Blubber Snojoke

Here's me, kicking back on a grey Sunday morning with a hard fought 40 miles in the jogging bank for the week and, according to Strava, 6000ft of climbing. This all sounds very laudable and could be the bold statement of an athlete, but that would be to delude yourself. The youngster took me to Blencathra yesterday and ascending that particular piece of magisterial Lake District nobility, the sweat was pouring off me. First, the gilet came off, then the t-shirt. Bare skin. Not a pretty sight. Even the horse flies were slipping off as they tried to cling to my clammy blubber, their bladed gob-scissors failing to find any purchase. From the look of some of the walkers I passed, some wondered where my carer was. So did I.

I have been pretty good in the last few weeks trying to live the life of the emaciated, but the body is proving a tenacious customer. Truly resilient at holding onto what it took 3 months to accumulate when I was laid-off. 

A flat park run last weekend delivered a slow 21, which was acceptable, but the struggle is real. Apparently, these weight loss injections result in you entertaining a meal, but then pushing the plate away after a couple of mouthfuls. I, myself, am living, what I imagine is an 'oozempic-lite' type experience: playing with my fork, eyeing up the warm chicken and rice, or bacon and eggs in front of me. Modest portions. Small plate. Sometimes only armed with a tea-spoon. I delicately slip my utensil into the side of the meal with surgeon stealth. I lift the fork up and take a mouthful. I slowly chew, even closing my eyes, sometimes, to make it last, to maximise the taste sensation. But, to date, I don't seem to be getting the semaglutide sweat, the rapid urge to reject whats on the plate. What the eff is wrong with me (I shouldn't tell you about stopping at Sallys Cafe at Warwick Bridge after the run for a baked potato and scone, or the visit to a local hostelry for a surreptitious pint of ale, but bear with me!).

With the Ben Nevis 'race' on the horizon, my new concern is trying to avoid being timed out.  If so, I comfort myself with the thought that, at least, I could float slowly down the Red Burn.  

I had threatened a fortnight ago or so to chart my progress, but it hasn't merited anything more than a slow shake of the head and disapproving pursing of the lips. I am aware that the increased mileage has resulted in a general fatigue and my mobility is still affected by a periodic achey back. On the positive side, and god knows there has to be one, my foots now back in full service and that, at least, is appreciated. Sorry, this blog entry is so short, but I've hired myself out as a bouncy castle to a kids party round the corner and some folk have come round to carry me there.     

 

Go Forth

Well, we're into August already. The summer continues to be dry and I am pleased to report progress on the running scene and, on more than one front. Double bubble.

I clocked up nearly 30 miles last week. Granted, they were delivered in a shilly-shallying, loafing gut-bouncing dribble, but this exertion has had a second benefit. One of weight reduction. My weights now  plummeted from 71kg to 69.8kg, measured after today's sweaty 6 miler through the woods and before lunch. Ok, I accept its probably all water and not much in a week, but looked at optimistically, I could be back to a diminutive 65 kg in 6 weeks time and, by then, if things continue, I'll be feeling much more like I did in April before my fifth meta-tarsal decided to split on me.  You've heard of the carnivore diet? well, I'm on the carnival diet which involves making an exhibition of yourself. arf, arf.  I can almost get the buttons on my breeks fastened. After 2 weeks at the local Parkrun, I'll be looking for another 4% improvement in time this weekend, unless I go off and do some off-road malarkey.  

I've been considering running in Italy or in the Alps somewhere later this year and, at least, in Italy, it's all a little involved. You need to get a Runcard and a medical certificate. Not the case in Switzerland. What a faff. There's a whole world of road and off-road races to run and I need to be getting out a bit more before the formal arrival of decrepitude and senility, both of which are lingering with quiet menace on the fringes of my future plans. 

When checking my surname on the world trail running association website (https://itra.run), not to be mixed up with (https://www.wmra.info) for mountain running and which is different again, there's boatloads of Mac's with the same surname, and almost all of whom I have never heard of. 

None of the hundreds of races will ever appear on Power of 10. Its evident that there is a whole other parallel world of ultra and trail running out there which you're average club running Joe never encounters.  Close scrutiny suggests that the minimum credible distance is 21k, but several races take place over what I consider to be bonkers distances.