London Bound Astronaut

For anyone that hasn't yet realised it, a requirement of this blogging lark is to stumble through life experiencing the things that affect us all andthen turn them into something that might be considered interesting for the online delectation of others.

Anything else, like logging your running hours, miles and calories burned is exactly that- a log (I was being polite there, for 'log' read 'big, fat, steamy shit').

So here I sit on a Virgin Pendolino having left the Land of Jock where I ran not a step and burned few calories but consumed many. My sole encounter with ultra running involved meeting the uber-cool ultra supremo, Debbie Martin-Consani on the Glasgow Central station concourse and having a right good blether with her.

Have I gripped you yet? Of course not. The Subversive Runner is sitting on a train with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier for company having been afforded five minutes of Mrs Martin Consani's time, what's so interesting about that?

Not a lot.

But you'll agree that we meet individuals in life who make us shake our heads (God knows I'm surrounded by people, all day long, that shake their heads) and maybe make half-decent blogging material.

So I boarded the train to London and went about locating my booked seat which turned out to be one of those side by side ones rather than the preferable table seats. A woman located her seat about the same time as me and seemed slightly disappointed that she was to spend the next four and a half hours in the company of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier.....of course the tattooed South Londoner that accompanied said pooch was nothing short of an absolute joy.

A delicate and very professionally delivered suggestion by the female guard that the tattooed South Londoner and Staffordshire Bull Terrier relocate to the free wheelchair seats in coach 'C' was met with appreciation from all involved.

So there we were, me and Mason (dog) plotted up on the double seats designed for wheelchair users, with room to stretch our legs, an ability to utilise the electricity access point, and just chill out.

Then she gets on. The blog material. She's a young attractive woman bedecked head to toe in expensive designer garb. She's a recent mum and has her first born with her who's safely encased in one of those buggies that shouldn't cross minimal weight-bearing bridges and would probably withstand a Taliban IED.

She looks at me and I look at her. I'm not sure if she speaks because Bob Dylan is singing 'Idiot Wind' to me through my headphones so I motion to the empty seat next to me.

It quickly becomes obvious that it's both seats she wants. The Maserati pushchair ain't for dismantling and in any case it's so loaded down with blankets, bottles and bags that she's gonna have to conduct a boot sale to get rid of the stuff first.

My first response is that I'm a fully functioning, fit man so I'll move and give Ms Maserati both seats for her and Junior.

Then I think, hang on, she's chosen to travel with the bomb-proof buggy and failed to reserve a seat in First Class where there's more room, so fuck it, you and Junior can have the seat next to me and Me and Mason (dog) will crack on here.

Ms Maserati chooses the spare seat space for Junior's buggy, within which remains Junior, and sits in the seat opposite me.

She then spends almost thirty minutes mixing bottles of powdered milk, one of which is spilled over the laptop of the young fella sitting next to her, and getting out of her seat every fifteen seconds to check on Junior.

She's obviously concerned about being as far as seven feet and eight inches away from her first born but the thought of him/her sitting on her lap and crumpling her designer blouse is too awful to consider, so Junior remains in the buggy next to Yours Truly.

Then the unthinkable happens. Mason (dog) wakes up, stretches and his superior olfactory system detects a new arrival in our space. So Mason (dog) does what dogs do and has a sniff. Now don't get me wrong, he doesn't pounce on the pram like a deranged, rabid Hound of the Baskervilles; no, he puts his nose near the buggy and has a sniff.

Ms Maserati leaps into the air amid flying milk bottles and in a swirl of Dolce and Gabbana and Balenciaga she removes Junior, the buggy and all her shit and scuttles off to First Class wittering on about how wrong is it that such a wild cur might be allowed to use public transport.

I feel offended....never been called a wild cur before, but I carry on listening to Bob Dylan nonetheless and Mason (dog) and I stretch out again.

Then the track changes and Professor Green starts singing to me instead. Not my usual kind of tune but the Prof encourages me to put the laptop on and attempt to match his creative writing skills but all I can manage is to type this drivel, so check him out.

Rather good.

A Lesson for Alanis

In a former blog post I discussed Alanis Morissette's flawed definition of irony. I stand by my argument that a no smoking sign on your cigarette break is nothing more than the implementation of the smoking ban and dying at ninety-eight, whether you've won the lottery or not, is simply reaching the end of your life at a pretty appropriate time.

You want irony, Alanis? Check this out you warbling, wide mouthed supposed former infatuation junkie.

In an impressive act of preparation, the like of which hasn't been seen since I wore a green uniform and dog-tags and travelled the world meeting interesting and stimulating people of an ancient culture....and killed them, I had everything in place for a journey north to a strange, far away land where men wear skirts and women have a hierarchical system based on the number of their remaining teeth (Ok, Ok...maybe there's a new reader that hasn't heard that one yet).

In an attempt to secure an affordable journey I had purchased a ticket on the 05:40 from Euston to Glasgow. The limitation being that I had to be on that train and no other. Getting to Euston at that time was to involve a 03:00 wake-up, a drive to Battersea, a night bus to Trafalgar Square, and another night bus to Euston.

Everything had to be prepared, any haring around packing bags prior to leaving the house, as is the norm, might result in a tattooed South Londoner and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier standing on a platform watching a Virgin Pendolino disappear into the distance.

Bags packed, 1.25l Bad Boy fuelled, alarm set, bed time and the tattooed South Londoner is determined to get some shut eye before a ridiculously early start. On the pillow, next to the tattooed South Londoner is a mobile phone, the device which is to ensure the journey to Euston occurs according to the time-frame mentioned above.

Sometime during the night, Mason (dog) decided to occupy his usual sleeping position spread out on the bed.

At 06:15 the tattooed South Londoner wakes up and retrieves the mobile phone from beneath the Staffordshire Bull Terrier to find the thing switched off. The realisation that the Virgin Pendolino left the platform over thirty minutes ago and the weekend is fucked hits him and he considers returning Mason (dog) to his former home in Battersea.

Mason (dog) can't do tricks. He can't play dead, he can't roll over on command and he can't say 'sausages'......but he can switch a fuckin' mobile off.

Now, Alanis can use my tale above for her next song about irony if she likes. It'll match her original because it's a story of sadness, not irony.

Here's the irony: I had tickets to see the Airborne Toxic Event at the Shepherds Bush Empire. Due to my decision to take part in the Glen Ogle 33 ultra marathon I would be 450 miles away from Shepherds Bush when the band took to the stage so got tickets for their Glasgow gig instead.

When I missed the train it wasn't just my attendance at the Glen Ogle 33 that disappeared into the ether.....it was the Airborne Toxic Event too.

'At least you've got the London tickets,' I was told today, just as my mobile phone beeped to tell me a text message had arrived.

It read: 'Thanks for the free Airborne tickets you gave me, Dave can't wait to see them at Shepherds Bush.'

That's irony, Alanis: the recipient of your largesse seeing your favourite band live while you're sat at home listening to them on a CD.

A Small Car Enters the WHW Race

This summer the author of The Beirut Taxi wrote about temptation. This concerned Richard's battling with the temptation to end a punishing training run early. I've met temptation in that guise many times myself.

In fact I've never been one for avoiding temptation, while wearing running shoes or any other footwear. If it were me in the desert rather than Jesus, I'd have skipped off down the track with the Devil to partake in bastard hot curry, rice and chips to spend the rest of eternity stoking the fires of hell (like music, it's my contention that the Devil has all the best food). Yep, if it had been me there would have been no need for thirty nine of the scheduled forty days and nights and there would be no Christianity, no understanding of moral resistance and no bland-as-shit chicken korma.

My weak willed resistance to temptation was proven in February when I visited Battersea Dogs and Cats Home. My intention was to exploit the voluntary entry fee and the undoubted attraction of the doe-eyed homeless mutts that would give my youngest daughter an enjoyable but cheap day out. It was absolutely not to give one of those homeless mutts a home.

At the end of that day I left Battersea Dogs and Cats Home the owner of a Staffordshire Bull Terrier who occupies more than half of my bed and has a diet that's significantly healthier than mine.

I truly am a spiritual wimp.

Anyway, I've decided that the time has come to face the Devil and smite him. For the past six years I have entered and started the West Highland Way Race, it became a kind of raison d'etre. Six years of training (well, planning to....and then my old friend temptation encouraged me to do something far more enjoyable. Like eat kebabs and drink wine), six years of planning, and six years of playing the race-with-no-training lottery.

The entries are now open for what would be my seventh race and the temptation is strong.

But I must fight the urge to enter and demonstrate some willpower. My reasoning here is not personal as it concerns the well being of others.  You see my old mucker Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper has entered and so has David Ross from Strathaven.

In a requitable act of selfless duty I am sworn to perform the role of back-up crew to two men that did the same for me in years gone by. To give in to temptation would be to place crewing responsibilities on others and leave Martin and David a person short.

That's the official line, anyway.

The unofficial line is that between them Martin and David weigh the same as a small car. With the two of them running together I fear for any poorly constructed building in the near vicinity for the ground is sure to shake and tremor.

Neither man is built for distance running; both are about as incongruous on the start line of an ultra as Ann Widdecombe in a lap dancing club. This is where my skill and experience come in. I know the West Highland Way like the back of my hand and am a trained search and rescue technician.

Ok, so if one or both collapse while running it's unlikely that their considerable bulk will be covered by a windfall of leaves (a mixer-truck delivery of cement might just do it) but if they do go down I'll be able to find them. Admittedly the detail of my strategy for extracting them to civilisation has yet to be worked out but I'm working on the idea of a Chinook with up-rated winch.

The issue of temptation is one that effects not just myself in this sordid tale of ambition and ability. Both Martin and David will have to fight off the ever-present temptation of pies.

Now Then, Now Then...

I learned today of the death of a truly important national asset. A man who's entertained and amused the populace without ever really intending to. A man whose dress sense might be likened to that of a drunken chimpanzee running naked through TK-Max covered in glue.

Fear not, Dear Reader, the Duke of Edinburgh is still alive. I'm talking of the irreplaceable Sir Jimmy Savile.

If I had a pound sterling for every letter I wrote to Jim'll Fix It I'd be....err....a bit better of than I am now (by about six quid), but my point is that Sir Jim did all the things mentioned in my first paragraph and became a fixture in the lives of those of us that are now in the middle aged bracket.
Say whatever you like about the man but he was a character.

I'm reminded of an evening in the month of June, sometime in the late nineties (I can't remember the exact year.) I was walking the West Highland Way with two pals and had arrived at the Kingshouse Hotel. We pitched out tents in the field outside and headed into the bar for a beer and some scoff. We plotted ourselves up in the scummy 'walkers bar' and got properly on it.

As the night wore on and the beer flowed we heard a mention that Sir Jim was in the main bar. This came as no surprise to uis because we'd seen the jingly, jangly, comb-overed, kiddy botherer on Louis Theroux and knew he was a regular in the Kingshouse Hotel due to having a gaff down the road (and ownership of a mountain if he was to be believed).
So we kicked a bit of the mud off our boots and headed through into the main bar to see if Jim could fix it.

As we walked through the door we saw this little fella at the bar in a black, shiny shell suit. He had the obligatory jingle, jangle jewellery and shock of dyed blonde hair. He was accompanied by about half a dozen hangers on who laughed at his jokes and bought him lemonade.

It really was Sir Jim.

'Alright, Jimmy,' my mate said.

'Hello young man,' said the Fix It man.

And so began an hour of us taking the piss out of a man that the Queen had seen fit upon which to bestow a Knighthood.

I'm sorry.

I'm also sorry that after Jim left the bar we carried on drinking and remembered from Louis Theroux's programme that he routinely slept outside the establishment in his camper van.

I'm even more sorry that we located said camper van in the car park and stood either side of it, rocking it and shouting 'Now then, now then...jingle jangle..'

I'll never get the opportunity to apologise to Sir Jimin person so I'm hoping this blogged apology might suffice.

I guess it's close but it's no cigar.

Laters.

Love, Life, Hate and Murder

So I started this blogging nonsense some three years ago. It was initially intended as a foil to those that took their blogging, and their running, far too seriously.  Me and my old mucker Jon Vann would run along and laugh at how, if we kept a blog, we'd log our beer consumption as opposed to our mileage and record our hangovers rather than our minor injuries.
Then my blog became a reality.

After what I considered a fair start and a developing blog habit that amounted to a post every other day, I had my legs taken from under me by Big Brother. After a close shave where a change in profession became a clear and present danger my blog posts were subsequently deleted and I am now obliged to consider the ramifications of anything I say online.

This has resulted in a dearth of blog posts but an increased threat from the Romania based King of Essex in exile, Mike Mason. Mike has decided that an appropriate sentence for my lack of blogging is to drive an electric power drill through my hip bone.

As far as I'm aware this is an innovative gangland punishment and one Mike devised while attaching the bride and groom statuette to his daughter's wedding cake. You see it involved a screwdriver and a fixing through the hip area of his son-in-law's plastic representation and bingo! Mike came up with a new and untested means of persuading anyone on his radar that Masonic Law is one that is never tested.

As far as I'm aware Mike's son-in-law is a loyal and doting husband which is proven by the fact that he walks without the need for crutches. And as I'm now attached to my computer and logged on to the blogger website I'm hoping to avoid a visit by a couple of black clad, steroid-fuelled lunatics with Essex accents and a Black and Decker.

Old Mike has a funny way of mixing life, love, hate and murder.

Anyway, onward and upward. The author of the wonderful blog The Beirut Taxi, recently brought to my attention the odd practise of Geocaching. After seeing what it was all about I realised that I have other friends that already engage in this activity. Martin Antoninus Horatio Hooper had a pretty adventurous go at it when he secreted his missus's tiny (for tiny read finger sized; the thing cost a fortune) engagement ring on the biggest mountain in England.

And of course a book dedicated to the late, great Dario Melaragni rests in a secret place on the West Highland Way, planted there by our leader, Murdo The Magnificent.

If you don't know what geocaching is all about, hear this: There are nerdy treasure hunters all over the country that spend their time creating caches of junk to be hid in remote places of natural beauty. Personally I think this is simply the thinking man's means of getting past the littering laws and emptying the kitchen drawer of shit. And having now engaged in a wee bit of geocaching myself, I have to say that it goes against the grain to retrieve plastic lunch boxes full of crap from tree stumps and not throw them in the nearest bin.

But it's got my daughter out the door and up to five-mile walks and Mason (dog) is getting more exercise than Myleene Klass on her wedding night. It's also got Yours Truly out the door and doing a bit of running in preparation for the Glen Ogle 33 Ultramarathon.

That, Dear Reader, is enough about running.

On to the food of love....music.

Occasionally you happen upon a new band and they go right ahead and change your life. The Airborne Toxic Event did that. Well, I was tripping about on Youtube the other day and came across a band whose most recent album is described as 'fourteen songs of love, life, hate and murder.' They are brilliant.

I'm not sure Mike Mason is as yet a devotee but I'm sure the music could be the soundtrack to that snowy night in Rettendon back in 1995.

Ladies and Gentlemen, have a listen to The Hillbilly Moon Explosion.

Laters.

Glen Ogle 33

I'm not really sure what happened to me. I had managed around thirty-plus miles of the River Ayr Way Race before my knee started to sing, my ankle throbbed and my legs complained at being taken the furthest distance since June (actually they began to complain at mile six when they passed the June threshold, but I told them to shut the fuck up. By mile thirty they stopped listening).

As I pushed on to Dam Park and the finish my mantra changed from:

'Each step a little nearer,'

to:

'Never again; and if I waiver please drive an electric drill fitted with a large masonary bit through both of my kneecaps.'

I decided that ultramarathon running clearly wasn't for me. In fact running should be something to be experienced only after attracting the unwanted attention of a person in the uniform of the Metropolitan Police Service.

But the sweet taste of success was intoxicating enough to consider an entry in the Glen Ogle 33 a day or so later. I think it's kinda like childbirth; after the passage of time the pain is forgotten as the sight, smell and texture of baby shit assaults one's senses to anaesthesia (that's the second time I've used that word in a week). Although finishing an ultra obviously hurts more than shelling a rug rat.

Supplement the taste of success with a few pints of Arthur Guinness's Black Gold and I'm on a GO33 application like a nun in a cucumber field.

However, after dissing the west coast based former doctor, Tim Downie in my earlier blog post, I've been challenged to a first-over-the-line-gets-a-pic-of-the-other-kissing-his-arse competition.

I don't like the taste of hairy, sweaty bum cheeks, and I'm kinda guessing that Tim's not an attendee at a back, sack and crack clinic; so I'd better get my sorry arse out the door and do some training.

On the face of it Tim should put me to bed without too much bother. His times in every race except the most recent RAW are infinitely more superior to my own, and I suspect he was just out for a bimble in last week's race. But what the fuck, I'll give it a go.

I was talking to someone pretty close to the George Groves camp this week and was told the plan for Groves' success against James DeGale was to simply to mirror everything DeGale did in the ring.

I'm wondering if the same thing might work against Tim in November.

Hmmm.........

I'm not sure I can effect an indistinguishable accent and adopt a slightly camp running style.

Laters.

The River Ayr Way Race: Swimming With Sharks

The River Ayr Way Race (Challenge). It's a reported 41 mile source to sea route that follows the course of the River Ayr from Glenbuck to its terminus in the North Atlantic (now shortened to bring the particpants' misery to an end at the Dam Park stadium in Ayr).

I've run this race every year since its inception and despite my shortcomings in 2011 decided to partake again in this, my Annus horribilis.

For me, like any race that takes place in the land of the skirt wearing man, the journey begins at a public transport hub in or near London. Due to Mr O'Leary's distaste for Staffordshire Bull Terriers aboard his Ryanair freedom birds I'm pretty much limited to the train; so it was the 12:30 from Euston to Glasgow for me and Mason (dog).

Aaaah....the train. Let the train take the strain. I may have become used to taking this idea to the extreme. Boots off, Ipod on, glass of vino collapso poured and lose oneself in a psychologically contorting world of music and alcohol.

The key to this particular journey is the timing. You see the 12:30 requires its passengers to change trains at Preston in order to reach the journey's end in Glasgow. Likewise my innate ability to time the quaffing of the wine to coincide with the journey's completion kicks in to ensure the final sip is taken as the train arrives in Preston.

A twenty minute connection provides the adventurous traveller with the opportunity to seek out and purchase a second bottle of wine to be enjoyed on the Preston to Glasgow section of the journey.

And so Glasgow City sees the arrival of a Londoner with lips so purple he resembles The Joker out of Batman and legs so wobbly he could give Shakin' Stevens a run for his money. This is, of course, standard fayre for the Subversive Runner who has a history of mixing hangover and race. But the existence of a drunken Londoner in Glasgow is like an alternative reality of the drunken Glaswegian complete with purple can and shouting at the traffic in England's capital city.

Anyway, race day and sobriety arrive and Richard Cronin, the author of the excellent blog, The Beirut Taxi, who is in town from Ireland to undertake his first ultramarathon, is raring to go on the start line having indulged in nothing more intoxicating than Strathaven tap water. His attempt to hogtie the Subversive Runner with spiced beef failed miserably as historically this particular Irish delicacy is probably the forerunner of the kebab- a normal pre-race meal for SR.

Personally I toyed with the idea of not starting the race: I haven't trained (nothing new there); I've suffered major emotional and mental kickings this year; I've been gorging on spiced beef all night. But what the heck, I'll have a go anyway.

I know I've got fifteen decent miles in me and after that I know I'll start to suffer a little. I should be able to get over that hurdle to grind out a marathon after which I'll just hang on as my body slowly begins to fall to pieces.

And so I begin the race in my normal way: no plan, just run comfortably and await the pain. I know the route but the recent wet weather has transformed the going under foot to little more than a bog and the reduced income of the local authority has allowed the nettles to grow to armpit height.

To begin with I try to dodge around the nettles with my hands above my head. I feel and look like John Inman in Are You being Served so before I start developing an appreciation of Kylie Monogue and Cristiano Ronaldo decide to man up and allow the nettles to sting me to anesthesia.

As I run I know that Richard is in front of me and I'll never catch him. In my wake are Rachel Stevenson, Tim Downie and Big David Ross. I sense their belief that the under trained wine appreciator is easily catchable and will be eaten up like a Krispy Kreme doughnut left alone with Vanessa Feltz.

This keeps me moving forward and after 8 hours and sixteen minutes the Subversive Runner arrives at Dam Park (do you get the idea that I'm not going to bore you off your tits with running shit?).

Shortly after my arrival Rachel runs in with Brian Kennedy.  Shortly after that Tim arrives. Tim is astounded that he's been beaten by an idiotic Londoner and staggers about dazed, and in a strange accent reminiscent of someone from the land south of Hadrian's Wall, repeats:

'He beat me....he beat me....he beat me...'

To be fair Tim hadn't trained either. But there's something I failed to explain the Running Fool at the time that I will detail here.

Racing against an under trained idiot from London is like avoiding a shark attack.

If the shark has been caught and is flapping about on the land it's easy to avoid his razor sharp teeth. You just stand a foot or so away and laugh in his face.

The grounded shark is me in an under trained condition and his tormentor is a fit and race-ready Tim.

However, if the shark is in his home environment and free to manoeuvre and the person that tormented him on land is now attempting avoidance he will be caught, eviscerated, disemboweled and beheaded in a frenzy of blood and foam.

The shark is me in and under trained condition and his tormentor is Tim in similar shape.

The lesson of this tale, Tim is that if you're gonna swim with the sharks make sure you're inside one of those metal cage thingies.

Laters.