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.