dOHdGz3atMpmDJiyGw46uUsDqR1stNXcJSCMpsQq4qYLMEaVtzdxN1K88WrHmHhQIzX5kBq0FaUPZfeXdeZiiJ_K4S8tn5ygMM-f-1IVrGGU_mGGvGI/s640/blogger-image--655625311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1GC0P20VdBxRntHGuQrLp089dOHdGz3atMpmDJiyGw46uUsDqR1stNXcJSCMpsQq4qYLMEaVtzdxN1K88WrHmHhQIzX5kBq0FaUPZfeXdeZiiJ_K4S8tn5ygMM-f-1IVrGGU_mGGvGI/s640/blogger-image--655625311.jpg"></a></div>Witches Craig campsite. Not a bad spot.</div><div><br></div><div>Back at the campsite Mrs Mac and I are chilling out in the warm, early evening air before her planned departure back to Stirling University. A perfect opportunity to log on to the campsite WiFi and start this research into the independence debate thinks Yours Truly.</div><div><br></div><div>I reach into my rucksack to retrieve my iPad. I find my washing bag and pull that out. I fish around inside feeling socks, shirts, the odd running shoe.....but no iPad. An alarm bell rings in my head. I turn my rucksack upside down and spill its contents onto the ground. No iPad. Mrs Mac looks at me and I look at her.</div><div><br></div><div>'Fuck,' I say. 'I left my iPad at the fuckin' train station.'</div><div><br></div><div>'You idiot,' replies Mrs Mac. 'C'mon, let's go and report it as being lost at the Police Station.'</div><div><br></div><div>'What for?' I ask. 'Someone will be at home with a free iPad looking at my internet history and my research into transgendered birds with huge arses.'</div><div><br></div><div>'If you want to claim on your insurance you'll at least need a Police reference number,' she says.</div><div><br></div><div>Despite my complete lack of confidence in the policing of the ridiculously idiotic misplacing of property and a preference for drowning my sorrows in Buckfast, I climb into Mrs Mac's car and we zoom off to the police station. The fucking things not insured anyway but her ideas usually better mine in most instances. </div><div><br></div><div>En route to the police station we pass Bridge of Allan train station and as we do so my eyes widen and my mouth is agape. </div><div><br></div><div>There, on the bin, four hours after leaving it, sits my iPad.</div><div><br></div><div>I retrieve it to a repeated chorus of 'you lucky, lucky bastard' from Mrs Mac.</div><div><br></div><div>And that, Dear Reader is my engagement in the independence debate and my arriving at a decision on my preference for self governance:</div><div><br></div><div>For leaving a £500 iPad in situ for its dozy, idiotic owner to return to retrieve it, the Scottish people can have anything they want, and they can have it with a cherry in top, without any comment from me.</div><div><br></div><div>Laters.</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdQeGszx7CXyVxZuoXz51GUfe5rwVIRKQ0Rt-BzLmdQVZlKxTda7VeXB4aPDvL6PnJU8CiBaqmbx9GRolUlzxIGHWvdXXXOEEQFAlhEEZP62CAyUZ-en6PLVZJP5bP79CJuFo5Gug3Kc/s640/blogger-image--99036176.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdQeGszx7CXyVxZuoXz51GUfe5rwVIRKQ0Rt-BzLmdQVZlKxTda7VeXB4aPDvL6PnJU8CiBaqmbx9GRolUlzxIGHWvdXXXOEEQFAlhEEZP62CAyUZ-en6PLVZJP5bP79CJuFo5Gug3Kc/s640/blogger-image--99036176.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div></div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-51250312625179270312014-09-06T15:05:00.002+01:002014-09-06T15:09:55.283+01:00Waiting for the BusLike many of those that might read this blog post (oh for the days when I recorded 300 hits a day) I was nominated by a number of friends and family to conduct the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge.<br />
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While I applaud the efforts normal people go to in order to raise charitable donations for deserving causes I can't help but think for some it's an opportunity to make a spectacle of themselves then dress it up as an exercise in courage and compassion.<br />
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So while being someone who likes to refuse to follow a trend I also explained that to accept a nomination for 'David and his entire fire crew' to use fire brigade equipment to soak ourselves on duty, in fire brigade time and then post it on YouTube or Facebook might result in me and my colleagues tapping the boards in a smart outfit to collect our P45s.<br />
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And that close involvement of my employer in any comment made regarding activities done in their name is one of the reasons why this blog became somewhat redundant (the fact that it was always supposed to be about running and I've run as many steps as Vanessa Feltz and Alex Salmond put together...a comment about Scottish independence on its way...is of course another).<br />
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But here I am, dipping my toe into the water of workplace story telling, because having conducted a robust risk assessment, believe I can get away with this, here goes:<br />
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So there we were, 04:55hrs on a random night duty at Battersea Fire Station. Now you have to be aware that due to the dynamic nature of our job we're allowed to 'rest' during the night time in order top be physically and mentally prepared to deal with any given situation. So it's fair to say we were 'resting.'<br />
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Rest is disturbed by the trumpeting of the alarm indicating that someone, somewhere is in trouble.<br />
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I jump up from my resting platform (you might no this by it's more common name of a bed), chuck on my trousers and shoes and make my way down three flights of stairs to the fire engine. There is a traditional pole to transport the user from the upper floors to ground in a matter of seconds but I find the stair descent provides time to engage ones brain and consider the information regarding the incident that's sent to my pager.<br />
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We're on the fire engine and out the doors in a flash of light and sound, barrelling through the streets of SW11 en route to a fire alarm in an old folks' home. The guys in the back of the fire engine are preparing breathing apparatus, the driver is negotiating his way through the virtually empty roads and I'm considering the various scenario permutations that we might encounter.<br />
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We arrive at the address to discover an old folks' home in darkness and silence with no apparent distressing occurrence unfolding. Of course that doesn't mean it isn't so a full on approach is adopted ie crashing through the security door armed with breathing apparatus, breaking in gear and mean intentions.<br />
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Once inside we stand there, wide-eyed, dressed in the latest personal protective equipment, armed with enough gear to extinguish the fires of hell to be met by a silent alarm panel and a little old lady sitting on a chair. She's dressed in an overcoat, carrying an umbrella and has a rolled up shopping bag in her hand.<br />
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'Who are you?' she asks. 'Have you brought the mobility shopping bus?'<br />
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'No, my love,' I reply. 'We're from the London Fire Brigade and we're here to respond to a fire.'<br />
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'There's no fire here,' I'm told'. 'I'm waiting for my bus. I've got some shopping to do.'<br />
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Once I've ascertained the old burd is right, there is no fire, I stand my guys down and continue our discussion.<br />
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'So this mobility shopping bus....it's picking you up here, at this time?' I ask.<br />
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'Yes,' the old girl replies. 'I've been waiting an hour.'<br />
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'What time is it due to arrive, love?' I ask.<br />
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'Ten, ten,' she replies.<br />
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'Ten past ten!' I exclaim. 'But it's only ten past five! You've got another five hours to wait!'<br />
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'Really?' the old burd asks.<br />
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'Really' I reply.<br />
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'Well fuck that, I'm going back to bed.' she says, and shuffles off down the corridor.<br />
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And this event demonstrates the joy of human interaction that my job provides.<br />
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We get back on the fire engine a little bit disappointed there was no opportunity to throw loads of wet stuff at hot stuff, a little bit glad that the lack of hot stuff means an absence of sorrow, but laughing our socks off at the Anglo Saxon comment demonstrated by the old burd before hot footing it back to her bed.<br />
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One day all of these stories will appear in a book. It'll make me rich and famous and I'll but you all a drink. But only if you comment below :-)<br />
Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-10744820425548240282014-03-28T16:51:00.001+00:002014-03-29T04:47:19.307+00:00Cold Showers and AbstinenceDuring my nine-year dalliance with ultra running I often heard fellow athletes discussing their optimum race weight. They would argue that achieving anything but a physical comparison with Skeletor might cost them two minutes and 35 seconds in a 100 mile race. In fact it's a good thing that race registration at the West Highland Way is over in a matter of a few hours or some local Samaritan might establish a soup kitchen in Milngavie car park to feed the poor, malnourished souls that gather there one night every June.<div><br></div><div>To me, all this talk of limiting ones calorific intake in a running context was anathema because when I trained properly I could scoff like Vanessa Feltz at an eat-all-you-can Chinese buffet. Regardless of how much I ate I wouldn't put an ounce of weight on. In fact, it was all I could do to keep the escaped POW look at bay and Mrs Mac would say that after a long ultra the weight loss could be detected in my face. Indeed, there are a few photos of me knocking about with a race medal round my neck and Cruella De Ville cheekbones jutting from my skull.<div><br></div><div>As I write this I'm eating a bag of Sharwood's prawn crackers and a big plate of stir fry so you can get a feeling for my approach to 'optimum race weight,' and to be fair it's never been any different when discussing the pastime of quickly putting one foot in front of the other. This, however, is in sharp contrast to a sport I formerly competed in where optimum weight did indeed exist. In fact the weight requirements for that sport were cast in stone and Lord help you if you didn't make it. I remember attempting to boil down to 10 stone, which was the light-welterweight limit, and starving myself of food for two days and going without water for hours before the weigh in for a fight. Standing on those scales in nothing but a pair of pants, watching the metal block being moved along the arm of one of those old-fashioned, upright contraptions, and then being told to go and skip another half a pound off, was torturous. All that was on my mind was a pint of water and a big bag of chips. I made the ten stone limit that day, then went off and put three or four pounds on in a matter of minutes as I hoovered up whatever food was placed in front of me.</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, these days I'm more concerned about Mason (dog)'s weight than my own. He's a healthy 25kg and self manages his calorific intake: if he's exercised regularly he'll wolf his food down; if he's injured and being rested he might pick at what's put in front of him. Plenty of muffin- topped Batterssa Belles could learn a lesson or two from him. But I've had occasion recently to concern myself with the weight of three other individuals. Addi, Mark and Omar, three young men from my boxing club are due to engage in their first contest of pugilism tomorrow night.</div></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBn1jnZLDhtJqAw4lqsRzGan6rDtGrKKhgp0J7Kp8rZPIgjhQcxNbqg1p4CQE871FEmLpli3jrIjcKFehht8U45O_XziKF6ccRqNeQIfhPRp68tIBFeTN-EhsgyGbtQEeErkCrHohran0/s640/blogger-image-616446161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBn1jnZLDhtJqAw4lqsRzGan6rDtGrKKhgp0J7Kp8rZPIgjhQcxNbqg1p4CQE871FEmLpli3jrIjcKFehht8U45O_XziKF6ccRqNeQIfhPRp68tIBFeTN-EhsgyGbtQEeErkCrHohran0/s640/blogger-image-616446161.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div>It was Monday that Mark, the young, 18 year old man shown on the right of the picture above, arrived at the gym an hour late.</div><div><br></div><div>'Sorry, coach I though we were starting at seven tonight, ' he said.</div><div><br></div><div>'No Mark,' I replied. 'It's always six in a Monday. Never mind, I can check weigh you for Saturday's bout, come over here and jump on these scales.'</div><div><br></div><div>So Mark wanders over to the set of bathroom scales that I keep in the gear cupboard and kicks his trainers off.</div><div><br></div><div>'Take that body warmer off, too,' I instruct him. 'That's gonna weigh a few pounds.'</div><div><br></div><div>Mark complies with my request and stands on the scales. The needle shoots round the dial and past the Chinagraphed arrow that indicates 76kg, the middleweight limit and target for Saturday.</div><div><br></div><div>'Fuck,' I think (because I clearly never use bad language in front of these young people). 'You're bloody 80kg!'</div><div><br></div><div>I look at Mark's face in an attempt to detect the evidence of an over amorous encounter with the biscuit tin. He still looks himself in that department, slim and healthy.</div><div><br></div><div>I look at his body in an attempt to detect the evidence of an overstayed welcome in the burger bar. Although he appears himself in this department too I notice an extra hood attached to his hoodie. Hang about....it's not attached, it's under the one he's wearing.</div><div><br></div><div>'Mark, how many hoodies are you wearing?' I enquire.</div><div><br></div><div>'Two, Coach. It's cold out there you know,' he answers.</div><div><br></div><div>'Take them both off, you lemon,' I reply.</div><div><br></div><div>With the hoodies removed a sweatshirt sits atop Mark's torso with......yep, I'm not seeing things.....a man-bag strapped around his chest.</div><div><br></div><div>'Take your bag off too,' I say in an exasperated voice. 'And while you're at it take your tracksuit bottoms off.'</div><div><br></div><div>The man-bag gets laid down on the floor and the tracksuit bottoms come down to reveal....another pair of tracksuit bottoms underneath.</div><div><br></div><div>'Mark, I ain't trying to be funny, but you've either been on a shoplifting mission in Debenhams or you've been running naked through TK Maxx covered in glue.'</div><div><br></div><div>'Coach!' Mark pleads. 'I really feel the cold and I need my bag for my phone and keys.'</div><div><br></div><div>Eventually, a rather large pile of clothes topped by a faux Gucci man-bag sit by the set of scales and Mark climbs back on them to watch the needle sweep around the dial and settle nicely at 76kg. He's walking around at his fighting weight and can comfortably continue to eat and drink normally in the run up to Saturday. No starving or dehydrating for him even though he's wearing enough clobber to clothe a small family.</div><div><br></div><div>'Good lad,' I tell him. 'Keep doing what you're doing.'</div><div><br></div><div>There's an old adage in boxing that I don't believe exists in other sports and I've certainly never heard it in relation to running. I actually believe it to be a myth but it goes something like: 'In the run up to a fight, sex will make you weak so cold showers and abstinence are the order of the day.'</div><div><br></div><div>If I were to believe that to be true I've got no worries where Mark's concerned because if he were to find himself in an amorous encounter with his girlfriend by the time he'd stripped that little lot off she would have got fed up and gone to sleep.</div><div><br></div><div>Laters.</div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com3Piggies Sandwich Bar 113 Falcon Rd, London51.467122 -0.169258tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-91670812049124138012014-03-24T23:23:00.001+00:002014-03-24T23:36:48.959+00:00Never Judge a BookAs you may be aware this blog was supposed to be about running. Admittedly it was supposed to be a foil to the time and distance obsessed blogs you might encounter, but I intended it to include <i>something</i> of the sport of quickly putting one foot in front of the other.<br />
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I suppose my absence from the blogosphere, and the distinct lack of running related material, both indicate something of a divorce from the sport. But let's be honest here, I was never much of a runner anyway and it's unlikely the sport will mourn my absence.</div>
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I suppose I could gain succour from the fact that my love affair with stumbling and tripping around the Scottish countryside lasted significantly longer than any romantic involvement Katie Price has ever indulged in. And I never subjected myself to nights alone with the Lego rocket scientist, Peter Andre. </div>
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But my real and long-lasting love has always been with the sport of boxing. It began in 1975 when my old man got so fucked off with me asking him to play football with me on our balcony during the summer holidays that he shipped me off to the Brixton and District Amateur Boxing Club (by the way, a balcony in this context is something that was provided by Southwark Council <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">to accommodate a coal bunker in their social housing stock rather than a viewpoint with French doors that overlooks a pool. But I'm kinda thinking you realised that).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Anyway, after a few years of mixed pugilistic success I walked away from the sport to indulge my captaincy of the regimental drinking team. I returned some years later to be dealt a very short and violent welcome back but began coaching at the boxing club near where I work. Now, I should admit that my initial thought, when invited to engage with the wild young things of Battersea, was: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">'I spend enough time during my working day having television sets launched at me from the twelfth floor of the Winstanley estate by the little bastards to want to spend my evenings in their company too (an 'estate' in this context is a dastardly grouping of council housing blocks, designed by Lucifer himself, to enable the discreet sale of narcotics and the casual murder of its residents rather than a rolling country pile....but I'm thinking you realised that too).'</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But engage I did and the fruits if that engagement were told within he pages of the Firefighter magazine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Now, in my four years of working with young boys (and on occasion girls) at the Battersea Caius Amateur Boxing Club I've been waiting to experience the youths I imagined might walk through those doors. You know the ones I mean: trousers round their arse, tattoos on their necks, and knives in their waistbands. So far I'm still waiting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">We work in conjunction with the Metropolitan Police and offer young people a physically and mentally healthy alternative to </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">a progression through the judicial system. One such boy was referred to us; at 16 he was already guilty of something that the millionaire</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"> Secretary of State for Justice, Chris Grayling would have him jailed for life. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">So, the boy turns up, a snarling, swaggering product of South London's sewers. He's been given the opportunity to fight as a way out of violent crime and as an alternative to being incarcerated in an institution where violence and intimidation are the highest currency. Apparently something of an irony from the rule-setters but one where he feels quite at home. Why not go for it?</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">After an initial introduction where it's explained that, in this establishment, no judgement is made on a past, and all that's expected is sweat and hard work, our young boy settles down and cracks on with the training. He works hard, the snarling and swaggering subside, and beneath all that is a nice, polite young boy. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Is this someone in desperate need of a positive role model? I like to think so. Others have suggested that his demonstration of deference is merely fear at getting a right hander from his mentors but I argue that you need to take a look at this lad. If I had his skill at 16 the position of Captain of the drinking team would have been occupied by someone else other than me. The lad has inate skill and ability and can live with all of the coaches at the club.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;">On Saturday he'll be pitched into his first amateur contest. In the leafy environs of Dorking. The nervousness I feel in my own heart is something that's been absent for a very, very long time. I know how our young lad feels because my own memories still exist from 25 years ago. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div>
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Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-26099821412198698822014-03-21T20:59:00.003+00:002014-03-22T13:35:56.722+00:00Writing a FutureAs time inexorably marches on the date of my retirement from the London Fire Brigade grows ever nearer. OK, so it's still almost five years away but if I consider how quickly the past five years have disappeared, the requirement for my attendance in the bad lands of SW11 will cease before I know it.<br>
<br>
So thoughts have been swirling around in my brain of a replacement career. I like to brag about being pretty unemployable in any other field than fire-fighting, technical rescue or life-taking. But apart from my service with the fire brigade and army, in my 47 years on this planet I've earned a crust from building, painting and decorating, door security, body guarding and boxing coaching, so maybe not so unemployable.<br>
<br>
You might agree that all of the employment opportunities mentioned above sit well within the practical, male dominated fields. Well, I've been thinking that there's a so far untapped cerebral well of possibility, tied up somewhere in my history degree or my willingness to sit in front of a keyboard and tap two fingered into it to produce written nonsense that no one will ever read.<br>
<br>
So yesterday I found myself a guest of the Pegasus Luncheon Club at the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge. I was there with my very good pal, Boris, a former fire-fighter and WOII in the Parachute Regiment. The event was a lecture on the security aspects of obsession and stalking and was delivered by a bouffant haired former police officer-turned security consultant.<br>
<br>
On our arrival the club's grandfather clock had just struck midday and the bar was empty. A discussion regarding our chosen tipple was led and decided upon by Boris, and despite my reservations, a bottle of red wine and two glasses were placed in front of us before you could say 'scene set for a mess.'<br>
<br>
The picture below shows me and Boris, suited and booted at the beginning of the afternoon and most importantly, coherent (sober). <br>
<br>
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Shortly after the cork was popped a fella that I've chatted to before entered the premises. Max Arthur, author of a number of military tomes and all round good guy. I think our discussion centred around what he's currently working on and when it might be published.....the same discussion I've had with him on a number of occasions mainly because the subjects of fighting and women's breasts don't seem to enter his radar too regularly.<br>
<br>
Anyway, the lecture got underway and the lecturer did a fine job. I discovered that Michael Fagan, the popular hero who entered Her Maj's bedroom and sat on her bed actually intended to rape her; a detail that, if widespread, might remove some of his notoriety and discourage idiots like the Bollock Brothers from entertaining the fool.<br>
<br>
I also discovered that Thomas Hamilton wrote an 'end of tether' letter to the Queen a few weeks before his wrath was loosed in Dunblane (the Royal Family seem to feature heavily in these issues). Unfortunately the Royal Household's mail protocols meant that Hamilton's letter was opened some six months after the massacre.<br>
<br>
Anyhoo, it was as Boris, Max and I absorbed these tales (and a fuckin shit load of red wine) that an idea came to me for a novel. Spookily a similar idea came to Max and a look was exchanged between us and somehow I knew he was thinking similarly. A hushed comment or two preceded him passing me his card and asking me to contact him outside this environ regarding our joint idea.<br>
<br>
Fast forward a day and I have Max's card in front of me. I also have my phone and my PC. What I don't have is any recollection of my idea for a novel as it was washed away by another couple of bottles of wine. The photo below tells the story. Coherence and sobriety are clearly absent.<br>
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<br>
So what have I learned from this?<br>
<br>
1. Expect a pukka novel from Max Arthur.<br>
2. Don't expect a pukka novel from me.<br>
3. Maybe seek alternative employment as a wine taster.<br>
4. I'm a cunt.<br>
5. Laters.Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-47547030688196148112014-03-03T11:03:00.001+00:002014-03-03T11:19:17.368+00:00For Murdo the MagnificentA comment was made to me recently regarding relating stories from the streets and alleys of Battersea where I'm employed as a firefighter. Once upon a time I did this regularly, then after a wee hiccup, decided against it. What I have to say is that since then there has been much bloggable material but I've refrained from putting these stories into the written form. But I have enough material for a book and, while sat on the loo at the fire station, mulled this over in my mind. If I start work on it now it could be finished by the time my 30 years pensionable service are complete (under five years to go).<div><br></div><div>This sent me to my electronic library of stuff I've written and among all the reports, memoranda and policy notes I found a few blog reports that were written and posted, then deleted some time later. I found the blog report below and after a wee bit of editing, believe it's quite safe for reposting. What I should say is that the opinions are my own and not those of my employer and remember, never let the truth get in the way of a good story.</div><div><br></div><div><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">It’s been a while since I posted a report from </span><span class="s3">the bad lands of SW11, home of the iconic power station and abode for abandoned dogs and cats.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">That’s because t</span><span class="s3">he natives of Battersea have been reasonably well behaved of late a</span><span class="s3">nd so have curtailed their blog</span><span class="s3">ability. This was put right in the wee hours of this morning when we were called to a fire in a nearby road. There was no precise address given but located within said road is </span><span class="s3">an accommodation block for transient, rehabilitating folk with a fondness for illicit substances.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><br></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Sure enough, on arrival at the loose location for a fire, no precise address was required as the smoke issuing from the </span><span class="s3">second floor of the </span><span class="s3">block mentioned above indicated the location of the blaze.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">So, two of Battersea’s finest and I make our way to the second floor </span><span class="s3">armed with hose reel, axe and enforcer and rigged in breathing apparatus</span><span class="s3">.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">A </span><span class="s3">cursory bang on the front door precedes the inevitable transformation of the door’s </span><span class="s3">status as wooden security barrier</span><span class="s3"> into matchwood.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But what’s this?</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Before I can issue the order 'smash the door down,' a bleary-eyed</span><span class="s3">, </span><span class="s3">Kappa </span><span class="s3">tracksuit-clad resident answers the door (incidentally I'm creating a guide to fire service orders that won't be found within the Fire Service Drill Book. 'Smash the door down' sits alongside another order I issued recently that went like this: 'get tooled up'.....another story).</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Anyway, imagine the scene: three gear armed firefighters stand on a landing on the second floor while a blinking, unshaven resident stands in the darkened flat looking out.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s4">‘What the fuck do you want?’</span><span class="s3"> he grunts.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">As I consider</span><span class="s3"> politely explaining that we’re</span><span class="s3"> in attendance to extinguish the developing fire in his kitchen</span><span class="s3">,</span><span class="s3"> I decide to dispense with the formality. My hand, placed squarely in his chest with moderate force, reduces him to a sitting position and we charge over him into his kitchen. </span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Whatever food he had decided to cook prior to heading off to the land of nod </span><span class="s3">is now ablaze and threatening to engulf the whole room (KFC was obviously closed)</span><span class="s3">. I mentally log the requirement</span><span class="s3"> for me to educate Mr Kappa tracksuit i</span><span class="s3">n the folly of combining cooking and sleeping and set my lads the task of extinguishing the fire.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">The remarkable quality of water to cool and smother the hot red stuff is demonstrated in quick time</span><span class="s3"> and after ensuring that the fire is out I seek out Mr Kappa tracksuit.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He’s no longer seated in the hall by the door.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He must be outside then.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Nope, not outside.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">With a neighbour?</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Nope.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As I wander about the flat and pass the bedroom I notice a form beneath the crumpled, dirty duvet.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I enter the darkened room and click on my torch.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Sure enough Mr Kappa, still clad in his tracksuit, is curled up in his bed and sleeping like a baby.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span class="s3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Meanwhile two hairy-arsed firemen drag a sodden and dripping hose out of the flat, the fire alarm continues to howl like a menopausal banshee, and the acrid smell of burning lingers in the air.</span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">I</span><span class="s3"> make sure the flat is free of smoke and Mr Kappa is tucked in and we leave.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">There is</span><span class="s3"> a fear among my colleagues</span><span class="s3"> that as we continue to fit domestic smoke alarms in every residence in London</span><span class="s3"> and carry out HFSRAs (Hom</span><span class="s3">e Fire Safety Risk Assessments)</span><span class="s3"> that real firefighting action will become as redundant as Cliff Richard’s penis.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Not as long as Kappa tracksuit wearing customers continue to do their best to burn London to the ground.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3">Laters.</span></span></p><p class="s2" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="s3"><br></span></span></p></div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-51881231955313097132013-08-26T12:45:00.002+01:002013-08-26T13:46:38.998+01:00Navigating DublinHow time flies. It seems only yesterday that the disappointment of West Highland Way Race was a very live memory but in fact it's been eight weeks since that 84 mile run. The eight week time frame, although not apparent in casual thought, is proven when I look at the figure '84' and wonder 'could I have pushed it and finished the race?' Like child birth, the pain and suffering of that experiencing is waning with time.<br />
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But my intention here is not to torture myself but to examine how one's body and fitness can deteriorate over 8 weeks. Without a real goal to aim for (Glen Ogle, Glenmore 24 and the River Ayr Way are all possibilities, but having taken all my leave at work I'm waiting to see the outcome of the Fire Brigade Union's ballot for industrial action and whether any strike action will coincide with any of those races) I've pretty much been idle for eight weeks.</div>
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Enter former professional footballer and ultra runner, Stephen Tennant and a request to make up numbers in his team to tackle the Commando Shuffle in four week's time. The Commando Shuffle is a 30 mile race against the clock on Dartmoor following the route of the Royal Marines recruits' final test while carrying 35lb of kit. It happens that, strike action or not, the date fits with my time off so I needed little encouragement to answer yes.</div>
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All I need to do now is get my body ready for such an undertaking. Not too difficult a task, after all it's only 30 miles and I own a body that was pushed through 84 miles of the Scottish Highlands only.......eight weeks ago.</div>
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So training session one was a five mile run along Old Father Thames before work. Just to get my limbs, heart and lungs working again. Hmm....the struggle I encountered there was obviously down to my recent back injury and the polluted atmosphere of London.</div>
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Training session two was a pliometrics session at the gym of squat jumps, lunges, box jumps and bridges. Hmm....the struggle I encountered there was obviously down to the stuffy air of the gym and tiredness following two night shifts.</div>
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Training session three was a speed session of four miles on the treadmill. Hmm....the struggle I encountered there was obviously down to the accumulated effect of training sessions one and two.</div>
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As I ponder today's training session number four I've decided to stop kidding myself and accept that eight weeks of sitting on my ever expanding arse has had a detrimental but understandable effect on my fitness and fuck all to do with pollution, tiredness and all that other stuff.</div>
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Anyway, I reckon I can execute a reasonable four week training programme to put me on the start line of the race with a more than good chance of finishing. What else have I got going in my favour? Well, in 1996 I did a similar race on Dartmoor with five colleagues and recorded a third place finish from 60 teams; probably my finest achievement in the ultra field ever. I'm also familiar with this type of event having done similar in the army and am a demon map and compass user.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZHQtGxNb2Ew3j5KOg99wXp5ED1yP1Vlo-CdLteH38aySos8jqXbq3HmREy1VDuCeI4aMf3XT0nbIEllyXzJi8Vuhjvd2JY87ndsXeTmQ3U9rTVFJOBeZEdI40t9Rf7FdF8NJ1iTsPkU/s1600/dartmoor+dash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZHQtGxNb2Ew3j5KOg99wXp5ED1yP1Vlo-CdLteH38aySos8jqXbq3HmREy1VDuCeI4aMf3XT0nbIEllyXzJi8Vuhjvd2JY87ndsXeTmQ3U9rTVFJOBeZEdI40t9Rf7FdF8NJ1iTsPkU/s400/dartmoor+dash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dartmoor Dash 3rd Place Finishers 15th June 1996</td></tr>
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Mrs Mac might take me to task with that final statement and remind me of the time in Dundee when, after leaving a Jake Bugg gig, we disagreed about the route back to the hotel. Cue a spit in the palm, a handshake, and a race back to said hotel along our chosen routes and Mrs Mac was sipping wine in our room while I was lost somewhere down by the docks.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQViZRNVc98QBm5vqW3vBj0kiJyEqvdsRJllImM6dBMzO9SpB7giwJeDJuMcghIgB3gtlFncQLG9MjprHbWboD3Oz96EhWbhn64m2rWO7vZi2Mbd6g3MU6QfvnvgcZ4Sn-OXzj1PsAi8/s1600/jakebugg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQViZRNVc98QBm5vqW3vBj0kiJyEqvdsRJllImM6dBMzO9SpB7giwJeDJuMcghIgB3gtlFncQLG9MjprHbWboD3Oz96EhWbhn64m2rWO7vZi2Mbd6g3MU6QfvnvgcZ4Sn-OXzj1PsAi8/s400/jakebugg.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jake Bugg stage...before the race home</td></tr>
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But I scored a return goal in the navigation stakes when we were in Dublin last week. We had eaten an early dinner in a traditional Irish restaurant on Temple Bar and left to make our way to Whelan's, the location for the pub scene in 'PS I Love You' and the gaff where the Los Angeles based indie folk band, Lord Huron were playing that night. I'd checked the place on a map and had a reasonable, alcohol unaffected idea of how to get there: pretty much a dog leg then a straight road would see us in Whelan's in about 15 minutes.</div>
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Mrs Mac preferred a more modern approach and decided to follow an electronic arrow on the GPS on her smart phone. Being a modern kind of guy myself I capitulated to the female insistence and followed her as the GPS directed us here and there down alleys and along back roads. It was as we were following this convoluted route that we entered a housing estate and my south London street wisdom sparked some concern. In the distance was a large group of bored looking teenagers hanging all over the pavement and we were headed directly for them. Meanwhile Mrs Mac was lost in the electronic map in front of her completely unaware of her surroundings. Now, I'm not saying this group were particularly nefarious, but if you lived in a rundown manor and were given to relieving clueless travellers of their possessions, a gift was right there in the hand of an approaching tall Scottish burd.</div>
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'Put your phone away,' I said.</div>
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'No, we're nearly there now, it's just up here and round the corner,' answered Mrs Mac.</div>
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'Put your phone away now or you're gonna lose it.'</div>
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Mrs Mac looked up and saw the group of kids in front of us who were now quite interested in the pair of foolish tourists who had entered their territory.</div>
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There was nothing for it but to confidently bowl straight through the group and hope their desperation hadn't descended to a place where confrontation was an attractive concept.</div>
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Laughter and abuse were thrown our way as we passed and an urge to throw my hands about prickled but was kept in check in equal measure by maturity and a desire to avoid the inside of a Garda Siochana station.<br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Whelan's was indeed just up there and round the corner and we arrived without too much incident. The gig was excellent and the venue everything we'd hoped for but when we left we used my inbuilt compass rather than Mrs Mac's smart phone to get back.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MirsBxxPq3LnAz3a-A5gsAsXdryL6WPF2K71Lof6yFWdq_A6vOPl_KitFamG_6XOzdJ1igI90QAX4SbAAHWAwbZwCrVns9nQ5wj7FDZxOOkvrY1covZ9LT2_PTkcImN0TOazHw0s0Z8/s1600/Huron7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7MirsBxxPq3LnAz3a-A5gsAsXdryL6WPF2K71Lof6yFWdq_A6vOPl_KitFamG_6XOzdJ1igI90QAX4SbAAHWAwbZwCrVns9nQ5wj7FDZxOOkvrY1covZ9LT2_PTkcImN0TOazHw0s0Z8/s320/Huron7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Anyway, I got here by speaking about the effect of eight weeks abstinence from exercise and I've just spent another half an hour or so tip-tapping away on this blog and avoiding the gym, so I'm off for a mixed treadmill and pliometrics session.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Laters.</span></div>
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Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-80715806851973134472013-08-20T14:19:00.001+01:002013-08-20T23:42:58.394+01:00Running Up Goat Fell A comment about running I promised to make and a comment about running I will make here.....well, sort of. If you can define a 'run' as a walk up Goat Fell on Arran, interspersed with periods of running, while wearing running shoes.<br />
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Interestingly that particular Corbett is known as both Goat Fell (the undergraduate's bible, Wikipedia terms it such) and Goatfell (the Ordnance Survey and National Trust both mark it as the latter). So I will disambiguate here as the former because Wikipedia and I are both so familiar.....it received a hammering when I was studying for my degree.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGTXdLBdNWaPGb16LhW16ZZNOPoS7II9zRIBr6fbH8CLOvFi-8TdJqPgw_I2HGYqxve0UNm2pujPkYAxCg7tvypk5DXedZKHxs7nj4sZxGZMA-9C4NbkUasqQeqZ9IQKpaD4FQN0bxz4/s1600/arran4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGTXdLBdNWaPGb16LhW16ZZNOPoS7II9zRIBr6fbH8CLOvFi-8TdJqPgw_I2HGYqxve0UNm2pujPkYAxCg7tvypk5DXedZKHxs7nj4sZxGZMA-9C4NbkUasqQeqZ9IQKpaD4FQN0bxz4/s1600/arran4.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One word or two?</td></tr>
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This confusion over identification is nothing new to me; I live in a place where the train station had 'Ashtead' on platform one and 'Ashstead' on platform two. The former is correct although my favourite local curry house chose the latter to decorate all their linen and crockery. But being dual named is where any similarity between my home town and the island of Arran ceases so I'll stop wittering on about Surrey and get back to Scotland.</div>
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So Mrs Mac and I were on Arran for a week's much needed holiday. We'd gone with the recommendation that you must 'do' Goat Fell, and as the island's skyline is dominated by the hill, 'doing' Goat Fell is something that is probably a consideration for any semi fit visitor. Like Ben Nevis, I suspect the hill is occasioned by both flip flop wearing chavs and loafer wearing businessmen, hence the visibility of the local mountain rescue team, but on the day we chose to go we mainly encountered over-dressed hill walkers with enough gear to summit the Eiger.</div>
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We chose to take the path up from Corrie because it looked the most direct route. Also I reckoned the flip flop and loafer clad brigade would be probably on the gentler path from Brodick Castle. Dressed in shorts, tee shirt and off road running shoes, our trip up was never gonna be a casual affair of smelling flowers and admiring views, although at that stage I hadn't informed Mrs Mac.</div>
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So we set off up the steep metalled road from the shoreline and before long were on a minor path surrounded by giant ferns. At this stage running would have been hazardous because we couldn't see our footing so we marched upward at a pretty swift lick. Soon the ferns gave way to rock which was being heated nicely by the midday sun. Up and up we went passing a couple of groups laden with bergens, waterproofs and other outdoor paraphernalia. I'm sure I heard the leaders of said groups sniff and criticise us for being under prepared for a day out on the hill, but in the small day sack I had enough gear to get us off the hill safely should the weather change. And in any case, the route up is pretty self explanatory, options for going wrong are few, and all routes eventually lead down.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDukLHNT0jQkuphnPXGd5XB6iSMba5BcH7CUqueb40tlxBt-UpTW1UJ4SPiSbg0_hd_3qY11R3Rgm9_sJ08QlZH62ZHoQj8Z41PdqAVVzQJy9-30XadcpcJSlHAizrja-iwfZsfnTbcHo/s1600/arran1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDukLHNT0jQkuphnPXGd5XB6iSMba5BcH7CUqueb40tlxBt-UpTW1UJ4SPiSbg0_hd_3qY11R3Rgm9_sJ08QlZH62ZHoQj8Z41PdqAVVzQJy9-30XadcpcJSlHAizrja-iwfZsfnTbcHo/s400/arran1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs Mac strides purposefully up the hill</td></tr>
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At one point Mrs Mac pointed down to another, more obvious path and queried whether we were correct. </div>
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<span style="color: yellow;">'Tell me,'</span> she said. <span style="color: yellow;">'When was the last time you looked at that map you insisted we needed?'</span></div>
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'I looked at it in the cottage,' I answered. 'It's all up here now,' I said as I tapped the side of my head, and stormed off up the hill with her in hot pursuit. Right now I'm tempted to make some comment about the male aptitude for navigation compared with the female ability to get lost going to the shops. But I'm reminded of the time in Dundee when Mrs Mac and I disagreed about the route back to the hotel; we decided to race one another on our insisted routes and I ended up down by the docks while she was in the hotel sipping wine.</div>
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Anyway, back to Goat Fell: when the going allowed I broke into a run and the feeling of joy and freedom I used to get from running began to return. You see, I came to long distance running from hill walking and as the years have passed and 'must do' races accumulated, any hill walking took a back seat. It never became something I got bored with, merely time and distance presented an unassailable barrier.</div>
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We joined the tourist path at the east ridge and immediately appreciated taking the route from Corrie. While there were no flip flops or loafers there were plenty of people who looked as if this was their single, annual period of physical exertion. While sitting on rocks smoking cigarettes, a couple sneered at Mrs Mac and I as we skipped past in our shorts.</div>
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As we neared the summit the sun was covered by dark clouds which would prevent a view from the top but we couldn't complain as the weather had been kind on the way up. The summit of Goat Fell is much like many other hill tops: spoilt by a triangulation pillar and one of those metal map things. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQ7NL0K7HuDJxkWyYATfinSTm5CSUyGAR6Oas4wZ2xq_NtJvtDaA1ttrCm4QuP5UDnTDj-Br5F5jk6tLwvUBIoItyQTaV-WejI9oXqeDMUTtK5AtYciBbkQEiO2_ltjmFdXBPejAMELs/s1600/arran2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQ7NL0K7HuDJxkWyYATfinSTm5CSUyGAR6Oas4wZ2xq_NtJvtDaA1ttrCm4QuP5UDnTDj-Br5F5jk6tLwvUBIoItyQTaV-WejI9oXqeDMUTtK5AtYciBbkQEiO2_ltjmFdXBPejAMELs/s400/arran2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trig point atop Goat Fell....Goatfell...aahh, whatever...</td></tr>
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We hung around and took the obligatory photographs and briefly the clouds parted to allow us a view of the excellent looking ridge line. Then we were off down the hill like Vanessa Feltz chasing an ice cream van. I've always had a bit of down hill ability that outweighs anything else I can do in running shoes so I indulged myself a bit and left Mrs Mac picking her way carefully across the rocks. The stickiness afforded by my Inov-8s out performed her skitty road shoes and I waited for her at the bottom of the hill before congratulating ourselves and jumping back in the motor to go off and do family type stuff.</div>
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Elsewhere in another blog post I mentioned Goat Fell reigniting a passion for running. Now, there was a definite possibility that might happen but the flame was well and truly doused a few days later on the last day of our holiday.</div>
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We woke up on that final day in our very expensive rented cottage.</div>
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<span style="color: yellow;">'What time d'ya reckon we've got to check out?'</span> Mrs Mac enquired.</div>
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<span style="color: yellow;">'This place is so expensive I reckon they'll be pretty relaxed about when we leave,'</span> I answered (naively).</div>
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It was 10:45 when the lady knocked on the door.</div>
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She was greeted by us in our underwear, a cottage mid tidy up, and two sofa covers drying by the fire.</div>
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<span style="color: yellow;">'Err....you do understand that 10:00 was the check out time, right?'</span> The woman asked. The clues were all there to answer her question so I'm hoping it was more of an informative statement, but it prompted us to rush around like blue arsed flies anyway.</div>
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The bags got corralled by the front door and I decided that the same bags, corralled outside the door, would send a visual message that the process of leaving was well under way.</div>
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It was after loading the fifth bag onto my shoulder, and as I bent down to pick up the sixth and final bag, that I felt the pain in my lower back bite.</div>
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I managed to get the bags outside but the damage was done. The 20 year old injury, caused by squatting and dead lifting ridiculously heavy weights, returns with a vengeance if I ever fail to respect it's presence, and attempting to carry a mixture of suitcases, rucksacks and holdalls, is a serious lack of respect.</div>
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Cue a week lying on my back considering the contrast of skipping over rocks coming off Goat Fell. All I can say is thank fuck it happened at the end of our holiday and not the start.</div>
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Laters<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLwRT4O08GbE36rwNvvZIYIA2nSbZYNsGefDPQUJNuJlfC-btto2NyHwuat-_OjAdUxRVstutqyDOTx40of9I3gWlDX8h0haT-04yQdu-6lzsTe48mP_GwRsyN8W6X094ank56shGqdX4/s1600/arran3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLwRT4O08GbE36rwNvvZIYIA2nSbZYNsGefDPQUJNuJlfC-btto2NyHwuat-_OjAdUxRVstutqyDOTx40of9I3gWlDX8h0haT-04yQdu-6lzsTe48mP_GwRsyN8W6X094ank56shGqdX4/s400/arran3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A man unaware he's looking forward to a week in bed</td></tr>
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Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-84006700666255778372013-08-11T10:10:00.000+01:002013-08-11T10:42:42.062+01:00A Lesson in How to Adapt and OvercomeSince my engagement with the West Highland Way Race in June there has been a serious lack of training from Yours Truly.<br>
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Was I injured? No.<br>
Was I ill? No.<br>
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Quite surprisingly I was fit enough to run within days of my withdrawal from the race after 83 miles. Despite failing to finish the race I think my swift recovery is testament to the six months of solid, hardcore training I'd committed to since December last year. The reason for me not actually lacing on a pair of running shoes has been purely a lack of motivation.<br>
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Without a race planned, without a boxing match to prepare for, without any kind of sporting event in the pipeline, training feels like nothing more than going out the door for going out the door's sake or going to the gym for going to the gym's sake. Even the attraction of the early day MILFs that proliferate David Lloyd Epsom, with their spray tans and expensive, matching gym wear has not been enough to make me a regular attendee in the bear pit.<br>
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On top of this lack of motivation was a brutally chaotic domestic situation that I won't air publicly here. But on the horizon was a planned holiday on the Isle of Arran with Mrs Mac. For me that was the golden prize, the pound coin stuck in the pile of dog shit you just stepped in, missing the last train to discover the only other stranded passenger is Kelly Brook....you get the idea, huh?<br>
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So the day came, Saturday, 27th July. The car was loaded to the brim with bags, the dog was fed and watered and crammed into the back seat, Mrs Mac had even created an itinerary that had a built in fail safe in the event of traffic congestion en route to Ardrossan where we were to catch the ferry to Brodick.<div><br></div><div>We jump in the motor, sunglasses on, the words of Cliff Richards 'Summer Holiday' being sung from the back seat by Wee Hannah and her pal, Laura, and we're off on our holiday.</div><div><br></div><div>Ten miles or so later we're cruising along a country road heading westward and there's a slight hiss, the engine dies, the car slows to a halt and Mrs Mac says:</div><div><br></div><div>'I've lost power.'</div><div><br></div><div>No shit, Sherlock.</div><div><br></div><div>Thank fuck for fail safe itineraries.</div><div><br></div><div>Mrs Mac suggests that I have a look under the bonnet and rectify the problem. That's about as much use as presenting me with a patient with a brain injury and asking me to carry out sub cranial surgery.</div><div><br></div><div>Quick as a flash she's out of the motor, instructing me to unload the car and on the phone to her brother who is sat at home ten miles away. At this point he was unaware he was about to drive two adults, two young girls, a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and a shit load of luggage to Ardrossan ferry terminal.</div><div><br></div><div>'What are we gonna do about your motor?' I ask Mrs Mac.</div><div><br></div><div>'Bollocks to it,' she says. 'It can stay here til we get back, I'm going on my holiday.'</div><div><br></div><div>Fast forward a couple of hours and we're in Brodick on Arran having arrived as foot passengers. </div><div><br></div><div>'What the fuck are we gonna do now?' I ask. 'We've got enough luggage to open a fuckin' suitcase shop and no wheels.'</div><div><br></div><div>'Wait here you lemon,' she says, and scoots off into the distance like Vanessa Feltz on her way to an eat all you can lunch deal.</div><div><br></div><div>20 minutes later a cab pulls up with Mrs Mac is in the passenger seat. 'Chuck the bags in the boot and get in,' she says. 'I've got us a taxi to the cottage and I've hired a motor that we're picking up on Monday.'</div><div><br></div><div>And that, Dear Reader, is an example of how to adapt and overcome, how to make the best of a rapidly deteriorating situation, how to extract the pound coin from the pile of shit you just stepped in.</div><div><br></div><div>But I started this blog post off with a sorry tale of a lack of motivation and no training....what the fuck has that got to do with a holiday on Arran?</div><div><br></div><div>Return soon, Dear Reader and I'll explain how Goat Fell on a sunny day can reignite one's passion for running and how being on the Isle of Arran, with enough luggage to open a suitcase shop, and having returned your hire car can result in you being in bed for a week with an injured back.</div><div><br></div><div>At least I've had a decent reason for not training.</div><div><br></div><div>Laters.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-84565356800728245152013-07-25T13:59:00.001+01:002013-07-25T14:25:57.383+01:00One UnderSometimes, just sometimes, I think there's something wrong with me. Chaos and disaster seem to follow me around like frightened children.<br />
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Admittedly I rarely plan stuff, and despite purchasing an iPad last year, upon which I detail all of my engagements, I still get a surprise nudge in the goolies every time the iPad reminder alerts me to the fact that I need to go to work or not go to work. So, as the old adage goes, failing to prepare is preparing to fail, but I'm not talking about simply turning up to a wedding with only flip flops to accompany my suit (yep, done that), I'm talking about the type of disaster befalling me that an iPad alert and an electronic diary are gonna do absolutely fuck all about.
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Take my journey home after assisting Mrs Mac with the Clyde Stride ultra marathon. It's Sunday morning and I need to be at work, in London, for 20:00 (excuse the use of the 24 hour clock.....I've been trying to polish off some of the remaining militaristic ingressions left over from my army days but I can't face saying eight O'clock when that might either be bacon and egg time or wine and kebab time). A swift look at the iPad and its handy train timetable app tells me I'm gonna have a battle getting home. Sunday, is of course, the day when track maintenance is carried out because every one is at church or sitting down to a roast dinner with the family. Not this call sign.
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It's gonna take me the best part of the day to travel from Strathaven to Glasgow, then onward to Edinburgh, then, and only then, start heading south for Englandshire and eventually, London. I can't lie any longer in this bed, I need to get my sorry arse up and shake a tail feather.
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A short while later I'm at Glasgow Queen Street with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier by my side and we're saying goodbye to Mrs Mac. The journey to London is aboard a train that has two overheating carriages. I wander through the train looking for somewhere that Mason (dog) and I can park our butts. The carriages are crammed with passengers and luggage and looks of disgust and bemusement are fired my way whenever the suggestion that I might sit down is demonstrated. In my years of travelling with a pooch I've discovered that the majority of the transport using public prefer to share their space with other bipeds rather than a four legged fighting dog.<br />
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As I enter carriage 'F' the heat hits me. It's not unlike walking into a sauna but there are seats abound in this carriage sans air con. I take a seat and Mason (dog) stretches out in the aisle. Before long I've stripped off most of my clothes down to a running vest and shorts yet the cushioning under my arse is getting damper by the minute as I sweat into it.<br />
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Just over four hours to London; I reckon I can hack it and with a regular ingestion of bottled water should be able to avoid heat stroke. Then, as we approach York, the bastard train in front of us breaks down and we're stuck for ages on a train that ain't moving, in a carriage that is slowly cooking my flesh.<br />
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The rest of the journey is typified by a short shunt forward followed by a long spell static. By the time the train pulls into Kings Cross I'm already late for work and in serious need of rehydration. The weekend model for public transport delivery is mirrored on the underground where the Northern Line is shut for maintenance. No problem, I skip across to the Victoria Line where I can travel to Vauxhall then onward to Clapham Junction where I can begin my night shift, albeit two hours late.<br />
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I stand on the platform alongside dozens of other weekend travellers. Next to me is a slightly dishevelled, middle aged man who stares blankly at the tracks. Something about him unnerves me so I take a half step backward. As the train slows down and travels along the platform approaching the head wall to the tunnel the fella standing next to me kind of flops down onto the tracks. In a flash he's lost under the train and gasps and cries ring out from our fellow travellers.<br />
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I've been here many times before. I know the drill. As a London firefighter I've lost count of the times I've crawled beneath a tube train to release an unfortunate victim but it's never done without ensuring the power is off and PPE is worn. And this is the first time I've witnessed the act first hand.
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Some of the passengers on the platform are either unaware of what just happened or are lost in the unreality of the occurrence. They swarm around the carriage doors waiting for them to open and disgorge their travellers and allow them onto the train. I know the driver is sitting in his cab, informing control of a 'one under' and awaiting the arrival of my colleagues from Euston fire station. The doors ain't gonna open any time soon.
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There's nothing I can do here so I head off as police officers and community support personnel come haring toward the platform. I understand the futility of their haste: I always tell my lads and lasses to never run to a one under, you'll get there quickly then wait around feeling useless while you wait for confirmation that power is off. Better to walk quickly while carrying out a dynamic risk assessment and going through a decision making model in your mind, it pays dividends at the scene.
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I arrive at street level to see fire appliances arrive from Euston and the surrounding stations. I stop briefly to inform the officer in charge of the scene below ground before being castigated for being late for work.
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And this, Dear Reader, is a typical day in my life. To prove it I direct you to the story in this blog where I was travelling home from a training session in Southwark a couple of years ago when gunshots rang in my ears and two police officers were shot. I'm not making this shit up.
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I considered not telling this tragic tale of a person who decided that life was so terrible that an end to his misery would be found under a London Underground train. But I discovered recently that he was recovered by crews from Euston and is recovering in hospital so I've recounted it here. I got that shift off work so my lateness was never questioned. My Station Commander decided that attending two suicides in five days was enough for anyone and my welfare dictated a night off. To be honest, I've become used to it now and I was more affected by the overheating carriage and the torturous journey home.
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And I tell this tale while aboard a Virgin Pendolino to Scotland. So far there are no occurrences other than Mason (dog) farting and my fellow passengers looking at me in disgust. But I'm used to that too.
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Laters.
Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-49478795223840381332013-07-11T15:07:00.001+01:002013-07-14T19:18:38.510+01:00Strikes, Pensions and General BitchingWithin the virtual pages of this blog I would often discuss the details of my job. Never the sad or heartbreaking parts of it, just the amusing stories that punctuate the career of a firefighter. Like the time a colleague received two pairs of new uniform shoes; Doctor Marten style soled, slip-on gusseted, black leather numbers.<div><br></div><div>One of my other colleagues had switched a shoe from each box before the two boxes were given to the recipient, who for the detail of this story, will be known as Stewart.</div><div><br></div><div>Stewart's face was a picture when he opened the first box to discover two left footed shoes.</div><div><br></div><div>'Bloody typical.....they can't get anything right,' he exclaimed, as he held two identical shoes in his hands. 'They've sent me two left shoes. Good job I ordered two pairs.'</div><div><br></div><div>The second box is opened and Stewart's eyes widen before he shrieks,</div><div><br></div><div>'I don't believe it! What's the chances of that?! They've sent me two right footed shoes in this box!!'</div><div><br></div><div>My blog was once littered with these types of tale, mainly to provide some relief to the running related matters, which however you tell them, are as boring as hell. But some close attention from my employer back in 2011 led me to delete everything I'd written over a period of four years.</div><div><br></div><div>I've rarely discussed my job since, but the amusing occurrences are still there, as are the heartbreaking and sad. 22 years of service has provided me with enough material to write a book, and when I finish the one I'm writing at the moment, I might just tell those stories for publication when I retire.</div><div><br></div><div>I suppose some of the most difficult decisions I've had to make in those 22 years are the two occasions when I've been forced to take strike action. The first being in 2002/3 when firefighter salaries were so poor some were in receipt of top up benefits, and the second in 2010 when we were threatened with mass sackings to change our shifts. On both occasions, after going back to work, I've prayed that I never have to remove my labour again.</div><div><br></div><div>Unfortunately, enter George Osborne, a morally bankrupt coalition government and the worst financial crisis in living memory, and that time has come again.</div><div><br></div><div>'You want more money!' 'You want to work fewer hours!' I hear you cry.</div><div><br></div><div>No we don't. We want the pension we signed up to when we joined the service. I could witter on endlessly about the ins and outs of the government's plans for our pensions but that would probably be as boring as reading about running. Just consider this: I have a colleague who has served 23 years and was looking forward to retiring in seven years' time. The government's plans, and the fact that his age dictates that he misses out on any protection, means he will no have to serve an extra 10 years, paying 10 years of extra contributions (somewhere in the region of £50,000) to receive a poorer pension than he was promised. Whatever your political persuasion, or your opinion of public sector workers, tell me if you find that fair.</div><div><br></div><div>In an almost perfectly timed kick in the bollocks, George Osborne, the archetect of the raid on our pensions, is about to receive a recommendation that his salary is increased. Now I actually agree that MPs are underpaid when a comparison is made with head teachers, chief fire officers etc. But if you're gonna reluctantly accept IPSA's recommendation on pay, how about taking notice of your own, independently compiled report that states it's impossible for firefighters to work til 60 without being a danger to themselves and others?</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, enough of a rant on pensions and strikes. I'm on my way home from the fourth Clyde Stride Ultra Marathon where I performed the enviable role of Race Director's bitch. Yep, the race director, one Mrs Mac, had me running around like a blue arsed fly buying water, ice and beer and performing other general bitch duties. The race was, again, a runaway success although the sun persisted in shining all day with temperatures touching 30 degrees. For an RD's bitch that's fantastic, but put a runner in those conditions and things can get a bit uncomfortable. My pal, Dave Egan, who so valiantly supported me in the West Highland Way Race, became a victim of the conditions. You see Dave is of the red headed persuasion and doesn't react too well to intense sunlight. He made it 30 miles to Maudslie Bridge before being forced to withdraw. He wasn't alone. </div><div><br></div><div>As well as being a running buddy Dave is also a fellow firefighter and victim of the raid on pensions. He is used to enduring heat, being treated appallingly and general discomfort so you can see how hard things in the race became for him to have to pull out.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm gonna sign off now as my train is approaching London. When I began writing this I was going to relate the detail of the incident we attended a week or so ago. The tale of a young man who decided his future was so bleak the answer was to lie in front of the Gatwick Express. I was going to ask how that goon, George Osborne would have coped in that situation, and whether he would consider it appropriate that 60 year old men and women attend such incidents. But I will leave the detail at the incident, it's not for retelling here.</div><div><br></div><div>Laters.</div><div><br></div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7713518117614797372.post-58406784716646670532013-07-03T07:41:00.001+01:002013-07-03T10:35:53.365+01:00A Tale of Bodily Movements in the West Highland Way RaceI didn't really know how to do this without it becoming a sorrowful tale of woe so I decided not to. But Mrs Mac took the time to tell the story of the 2013 West Highland Way Race on her own blog and what a story it was. I couldn't hope to create something that contains so much emotion so you'll just have to put up with a sorrowful tale of woe. I was going to entitle it simply 'The West Highland Way Race' but after reading it through it was apparent that the tale is punctuated by faeces, urine and vomit, hence the title. <div><br></div><div>This year, after seven years of mixed success and failure, with failure often accompanying almost zero training, the real boot in the backside to take things seriously came in April when Fi asked me to wear her race number. There's a couple of things you should know here: to a Londoner forenames are always reduced to one syllable, so Marmaduke becomes 'Duke', Muhammad becomes 'Mo' and Fiona becomes 'Fi.' The other thing you should realise is the three forenames used here are the names of fighters, Duke McKenzie, Muhammad Ali and Fiona Rennie. And it was the fight Fi was involved in that failed to allow her to run in her own number.</div><div><br></div><div>So with race day looming I meet a few race entrants and associated luminaries in a pub in Glasgow for a pre race social and some scoff. This was on Thursday. My intention was to sip something non alcoholic, to eat something easily digestible, and to go home having been a good boy. But I walk through the door and standing there, like some Highland Lazarus clutching a pint of foaming ale and sporting a wicked grin, is Uncle Duncan, founder of the West Highland Way Race.</div><div><br></div><div>'You can fuck off with that soft drink pish,' says Dunc when I request a fatboy Coke. 'I've come from Newtonmore on the bus so you're drinking with me til five when I have to go home.'</div><div><br></div><div>Never one to be swayed from my intended path, unless beer and Uncle Dunc are involved, my resolve crumbles like a paper hat in the rain and me and Dunc are drinking ale and exchanging war stories til five. Then it's home with Mrs Mac who tells me we're meeting her Ma and Pa in the boozer. More ale and a half past midnight stagger home fail to set any alarm bells ringing. Fuelled by Guinness and kebab I am a Jolly Green Giant, striding the earth with a pair of running shoes, and the beer I consumed that day was the finest sports supplement known to man.</div><div><br></div><div>Until I awake on race day feeling tired and hungover.</div><div><br></div><div>Fast forward a few hours and for the eighth year in a row I'm in the car park in Milngavie dressed like Max Wall. All around me are other Max Wall lookalikes mingling with people who are doing a fair impression of escaped POWs. Mrs Mac feeds me a shop bought sandwich, that if beer on Thursday was mistake número uno, this was mistake number two (or número dos if you wanna be pedantic).</div><div><br></div><div>You see, these sneaky, shop dwelling sandwich makers have a habit of secreting lactose in anything they create. I wonder whether, in such politically correct times, it's their way of torturing a racially and sexually indistinct section of society....the lactose intolerant. How they must clap their little hands with glee every time they catch someone out and send them desperately searching for a public toilet whilst holding in a fart that may or may not become a flock of sparrows.</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, the race starts and Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper and I (or Hoops for short), run out of Milngavie chasing 170 or so others. The early stages of the race come and go but at Beechtree Inn I feel the flock of sparrows begin to awaken in my belly. A mile or so later I tell Horatio that I'll catch him up and I find a quiet spot where I bare my arse to the world. An explosion of fecal matter and fluid are left decorating a famer's field and the only evidence that a human is responsible are the shit stained dock leaves that performed the function of bio degradeable bog paper.</div><div><br></div><div>We crack on.</div><div><br></div><div>Balmaha comes and goes and the only remark I have about that is the strange lack of midges. Or maybe they have an aversion to the recently suffered lactose intolerant. The following six miles are always a bit of a struggle for me. It's the point at which things start to get uncomfortable before slipping into second gear, so I'm ready for a bit of a battle. But while negotiating those cheeky little hills and horrible asphalt the injury that has plagued me for nearly two years begins to surface. At the bottom of my spine, near the top of my arse cheeks, a sharp pain starts to bite. By Rowardennan it's singing like Susan Boyle and causing me just as much suffering as listening to the pan faced bint.</div><div><br></div><div>Mrs Mac feeds me some brufen (for fuck sake don't tell Dr Chris) and I'm cracking on. I'm wearing Fi's race number and in my bum bag is her small hip flask of Glengoyne so withdrawal before toasting Dario in the Angel's Playground and giving our departed Italian/Scottish friend a wee nip is absolutely unthinkable.</div><div><br></div><div>Forward progress is made and somewhere before Beinglas Farm I see a blue baseball cap hanging on a tree. A while later I look back for Horatio and he's got the thing perched on his swede.</div><div><br></div><div>'What the fuck you wearing that for?' I ask.</div><div><br></div><div>'Because I need a shit and I've got no loo roll,' replies Horatio. 'This baseball cap is a gift from God and I'm making full use of it.'</div><div><br></div><div>The grunting and rustling that emanates from a bush would have any casual passer by believing that bears are no longer extinct in the Highlands. A moment later Horatio emerges sans baseball cap but with a satisfied look on his face.</div><div><br></div><div>We crack on.</div><div><br></div><div>On arrival at Auctertyre Farm the pain in my back has been a constant companion but the miles are being eaten up slowly. At this stage runners are required to be weighed, primarily to identify a possible gain which might signify over hydration, but also with a weight percentage that shouldn't drop below. I stand on the scales and record a drop of two kilos. No problem. Then, as the recorder is looking away, I remove my bumbag and another two kilos fall away. A four kilo drop from a starting weight of 73.6 kg is a bit hefty and I see my concern mirrored in the eyes of Mrs Mac.</div><div><br></div><div>We crack on.</div><div><br></div><div>Before we hit Bridge of Orchy the sleep deprivation and over indulgence of the Thursday begin to exact their toll. I'm feeling exhausted. The lactose intolerant movement, the weight loss, the dehydration, the pain in my back and constant diet of brufen may or may not be causes of failure, but lumped together they make for a difficult time at the very least. I tell Mrs Mac that a quick kip at Glen Coe will recharge my batteries for the final push and the thought of laying my head in her lap pushes me up Jelly Baby Hill to meet Murdo the Magnificent. Jelly Babies are indeed doled out to me and Horatio then Murdo requests that I turn around. I dutifully do so, after all, an instruction from someone so magnificent should never be ignored, and a boot is placed firmly in my backside.</div><div><br></div><div>'That's from your remote coach, Andy Dubois,' states MtM. 'He told me to kick your arse so you can assure him that I did exactly that.'</div><div><br></div><div>The long drag over Rannoch Moor is never something that fills me with joy. Having bollocks that look and feel like they've been sandpapered is no joy either, despite the liberal application of Vaseline. But if you ever want to give yourself someting that really smarts, try splashing piss on your chafed area. You'll laugh!!</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, Ba Bridge seems to get further away every time I cross Rannoch Moor but reaching it this year accompanies another nail in the coffin of David William Waterman. Dry heaving becomes full on vomiting and the ten minutes planned in Mrs Mac's lap at Glen Coe becomes an age with my head in a bowl discharging everything I try to consume. The feeling of nausea remains despite the sickness and the time ticks by. Then I'm informed that the sweepers are outside and my already murky mood darkens further. Horatio has cracked on and I'm at the back. How did it come to this? </div><div><br></div><div>I tell Mrs Mac there's only one thing for it. I tell her to look away and shove my hand down my throat and rid myself of absolutely anything and everything in my stomach in an attempt to dispel the nausea.</div><div><br></div><div>It works.</div><div><br></div><div>I get rigged in warm clobber and me and Dave Egan, my co runner from Tyndrum, crack on through Glen Coe to Altnafeadh. At this point, despite being accompanied by the sweepers, I'm feeling positive and think that I can probably muster something to claw back some time and places. Then, after climbing the Devil's Staircase, my eyesight becomes blurred and the exhaustion returns with a vengeance. Ideas of lying down on the ground enter my head and the granite rocks look as inviting as soft, feather pillows. I stop and ask one of the sweepers how long til we reach Kinlochleven. She looks at me and says a couple of hours. I know exactly how far it is but hope beyond hope that maybe I'd got it wrong. I didn't realise it at the time, mainly cos I was seeing double and enjoying strange hallucinations, but the sweeper was Rhona Mitchell who performed her roll admirably. </div><div><br></div><div>As we descend that long, miserable path to Kinlochleven the idea that I might miss the cut off becomes a reality. I pretty much resign myself to this until we come across George Reid and Karen Donoghue. I feel nothing short of embarrassment at being in this condition and at this place in the race but indulge myself and lie down on the ground. Immediately the pain in my back is relieved and despite beneath me being mud, rock and dirt I feel myself drifting away to a land of plump duvets, crisp clean sheets and softly sprung beds.</div><div><br></div><div>'Get up you slacker,' shouts Karen, and hauls me to my feet. We begin to move slowly until George starts encouraging me to move faster.</div><div><br></div><div>'If you get a move on you'll make it. It's shit or bust,' says George. 'You can do this.'</div><div><br></div><div>We arrive in the town and George encourages me to run. The movement achieved you'll find in no instruction manual or magazine on running. If a periodical called 'OAP Shuffler's World' existed you might possibly find it there among adverts for Zimmer frames and false teeth, but the movement, and George's endless cajoling, gets me into the med centre somewhere around the cut off but within a time that I am permitted to continue. Mrs Mac is in tears and big George has something in his eye.</div><div><br></div><div>I sip some Coke and ice and exchange banter with Pete Duggan, resident of Kinlochleven, player of pipes, and Ramsay Round finisher. Inside me I feel a bit of a warm glow. 'It's in the bag, despite all the setbacks I can do this for Fi, ' I say to myself.</div><div><br></div><div>A few minutes later Dave Egan and I are on our way. I know the rest of the route well and think that a steady push up the hill should get me to Lairig Mhor in time to run the flats to Lundavra and maybe make some places up. The positivity lasts until we plateau then it was as if everything crashed. I could hear voices in my head....not malevolent stuff of horror films that might see me throw Dave Egan off the side of the hill, but nonesnse banter about cakes and things. I can see Facebook status updates written on rocks and my body has started to uncontrollably spasm. I attempt to move forward but my body lurches sideward toward the edge of the hill.</div><div><br></div><div>'What are you doing over there? Get away from the edge!' Shouts Egan.</div><div><br></div><div>Then, as if things could get no worse, the heavens open and Dave and I are treated to a cold shower that soaks through my clothes and into my bones. I start shivering.</div><div><br></div><div>It was then I knew I'd had enough. I had about five hours to cover 13 miles and knew I'd never make it. If I heard this tale in a pub in London, I'm pretty sure I'd scoff at it and say 'I could crawl 13 miles in five hours.' Well, that talk is cheap and I don't think I could have crawled anywhere.</div><div><br></div><div>'I don't think I'm gonna make it, Dave,' I say to my co runner. 'What do you think?'</div><div><br></div><div>'I think you were an idiot for getting out of the van at Glen Coe,' he replies.</div><div> </div><div>I pull my plastic wrapped mobile phone from my race sack for the first time. My home and work life are complicated. I have four children of either adult or teenage years all of whom can be colourfully challenging. I work with 15 men who, at times, make my children seem statesman like. I told Mrs Mac that their problems would remain theirs until I finish the race and only in an emergency would my phone be switched on.</div><div><br></div><div>I switch it on.</div><div><br></div><div>'Can you come back to Kinlochleven for me babe, I'm done,' I speak into the phone.</div><div><br></div><div>'Are you sure?' asks Mrs Mac?</div><div><br></div><div>'Yes. Sorry,' I answer.</div><div><br></div><div>As I descend the hill back to Kinlochleven the West Highland Way Race retains one last kick in the bollocks for me. I'm about half way down the hill and I can see our rented Mercedes van parked in the distance on what appears to be a track. I can see the distinct silver/grey paintwork and blacked out windows. Mrs Mac has obviously found a route up here....one I don't know exists. But I can't see her sitting in the driver's seat....she must be in the back preparing for my arrival. As I get nearer I'm slightly bothered by the idea of this track up the mountain. I've been here many times and never noticed it, but there in front of me is our van.</div><div><br></div><div>I must have been within 20 feet or so of the van when it became the rock that it always was. Mrs Mac was in Kinlochleven and I was right to be bothered by the (non existent) track up the mountain. Hallucinations are a well documented phenomenon in this race, and I filled my boots.</div><div><br></div><div>On arrival at the real van Mrs Mac peels my wet and stinking clothes off and puts me into a sleeping bag. Then I experience what it must be like to be dead. The last time I slept like that I had received a general anaesthetic before some surgeon repaired a torn diaphragm and sewed up the top of my stomach.</div><div><br></div><div>Some time later I was woken to be told Horatio was about to finish. Despite me being cocooned naked in a sleeping bag from where I never wanted to emerge, I pulled on some clean clothes to see my mate reach the leisure centre. Martin is a lump, built for running he ain't. Last year he battled against injury to make it to Kinlochleven before withdrawing, unable to lift his feet from the ground. It was a joy seeing him finish this year. He had trained well, shifted some weight and had kept to his game plan throughout the race. Top man.</div><div><br></div><div>As for me, at the moment, I'm saying my love affair with the West Highland Way Race is over. I have three finishes and a clutch of DNFs that, quite frankly, I probably deserve for a failure to prepare. But this year, after training solidly and putting everything into it, the West Highland Way proved she can be a cruel mistress. </div><div><br></div><div>As Uncle Dunc told me, anything can happen in that race.</div><div><br></div><div>And it did.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Subversive Runnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13314881465522292553noreply@blogger.com13