Cutting the Grass

I made a conscious decision that the days of tip tapping away in front of a screen while glugging red wine were behind me. I decided that Blogging is passé, entertaining virtual friends in the Blogosphere was sad, and in abandoning Subversive Running I'd developed into a more emotionally and psychologically mature individual.

That's all fine if you actually believe it. But those that know me well will realise that while the tip tapping away in front of a screen may have ceased, the glugging of red wine would continue in the same ferocious fashion it always has. They will also realise that any attempt at maturing my emotional and psychological sides is an exercise in futility and doomed to failure.

The fact is that public tale telling has some deep, deep pitfalls and I decided that for my own safety a step away from blogging, Facebook and Twitter was a good way forward. Well, blogging and Twitter at least. I've continued attempts to make the odd comical statement on Facebook but try to give that a bit of a wide berth when the cork comes out of the bottle.

I'll give you an example of how in the virtual world things can go from tripping along nicely to tits up in a heartbeat:

A couple of years ago I used to regularly relate tales from my employment as a London Firefighter. If you're a time served reader of this blog you may remember them; if not, have no fear, there was never any indulgence in airing the tragic, the gruesome or the pitiful, just some of the funnier sides of the job. Things like seeing ghosts in the laundry of an old folks home; chasing and capturing an exotic beetle that had escaped from a packing case from Egypt (later to discover it was a common or garden cockroach); and releasing an inebriated resident from his toilet because he was too drunk to open the door.......hold that thought......

So one day I'm hard at work in the fire station office. The phone rings and the discussion goes something like this:

'Hello, this is the local reporter from the Wandsworth Guardian, I'm phoning to see if you've had any newsworthy incidents lately.'

'I'm afraid not, we've been really quiet these past few days.'

'Really? Do you know anything about an incident where a local gentleman was locked inside his toilet?'

'Err......how do you know about that?'

'I read it on a blog called Subversive Running....'

'Cough.....splutter.....err......err......nope, I don't know what you're talking about, sounds like a work of complete fiction to me....'

So you can see my decision to leave the blogging alone was based on sensible and practical reasons. But having a blog that sits dormant is a little bit like having a garden that remains untended. You don't want to look at it because it's a mirror to your laziness and absenteeism.

So after braving the weeds and reading everyone else's blogs I should apologise. Particularly to the friend who has bravely related her current fight on her blog. You've ALWAYS accommodated the most lofty position in the female Scottish heirarchy regardless of owning your own teeth or otherwise.

Anyway, please view this post as me having got out the metaphorical lawnmower and hacked back the brambles. While not a horticultural showpiece of Chelsea standards my garden has at least seen some attention.

So what of training and running? Well, the training programme I've been following is still dictating my attendance at the gym and my presence on the hill. I had a bit of a hiccup when I was on a week long course in the flat lands of Lincolnshire a while ago and then a key long run of four hours turned into a shit short run of one hour after some kippers and toast played havoc with my lactose intolerance. You truly do not want me to say one more word about that.

The first test comes on Saturday when I run my first race of the season, the Dee 33 ultra. I ran this race last year after having done very little, if any, training. I reached the half way point successfully on a mission to finish in around five and a half hours then the wheels fell off. You can bluff it as an ultra runner up to a point only. Indeed entering an ultra marathon and knowing some of the participants does not an ultra runner make.

So hopefully a better performance will be recorded and it'll be upward and onward to June and the West Highland Way.

Check back in some time after Saturday to either read a tale of triumph or a story of woe and marvel at the developing garden. And if I foolishly eat something containing lactose you might be able to read of my exploits in the local paper. Imagine the headline:

'London Firefighter Dressed Like Max Wall Arrested for Exposing His Arse and for Causing Massive Bio Hazard Alert in the River Dee.'

Laters.

Anally Inserted Love Eggs

I've done this before at this time of the year. January brings optimism and ambition in equal measure, I make plans for the year, only to see them dashed by injury, lethargy and at times chaos. But if I fail to begin with ambition and give up before the year begins I'll most likely spend it in an alcoholic stupor getting fat on kebabs and KFC.

So my race year is planned, entries are submitted and paid for, and.......get this......I'm actually doing some training. When I say some training I ain't joshing either. I've been following this training plan I've adapted from one kindly shared by Dale Jamieson and it's pretty full on.

Now, having once been a dedicated weight trainer, and being a qualified boxing coach, I understand the tripartite composition of a successful exercise regime: you can train all you like but if you don't provide your body with the appropriate fuel you'll crash and burn. Red wine and kebabs may have fuelled the fantasies of a runner (I still hate that word and don't regard myself as such) who got by on muscle memory and grit, but even I comprehend that I'll need a slightly smarter nutritional strategy if I'm gonna spend half my life in the gym or on the trail.

Likewise, you can train all you like but if you fail to get adequate rest your body will fail to repair and injury and exhaustion will surely follow. Four hours kip might have satisfied the sleep requirements of a runner who barely ran anywhere, but I'm gonna need to spend a bit more time in the land of nod if I'm gonna spend half my life pedalling away on a static bike or haring round the track in Battersea Park.

So I've entered three races this year: the Dee 33, the Highland Fling and the West Highland Way. I started my new training programme before Christmas and so far have stuck to it more religiously than John Kynaston with a new Bible. And I've been eating properly and sleeping at night (and some of the day). But in the back of my mind the words of the back specialist I saw last year chime constantly:

'Just accept it, your ultra running days are over.'

The pain that exists in my lower back that numbs my legs and makes me walk like I'm making full use of a pair of anally inserted love eggs is a current companion. That companion has been quieted by Cocodamol and physiotherapy and I believe I'll be on top of it before the Celandine blooms. I'm determined to prove the specialist wrong, and to be fair, if I had been honest with her about the imbalance that existed in my training v racing she might have qualified her statement with:

'Your ultra running days are over as long as you continue to be an idiot.'

So there you have it, Dear Reader: a new year and new plans. Let's see what happens.

Laters.

Enter The Dedicated Trainer

I have a dirty, dirty secret that I need to disclose to you, Dear Reader.

Is it that I have been secretly dressing as a woman? That I stole the contents of a charity box? That I have purchased an album of songs recorded by Susan Boyle?

None of that.

It's worse.

I have actually begun training seriously for the West Highland Way Race.

I honestly have.

Let me take you back to a former blog post where I discussed my involvement in the Glen Ogle 33 mile ultra. I had run the total of three training events over ten miles in the previous 12 months and relied on nothing more than muscle memory and blind stupidity to get me through. Get me through it did but attractive and impressive it definitely wasn't.

Anyway, Dale Jamieson commented and kindly offered to share a training programme that was written specifically for him in order to take him to the Highland Fling. I accepted his offer and he duly emailed me this creation that would see the person undertaking it virtually living in the gym during the week and pounding the trails at weekends. Now due to my commitments to the London Fire Brigade shift pattern (48 hours in four days covering whichever culturally significant days that see others in the bosom of their family.....birthday, Easter, Christmas.....you name it, we work it) it took a bit of tweaking but now I have it. I have a programmed system of torture that has seen me mixing it with the hat wearing fools in the bear pit at the gym; pedalling away like a lunatic and getting nowhere on the static bike; and plodding away on the treadmill watching my heart beat telemetrically transposed to a screen in front of me.

That's right, Dear Reader, I have become a gadget sporting, diet considered, dedicated trainer. And I'll be honest and say that I do actually feel different. In the distant past I once was a hat wearing fool that lived in the bear pit. I measured my biceps and recorded my heaviest squat. But my aerobic fitness was shit. Then I became an ultra runner and ran everywhere. I suffered every running injury known to man, looked like Max fuckin' Wall and could run remarkable distances. But my strength was lacking.

With this new training plan things appear to be more balanced and I think 2013 might be an interesting year.

Presently I'm in Mrs Mac's house where I drove after completing a shift that saw me on duty on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and the day following. 400 miles to see my burd and I'm about to skip out the door to go to the gym. Last night we had the sum total of two glasses of Cava each to celebrate 'our' Christmas and I declined an offer of a lift to the off licence to purchase some vino collapso.

Instead I went to bed early after ingesting a protein shake.

I might end up with no girlfriend and a collection of gym hats but 2013 WILL be an interesting year.

Laters.

Podcasting Blues

Some might call this lazy blogging, but I was asked to provide a podcast submission for the West Highland Way Race. This was one of a series of offerings I've made under the title of Waterman's Piratical Ramblings and it involved my memories of this year's race.

I'd like to be able to say that I can simply turn on a voice recorder and wittier on, unhindered, to create something quite magical. In actual fact, if I were to do that, I'd probably create a rambling monologue littered with Anglo Saxonisms. So, in creating a voice recording I'm first required to write down what I want to say then read it. That way I can ensure the deficiency of all swear words and cussing.

So this lazy blogging involves simply copying and pasting my words below. Mrs Mac says that this might be of help to anyone struggling with my Cockney accent that she reckons is thicker than the butter on Vanessa Feltz's toast. She also reckons that I've adopted a kind of Ross Kemp-esque, pause-for-effect quality to my voice recordings.

I'm not sure Mrs Mac's correct on that.........

But if she is..........

So be it...

The podcast can be heard here with contributions from Antonia Johnson and my pal, Keith 'Corned Beef' Hughes.

http://www.westhighlandwayrace.org/podcasts.htm

And the text, if you're struggling with me Lahndan accent:

Waterman's Piratical Ramblings.

Distant Memories of June

As I look out of the window here in South Lanarkshire I'd like to be able to say that the balmy temperatures of June are but a memory compared to the brass monkey weather that is howling outside. I'd like to be able to tell you that suffering the below zero temperatures here in December are worth it for memories of a warm and dry West Highland Way Race last summer.

But I can't.

Nope, even with the passing of six months, memories of torrential downpours and cold temperatures throughout the first night of this year's race haunt me in my sleep and pester me during the day. And I wasn't even running the thing!

Nope, for the first time in seven years I stood in the car park of Milngavie train station surrounded by individuals that looked like refugees from a Max Wall convention in need of a good meat pie, without being dressed like Max Wall needing a meat pie myself. And I'll be honest, it was painful that I'd decided not to run.

When I ran my first West Highland Way Race back in 2006 Keith Hughes told : 'watch out cobber, this race will get under your skin.' And Keith was right.  I'd walked the Way three times prior to my first race so something kept calling me back. Not sure if it was the beautiful countryside, the amazing views, the challenge of covering 95 miles powered by nothing but human endeavour.....or the fact that, as an average, there is one pub for every five miles of the route. 

But something called me back to stand on the start line of the race in 2006 and every year since. Barring this year, of course when my role was as support crew for the two physically largest race entrants of 2012, Martin Hooper and David Ross. Together they weighed the same as a small family car and leave unstable structures in danger of collapse when ever they run. And built for running these two ain't. I suppose that the other runners in this year's race could content themselves that, as they stood there in the lashing down rain, waiting to start, the sheer expanse of surface area of my two runners must have absorbed a good deal of the precipitation that fell onto Mullguy.

It was then that any desire to run this years race began to subside. By the time I stood beneath cover at the Beech Tree Inn at Dumgoyne, eating a bacon roll and sipping a cup of tea, my  desire to run dissolved as the puddles under foot became deeper. But my admiration for those running became greater. Running 95 miles in the Highlands is a stiff undertaking. Running 95 miles in the Highlands when you're getting lashed with rain is something else entirely.

Of course your perspective of an event can only ever be told from your position within it, and mine was as support for two runners who ought to have a specific weight category of their own. Kodiak Bear status would probably be quite fitting.

And as the pair ate up the miles I saw nothing but joy on their faces. I've argued before that poor weather can be defined as bracing given the right mental attitude and Dave and Martin appeared to be enjoying bracing weather.

As the hours passed I discovered for the first time what a challenge being support can be. It mixes hours of inactivity with minutes of chaos where the requirement is to receive your runner, service his or her needs, feed him, patch him up and send him on his way with a hearty slap on the back.

The real challenge comes when that runner is flagging and a judgement call needs to be made regarding going on or stopping. I've been in that position as a runner myself and I know that it's not always the competitor that's best placed to make that judgement call. As a support crew we had our first dilemma at Tyndrum when for Big Dave Ross withdrawal was a distinct possibility. The decision to carry on was a close call and, if nothing else, attempting to cover the next seven or so miles to Bridge of Orchy sealed the deal that Dave had given everything he had to that race. 

I've often heard it said that all you need to do is put one foot in front of the other and you'll reach the end. But when that footfall sends waves of pain through your legs and every part of your being wants to stop, but you know that if you do stop you'll die of exposure, but actually you don't care, and you've got to place that footfall thousands of times, then that refrain becomes pretty meaningless.  And so half of my small family car withdrew at Bridge of Orchy and was packaged up and sent on to Fort Bill for a well earned rest.

The Hooper battled on valiantly and it appeared that the goblet that sits proudly on Martin's fire place would be joined by a second. By the time I reached Bridge of Orchy, which I have to say was a vision of hell. Forget fire and brimstone, if Satan wants to create an eternal misery, all he needs is a few thousand midges and some exposed flesh. Hooper had already left the Bridge by the time I'd arrived, and to be quite honest, who can blame him given the swarms of bloodsuckers....and Sean Stone of course. Hooper stormed across Rannoch Moor propelled on by memories from his recent deployment in Afghanistan with the Parachute Regiment. With only 14 miles left to reach the finish we waited for our hero at Kinlochleven Community Centre where we shot the breeze with Julie Clark, Chris Ellis and Pete Duggan and scoffed Geraldine's delicious orange cake. A phone call from Mark Hamilton who was accompanying the Hooper over the Devils Staircase fired us into action when we were told the pair were only a mile away. 

I suppose that the passing of over an hour before our charge appeared was a good indication that all was not  well. Martin was shuffling along like an extra from Shaun of the Dead and could barely lift his feet from the ground. Dr Chris's assessment was that life was not yet extinct, despite there being very little brain activity and the Hooper might reach the end.(this by the way is a normal state of being for Martin).

It became apparent very soon that the word might was loaded with optimism when Hooper struggled to even leave the community centre. For us, the war was over and we packaged up the remaining half of our small family car.

My memories of this year's race are still pervaded by the horrendous weather. And as I look out of the window at the snow and ice here in South Lanarkshire those memories are very much alive. But I'm banking on the fact that lightning won't strike twice and June 2013 will be positively Mediterranean.

My race entry is submitted as is that of Martin Hooper the Paratrooper. Together we will weigh the same as half a small family car with a rather heavy bag in the boot. See you in June.

Laters.

The Special Forces/Needs Club

The raisin de'être of this blog has become to not speak about running. I don't like to disappoint so about running I'm not speaking.

The first rule of Subversive Running is you do not speak about running.

About the consumption of an alcoholic beverage I have, and will continue to, speak however. Of course an over indulgence in alcohol can result in all manner of mishaps and you may remember me speaking about fighting with police dogs, abusing Jimmy Savile and running in my underwear. By the way, I may resurrect the Savile story in the strongly held belief that I will become a national hero for making one night of the Jingle Jangle sex offender's life a complete misery.

Anyway, this is another story of an overindulgence in alcohol that occurred just over a week ago. It began with an invitation from my pal, former soldier, former firefighter and current body guard, Boris, to accompany him to the Special Forces club to hear Simon Mann's tale of serving a 34 year jail sentence in Equatorial Guinea for trying (and failing) to overthrow the government.

Before I go on there's something you should know about the Special Forces Club......it's a club......for current and former members of the special forces. Although the term 'special forces' has undoubtedly become more inclusive in recent years, it still fails to recognise the membership status of the Pickled Liver Gang of the 2nd Royal Tank Regiment, a group of nefarious individuals of which I was a founder member.

Now Boris is a colourful character and a former Non-Commissioned Officer of the Parachute Regiment, but a member of the special forces he's not either.

So how did a pair of ne'er do wells like us get such an invitation? I don't know. I just grabbed the opportunity with both hands, chucked my suit and regimental tie on and hot footed it down to Harrods to meet Boris.

As I stood outside the Qatari owned department store in Knightsbridge I felt somewhat out of place surrounded by the increasingly rabid Christmas shoppers. It definitely feels that the celebration of Christ's birthday gets earlier every year and as that occurs so my bah humbug attitude becomes more deeply entrenched.

Then, across a crowded I street I saw an equally uncomfortable looking suited man. Boris.Hands were shaken, backs were slapped and the two of us trotted through the streets of Knightsbridge to arrive at an anonymous town house in a small back road. From the outside the building really did appear to be nothing more than one of many upmarket residences, that you would assume was Arab owned and lived in for about a week every year.

But once through the door it was like stepping into a museum of militaria. The walls were adorned with photographs and paintings of derring do and the dudes that do that. In a lounge off the hall sat two officer types wearing tightly knotted ties and with their bouffant hair Brylcreemed back. They were engaged deeply in conversation and I wondered  what acts of valour they were discussing (in reality they were probably chatting about the increasing cost of brogue shoes and corduroy trousers).

Boris led us up a winding staircase to a bar on the first floor. A bar. Immediately I felt quite at home.

'What are you drinking mate?' I asked.

'A nice cup of tea, I think,' replied Boris.

'Fuck off, tea!! BEER!' I insisted.

'Nah, beer has been properly fucking me up recently.'

'Wine then.' I insisted, and before Boris could resist two large glasses of red were on the bar in front of us. Now, there are two things that you should know about my relationship with El Vino:

1 I fuckin love it.
2 I drink it like beer. That's to say that there's none of that sipping nonsense, just full on quaffing.

And so the scene was set for a mishappening. Some three hours or so later Boris and I were reeling like David Blunkett on ice while some geezer was wittering on about the terrible conditions in an African prison (sorry Simon Mann, I'm sure your lecture was very interesting but we were blitzed).

At some stage that afternoon I had an unusual flash of common sense and decided that I needed to get home. Two taxis and a train eventually delivered me to my door and I was back in the bosom of Chez Waterman. Here's the deal: living without the company of another adult is not necessarily my chosen state of being. But a Staffordshire Bull Terrier wags his tail and is happy to see you regardless of the time of day or night, regardless of how long you've been away, regardless of how much of the household budget you've just spunked and regardless of your level of inebriation. As I recall from my former marriages, the same cannot be said for a wife.
Anyway, it was shortly after that I discovered that I had mislaid my jacket, tie and phone. The precise location of my car was a bit of a mystery too.

A sorry for myself phone call was made from my landline to Mrs Mac who proceeded to say most of the things that one might expect from a person mentioned in the preceding paragraph. After mourning the loss of my possessions I went to bed and slept like a dead man.

As is always the case, the morning brought daylight and the realisation that I'd better get things sorted. Report my phone as lost, buy a new regimental tie, and take a pair of jacketless suit trousers to the charity shop.......

Right, I've got to go to work......check in later for the end of the tale.

Back from work.....famous last words: on Tuesday I stated: 'I don't care if I never get deployed to a USAR incident ever again.' Today, at 09:30, guess what? That's right, I got deployed to a USAR incident.

Anyway, so there I was, in my pants in my bedroom telling Mrs Mac that my phone is now reported as lost and I'm about to skip off to the charity shop with a pair of strides that once had a matching jacket.

I open my wardrobe to retrieve a pair of Levi's and ........ What the fuck?? My jacket and tie are hanging up.

Memories of the afternoon's events slowly return and I recall staggering through the door and hanging up my jacket and tie.......I check my trouser pockets for my phone and realise it's absent. I reach into the inside breast pocket of my jacket that I believe is still on my back to discover no jacket.....then I realise my tie is no longer around my neck......the few seconds between hanging up jacket and tie and believing I'm still wearing them are lost in an alcoholic fug.

So, another mishap caused by an over indulgence in fermented grape juice. All I can say is that no one was hurt in this event and it provides a signpost for life.

Another thing I'd like to say is how boring must the life of a teetotaller be? Never fighting with police dogs, never running in your pants and never losing stuff that you were wearing just seconds ago.

And, of course, never making one evening of Jimmy Savile's life an utter misery.......I think I'll have to resurrect that Jimmy Savile post.

Laters.

Glen Ogle

As I hobbled to the pub after completing the Glen Ogle 33 Ultra Marathon last week I said to Mrs Mac:

'One of these days I'm going to actually train for one of these races and show every one what I can really do.'

Talk is cheap, Dear Reader, but I'm not sure for how much longer I can put my body through this. For most of the attendees at the GO33 it was a short, end of season race, just seven miles longer than a marathon.....a mere walk in the park. For me it was my longest run since March's equidistant Dee 33 and my third run beyond 10 miles this year.

My preparation for this race began a month or so again when a medical professional told me that my ultra running days are over. This was obviously a simple tick in the box for her and the successful deletion of a malingering fuckwit.....she obviously has more deserving cases of asylum seeking HIV sufferers to concern herself with than this tax-paying UK citizen...that's what your average Daily Mail reader might say anyway..... not me obviously.

The next stage of my race preparation came with a whirlwind, four-day visit to Miami where I slept for about five hours complete. In the drinking stakes I managed to smash every American I could find into an early bath, and while I stood in glorious victory on the bar I wasn't exactly shoulder to shoulder with other ultras runners.

The final episode of my race preparation occurred the night before the race when Mrs Mac and I arrived in Strathyre, the locale for start and finish of said race. We checked into a fine B&B that accommodated Mason (dog) quite happily (by the way, why wouldn't you accept a house-trained, four legged hound in your establishment when you'll happily house a two-legged Londoner who recently shit the bed in a cottage in Devon?) and hot footed it down to the pub.

We spent a pleasant evening quaffing ale and chatting with other ultra runners. For me the detail became slightly blurred after the eighth pint but I do remember being surrounded by friends at 01:30 and satisfying myself that it was not just me that would be on the start line in a little over six hours. I remember too forming the letter 'L' on my forehead with thumb and forefinger when I discovered that everyone else in the bar except Norrie McNeill were race officials and didn't have to run a step the following morning.

The race itself started on a bastard hill. I wish someone had told me about this which might have prevented me haring off like an idiot.....although to be fair, it was probably my only opportunity to look good.

I ran for some time with Mark Hamilton and Stan Bland and shot the breeze. Both are West Highland Way pals who I feel a close bond with. In reality they tolerate me like I tolerate the educationally subnormal bloke that pesters me at the fire station......and in a similar way they ran off and left me with a never to be fulfilled promise of: 'Don't worry, you'll catch us up.'

I ran the rest of the race alone. The relationships I managed to form with the individuals that ran past me are probably on a par with those that are created by the struggling actresses that consider Ron Jeremy a sweetheart. But I cracked on and ate up the miles like Vanessa Feltz in a Krispy Kreme Donut factory where the fire alarm has just gone off.

I managed 26 miles at a decent pace then felt the pain of a man that's been properly on the piss for the best part of 2012. Then at about 30 miles I felt so much pain that a walk in was on the cards. This bothered me not because all I really wanted was to record a finish which I did at over six hours. How much over six hours is on the public record and I care not to look at it, just that I recorded a finish.

My plan now, Dear Reader, is to train for one of these races and show everyone what I can really do. And that plan is live and well in my brain......however, in front of me exist a bottle of wine and an almost eaten chicken kebab.

Laters.

Miami Virtue

Richard Cronin, the author of the excellent Beirut Taxi blog, stated that it would be a miracle if the 14 individuals that headed out to Miami last week returned without attracting the attention of the local law enforcement agencies.

Let me tell you Dear Reader, that a miracle has occurred. Having been one of that number, and possibly the most likely to have been accommodated in Guantanamo Bay, I can confirm that we all touched down in Blightey after four days in Miami without being interrogated by anyone more official than the US border staff.

And how inebriated on officialdom are they? Sporting the most dour poker face, the one that had the power to send me back to Britain without seeing the outside of the terminal building asked me:

'What are you doing here?' 'I've just got off an aeroplane and the only way I can get into the country is passing through security. What the fuck do you think I'm doing here, looking for a vasectomy?'

'What's the purpose of your journey?' 'I'm here to indulge my British prejudice that all Americans are fat and have no sense of irony while you marvel at my poor dental health.'

'How many others are travelling with you?' 'I believe the jumbo jet I just flew in on holds a maximum of 600 passengers, 10 crew and a couple of pilots. You do the math.'

'Where were you born?' 'Into the arms of a mother who really wanted a daughter. Should I have therapy?

How much money are you carrying?' 'Not enough to achieve the same level of obesity as you but enough to get so obliterated in the bar that I may as well be in Croydon.'

Of course, my real answers to his questions were meekly muttered single word answers. The trip had cost me £800 so playing a wise guy at the airport would have been my biggest financial indulgence ever.

He then directed me to a finger print reader and proceeded to instruct me, using hand signals only, on the correct technique for providing my dabs. The CIA can now track my presence across their 50 states by deploying a fella in a Columbo style mac dusting any and every surface that I've come into contact with.

Before we knew it we were through security, claiming our bags and climbing into a great big people carrier driven by a muffin-topped Hispanic woman. On arrival in Ocean Drive I was expecting a scene straight out of Miami Vice. However, Hurricane Sandy, which was passing northward, turned the place into something resembling Brighton on a wet afternoon.

Luckily, but not so for those on the eastern seaboard, Sandy buggered off the following day and it really did become an idyllic paradise. There was nothing that would have persuaded me to fulfill Richard Cronin's premonition and suffer an early bath so I remained a good boy for the duration of my stay. One that was set afloat on a wave of beer, right enough, but one that was typified by good manners and toleration.

Now I'm home and back to the real world. After a few days jousting with the natives of SW11 I'm heading north on a Virgin Pendolino to see Mrs Mac and Mason (dog). Also to attend the Glen Ogle 33 mile ultra marathon tomorrow. That's right, the specialist I saw a few weeks back told me that my ultra running days are but a memory.

Pah! What does she know? So little that I submitted an entry for next year's 95 mile West Highland Way Race. Richard Cronin is considering an entry for the same race but at present is more fixated with growing a moustache and pair of bugger grips so large that he'll be mistaken for Tosh Lines off  The Bill.

This is all in a good cause of course......that of Movember, when men worldwide grow facial hair for charity. I would like to get involved but am more akin to Johnny Depp than Brian Blessed in the facial topiary department. Any early start I might have enjoyed in Miami would have been blown away by Hurricane Sandy and things are looking pretty stormy in the Land of Jock.