#26 And we come to an end in Las Vegas…

The fourth placed finish in the Sacramento Marathon and return to airline, as opposed to coach, travel combined to make for a euphoric arrival in the City of Sin – Las Vegas – on Saturday evening.

Better was to come as after a quick shower in the moderate (but improved from previous) surrounds of the Diamond Inn, at the far southern end of The Strip, I headed directly to The Luxor to meet my fellow marathoners, Rebecca, Sarah and Jo. From there we hit a sensible pre-marathon dinner of pasta at New York, New York before moving onto the main event – a Britney Spears’ concert at Planet Hollywood. It would be stretching it/a flat lie to say that Britney sung so much as a single note live but she threw plenty into the performance, which covered all her biggest hits and was full value for the admission fee. One can only imagine what her management have to do to keep her out of trouble everyday until show time (my guess is that she lives on tranquillisers in a cage in a car park under Planet Hollywood)…

Three quarters of the group sensibly retired to their hotel rooms at this point but this quarter was far too invigorated by events of the day and so headed on for a short loop involving Hooters, Hard Rock Café, diablo Cantina (in which I was the only non-Hispanic) and Excalibur before crawling into bed at around 4am. In short, ‘Oops, he did it again…’. There was a certain method in this madness however as there were still over 12 hours until the marathon started which was ample time to restore goodness…(‘That’s my prerogative’ anyway)…

Unfortunately, time is a relatively meaningless concept in Vegas and one can procure whatever one wants whenever one chooses. In the next 12 hours I did therefore err and have a relatively harmless cocktail, served (of course) in a zebra’s hoof shaped vessel. It was this or more traditional painkillers and I assumed there were no banned substances in the hoof…

The Rock and Roll event itself was on a massive scale – 40,000 runners taking part in various events over the weekend – and the warm up involved a Kid Rock concert, which was pretty damn cool. There was also an electric guitar version of the national anthem and tributes to the French. All very inspiring stuff, but slightly worryingly played out under an increasingly menacing sky over The Strip. We set off southbound very briefly, to take in the famous ‘Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas’ sign before swinging back and running all the way down the Strip. This was undoubtedly the coolest experience of my marathons during the year to date and optimism abounded. There were live bands performing periodically, huge crowds shouting ‘good job’/’you got this’ (neither of which was accurate), over 150 couples getting married during the race and it all seemed like it was going to be a thoroughly life affirming end to my marathon challenge.

This all held throughout Old Town until around mile 10 when the full marathoners branched off right, leaving the strip and the half marathon runners. It was at this point that things changed for the worse. My life script writer was having a ball, as literally immediately upon turning right the crowds vanished, a sharp headwind buffeted me and it began to rain. It was metaphoric perfection and instantly drained all the optimism from my soul. From here the course headed out into soulless industrial wasteland where spectators and bands do not tread. Such was the strength of the wind that the majority of mile markers had blown away leaving one to guesstimate distance covered. Everyone was in their own personal hell and the only interactions I had with other runners was mutual apologising for ‘cussing’ whenever someone was hit by a particularly strong gust of wind. It was also freezing – not a problem I had envisaged when signing up for the LV marathon…

The lowest point came after around 18 miles when we were returned to a large marquee complex, which I think was Las Vegas Market. For some reason the organisers had opted to stray from the rock and roll theme at this point and instead were playing very deep trance (I think the kids might call it ‘grime’) against a backdrop of strobe lights. Combined with the wind, the overall impact was hugely oppressive on the senses and my face must have told its own story as I passed through as a concerned race marshal cycled up to enquire of my well-being. It was a thin, shredded thread at which one should not pull and had I started answering beyond the unconvincing, untruthful “yes” that I managed, I fear we would have ended with me on a chez lounge crying and pouring out my life story for a few hours…

By now my legs were almost completely gone – the combination of the previous day’s efforts (running and social) and wind having drained any power they had left. I was in a Dark Place and only the thought that I was into the last half dozen miles of the last marathon I would run in 2015 did little to help. Despite only being 7:30pm, it felt like the middle of the night, both actually and spiritually. I was hopeful that a return to the Strip would offer shelter and improved conditions but the impact was minimal and at times the headwind was so strong that it was nearly impossible to move forward at all. As Britney may say, it was all a little “Crazy“. The marathon was finishing at The Mirage, which was very fitting, given that when its gleaming sign finally appeared I knew full well that it was probably two miles further away than it looked. I was however determined to finish my final marathon strongly and called on all reserves to at least trot the final couple of miles, although my finish – in just under 3 hours 35 minutes – was far from glorious. In an attempt to add a dramatic flourish to the conclusion I knelt down and kissed The Strip a short distance after the finish line. Big mistake. I realised I couldn’t immediately get out of my kneeling position and my genuflection only ended after I crawled to the railings at the side and hauled my ruined body back onto its feet which I guess in itself was a spectacle for anyone observing…

The wind was still howling and the cold far worse in the absence of movement but I was keen to wait and clap at least one of the girls home (assuming they hadn’t already finished and gone to eat). I was therefore grateful for the curious distraction of an interview by a Spanish film crew. I’m pretty sure the chap holding the microphone did not understand a word I said as he just stood, smiling and occasionally nodding, all the while carrying a vacuous stare. I suspect my interview has been cut in any event as I can’t imagine I was at my most lucid or electrifying after such a gruelling experience. Rebecca arrived at the finish soon enough and we decided that we would be forgiven for seeking out warmth and sustenance by the other two runners and we headed for a Mexican meal in the delightfully warm Planet Hollywood. Once Jo had joined, it was agreed that any appetite for a celebratory night out had evaporated somewhere between miles 10 and 24 and that we should therefore call it a night and live to fight another day…

Monday started with black jack at Hooters at 9:30am and never really stopped being Vegas-fabulous until leaving a swanky, if very eclectic patron and music-wise, nightclub in the Cosmopolitan Hotel about 18 hours later. In fact, aside from three hours sleep, every hour was filled until the flight home (well, via Frankfurt, for some inexplicable reason) at 4:35pm on Tuesday (a highlight being a visit to Heart Attack Grill at which anyone weighing over 25 stone eats free and where one is spanked with a paddle in the middle of the restaurant if failing to finish the meal – I was duly spanked when the last two mouthfuls of my double bypass burger, complete with 10 slices of bacon, proved beyond me). I would love to report more details but, as the rule goes, the rest will have to stay in Vegas…

In all the excitement and stimulation, it was not until the flight home that I reflected on having all but reached the end of the marathon challenge (there is still the matter of the 0.2 to address). In no particular order, selected highlights have included: sleeping in a dog’s bed before the Belvoir Challenge; arriving at the Shakespeare Spring event in black tie, only to get locked in a toilet cubicle and having to scramble out pre-race; having to smoke it through Belgium and France to catch my ferry home post the Gent Marathon; being called “Nigel” for 23 of the 24 hours of the Foxton 24; two fake marriage proposals (during “The Wall” and on the way to Dublin); breaking three hours (twice – in Manchester and Sacramento) and so, so much more…

Most importantly, including gift aid, the amount raised for two great charities stands at over £2,500 – any final donations welcome (http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/fundraiser-web/fundraiser/showFundraiserPage.action?userUrl=NickTurner31&faId=534101&isTeam=false).

Thank you to one and all of my sponsors and the following commercial partners for facilitating the challenge – Sports Direct, JD Wetherspoons, Primark, Panadol and Greyhound Coaches. I couldn’t have done it without you guys!

#25 Beat the Blerch (and the Underdogs’ Story)…

Part I – The Underdogs’ Story

We left the story with its eponymous anti-hero, the hapless Nicholas, ready to depart Dallas. Little did he know that he was about to stumble into a remarkable cast of characters at Dallas Greyhound station.

(Let me preface what follows by saying that I offer no judgement on the folk described – never has one been worse placed to comment on the character of others. The report is purely observational as, beyond what was volunteered to me, I know nothing of the ups and downs of life which brought them to that bus station at that time…)

Almost immediately upon joining the queue for the 7pm coach bound for Las Angeles (albeit due to arrive around 29 hours later) I was approached by a lady with the smeared massacre and twitchy demeanour which spoke of a bad day. She had a mish-mash of belongings with her comprising a large wheelie bag, a stuffed pillow case, a hand suit case and a pillow. Her name was Diane. Diane offered a brief synopsis of her life in Dallas. Without going in to full details, she explained that whilst not being easily fooled, she had apparently been duped by several folk out of her inheritance. As a result she now had post traumatic stress disorder and a plan ‘to deal with’ those who had wronged her (“I have their number plates and social security numbers. They’ll get theirs…”. Wow!). We then moved on to a discussion of the heat in the terminal, her high blood pressure and the near certainty of her passing out or having a stroke either now or on the bus. I decided The Right Thing To Do was to try and make her relax and to offer to carry her bags. After all there were only minutes until the bus was scheduled to go and I would ensure a seat away from her. Bing bong. “We are sorry to announce that the 1403 service to LA is delayed…” Bugger. I was slightly concerned about my ability to keep her calm indefinitely and so relieved when her ears caught a nearby conversation which implied drugs may be on offer from a young ‘street-dressed’ gentleman. I agreed to mind her bags whilst she chased down her lead and was marvelling at the people I had already met on my Greyhound odyssey when a well-built dwarf with a bald head and a beard, wearing a white vest and jeans, tentatively made his way around the corner on crutches, with all the certainty of Bambi. He swayed away for a while, minding his own business and responded that he was heading for Oklahoma when asked by a security guard. (I was pretty sure our coach was going nowhere near there). Unconvinced by the response the security guard asked to see his ticket at which Dwarf (wish I knew his name, as this seems a rude way to address a human) produced a driving licence, no ticket and promptly threw up twice, mostly on himself. I was now almost convinced I was hallucinating…Anyway, Dwarf was led away for a sit down and Diane returned – thankfully somewhat calmer, presumably having been given an appropriate calming substance (I feared that Street Smart was going to perk her up with something and return her to the queue). In tow with Diane was now another chap. He was talking to a very young looking man about having been released from a shelter earlier that day and bemoaning how, having found Jesus himself, very few would join him when he invited them to follow. After, ooh, three minutes of trying to persuade the young man of the virtue of finding Jesus in your life, Shelter seemingly gave up and opted to find the nearest liquor store, running off to avoid missing the bus. He returned enlivened a short time later and proceeded to reel off a passable Forrest Gump impression word-for-word. Unfortunately he appeared to have only watched about three minutes of the film so – having praised his initial effort – we ended up with him on loop cycle. By now, like Forrest, I was wondering if running across America to my next destination may be my best option…

As luck would have it, when we eventually boarded (nearly two hours late), the coach was full and I was not seated with any of the characters described above. In fact, Dwarf was not on the coach at all. He magically reappeared at the coach door (causing me to again question my sanity) and the same scenario as above played out – where’s your ticket sir?; swaying; driver’s licence; vomit; security guard. I do hope he’s OK. They usually are in my experience (although that is largely restricted to Disney films). Anyway, back to the coach and I was sat with a normal, quiet seeming chap, and it looked as all was going to be fine – just as well, given the length of the journey. It was just as I was relaxing with that thought when a baby awoke in the seat behind me. Unlike some, I am not overly offended by the sound of a crying baby but this child sounded like it had been delivered straight from the depths of hell. I have literally never heard such a haunting, piercing noise produced by a human (audition rounds of The X-Factor excepted). There were murmurs around the bus about the devil child, but everyone kept them mostly to themselves whilst loud enough to make the parents presumably very uncomfortable. It was only when Baby Siren finally stopped that I could contemplate some long overdue sleep on a day which had started at 3am with the witness of a near fatality and was now nearing its 20th hour. As I started to drift off, I was now convinced my sanity had gone as I could clearly, but faintly, hear the sound of the sea gently lapping the shore. Next stop Locoville I thought. I then realised that the young chap next to me was playing the sound into his ears. You’re going to need a Bigger Sound whilst ever Baby Siren is around I mused. It was my last musing of an eventful day…

We ‘lost’ one of the extras from the crazy congregation overnight when they decided to try and shoplift a few items from a 7-11 at one of the short break stops we had along the route. Unorthodox. The coach was still running way behind schedule on a day which took us through, amongst other places El Paso and Touscan but the drivers seemed blissfully unaware of that and made no attempt to speed up or shorten breaks, much to the annoyance of a number of passengers. Fortunately for the drivers this very random group of people had clicked and so they mostly forgot their gripes, accepted Greyhound is for “the poor man – they don’t care about us brother” (as I was told several times), and settled for talking about things like the penal justice system (several of them had been wrongfully incarcerated – not one justly, it appears) and college rivalries – there was even some singing of opposing songs. All-in-all a very merry day, which also included an incredibly vigorous border inspection (I think when crossing into New Mexico but no one seemed sure), which involved two uniformed guards boarding the coaching and asking each passenger “are you a US citizen?”. I think I was the only person to say no (which simply meant showing my passport), and this despite there being a girl on the bus who was wearing a sticker saying where she needed to be told to leave the bus as she only spoke Spanish (she had also had to be put onto the bus at Dallas as she was standing in the wrong line). Things deteriorated slightly when we reached Phoenix and had to change coaches. I had lost a tiny bit of paper which no one had explained was crucial to onward travel and was only eventually allowed on to the new bus because I had hold of Diane’s pillow case of belongings (the grey bra hanging out of the top was sufficient proof it was not mine) and she had already boarded. Phew. We also picked up another character of interest on the new bus – a lady in only underpants and a fleece who, when we arrived at the terminal, was arguing with a security guard that the law did not state what clothes one had to be wearing when in public, just that they had to be wearing ‘some’. He huffed and wore a resigned look which said, “screw my job”, before moving on…

The next two legs of the journey – from Phoenix to LA, where we arrived nearly four hours behind schedule, and LA to Sacramento – were relatively uneventful, save for a fairly heated argument between some Greyhound co-workers, and the young girl sat next to me from LA to Fresno kicking me for most of the five hour trip. Greyhound – the gift which keeps on giving; where customer service is an unknown concept; timetables merely aspirational and discomfort is guaranteed.

In three and a half days (and circa 2,500 miles) since leaving Memphis, I had not slept in a bed, washed or changed a single item of clothing (most (all) of which hails fittingly from Primark). Who am I? I am Nicholas. I have found my people. I am an Underdog…

Part II – Sacramento (Beat the Blerch Marathon)

“Sometimes the best plan is no plan” (categorically not ‘Art of War’ by Sun Tzu)

With Savannah not counting towards the marathon tally, I needed to act fast if the challenge were still to conclude in Las Vegas. As previously reported, a pleading email to the organisers of Beat the Blerch Marathon, Sacramento, resolved the issue but resulted in a total revamping of the ‘planned’ trip (such as there ever was one) and some of the adventures described above. When I was wandering the streets of Dallas pre-dawn I saw a quote in Thanksgiving Square which read “be thankful for everything” and I don’t think one can go too far wrong in life with that mantra – I have certainly applied it a few times since last Wednesday…

As for Sacramento – well, having arrived in the city after a 40+ hour coach ride, the long queue at registration was an unwelcome sight. I was therefore hugely grateful when a chap named Vic offered to drive me downtown. (As an aside – I do seem to be very appealing to middle aged American men, which is not really my targeted audience; may need to consider what vibe I’m giving out)…

Safely deposited downtown, I wandered the pleasant but quiet streets before stumbling across the kitsch but pleasant Old Town. I had been told by Vic that the other side of the river from Old Town – west side – was somewhat sketchy and so, naturally, after a beer at O’Malley’s, that’s exactly where I headed in search of accommodation.

Vic was not wrong about the sketchiness and I scuttled along with my fix firmly on the sidewalk after seeing a fairly dangerous looking group of youths outside the bowling alley. Beyond this was a string of motels. A bit like Goldilocks, the first two were no go – only because there was no response to the buzzer – and I would love to say that the third, Crest Motel was Just Right but it was in fact All Wrong. The odour was a heady mix of damp and old cigarette smoke, the décor 1970s gaud and the TV offered only two channels – an obscure news channel and adult movies. Having showered I decided I was safer on the edgy streets than within and headed back to Old Town for dinner and a couple of drinks before an early pre-marathon bedtime.

I awoke to a pleasant but cold morning for the inaugural Sacramento marathon, which started nearby at the Raley Field baseball stadium. The event had been inspired by a cartoonist who writes of his running efforts in the context of allowing him to live a fulsome life of fast food, cake and beer without conscience – a man after my own heart – and this manifested itself in an eclectic field of runners (http://www.beattheblerch.com/#sacramento).

It was not a huge field and, with a week of Greyhound tension to release, I set off out front, leading for the first few miles as we ran along either side of the river. After about five miles, three Real Runners (i.e. lithe men who didn’t live on a bus) passed me and I accepted my lot as an also ran with grace. The course soon left the city and followed a pleasant, undulating walking track along the river, which passed through sheep pasture grounds and was altogether pleasant, also offering shade as the Californian sun warmed up. I was fairly coasting it after around 20 miles – still in fourth – and decided on a time check which revealed that if I maintained my current pace I would be pretty close to three hours. The legs were starting to suffer but I gritted my teeth, channelled some of the pain I had endured throughout the year and sucked it up and eventually crossed the line, back in the stadium, in 02:58:50 and retaining fourth position (the equivalent of being an unused bridesmaid at a wedding I guess) out of 215 marathon finishers.

With a flight to Vegas at 1:45pm, there had been a certain imperative to my efforts but I afforded myself a certain amount of reflection and pride in the morning’s efforts, given what had proceeded them. Well, we all know what follows pride. Sure enough, the best laid plans of this man-mouse came crashing down when my pre-ordered taxi had not materialised by 12 noon. I was now marginally stressed so told a minor white lie to Sacramento’s finest and explained that I had a flight to the UK which I had to make and was in grave danger of missing. He dutifully called despatch and within ten minutes – was on my way – even taxi drivers don’t mess with the cops here – and made my plane with minutes to spare. Too easy. Next stop, Las Vegas baby!!!

Epilogue – the Underdogs – Where are they now (2020)?

With the support of her family, Diane straightened herself out and now hosts an hourly morning show – ‘Going in the Right Di-rection’ – on San Diego TV where she advises women on issues. Thankfully she never did ‘sort [the wrongdoers] out’ and describes herself as “happy and at peace”…

Dwarf never did make it to Oklahoma and, in fact, did not even know where it is. He eventually made his way to LA (when he accidentally stumbled into a box being loaded onto an LA bound coach) where he carved out a successful career as a waiter/part-time extra in sci-fi movies…

Baby Siren has become a quiet and studious young man of promise. He hopes to one day become a politician or a singer…

Despite never developing his talent beyond a single impression, Shelter is enjoying the second longest run as an impersonator in Vegas as the warm up act for various stars at the MGM Grand. He mercifully did watch the entire ‘Forrest Gump’ film to extend his material but has permanently turned his back on Jesus in favour of vodka and strippers…

Underpants Lady decided to pursue her alternative dress code for a living and is a moderately successful life model in the greater Phoenix area…

The whereabouts and well being of Nicholas is unknown but there have been reports of a thickly bearded man bearing a strong resemblance to the artist formerly known as Nicholas running along the various Greyhound routes of America…

We wish them all well…

 

#25? Savan-nah…

It was with customary chaos that my trip to the US began.

The final day at work never really ended and I final threw in the towel at about 2am for three hours stolen sleep on the uncomfortable, elevated bed in the office first aid room before returning to work to the bitter end.  With a hospital pass of a handover completed, I was free to sprint down the hill to Nottingham Coach Station to just catch the Gatwick-bound bus for the first leg of my journey.  In between emails, I found the sanctuary of some sleep although that came to an abrupt end when the driver announced that due to traffic congestion, we were running nearly 45 minutes late.  I was already cutting it fine so this added a very poor action-movie edge to proceedings as we raced (at about an average of 50-mph tops) against the clock to make the flight to New York.  In the end, all was fine although things became less fine when I discovered that not only did Norwegian Air need me to pay extra for the one bag I had brought but they would also neither feed nor water me at all on the seven-hour flight without further payment.  Scandalous (and a reminder to always read the small print).  After some indignant huffing I decided that some wine was in order for two reasons (1) to push aside memories of a fraught couple of days and (2) because I had eight hours to kill before leaving New York baby and was damned if I was sleeping during that time (this turned out to be inaccurate)…

The NYC visit was flying indeed.  An interminable queue at JFK further shortened my time in the Big Apple so with the time I had I had for some ‘iconic shots’ of Times Square and from the top of a misty Empire State Building before taking a taxi to The Meatpacking District where I would like to say I tore things up (and could as there are no witnesses).  But no.  In fact, I was turned away from one venue (despite showing them how many crisp dollars I had ready to ‘invest in fun’) before falling asleep in a second venue after the excitement of the days (and my age) caught up with me.  Rock and roll (extreme lite version)…

Savannah

I will blame the itch of unfinished business on the fact that by 11am on Friday I was in Hooters, Orlando Airport, shamelessly showcasing my British accent.  This seemed to be going so well that I was quite reluctant to leave and head for my next flight – to Charlotte, from where I would catch a further flight to Savannah.  Thanks to a delayed flight and very slow baggage return, another race against the clock was on – this time to register for the Savannah Marathon before the 7pm cut-off.  There was less than 30 minutes to do this so I hopped in a cab with a young chap running his first marathon and cab driver who was very keen to extol the virtues of living everyday as if one’s last (not necessarily best practice as a cab driver).  On arrival at Savannah Convention Centre we were hustled into the registration area just as it was closing down but had made it.  Everything was going to turn out just fine.  And it did.  In the alternative world where I counted numerous lucky breaks and went directly to my delightful sounding Econo Lodge accommodation, everything was just fine, if a little dull.  Back in the real world, matters were taking a different turn.  In the real world Nicholas was on the free ferry which would take him to search out fun in Savannah.  A couple of bars will help deal with jet lag and do no harm was the mantra.  When this mantra was replaced by that of Mr Cab Driver I’m not sure but I awoke on a sofa – amazingly with all possessions intact – to be told by a new friend, Candice, that “yes – you’ve missed the start of the marathon”.  In fact, I had already missed it quite spectacularly but after faffing around with finding kit and contact lenses, I was running over 90 minutes late.  Undeterred – I am after all a problem solver (albeit I create the majority of them), I headed for Bay Street which was where the run had started, although you would not know it now.  There were still police officers around – presumably preparing to re-open the closed roads who pointed out where the start had been and marveled as I set off before shouting that I should perhaps stick to the sidewalk.  All went well as I ran up a dead straight road, although problems materialised as soon as I started hitting junctions and various plausible marathon alternatives but no signs.  Eventually I decided to stop in at a fast food restaurant to ask, “no mister, we ain’t seen no marathon come by here” was the slightly concerning response.  I decided to press on before trying one more shop – a mobile phone shop – which yielded a similar answer but the sales clerk told me that her husband would know.  I was passed a mobile phone, at the other end of which a man informed me that I was indeed off course and needed to turn around and return to Martin Luther Kind Junior Avenue and should be OK from there.  I was indeed OK and a few billboards of support (if no people) showed I was on the right path.  My next problem was at another junction with two very promising looking alternatives.  I went left for a short while before heading into the “Information Centre” (they weren’t specific about information specialities so I assumed could handle any and all enquiries) where I was again told I was off track.  They did offer the consolation of the first water I had consumed in over an hour (the other problem of missing the start so badly is that all of the aid stations had long been dismantled).  Not long after returning to the Right Track, I caught the truck which was dismantling the course.  This was actually a huge sign of promise as it meant that there should at least be evidence of the marathon to follow from here on in…

Better news followed as I soon stumbled across people with medals who had presumably finished one of the shorter events – everything was going to be fine, although it was hot and I was slightly concerned about how many aid stations I would reach before finishing.  Just as I reached the quite probably wrong conclusion that all would be OK, a race volunteer stepped out and asked what I was doing, explaining that the course had been re-routed and shortened as someone had died.  Awful news.  It happened that I received this news near the finish area so was able to take a few short turns down the beautiful streets of Old Town Savannah and “finish” with a sprint and collect my unearned medal (having maybe run 10 miles in total).  All in all, an odd day which led to a return to Southern hospitality and new friends and a boozy day out in lovely Savannah…

Beyond Savannah…

I set off for an early departure from Savannah – deciding to walk the five or so miles to the Amtrak Station as I thought train travel might be an interesting experience.  It transpired that there were NO departures, at all, that day.  Unbelievable.  So it was that I was heading back to town to book onto a Greyhound after a quick trolley tour of the city (most of which I had seen one way or another).

For no other reason than distance and price my first destination was Atlanta.  However, with no huge desire to see any of its sights and pitching up in torrential rain, I booked onto a bus heading for Jackson within the next two hours.  Jackson, Mississippi has a nice ring to it (and features in a Bruno Mars’ song) so I figured would be lovely.  Good grief, no.  It was a truly odd place.  It took me over an hour from arrival to find a cafe and by that time I had already been hit up for cash by several sketchy looking individuals.  After seeing a half dressed man having a vigorous fight with an invisible opponent in the middle of the road convinced me that I needed to leave pronto and I headed for the relative safety of the first bar I had seen in the seven hours following arrival.  There I got chatting to a middle aged chap named Robert who I’m pretty sure had eight gin and tonics before driving us to the next place.  At this point, he began to touch my arm with a regularity which shouted STRANGER DANGER and I politely declined the offer to get back in his car for a life to the Greyhound Station, opting instead to sprint there, never once looking back.  A bizarre trip was rounded off when the guy sat next to me explained that he had just that morning been released from a “correctional facility”.  Several hours trying hard not to press the wrong button and upset him ensued…

Next up was Memphis.  Much more like it.  A seemingly friendly taxi driver gave me a brief history of its development and the origins of Nashville before turning up the crazy dial and shouting about the radiation in mobile phones and huge conspiracy blinding (and radiating us all).  I thanked him as he dropped me at a motel before having my first cleanse in a fair while and heading for the pedestrianised pleasure street which is Beale Street and its numerous Blues and Booze bars. After watching a relatively ropey display by a girl clad in a leopard skin jump suit crawling up and down on the bar at Coyote Ugly I decided that was enough for one night, pausing to enjoy a phat-Beale Street cigar on the way back to my room.  Tuesday was an early rise for a run along the river before catching a tour out to Graceland – a truly epic experience – before catching my next overnight Greyhound, bound for Dallas.

Wednesday started hideously – after exiting the Greyhound Station at 3am, I headed for the mandatory McDonalds’ breakfast.  There were a couple of shady guys, one of whom kept heading for the parking lot and the security guard eventually followed him out there.  A seemingly fiery exchange followed before the security guard starting belting the hell out of him before putting him in a choke hold.  A couple of others joined in with separate fights before the po-po’s turned up and arrested the youth.  The security guard came in fairly pent up and relayed the tale, explaining the youth had already robbed someone earlier and was looking like doing so again, but had threatened the guard by saying he was from a gang in New Orleans.  The guard said (to no one in particular), “New Orleans?  So the f**k what I told him.  You in Dallas now son, we kill presidents here…”  It turns out the guard was an ex-pro boxer of 20+ fights so the young man had picked the wrong McD’s for that sort of carry on.  What a McStart to the day…

I passed a few hours wandering before locating the Information Centre where I was awoken by a man shaking me asking if I was Joshua.  When I replied that I wasn’t he said, “well I’ll leave you one of these cards anyway as it looks like you might need it.  We provide outreach to people with dependency problems…”  Thanks, I’m OK, just only slept in a bed once in quite a few days now…

Next up was a tour of the old Texas School Book Depository (from where JFK was allegedly shot, although one is not allowed to take pictures from the sixth floor – conspiracy much?), Veterans’ Parade and huge feast.  Looking forward to another night on the Greyhound tonight, followed by a short break in LA then Sacramento, where the angels of mercy who organise the marathon there have given me a place, despite the event being full.  I may still get this challenge done this week after all…

#23 and 24: Dublin’ Up

Not for the first time in my life, a week of highs and lows (including slamming Mrs T’s car into a pillar in the work car park, with a colleague in the passenger seat) ended with a double-header marathon weekend.

Leicester

Highs and lows aside, it had been a week of abstinence from alcohol, prompting optimism for the Leicester Marathon. At least this was the case at 3pm on Saturday. Fast forward eight hours and I was eating chips after a few drinks watching the rugby led to a few more, all brought to an early conclusion when I literally had to run away from a female body builder from Grantham who had taken something of a shine to me and could have easily turned me into flour had she chosen to do so…

The undoing of a week’s efforts at healthy(ish) living was confirmed on Sunday morning when I opted for a Mc-Notrition Breakfast Sandwich™ on my way to the Leicester Marathon. The extra hour in bed – thanks to the changing of the clocks – had convinced me that I had time to spare for the day and I was therefore happy to ditch the car in the first available car park – at The Highcross Shopping Centre. This turned out to be a poor idea as it was nearly two miles from the start line. By the time I reached the starting area, the other runners were ready and the countdown was into the last couple of minutes. I put my belongings into the storage area and (again, not for the first time) jumped the railings just as the race was setting off.

Deeming this as my best chance to break three hour mark in the remaining four marathons of the year (and with a VIP lunch experience at Leicester Tigers starting in less than three hours’ time), I set off at a decent/unsustainable lick. For once my nipples would not be a concern, because I had inadvertently taken them off with Veet in the shower the previous day (not a statement I thought I would ever type or would want to have read out in a court transcript, “My learned friend, whilst your client claims to have pre-removed his nipples with Veet, the prosecution contends that no man would knowingly de-nipple in such fashion…etc”). I was comfortably under 1 hour 30 minutes for the half marathon and considering that I had a shot at breaking three hours when I suddenly felt a few concerning twinges in my right hamstring. With another marathon the next day, I was not keen to test the elasticity of my notoriously taught hamstrings too far and therefore decided to take my efforts down a notch. By the time the nagging twinges had stopped, there was too little in the tank to accelerate, which meant missing the three hour mark by 215 seconds, finishing in 3 hours 3 minutes and 35 seconds…

It transpired that my biggest challenge was yet to come as I tried to change into presentable attire for my VIP experience. As a young event marshal watched on, I twice tried and failed to put on my left shoe but severe cramp instead forced me to topple over. I was too proud to ask for his help so ended up wasting several minutes performing a basic human function, meaning a short, unwelcome jog to Welland Road for the rugby. After an excellent afternoon of being (slightly) wined (I was driving) and dined at Leicester Tigers, it was off for my next leg of the journey – to Dublin…

Dublin

For the purposes of this blog, I will describe my journey to Dublin and the overnight stay prior to the race as ‘eventful’ (and in the case of the latter, not technically in Dublin but instead in one of its southern suburbs, Loughlinstown). The outcome of this was that my first obstacle on Monday was persuading a fiery Irish taxi despatch lady that she should send a taxi to a man that could only provide vague directions to his location (“on a junction of a main road and a smaller street”) and no mobile phone number. Eventually – at the third attempt – my ‘charm’ paid off and a taxi eventually arrived to take me on what seemed like a much shorter drive than it had the previous evening to central Dublin for the start of the marathon.

I was not quite prepared for the number of participants in the Dublin Marathon and my leisurely pre-race preparation of a coffee and a sandwich turned out to be my demise as I sat in a portaloo as the race announcer – who had been poetic and enthusiastic throughout the morning – proclaimed that 5,000 runners from the first wave (which was supposed to include me) had now passed through the start line. The net result was a fairly eerie start as I wandered down Fitzwilliam Street, completely deserted in front of me, whilst a wall of runners (shepherded by a line of illumines-jacketed volunteers) marched down the street behind me, like a crowd of non-violent protestors slowly hunting down a dissident.

As I finally started the race, it was a grey and drizzly day, but the course was lined with an almost unending line of spectators which made it one of the best atmospheres in which I have ever run a marathon. The combination of the miserable weather and enthusiastic support made stopping unappealing, this despite a reasonable amount of discomfort – particularly in my quads, which felt like they were leaking battery acid into the surrounding area – from efforts less than 24 hours previous. The portaloo delay had also helped by putting me behind 5,000 people, with limited space to pass by them, meaning I was forced to run at a steady pace. In the few spots in which there were no crowds, there were motivational signs to make up for the lack of people, two of my favourite being:

“Hail Mary Mother of Grace, Please Get Me Out of This F**cking Race…”

“Run like you’ve left on the immersion” (‘immersion’ not being a word I’ve heard for many years)

The end (arriving after 3 hours 18 minutes and 43 seconds) was welcome and the pint of the black stuff which followed promptly afterwards even more so (when in Rome and all that). All in all, it had been excellent craic but a spectacularly draining weekend and I was asleep before the Ryanair flight attendants had delivered their safety demonstration.

Next stop USA, in less than two weeks’ time, and the start of the final act…

#22 Robin (Bl)Hood(y) nips (again)!

For this week’s instalment, I have decided to share a few tips for the top (or at least the middle):

• Massage – if you are like me, then get help, please get help. Seriously, if you are like me, then the word “massage” may be synonymous with the image of a buxom Swedish male or female in a softly lit room gently manipulating you with a healthy portion of aromatic oils. However, if one adds the prefix “Thai” or “Sports”, the whole experience takes on a new dimension. So I discovered (again) when heading to a meeting room at the office on Thursday afternoon for a Sports Massage. I did the sensible manly thing of saying that the pressure was just fine when asked by my masseuse/torturess, all the while nearly biting though my lip. Such was the discomfort that I may well have opted to switch to waterboarding midway through, had that been available as an alternative therapy. That said, the short-term pain did seem to prevent some marginal gain for my otherwise marathon-battered limbs…
• One gets what one pays for – after probably suffering ‘nipple issues’ in 18 of my 21 marathons in 2015 to date, I decided to seek to address the issue. However, deterred by the (perfectly reasonable) price of branded petroleum jelly I opted for a particular high street chemist’s own brand of ‘Baby Petroleum Jelly’. When added to my other purchases of pain killers and bandages, I got suitably short shrift when trying to make eye contact with the cashier, who presumably assumed something more deviant than a marathon was on the cards with my weekend…Sadly, my shame was to no avail as come Sunday afternoon there were the usual blood pools where once had been nipples…

• Preparation is Everything – not entirely unusually, I had signed up to an historical bar crawl of Nottingham the night before the marathon. Whilst reckless, this is becoming fairly standard. It was through luck and lightweight-ism, rather than planning, that I was forced to leave proceedings embarrassingly early but the extra few hours in bed seemed to reap dividends on the day. With only a few hundred metres to walk from my flat to the start line, it was an event that even I couldn’t miss and the pleasant misty morning helped breed cautious optimism. This was tested early on as the course immediately took us up a number of fairly severe hills. Once negotiated, things settled down onto the flat for the remainder of the first half of the race, which I dealt with in under 1 hour 30 minutes – a might too fast. I was managing to keep things ticking over for the first couple of miles of the second half, which remained flat, until I finally had to succumb to the call of nature and spend a couple of very unpleasant minutes in a portaloo at Colwick Racecourse. Things will have been all the more unpleasant for whichever unfortunate soul followed me.  After its flat beginnings, the second half also became a bit challenging and I spent a few minutes walking up Derby Road in Nottingham, cursing the sun and the ascent before managing to get back into something of a rhythm and a finish time of 3 hours 5 minutes and 30 seconds – my second fastest marathon of all time.  Robin Good?       

#21 – The Crooked Squire

This week’s tale starts with an incredible coincidence. For the second consecutive marathon I was given bib number 1144. By my crude calculations (subject to confirmation from a mathematician or, failing that, Carol Vorderman), the odds of this are around 2,000,000 to one. Safe to say that I would probably rather have won a meaningful amount on the lottery than had the quirk of matching race numbers, but one takes what moments one can in life. Here are some other things which are more likely to happen than getting the same number in consecutive marathons (apparently):

• Becoming a movie star – 1,505,000 to 1
• Being struck by lightning – 576,000 to 1
• Having to visit hospital due to an injury from a pogo stick – 115,300 in 1
• Meeting a suitable life partner in a Wetherspoons before 10 am on any weekday – 1,980,000 to 1*

*(this one may have been made up by yours truly after extensive research)

In a less surprising coincidence, the weekend of a marathon had not for the first time started with me waking up on Saturday morning on a yoga mat in my office instead of in my bed. Leaving my flat keys in the drawer at work had actually been a deliberate ploy by Office Nick, after some champagne had arrived unannounced on Friday afternoon. Sadly, after a few further drinks Fun Time Nick had forgotten all about Office Nick’s wisdom and turned up back at said flat with no way of getting into the building. Never one to let a little adversity stand in the way of a good time, Fun Time Nick decided to muse over his next action whilst dancing at The Riverbank before eventually determining that the best course of action was the yoga mat. Office Nick would have despaired…

Aside from the confusion of waking up under a desk, the remainder of weekend marathon preparation was reasonable enough, capped off with an excellent night’s sleep at my sister’s house, which was only a few hundred metres from the start of the marathon in Queen’s Park, Chesterfield. As often seems to be the case, a decent rest seemed to remind my body of what it had been missing for weeks and I had developed a cold overnight. Now, women and children may not understand this but the adult male human does not just develop a cold in the same way as other humans. He develops a life threatening condition of severity unimaginable to anyone who is not Adult Man. With heroics bordering on the super human, I sniffled and coughed my way on the short walk to the race start where the coincidence described above revealed itself when I collected my race number. I am not really one for superstition in any event I thought as I saluted a magpie and kissed my rabbit’s foot (not smutty innuendo) on the way to the start line…

The conditions were absolutely perfect for the run. Beams of sunlight slanted diagonally into Queen’s Park as we lined up for the start, but conditions were cool and still. Despite my Life Threatening Cold, I adopted my usual approach of setting off Way Too Fast and was gasping by the time we reached the mildly depressing stretch of dual carriageway which had just enough of an upward slope to hurt. Within another three miles or so I was having my first stroll of what would be numerous on a very hilly course. Support was decent and I have not been called “Duck” so often since the critical and technical catastrophe that was my school’s budget production of “Swan Lake” – the lesser “Duck Pond” – in which I played a mischievous Mallard named Keith. Times were hard in the 1990s…

I had reached the halfway point comfortably within the top ten runners but paid for my WTF start (and LTC) early into the second half and was soon being passed by a number of runners. It transpired that some of these people were actually participating in the relay, meaning that they were only running five miles or so, which made me feel slightly less annoyed at being passed so readily. Less pleasing was the fact that a number of them were Royal Marines and seeing them up close made me realise what a fairly pathetic specimen of man I am – in fact, the only item which suggested I might be the same species is the recently acquired tattoo…

At mile 23, I was greeted enthusiastically by my cheer squad, sister Rachel, Jamie and their daughters, Poppy (7) and Isobel (3). When I suggested a picture might be nice, Poppy ran away and Isobel sought to do likewise but was too little and we managed to capture her for the picture! Feeling revived by the support, I negotiated the last three miles relatively quickly and nearly managed to break back into the top ten, finishing 11^th overall in 3 hours 17 minutes and 55 seconds.  It goes to show you that anyone can become good at anything with enough repetition – reminds me of the time a monkey beat me at basketball in Thailand (but that’s another story)…

Next up is Nottingham marathon. With the start being less than one kilometre away from my flat, presumably an incident free event. What are the odds on that???

#20 – To Hull and Back…

Contrary to the title of this post, I probably only visited four of the nine circles of Dante’s Hell over the weekend.  I also became something of a fan of Hull along the way and recommend an update to the official tourist slogan of Hull, “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate“, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”…(Dante, Divine Comedy)

Circle One of Hell (Limbo) was visited on Saturday night when, for once, I misplaced my debit card. The very same debit card had been rescued from the pub opposite the office that very Saturday morning, having spent Friday night resident on a shelf at the pub (not for the first time), hopefully playing the role of passive plastic observer as opposed to utilised tab alternative. Having recovered Mr Debit (and promised him and myself for the hundredth time that I would take better care of him in future – rumour has it that I am the reason that HSBC stopped putting issue numbers on their debit cards – lack of space when one reaches 1,000), I found myself at the bar of a different hostelry in Nottingham – it being my round – and no sign of Mr Debit. With a train to catch within 20 minutes, Mother T heading to the station to pick me up and no alternative means of finance, I was in the uncomfortable world of Limbo. It was then that a gift from the Gods arrived. As I arrived at the station and weighed the risk and reward of boarding the train with no ticket, I spotted a purple tinged pile of paper fluttering on the road. Surely it couldn’t be?! It could! 120 English pounds. Marvellous things truly can happen to moderate people. I quickly scanned the area hoping not to see the unfortunate soul who had lost such a handsome sum (it having been me more than once, I would have repatriated the funds). With no sign of anyone, I trousered the fortunate windfall (thus tiptoeing into the Ninth Circle – Treachery), bought my ticket and boarded the train north…

The Fifth Circle (Anger) was briefly visited on Sunday morning thanks to personal incompetence. Having got up in plenty of time and enjoyed a hearty breakfast, I was feeling positive about the day ahead. For once, I was confident I knew where I was going, so confident that I neglected to double check my AA Route plan instructions. Not for the first time in its career, assumption nearly gave birth to a healthy funk up as by sticking on the M1 all the way to the junction with the M62, I added tens of miles (and minutes, which were rapidly evaporating) to my journey. This was compounded when I missed the junction to the M62 (I blame roadworks, apparently manned by ghosts for that oversight). Despite a beautiful late summer’s morning, I was starting to get slightly angry with the driver (me) at this point and so it was some relief that parking near the start line of the marathon proved to be a relative breeze (provided one ignored certain road closed signs and cones)…I was not quite yet ready to take my place on the start line. A further oversight had been revealed on arrival as although I had my running number, I did not have my chip timer. Not headline news in the Real World, but bad news in the strange place which is Marathon World (as it means no official time – a fate worse than chaff…). With a full four minutes to the start time, this issue was resolved, although it also meant replacing my running number so that the two matched, but I was able to slope into the gap between the elite athletes (I looked like a fat baby amongst these hyper toned men and women) and the masses of ‘also rans’ (most of whom I knew would be passing me soon after the start).

Conditions were absolutely perfect as we set off on our initially merry way around the streets of Hull. The sun was shining but it was a cool and mostly still morning. I exchanged pleasantries with a couple of runners doing their first marathon as the bodies felt good and the mood was optimistic. When I next saw these men, shuffling along at the 20-ish mile mark, we could barely exchange grunts. Such is the destructive nature of a marathon. As for my own race, I made the most of the decent conditions and generally flat course, until a gentle but prolonged ascent to the Humber Bridge put something of a spoke in my previously well-oiled wheels. Sadly, unlike my proverbial wheels, my oft abused nipples were far from well-oiled and this is where we descend into the Seventh Circle of Hell – Violence; being that inflicted on my nipples by the consistent abrasion of my t-shirt. As the blood flowed my legs slowed and by the time I was looping back to re-cross the nearly two kilometre length of the Humber Bridge I took my first stroll of the day. The heat was also just beginning to become an issue – it being no friend of a fat baby – and life was generally becoming a bit of a struggle. As is normally the case, once I had reached the 20-mile marker, the positive sensation of the finish line helped ease the pain (I also let my mind consider the inspirational tale of Mike the Chicken – http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-34198390 – who overcame far more adversity than any marathon runner in history and I like to think did so with dignity, at least until his unfortunate demise…).

The end brought with it the usual relief and a certain satisfaction that, after a couple of steady times and significant travails, I had returned to a solid time – 3 hours 12 minutes and 21 seconds to finish just inside the top 50 (out of just under 800 hardy runners). Somewhere not too far north a man named Mo may have run somewhat faster, but I had clambered though my own tests somewhere distinctly South…

#19 – Dances then Wolves…

Another marathon effort which would make my new chest adornment – Little Chief Bloody Nips – nothing but angered, were he not merely an inked character…

The weekend started very well, with a quest for clues for a charity (NSPCC) treasure hunt to be hosted in Nottingham this Thursday evening.  However, by bar six the clues were becoming distinctively questionable and by bar nine the sheet with the clues we had commenced the evening by finding so diligently had mysteriously vanished.  Between the three protagonists, we managed to re-create about three quarters of the questions today, not bad considering we were probably all operating on around 10% brain cells by the end of Friday night (which ended with dancing in a young people’s discotheque in which I had no place)…

Saturday was far from a repeat of Friday, although it did involve a cigar and a couple of beers which probably contributed to a very reluctant rise from bed on Sunday morning.  Things were made worse by needing to walk the two miles or so to the office to go and collect my car and drive myself halfway across the country for a few hours of misery in the Wolverhampton marathon.  Printer issues meant a delay to get my AA route plan for the journey and on arrival at Molyneux – the home of Wolverhampton Wanderers FC (“Wolves”) – I was told that the event car parks were full.  I had around five minutes to the race start, no idea where that was and no race number.  All fairly standard as I risked the wrath of an over zealous ASDA parking attendant, lying about my plans for a morning of cut price shopping, knowing full well I had no intention of making a purchase.  Nicholas really was “Better Off at ASDA” (to the tune of the two pounds, saved avoiding the official event car park)…

A modest walk to the start and a lengthy conversation trying to persuade the race organiser that despite my lack of number, only a lunatic would try and con his way into a marathon in order to save 30 quid or so, meant that as joggled (half jog, half walk) to the start line I found that the race had inevitably left without me.  I therefore had to negotiate my way through a ‘pack’ (a ‘nuisance’?) of children waiting to start the kids’ run before the slightly underwhelming experience of starting a marathon solo.  Rather than soaking up this surreal moment, I decided to set off as if Lucifer were hot on my heels and caught the back markers within a kilometre or so.  I decided I quite enjoyed the experience of going through the field and remained at full tilt for the next few kilometres – although ‘full tilt’ was a slowing concept…

By the 18 mile marker, as the day warmed up, ‘full tilt’ had become almost ‘zero tilt’ and I thought I was going to pass out.  Thankfully, an area laden with St Johns’ Ambulance people (a ‘paramedipack’?) was on hand to offer some assistance.  As I sat down, I was delighted when a pack of Maoam sweets (making me Chairman Maoam?) was put into my hand (although I had asked for meow meow, which I gather is quite different).  This offered some resuscitation, although one of the ladies suggested that I looked ‘dreadful’ and should consider a lift back to the start/finish area.  There were still over eight miles to go, making this a hugely appealing offer, and potentially life defining moment, but in the end I stuffed my mouthful with Maoam and plodded on.  It really was a plod from here on in and my first to second half split would have suggested something dreadful had taken place in the second half of the race.  As it was I fought of the final indignity of double hamstring cramp as I tried to push my body for a ‘half tilt’ finish, only to fail miserably and cut a slowly moving mess of a man as I finished in just a bit under four hours… 

A couple of hours later I added Tamworth Services on the M42 to the growing list of service station car parks in which I have slept on the way home from marathons in 2015.  Limited shade – two and a half Trip Advisor stars for a car park based nap, which I truly hope you never experience.  As the tagline to Dances With Wolves goes, “Inside everyone is a frontier waiting to be discovered”.  I’m just not sure I like the frontiers I’ve found so far this year…

#18 – Wreck-ya-Nick

So the marathon challenge finally coughed itself back to life after two months and three booked, but missed, events (for a variety of reasons).

The return to action should have come a week earlier than it did but flights to Iceland’s capital coincided with a slight personal meltdown (best restricted to discussions on a chez long shared with a disapproving mental health professional being paid handsomely by the hour) and, despite best efforts to make the flight, I think my over worked guardian angel ensured that I remained in the UK for the weekend…

Hillyfax

The Icelandic tribulations meant that the actual marathon return was in Halifax and my efforts were broadly commensurate with Bjorn Borg’s attempted return to the pro tennis circuit with a wooden racquet in the early 1990s (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bj%C3%B6rn_Borg#Failed_comeback).

If I was in any doubt that I was in the North that was soon extinguished by the event host’s Yorkshire accent, which was thicker than gravy and almost indecipherable, despite Yorkshire-heritage in my family.  I think he said something about the toilets, a whippet and a flat cap, but he might have been saying anything…

I had been forewarned that Halifax would be a challenging course, by both a colleague and one of the event organisers.  Undeterred, I bolted off the start line and led for a glorious 200 metres before hitting the first hill.  Whilst hill#1 was fairly gentle, hill#2 followed soon after and was far from gentle.  So, less than two miles into the event I was walking slowly contemplating sitting down to be returned to the start line.  I thought that a by-product of the unspeakable pain of the Indian chief tattoo I had obtained on the Monday – which fluctuated between feeling like being etched with a secondary school compass and having my bone drilled – would be that I could transcend the pain of the marathon, guided by the inked shaman on my chest and recollections of the agony of having him put there.  Wrong…

The course eventually levelled off as we reached a high point, offering stunning views down into the valleys of Yorkshire, before plunging down and then steeply back up.  The final significant, and most merciless, hill was shortly after the six mile mark and after that it was a relatively steady meander – predominantly downhill – back to the mill at which we had started.  Knowing what was coming was both good and bad and at least I knew that after about eight miles the worst of the hills would be behind me.  This did not do a huge amount to alleviate the pain and I slowed markedly during the second lap, repeatedly reduced to a slow trudge, but as I returned to the car park of the mill and saw the finish line, at least I could be content at having edged one marathon closer to the end of the challenge (in 3 hours 37 minutes and 1 second for what it’s worth), but by heck it was a tough day at t’office…

Confessions of a runner and a tribute

“Forgive me (Mo) Farah, for I have sinned…It has been nearly four weeks since my last marathon… and during that time I have sinned…”

“What have you done my son?”

“I missed the Wakefield Marathon because I mis-entered the post code into AA route planner and could not find it Farah.”

“Stupidity and carelessness are lesser sins Nicholas. What else have you done?”

“I missed the Potteries Marathon because I chose to go out with friends and couldn’t face getting up on the Sunday morning.”

Anyway, the truth of it all is that I was, and remain, lost in life. I’m sure that we all are when we step back and consider it…

In the meantime, the lady for whom I ran for Ovarian Cancer has lost her fight with the illness. It is not possible to meet a more generous, loving human being than Davina. Every time I think of her it is with an inane smile of love or wonderment at what we can all be if we just live as we born to be. She was perfection. Selfless perfection.

Thank you for being here Davina. You made the world such a better place…

RIP (and love forever)