Day 18 of London to Brighton Training: In which I visit something called the ‘Gym’.

I am a member of a gym.

Now, to be honest, this is not some great revelation or lifestyle change brought on by my embracing this challenge.  I have been a member of a gym, indeed of this gym, for some considerable time.  Indeed, I am considered their most valued member, as I pay my fees every month without a murmur, yet contribute nothing to the wear and tear on their equipment. However, the realisation that I now have only a matter of some four months before the challenge, combined with my newly-rediscovered aversion to getting wet has led me to the inescapable conclusion that it is to the gym I must go.

The gym to which I have been contributing profit is one of the ‘posh’ ones, part of one of the original large chains with ‘branches’ around the Country.  No dingy rooms full of free weights, smelling of determination and liniment, populated by steroid-drenched men with bald heads and skins stretched over 200 pounds of sausages for me, oh no.  My gym won’t even let you have a locker unless you can prove that at least 3 of the items you will put in it have logos from a list of approved designers.  It is a while since I have been, but I noticed only small changes and, as before, it offers some wonderful opportunities for the amateur anthropologist and people-watcher.  As such, I noticed that the clientele seems to break down into some simple demographics:

Firstly, there is the ENTP (Empty Nest Tennis Player).  In their later years, with more time (and disposable income) on their hands they have recognised the need for some exercise and their chosen activity is Tennis; leaping around the courts like gazelles, although one should consider that, like gazelles, they are not as fast as they used to be and as such, tend to be the first ripped to shreds by the lions. The club organises competitions, leagues, matches and there is an active social life around it, so it can be considered as Bridge, with Balls.  This group also seems to include a sub-group of lady players who, although they may not fit exactly into the demographic, can be considered as what the Hells Angels call ‘Prospects’.  Their children may still be at home, but they have the income, time and cosmetic enhancement place to blend in.  

Then there is the SBDOW (Sent by Dr or Wife). They can be identified by the bagginess of clothing, tendency to invest in something they believe will make them fit in more (headbands seem popular) and a complete inability to work out how to use their offspring’s cast-off iPod. Most often found on the exercise bike, they adopt an expression of grim determination and the newbie-to-exercise’s version of the 1000 stare.  Frequent glances at their watch are clearly to see whether they can stop yet, despite trying to cultivate an air of checking performance.  Occasionally they venture onto some new piece of equipment, such as the stairmaster, with an expression that clearly echoes Dorothy Parker’s exclamation of “Oh what fresh hell is this?”

 

 

By far the largest group in a Gym like this are the BBGBW’s (BoyBand GirlBand Wannabe’s). They present more logos than the Formula 1 paddock and seem to have deployed some sort of Star Trek deflector around their hair and makeup which, no matter how much they move, stays immovable and unchanged.  The BB contingent sport watches with faces the size of grandfather clocks, whilst the GB’s, despite their youth, have obviously succumbed to the tender mercies of the surgeon, so that when running, part of their anatomy ploughs forwards, like the prow of an Icebreaker, gyroscopically stabilised.

 Not that I was looking, naturally.

A new sub-group does appear to have appeared since my last visit however, which is the FEBC (Former Eastern Bloc Commando). Typically tall, athletic and built to withstand a direct hit by a cruise missile, it is clear that, as they exercise, they can still hear the shouts of a Spetznaz sergeant-major in their ears.  They are typically accompanied by Mrs FEBC, but other than being typically blonde, I cannot really describe her.  I apologise for this omission, but I felt that observing - even surreptitiously for the purposes of this blog – the good lady of a man designed to crawl on his stomach from Russia to London, blow up an airbase then crawl back is probably not a man to take people-watching lightly.

 And then there’s me.

As explained, it is some considerable time since I have been to the gym, yet the machinery does not seem to have changed much.  Then again, visiting a torture chamber from the 15^th Century probably does not look that much different to one from the 18^th. However I was familiar with many of the machines, although I wasn’t used to seeing an exercise bike, rowing machine or cross trainer without them being used to hang clothes.  As I was still in some pain, I decided that trying to do too much or too many of these contraptions myself, as the lessons of Judo were still fresh in my mind, so settled on the ‘Cross Trainer’.

Now, I’m not sure whether the ‘Cross’ refers to what is being exercised or the emotion is instilled by trying to work the thing out, but I began to understand how previous generations may have felt when confronted with items like the first video recorders.  I am reasonably sure that the last time I ventured onto one of these things; it was a case of setting a time and maybe a degree of resistance and then off you went.  Not now.  Now, you have to enter your weight, your height.  You decide what you want to achieve – distance, fat burning, climbing mountains and various other combinations. You decide whether you want to use a pre-defined program or build your own.  You decide on the display options (round a track, up a mountain) and then, and only then, do you get to decide on the resistance level.  Finally, you’re presented by what you want to watch as you walk. TV? Certainly Sir, what channel? Terrestrial or Satellite? Or the in-house channel combining music with stupid suggestions about entering competitions?  Something Sir’s iPod perhaps?  Or from a Media Stick?

Having made some decisions about all these options, one is left mentally exhausted and yet is still faced with actually USING the flipping thing.

 So you start walking.

 And then you stop, as you realise some of the decisions you’ve made regarding all the options weren’t what you wanted.  But as you stop, the machine assumes you’ve stopped to complete your exercise, since it is obviously not used to or designed for the indecisive or less-committed of us.  So you desperately start walking again whilst trying to select buttons and change options.  This is not as easy as it sounds.

I don’t know if you have ever used one of these machines, but it consists of two moving foot platforms, combined with two handles that move backwards and forwards.  The idea is that as your left foot pushes down, your right hand pushes forwards and vice versa, much like walking with poles.

 But without the mud, which is good.

 It may sound simple, but as explained in a previous post, for some reason my body seems to find moving the same hand and foot together far more logical, but unlike walking with poles, the machine simply won’t allow this.  If you try, nothing moves.  Or, if already moving, it decides you’re an idiot and spits you off like an epileptic bull in a rodeo.  However, after a little while, my body surrenders to the need for coordination and I begin to move forwards.

Well, I thought I was moving forwards.  Until some passing fellow sufferer asked me if I found walking backwards was better exercise?  I explained that my Father had been a referee and therefore often trained by running backwards and I think I got away with it.  I did some 30 minutes on this rather strange machine, which is fine as long as I didn’t catch sight of myself in the mirror.  Walking and swinging your arms forward makes you look as if you’re parodying yourself and, with music playing, it’s very hard not to look like your father embarrassing you at family weddings by doing ‘The Twist’ to Beyonce and one has to consciously control the risk of ‘White Man’s over-bite’.

It suddenly occurs to me that I AM now the Father embarrassing the kids by dancing at family weddings.  Perhaps I should go back tonight and train some more?

 

At the end of 30 minutes, I actually felt quite good, but I’m told that, in terms of exercising, this is bad.  If exercise is good you should feel bad in a good way as bad is good although feeling bad in a bad way is bad, whilst feeling good in a good way is bad.

Got it?  Good.

I finished off the evening with a few lengths of swimming which, oddly, hurt my sulking hamstring far more than the cross-trainer had.  It seems I have a lot to learn about what is bad good.

 In an ideal world, I would have gone back to the gym today and done some more.  But in an ideal world, someone would invent a fitness pill and I could simply take one three times a day with food.  However, I am planning on another visit, to see whether the rowing machines allow me to indulge my fantasies of being a Viking. 

Do you think Nike or Adidas do a Horned Helmet?

 (If you’ve enjoyed this post and you're feeling generous, you can sponsor me at http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2 - doesn’t matter how much, every penny is really gratefully received.  Thank you.)

Day 16 of London to Brighton Training:  In which I decide to see if I really am a Jedi.

 

 

 This post and my body have something in common: Both could be described as ‘disjointed’, the former caused by the latter as I am finding it difficult to sit for more than a few minutes.

The pain in my leg caused by the Judo session at the weekend has, fortunately, eased considerably, which is obviously a great relief.  It’s still stiff and painful, but not to the extent that it would cause any issues should I have to, for example, run for a coffee (hey, we all have our own motivations. Buses don’t do it for me – coffee does).  However, yesterday I noticed some stiffness and pain in my lower back, which I put down the use of the walking poles on Sunday, for both support of my leg and because I had bought them and was not going to admit to them being an impulse buy.  A little stretching, some light exercise and application of some deep heat and I’d be right as rain. 

Incidentally, what is right about rain?  Everyone I know, including farmers, does nothing but moan when it rains.

I digress.

So this morning,  I woke up and went to roll over to snooze the alarm, only to find my back locked solidly and painfully into a single lump. I couldn’t move without intense pain on the left side of my lower back.  Now, this is of particular concern because I may have forgotten to mention that, when I was seventeen, I fractured my spine in this exact spot.  This is one of the reasons I’ve always found running difficult – the impact of running always seems to exacerbate things in a way that other things – including weirdly Judo – do not.  It seems that the use of the walking poles has caused a similar discomfort,  so perhaps there is more to their use than I thought.  I am going to try and contact some other Nordic Walking instructors, as it could be that there is more to this technique than I thought.  Watch this space…..

However, a combination of the pain in my leg, plus the stiffness in my back and the realisation that I’m not 25 anymore, convinced me that going to Judo was not a good idea, at least until such time as I’m regained a modicum of core strength and flexibility.  I am still determined to get back to it, as I truly love the sport, but there is no doubt that it’s not a good idea at present, not least because I cannot risk an injury that prevents me from completing the challenge itself.  However, my brief exposure to all the Dojos I have visited in my research convinced me that I still want to get back into the Martial Arts, both as a means of getting fitter in a way I enjoy so much more than pointless repetitions in the gym and as a way of relieving the inevitable stresses of life, which left me with a problem – what could I do that would allow me to indulge my interest, get fit and yet not be limited by my current fitness, advanced age and unwillingness to accept injury?

Over the years, I have tried many arts, including Jiu-jitsu, Karate, Aikido and even once tried Tai Chi (but got REALLY bored), but something that has always held a degree of fascination for me was Iaido, or the art of drawing the Japanese Sword.  Perhaps this was something to do with being brought up on a diet of swashbuckling movies and TV series, including such Japanese classics as ‘The Water Margin’, but I’ve always had a bit of a fascination for sword-fighting, which was only consolidated by Star Wars.  Who of my generation does not remember that moment when Obi Wan reveals the Lightsabre to Luke, or the final fight scene?  Even now, I am willing to bet that if you give a man (or many women) a fluorescent light tube, he will be faced with the almost impossible task of resisting the urge to take it in both hands, sweeping it from side to side whilst making whooshing and buzzing noises.

Or is that just me?

So I was intrigued to find an Iaido club near me, and had popped along to have a quick look a couple of weeks earlier.  Iaido is often confused with Kendo, which is effectively Japanese fencing, and is a sport extracted from the Art of the Sword, Kenjutsu in much the same way that Judo was extracted from the more martial Jiu-Jitsu.  In Kendo, you wear armour and fight with swords made of bamboo splits.  The aim of the fights, which are brutally fast and aggressive, is to score with strikes against specific areas on the body.  Iaido by comparison uses real Japanese swords (or wooden ones for beginners) and is made up of a number of forms, in which you draw your sword, strike against one or more imaginary opponents and then sheathe the sword, all in a strictly choreographed series of movements and in total concentration. 

At first, the movements seem slow and unrealistic and, to the casual observer, very simple and straightforward.  How hard can it be?  In fact however, as with so many arts, the aim is that by practicing slowly, the movements become instinctive and can be repeated at speed without thought.  When you see the final outcome, you realise that the aim of Iaido is much like the gunfighters of the Wild West.  The aim is to draw your sword and strike one or more opponents before they can do the same.

So this art offers me the opportunity to be Luke Skywalker AND Wyatt Earp.  Does it get any better?  Perhaps my answers to ‘What do you want to be when you grow up’ weren’t so implausible after all!

 So, on the basis that the slow, controlled movements would probably allow me to stretch my muscles without causing any more harm, I found myself at the Dojo, preparing for my first lesson.

One of the most complex things to work out is how to get dressed.  The full costume involves layers of clothing, knee pads, assorted belts and pieces of string, plus the sword itself in its scabbard. Not having the requisite gear, I donned my judo suit, but by the time I’d wound the belt several times around my waist, realised I would really have been better off in a track suit, as the jacket refused to stay done up and I kept getting the handle of the sword caught in my sleeve.

I have held many swords in my life, but all were made of wood, plastic (or fluorescent tubing) and the feel of a metal sword is very different, particularly one sharp enough to give a Yeti a Turkish shave. When the instructor demonstrated a fast downward strike with the sword, it made a ‘Swish’ sound as the blade cut through the air, which was almost satisfying enough to make up for the lack of  Whooshing and Buzzing.  Fortunately for the safety of me and those around me, this was then immediately taken away and replaced with a wooden sword, on the basis that with that, the worst I could do was give myself a nasty splinter.

Don’t mock – splinters can be nasty.  Ask Dracula.

 Let me make something clear right away. Iaido is not as easy as it looks.  Sure, each of the individual strikes may be made up of relatively few movements, but actually remembering them all, the order in which they occur, which foot should be where combines to make it an exercise in concentration. And whilst you’re concentrating on those, you can’t be concentrating on your imaginary opponent, who will be cutting off your head with his imaginary but very sharp sword.

Which I’m fairly sure goes Whoosh and Buzz.

Each element ends with sheathing the sword.  Easy huh?  Just stick it in the tube.  Well no.  Because this is done without looking down, as your eyes remain fixed on the several pieces of imaginary opponent.  Imagine trying to put the charger into your phone without looking.  Now imagine that the charger was a razor blade, and you may begin to see the problem.  The idea is that you bring the hilt and scabbard together, then slide the left hand back, the blade sliding over your hand and then in and, when performed by the experienced, looks easy.  It isn’t.  The opportunities for ending a session with considerably fewer digits than you started with, or of ending up like a kimono-clad kebab are endless.

At the end of the evening, I felt oddly relaxed.  I didn’t have the feeling that I had done a significant workout, although my hamstring was not happy about the fact that some of the techniques I’d been asked to learn involved attacking from a kneeling position, but there is obviously something about creating julienne of opponent that relieves stress. 

Can I see this forming a regular part of my regime?  I honestly don’t know. It won’t really help achieve fitness, but does fulfil my desire to learn new skills and will I think help with flexibility.  However having just looked at the price of swords online, maybe not.  For that price, I want that goes Whoosh and Buzz.

And I want my instructor to be 3 feet tall and green.

(If you’ve enjoyed this post, you can read all the related ones on my blog at http://onedoesnotsimplywalkintobrighton.blogspot.co.uk/ and if you’re feeling generous, you can sponsor me at http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2 - doesn’t matter how much, every penny is really gratefully received.  Thank you.)

Days 11-15 of London to Brighton training:

Old habits don’t die hard.

But NEW habits have the delivery from hell and I am seriously thinking of asking for an epidural.

For a few days, work, weather, a migraine and being honest, procrastination intervened so that I only managed one very small walk – and that was as much to try to clear the headache as it was to train.  So I approached the weekend feeling rather sluggish and frustrated.  It’s odd how, even a small amount of exercise done regularly makes you feel worse when you don’t do it.  I know people tell you this, but come on, raise your hands those of you who really BELIEVED it? 

Those of you energetic enough to raise your hands were already exercising, so that doesn’t count.

However, when at (but not participating in) Judo earlier in the week, they had mentioned that they had a guest instructor visiting at the weekend – a chap called Ben Quilter, who was a world champion and Olympic Bronze medallist in the 2012 Paralympics, so the weekend dawned with a new –found enthusiasm and good intentions to rectify my sloth of the preceding days and, despite not being able to find my wallet and the siren call of Facebook, I managed to get out of the house and off I trotted (ok, I drove.  Don’t be pedantic) to Judo.

When discussing with the Sensei at the club, he had insisted that I wear the belt of my previous grade – orange – rather than the white belt that I had worn previously.  Now in one sense this is nice, as it recognises that I’m not a rank beginner but, on other hand, it also means that some of the higher grades with whom I was practicing would expect me to be able to take care of myself.  Oddly, the danger is not as many would think, with the Black Belt grades, who have the control and skill to be careful, but with those of equivalent or slightly higher grade.  Many of these are younger than my own kids, have the resilience, flexibility and speed of youth, whereas I have nothing more than distant memories and a degree of cussedness, combined with a rather significant weight advantage in my favour.

Ben is an inspiration.  He began to lose his sight at the age of 7 and now has only peripheral vision, yet his judo, not to mention his achievements are truly astounding.  He ran a class which started with a certain amount of cardio and warm-up, which was my first problem.  I was already aware that I really needed to work on my fitness – that is after all one of the reasons I have been going.  However, I also was made to realise that I also need to work on my flexibility. 

The last time I was on the mat, I could do forward, backward and sideways rolls.  I could do them from a kneeling, standing and running position.  This meant I could run, throw myself forwards, roll over my arm and shoulder and come back up onto my feet to repeat, in one fluid movement.

I clearly remember being able to do this.

I remember.  My body does not.  I now roll in much the same way as an articulated lorry rolls.  Loudly, destructively and to no good effect.  It is, like a lorry, not a pretty sight.  This was my first rude awakening and, as falling is such a significant part of the judo skill-set, is something I am really going to need to work on – although I think I want to do this in private thank you.

Once everyone was nicely warmed up, Ben went on to demonstrate some techniques, in particular ones that could be used in combination.  He’d demonstrate, and then you would pair up and practice.  Being somewhat larger than most there, I was paired with a Black Belt, who had also just returned to Judo after a couple of year’s break. As I have mentioned, this was good as one of the lower grades could have been over-enthusiastic and could have hurt me, whereas, being with someone good, I was able to hurt myself.

I was wearing my orange belt as requested and whether this contributed to what happened next, or whether it was simply inevitable I don’t know.  However, the differential between what my mind remembered and what my body is actually capable of doing manifested itself once again.  It’s actually quite an odd sensation: the techniques have come back to my mind very quickly and clearly.  My body even remembers some of the movements and techniques. But the messages don’t seem to get through to the muscles, or perhaps they get scrambled in transit.  It is like I’m playing some weird game of Chinese whispers with my own body.

“Send three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance”.

Judo has been likened to a dance, but I am beginning to think I should stay a wall-flower at this one. 

Anyway, we were practicing the combination throws, which is called Uchikomi, or repetition training.  The idea is that you repeatedly practice the movements that lead up to a technique, without necessarily completing it and in doing so, they become almost instinctual.  In this case, the idea was to link two techniques together, so that if the first fails because your opponent reacts in time, you can follow up with a second technique, something that is vital in competition.  However, unlike in some Aikido training, where you partner actively facilitates your technique, in Judo the Uke, or person being thrown does not, so that if a technique is performed incorrectly, it doesn’t work.  For this reason, the first technique must be performed with full commitment, as if you want it to work, or the opening for the second attack won’t be there because the Uke won’t have reacted.

So, there I am, on the mat, doing some light Randori (sparring) and practicing these techniques.  As my partner was a Black Belt, we could also experiment with some other throws, if we were more comfortable with them.  My mind remembers all sorts of these.  So, we’re moving round the mat, it’s my turn to attack, I come in for a committed throw which is leg sweep called O-uchi-gari, where your right leg sweeps your opponents left leg forwards and from underneath them, from the inside.  I remembered this one well, in the same way I remember running and cycling and climbing trees.

<French accent> “Ah yes, I remember it well”.

So, I move in, my leg hooks and sweeps, my opponent’s leg is pulled out and, as they fall, I hear what I can only describe as a ‘Pop’.  They fall. I fall.  They get up.  I try.

Apparently it’s called a ‘Hamstring’ and they’re designed to keep your knee and hip on relatively good terms.  Mine hurt like hell.   I could barely bend my leg and it was clear that I wasn’t going to be doing much more randori that evening, although I didn’t want to give up completely, so did do some groundwork (which is like wrestling) after applying an ice pack.  This probably wasn’t a great idea, but I can be a stubborn you-know-what sometimes and the truth is, Judo is a contact sport and a hard one.  If you quit the first time you get hurt it’s not the sport for you.

However it would probably be fair to say that I may be asking for trouble if I try to continue with my fitness level where it is at present.

By the time I was home I was in a lot of pain.  I would normally apply some sort of cream to an injury like this, but I can’t take any of the anti-inflammatory creams because of my asthma, whilst A is allergic to eucalyptus and menthol, which pretty much excludes everything else!  So a bag of frozen Quorn (I was all out of peas) had to suffice, which it failed to do.  I don’t eat much Quorn any more, but I have to say it’s as poor a substitute for anti-inflammatory creams as it is for steak.

Talking of which, that evening we went out for dinner with friends to a really nice steak restaurant.  Traffic was bad, but I think the walk – and I use the word advisedly – from the car to the restaurant took almost as long.  When we got to the front desk, there was a chap in front of us with a crutch, being carried to his table.  I was quite disappointed to find that this was not a service the restaurant provided for all its injured, disabled or simply stupid customers.  We ordered chateaubriand, which is apparently for two people.

This seems a bit discriminatory to me, however we shared and  I was good and had mine with a salad rather than chips, despite the fact that a little voice in the back of my head was muttering something about chips being really good for hamstrings.  Just off to polish my halo. 

Before bed I applied some ice-spray thing, plus Arnica cream. I have no idea if the latter does anything other than provide employment, but at the same time I needed to try something and, by now, could barely use my leg at all, so despite my normal empiricist cynicism, I’m willing to try.

Sunday dawned reasonably bright and, as we’d arranged to do a walk with others on the Heath, I decided it may be a rather good idea to replace the walking poles that had so spectacularly let me down – emotionally and literally – the previous weekend.   I won’t go into the entire saga of exchanging them, but my decision to simply upgrade the ones I’d bought for some more expensive ones took nearly an hour.  I do fear for a society where two members of staff struggle with a 10% discount on £39.99, one coming to the conclusion that it was £3.90 whilst the other had to resort to a calculator. However, poles in hand, I was faced with a choice.  Do I walk, or do I do the sensible thing, and sit in front of the TV, sending positive thoughts Heathward?

It was about this time that it started to rain.

I thought back to my last foray into rain-walking. I remembered the way I looked when I got home.  I considered that, with an injury, it would be foolish in the extreme to walk anywhere, let alone on rough, muddy ground in the cold and wet.

Then A told me I shouldn’t go.

I don’t think this was applied psychology.  I really think she believed I shouldn’t go and should rest my leg.

But, ever since I was a child, one of the best ways to make me do something is to tell me I can’t. Some would vaunt this as a great character trait, perhaps creating a mentoring business, writing best-selling books on mindset and appearing in TED lectures.

Me?  I’m just stubborn.

Besides, I’d just spent an hour changing those bloody poles and I’d be blowed if I was going to just ignore them.

So off we went.

Many of the people who had said they were coming had cried off, either because of sudden changes of plan or simply because they were sensible enough to realise that a walk in the pouring rain was probably not going to be that pleasant, but a couple did make it, including one of A’s clients and a friend.  We had downloaded a route from the Web, which took in Kenwood House (a stately home on the Heath), some of the Heath itself and a walk around Hampstead village.  The idea had been to do this loop a couple of times, plus walking there and back but the truth is that one loop, in the most horrible weather, was quite enough.  Walking in mud is not easy, although I have to say walking poles do make it easier, so the grimace of pain they cause is, to some extent, offset by the feeling of smugness as those around you come close to a spectacular nose-dive.

Walking with poles is easy.  I know, I’ve seen it on YouTube.

You're simply walking, using the poles to support and propel you, each pole being planted in time with the opposite foot.  So, you step forward with your left foot, as your right arm swings forward and plants the right pole on the ground.  Then as you step forward with the right foot, the left arm does the same.  Easy, right? Well that’s the theory anyway. Despite not being the most coordinated person on the face of the planet (Dyspraxia runs in my family.  It’s the only thing that does run), this should be relatively straightforward, even for me.  So why was it that, after a few steps, I’d find my right arm moving in synch with my right leg and the left with my left? This happened time after time and, no matter how hard I tried, I could not for the life of me work out where I had either missed an arm-swing, or done two with the same arm, which I reasoned were the only ways the order could have been changed?  This then resulted in a tut of consternation and a rather comical double-step, which will be familiar to any who have marched in a parade and found themselves out of step with their comrades.

It also looks like you’re skipping, which is even more incongruous when ploughing through deep mud with walking boots, poles, wet trousers and water dripping off the end of your nose.

I am not one of life’s natural skippers.

Finally I got the hang of the rhythm, although on a number of occasions I tangled myself in my own poles, nearly taking the nose-dive I’d been so smug about my companions struggling to avoid.  Walking with poles is hard, changing a walk into more of a full-body workout, but it did take some of the pressure off my leg, allowing me to complete the walk in stubborn and completely misplaced determination.  Today, a day later, I can feel the effect of the poles in the muscles of my back, but my leg is actually not that bad.

As long as I don’t try to walk on it of course.  Or sit down for too long.  Or stand up.

So, the question is, what do I do about Judo tonight?  It’s obvious that I need to be careful and to take part in anything strenuous, and in particular randori would be foolish.  Even I can see that.  But at the same time, my stubborn streak does not want to give in and is combined with my memory telling me I was good at this and if I practice, it will all come back to me.  I am worried that if I stop going, I will lose the momentum and that will be that.  They say that, at the end of your life, you look back and only regret the things you didn’t do.  I don’t know if this is true, but I do consider all the times in my life I have given up, quit or even just satisficed – doing just enough.  This challenge is about more than Judo, or losing weight, or getting fit, or even of walking to Brighton.

This challenge is about me changing who and what I am.  Not totally – I rather like some aspects of me – but about me actually doing something that is so far outside my comfort zone that it requires me to fundamentally change my attitude to obstacles and how I respond to them.  I’m on a journey that truly is a voyage of discovery and although it could be said I have a destination, this is almost secondary, as I really have little idea of what the journey will be like or where it will take me.

I have named this blog after a line in the Lord of the Rings.  Those of you who are familiar with the story will understand when I say ‘Rivendell’.  The characters reach a haven where, if they wish, they can step aside from their quest and let others take it forwards.

For me, every day is Rivendell.  I can step aside from this any time I choose.  Those who know me will understand – this is a truly ridiculous challenge for me to undertake, so much more than I have ever done in my entire life, so nobody would think any the worse of me if I simply admit that this is simply too much for me.  I can return to my previous comfortable existence, or perhaps do a little more light exercise, raise money for charity in other ways, or support those who do.

So I really don’t need to go to Judo tonight.  I can take a few days off, let the muscles heal, the pain subside.  I could go swimming perhaps, as I can rarely muster the coordination to use my legs for that anyway.  After all, nobody really believes I will do this, do they?

I don’t REALLY believe I can do this myself do I?

But I don’t want to be at the end of my life, looking back with regret. I have too many of those already, but neither do I want to be looking back on my life from a Judo mat in the next few months, so I think I need to find a viable compromise between committing to the sport I once loved and want to again and recognising that, at present, in the words of ‘Top Gun’;

“Son, your ego’s writing cheques your body can’t cash”.

 

 

 

 

Days 8-10 of London to Brighton Challenge:

Days 8-10 of London to Brighton Challenge:

Having reluctantly acknowledged my walking poles were not going to be a viable aid, we embarked on our post-Birthday-Sunday-Lunch walk on the Sunday, during which I displayed yet more of the new found discipline and declined both or a jacket potato, although the baked onion loaf was simply one resist too far.  Well, actually it was two resists too far, as I ate my daughter’s bit too.

If I should ever be asked to contribute to a training manual, I fear my contribution will be limited to:

1)      Check your poles are locked before you lean on them

2)      Don’t eat onion loaf before exercise

One should repeat that second piece of advice, but you don’t need to, as the onion loaf does all the repeating for you.

Given the late start and the fact it was getting dark, the walk wasn’t quite as long as the previous week’s, although we still managed just under 8 miles, although the last mile or so was rather painful as for some reason my boots were digging into my left foot.  I tried adjusting it a couple of times and in the end had to undo the top couple of lace-points, so they were done up like shoes.  I’m still not quite sure why they were hurting, but I do know that if this is the case after 8 miles, then they’re not going to cut it for 8 TIMES that distance.  They are the traditional leather-style walking boots, or as they are known, “Clumpers” and are very strong and (allegedly) waterproof.  Indeed, looking at them, I feel they may also be bulletproof, knife-proof and quite possibly impervious to gamma radiation.  This is reassuring, as if they get exposed to such radiation, my feet may turn green and swell to enormous size should I make them angry.

I won’t like them if I make them angry. 

And I have a rather strong suspicion that by the end of 100Km, they will be very angry indeed.

I am going to give them one more chance, but in the interim I have a feeling that my trip to return or possibly exchange my walking poles may also extend into looking at some boots that are rather more forgiving. It occurs to me that, were my only objective be to raise money for my chosen charity, they would be better off by me settling into an armchair and donating all the money I am spending directly to them.  (Yes, this is a subtle hint that your sponsorship would be greatly appreciated. Ok, so maybe not so subtle.)  However, this is not the only goal here. I am a man on a mission.

<Cue the music>

The walk ended with the mandatory stretching.  I now understand why a prison sentence is known as ‘a stretch’.  However, it may have some positive benefits, as my left thigh was nowhere near as cross with me this time as the last.  Alas, there are apparently no stretches for the knee and it’s a good job I’m not a Courtier at Court, a Catholic or a cleaner, as I fear kneeling would be difficult.

Many people – well ok, SOME people – have expressed enthusiasm for our venture and said how much they like walking, so in the interests of camaraderie, fellowship or merely that misery loves company, we’ve scheduled next Sunday’s walk to be a loop around Hampstead Heath, so that people can join us for one or two loops, depending on their enthusiasm, fitness and knees.  It will be interesting to see how many of the expressions of support translate into company, but feel free to message me if you’re reading this before the event and you would like to join us.

We will be walking even if it rains.  Perhaps I should see if they do a combined walking pole and umbrella?  Incidentally, I have been contacted by one of the Nordic Walking instructors.  She wants £48 to teach me to walk, which seems a lot given my Mum did it for free when I was a tot.  I think I will consider it, once I have decided on whether to exchange my poles for new ones, for socks, for more forgiving boots or umbrellas.

The following day, I returned to Judo, but alas, was unable to take part, due to a rather unusual asthma attack.  I stayed and watched, but simply felt too wheezy to take part, which was disappointing.  However, in chatting to the Sensei (instructor) afterwards, he told me that despite not having been on the mat for more years than I cared to remember, he insisted I wore my original coloured belt – orange.  The grading levels have apparently changed somewhat, but this means that I will not stand out as a beginner.

Indeed, it means I will barely be standing at all, as the courtesy and consideration shown by senior grades to those wearing a white belt will be notably absent when working with me.  I therefore fully expect to be considerably more bruised and beaten than otherwise would have been the case.  I am therefore desperately watching YouTube videos of Judo competitions and master-classes, in the forlorn hope that some element of muscle memory will be awakened. Given that my mental memory could barely remember how to tie the belt, I doubt this will be very effective.

I have however been invited to go on Saturday morning, where they have a guest instructor, who was a medallist in the Paralympics, along with being a national and world champion. I have absolutely no illusions that any disability whatsoever will make the slightest difference to his ability to dispose of me without even noticing. 

Perhaps I should consider exposing my feet to gamma radiation after all?

Don’t make my feet angry. You won’t like me when you make my feet angry…….

Day 8 of London to Brighton Training

So, after the epic challenge of the stairs at Covent Garden tube, Sunday was scheduled for a proper training walk, although this was complicated by a birthday lunch with my family.  Despite lunch being set in the heart of scenic Epping Forest, a decision was made however to walk in North London once more, with a mixture of walking through a local park, followed by walking along the road, as we have yet to invest in some good head torches.

One may consider that a head torch is a head torch, but even a cursory examination shows that the range is huge, ranging from cheap, normal bulb versions costing a couple of Pounds, to LED, rechargeable, multi-bulb, multi-colour ones costing several hundred pounds.  These seem to offer the sort of lighting capacity normally reserved for Police helicopters, Lighthouses and Anti-Aircraft defences and, whilst I am sure they have a time and place, our route to Brighton passes within a few miles of Gatwick airport and I’m sure the Civil Aviation Authority would look dimly (pun intended) on us destroying the night vision of airline pilots.  Furthermore, I have a feeling that if I am anything to go by, other walkers on the challenge may be struggling by nightfall and the last thing we need is walkers “coming towards the light”, only to be depressed to find my face, rather than the expected paradise. 

So for now, we will stick to street-lit roads for the hours of darkness, until such time as a compromise can be struck on the head-lamp, although I find myself tempted by one of the old-style Dr’s ones, like Groucho wore as Dr Hackenbush in ‘a Day at the Races’.

 

 

One thing I was looking forward to trying were my newly-acquired Nordic Walking/Trekking poles.  I had bought these the day before and, having graduated Johnny-Cum-Lately from the University of YouTube, was an acknowledged expert in their use.  The first lesson in this is adjusting the poles to the correct length.  Sounds simple, although different videos all suggest a slightly different technique – arms at 90 degrees (although to what varied from video to video), arms slightly bent, arms straight when parallel. There was even one video devoted to how to put your hand through the hand strap.

I found I’d forgotten this bit.

There were also a number of helpful pieces of advice about lengthening the poles for going down hill and shortening them for going up.

Or the other way around.  Seems I’ve forgotten this bit too.

Either way, I have visions of spending almost half the time on any walk adjusting the poles as you scale and descend even the smallest of hills – of which there will be many on the challenge.

However, the technique is relatively simple: The poles are constructed in three sections, each one sliding into the one above it. One grasps the upper part of the pole in one hand and the lower section in the other, twisting in opposite directions to release the lock.  One then pulls the pole out to the required length before, being careful not to over extend them, in which case one ends up with two shorter poles and a new vocabulary of swear words.  You then repeat this for the lower section, until the poles are of the correct length, helpfully aided by graduated markings on the middle section.

All well and good.  Several minutes of twisting, pulling, twisting, posturing, referring to YouTube, re-twisting, re-pulling and far more extravagant posturing finally resulted in one pole being adjusted to the correct length.

Or at least to A length.

Time to repeat on the second pole which, thanks to the aforementioned graduated markings, should be far more straightforward, which indeed it was.  Initially at least.  If you read my previous post, you may remember my observation that there is no real difference between the cheaper and more expensive poles?  Well I may have been wrong.  Having adjusted both poles, I manipulated my hands through the straps, as per my intensive training course, and struck a suitably heroic pose, with an expression that said “I’m just going outside. I may be some time”.

Except I wasn’t going outside.  What I was doing was falling over.

My heroic pose involved raising one pole in a salute to comrades, whilst taking my weight on the other pole, the second one I’d adjusted to match the first.

The one I hadn’t actually checked it as carefully as the first.

The one with the faulty locking mechanism which meant that as soon as you put the slightest pressure on it, would telescope back into itself like one of those marine worms disappearing down its hole at the first sign of danger.  Falling over is never nice, but falling over at a rate dictated by the sliding of one tube of metal into another, a slower, yet just as inevitable speed, is a strange experience, as you have marginally more time to ponder what the heck is happening – and to muse that this is still going to result in a severely bruised ego.   So down I went, like a Californian Redwood finally succumbing to the lumberjack’s saw, although the tree doesn’t tend to do the ‘jump-to-its-feet-and-act-like-nothing-happened-or-what-did-was-completely-expected’ thing. 

However, you will be pleased to hear that my resumed Judo lessons paid massive dividends, allowing me recognise with cat-like reflexes what was happening.  I am hopeful that, with several years more training, I may be able to do something about it next time.

So, the poles reside in the bag, awaiting the opportunity to be returned to the store, where I have yet to decide if they will be replaced by the same again, although thoroughly checked this time, by a more expensive option, or by something rather less controversial.

A man can never have too many socks.

Day 7 and 8 of London to Brighton Training:

This weekend was my birthday, so I was feeling reasonably vindicated in not really training.  I was also feeling reasonably vindicated about treating myself in what I ate, relaxing my diet a little.  I’m getting far too vindication.

Saturday was spent procrastinating, studying and trying to catch up on the myriad of little, and not so little, jobs that need to be done around the place, before heading off to a large outdoor/sports superstore to buy some socks (every man needs socks for his birthday, even if he buys them himself; it’s the law) and whilst there, I also hummed and hawed over some trekking/Nordic walking poles.

As I mentioned, I’ve been looking into this as one of my forms of training, as well as a possible aid in completing the walk.  So, there I was, examining their selection of poles using all the authority of my newly-acquired YouTube expertise to impress (unsuccessfully) the small child in charge of this section of the store. The range of these things seems larger than the environment in which they’re designed to be used, with prices ranging in a similar fashion, from Takeout burger meal to small family car.  And yes, it occurred to me too that if you could afford the latter, why not buy the car and forget about walking? I’m sure there are significant differences in them; materials, quality, adjustability of the hand strap, err…..

OK, they all looked pretty much the same to me. Thanks a lot YouTube, that’s 2 hours I won’t get back. As always in such situations, I fell back on the tried-and-tested mechanism employed by men throughout the ages to ensure the correct decision - I bought the ones on special offer.  To be fair, there were two sets on special offer, but until I know whether I’m going to like it, I went with the cheap ones. After all, no point in having expensive equipment sitting there, not being used.  Nobody would EVER buy any kind of exercise equipment and then not use it, would they? Hanging laundry on it still counts as ‘use’ after all.  So, the cheap ones it is.  After all, doesn’t seem any real difference, so what could go wrong?

I did go as far as narrowing my selection down to the point where I could try them, striding purposefully around the store with an expression that said “Which way is Basecamp, I need to make the summit of Everest before they realise I’m asthmatic and try to make me use oxygen the wusses”.

It’s not as easy as it looks on YouTube.  The video says to start with the poles dragging behind you and it seems that I am a natural at this, to the extent that I find myself wondering if Nordic Walking is going to be at the next Olympics.  However, you then have to progress to swinging the stick forward, planting the tip in an authoritative manner between the rear of your leading foot and the toes of your trailing foot. 

The trick, it seems, is not to take that instruction literally, and to keep the pole OUTSIDE your feet, rather than literally between them, which has far more comedic than athletic effect.  Introducing the second pole, and the coordination required to manage two feet, two arms and two poles merely served to reduce me to some sort of organic Jenga. 

They didn’t show this on YouTube.

However, I bit the bullet and left the store the proud owner of two collapsible, rubber tips, cork-handled trekking poles.  And no, that wasn’t me standing in the corner, wearing a rain-cape with the hood up, holding one pole in both hands, waving it in arcs and making whooshing, buzzing noises against an imaginary opponent.

Could have been anyone.  Literally anyone.

It was then time to head off to London for my birthday treat to see the ‘Jersey Boys’ at the theatre. The West End in general and Covent Garden tube in particular were absolutely rammed and it was difficult to move, let alone walk.  For those of you unfamiliar with London, Covent Garden is an unusual tube station, in that there are no escalators taking you to the surface – the option is queue, push, squeeze, screw-your-face-up-at-the-smell-of-the-person-whose-armpit-is-cradling-your-face, get heaved out of the elevator, or walk, up a single narrow spiral staircase.  193 steps which, according to the sign, is the equivalent of 15 floors.

I have never been able to master the technique of spiral staircases.  Is the key to walk on the inside, so that each step is closer to the last, but where you have to pay more attention to where you put your feet unless you end up falling like a novice Nordic Walker in a superstore?  Or is it to walk on the outside, where each step is perforce longer and therefore in theory more energetic, but where you can be more relaxed about foot placement and perhaps even look up occasionally (at least for the first few score, before you begin to doubt you will ever look up again) and hopefully avoid some of the inevitable dizziness?

In the end of course, the question answers itself.  You start on the inside, as there is a hand-rail (health and safety naturally and nothing to do with being able to haul yourself upwards), before realising this is like the outside lane on an autobahn, where everyone else is in a Porsche and you’re in an electric town car.  So you slowly ease yourself towards the outside, also graced by a handrail and hoping the extended paces won’t make you burn out too soon.  Here however, you encounter two new challenges. 

The first is those who really SHOULD have taken the elevator.  The ones who started their challenge, laughing about what an adventure they were having in London, how quaint it is, how this will make a funny story to tell those at home and rapidly graduate to swearing, praying and blaming each other. To a soon-to-be trained athlete such as myself, these people are an irritation as, every few steps, the stop, blocking my path and destroying my rhythm, forcing me to let go of the psychological comfort of the handrail and venture into the uncharted and dangerous waters of the middle of the stairs. 

These people also have no consideration for the other issue of the outside of the staircase – the ‘Descenders’.  Just as there is a huge queue and crush to leave the station via the elevators, there is similarly one on the surface to descend, leading some brave souls to use the staircase.

The same staircase, for there is but one.

So those paused, panting, wheezing, sobbing individuals going up on the outside of the stairs form a barrier to those who are trying to come down, something that seems to annoy them greatly.  I don’t know why this should be, as coming down is obviously much easier, requires virtually no energy, is much safer and as such, they should simply move around the poor souls doubting they will ever breathe the outside air or, in the case of some, ANY air ever again.

So one gravitates to the middle of stair, hoping that one’s head-down stance implies thoughtful determination or a concentration on higher matters, rather than a terrified 1000-yard-stare on where one’s feet are going, combined with a conviction that what little air exists down there makes its way into the lungs more freely in that position.  However, gravity is a strange force, little understood by physicists or stair-climbers.  Maybe one day, some brilliant mind like Stephen Hawking will be able to explain why, having chosen one’s orbit of the middle of the staircase and stuck to it, one finds oneself inexorably drawn to the outside of the staircase.  There is no conscious decision. You’re not aware of it happening.  One minute you’re head down, quietly matching your prayers to the rhythm of your steps, and the next, your arm brushes the outer handrail and your progress is baulked by a tourist having a coronary, whilst being tutted by some inconsiderate descender who cannot pass without letting go of their lifeline.

It is at this stage, with the air having been replaced by napalm and your mind wondering if there is a shop selling deodorant between the station and theatre, that you employ ‘the technique’.

This is simple in theory, although like all arts, takes many years of diligent practice to perfect.  When applied correctly however, it is imperceptible and sublime.

The aim of ‘the technique’ is simple.  It is to show concern for someone else in the same predicament or situation as you, in such a way as to disguise your own condition.

Therefore, in this situation, the aim would be to stop, and considerately check that someone stopped, fighting going towards the white light is in fact ok.  One expresses concern. One reassures them that the end (no not THAT end) is not far off.  One encourages them that they can do it.  One may apply a little humour, taking their mind off their ordeal and reminding them that this will be something to talk about with their friends (or blog!).

And all the time one is doing this, one is stopped, recovering, regrouping, yet without anyone realising that this concern is for YOUR benefit, rather than anyone else’s.  When mastered, the technique leaves an impression of a good Samaritan, possibly even a candidate for sainthood, selflessly stepping out of their own challenge – which the technique makes appear far less of a challenge because of one’s supreme ability – for the good of others.

I have practiced it for years.  I truly hope to encounter many ill-prepared people on the London to Brighton challenge, so that I can pause to encourage and support them. 

For dinner, I was very well-behaved, declining the onion rings and fries with the meal and resisting the tiny tubs of ice-cream on sale for only the price of a kidney transplant in the theatre, before we headed back to the station where, yet again, we were confronted by huge crowds. However, now a veteran of the climb-to-freedom, the descent held no terrors for me and elbows akimbo (which will be my name should I ever take up Jazz), we pushed our way through to the stairs.

Now, walking down the stairs is a lot more difficult than coming up and takes a lot more energy. For a start the risk of falling is undoubtedly higher, so it is imperative that you be able to hug the outside of the staircase, holding onto the rail, which is inconsiderately hogged by people, head down, wheezing their way up or even worse, by people who have simply stopped, some pretending to be assisting others, although it’s clear from their red faces and laboured breathing that this is simply an excuse to take a break themselves.  Encountering such barriers no amount of tutting seems to get through to them, and one has no option but to wait, or let go of one’s lifeline brave the spinning vortex of the middle of the staircase.

It’s very annoying.

So although there was no formal training done, some progress was still made, a warm up for the training walk the following day.

Of which more later…

P.S.  If you’re enjoying my journey, I’d be really grateful for any sponsorship of any size you can spare for the charity I’m doing this for.  Details of how to donate can be found on my just-giving page below.  It doesn’t matter how much for, as my Grandma used to say “every penny makes the water warmer”.

http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2

Day 7: of London to Brighton Training:

Today is my birthday, but unlike some slackers, shirkers and procrastinators, I have not neglected my training regime.

No.

I did that for the preceding two days.

I had to spend a day in our office in Norwich on Thursday, which necessitated a 5am start to my day and not getting home until 1am, so I felt reasonably vindicated in not dropping to the floor of the boardroom and running, or indeed strolling, through an exercise regime.  However, I did eschew the rather wonderful-looking ciabatta melts that my colleagues tucked into in favour of some soup and a tuna salad and at dinner that evening, had my burger sans bun and chips, replaced with another salad.

So all-in-all, I started yesterday feeling relatively virtuous (aka smug and self-satisfied) and ready to resume my resume my training regime.  The plan was, having realised that I needed some shopping, to walk to Tesco at Lunchtime, pick up the LIGHT things (in terms of physical mass rather than supposedly lower in fat) and walk home.  This would give me a 4 mile walk, an exceedingly mild upper body workout AND the coffee pods whose absence causes my pulse to raise more than any aerobic exercise.

Good plan.

Alas, like most plans, it rarely goes that way.  A number of prolonged phone calls and online meetings, rectification of an error and the lack of the aforementioned coffee pods all conspired to a later start than expected.  But that would phase the old Richard.  Not the new, inspired, committed and motivated Richard.  No siree (N.B. this is the Southern US expression and not me arguing with my iPhone), takes more than small setbacks like that to put the new Richard off.

And then it rained.

Actually, it didn’t so much rain as take a small inland sea and invert it over my flat.

The new inspired, committed and motivated Richard hasn’t quite got the hang of enjoying walking in the rain, of being cold, damp, miserable. Of having water trickling down the back of his neck, or other places that you really don’t want getting sore when walking.

Note to self: Buy waterproof socks.

So yesterday really didn’t go according to plan at all and, given that I live in England during a period in which more water has fallen since ET died, until I overcome my fear that I will emulate the Wicked Witch of the West and melt away in the rain, things are unlikely to change.  Incidentally, if anyone knows of some waterproof clothing that does not simply replace rain for condensation, available for less than the gross national product of Bali, I’d be interested.

So I need to compensate for the last couple of days today and have therefore been online, investigating something called ‘Nordic Walking’.  Apparently this involves walking with poles (rather than walking with Poles) in a way that exercises your upper body as well as your legs, although opinions seem to differ as to whether this makes walking harder, easier or simply more effective, although nobody seems to explain what ‘more effective’ means.  Do I get there more quickly?  I’m also unsure as to whether I walking along the local street with two poles will prove too embarrassing.  If I lived in the Andes it would be ok, but I do worry whether I will look like I’ve lost my Sherpa as a I walk to Tesco (assuming it’s dry).

Now I think of it, if I get a Sherpa, I can get all my shopping.  Be right back…..

 ….Typical. 24,588 results on eBay and not one of them is what I wanted.

So, emails to Nordic Walking instructors (none of whom appear to be Nordic) sent, a few phone messages left, research done on the different kinds of poles (HOW MUCH??????) and I’m ready to face the rest of my birthday, which may include a brief bike ride.

No silly, a motorcycle. 

Happy my birthday to you.

 

Day 4 of London to Brighton training:

Having spent the last 48 hours since my re-acquaintance with the ancient Japanese art of being hurt in pyjamas, I've not really been able to do much by way of exercising - or indeed moving - and the clo...sest I came to a work-out yesterday was shirking my small mouse for the full size one (although not, if I'm honest, the one with the ball, just the little shiny-light one - but hey, it's not called the speed of light for nothing and perhaps some of it will rub off?).

However, recognising that small burst of exercise, punctuated by days of immobility, moaning in pain and making the sort of noises I would normally associate with a tree in danger of falling down whenever I tried to get up from the sofa is not going to get me to Brighton (or even to the start line), I did some abdominal exercises with my new gadget (more about that another time), but realised that I really needed to walk.

Having for once organised myself enough to eat early, I bit the bullet, pulled on a hoodie and a hi-viz bib because I neither wanted to get run over or mistaken for a 'yoof', primed Runkeeper and my impulse-buy wristband, fired up the iplod and off I went.

Now, my choice of clothing was based on the fact that I'd been told it was cold out but, as far as I could see, it was dry and therefore I decided it wasn't going to rain.

This may have been optimistic.

The aim was to push the speed a little more this time, rather than go for distance, which highlights that one simply cannot power-walk to classical adagios or, for that matter, to episodes of the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. Skipping forward (on the iplod, not me. I haven't skipped since Country Dancing in Mrs Housley's class in Primary School) I found something with a bit of a beat and off I went.

The training guide for the Walk says the route is hilly and you should practice on hills if possible. I'm fortunate enough to live somewhere that is quite hilly, in a staggering-back-from-the-station-with-shopping rather than a call-me-a-sherpa-pass-the-bobble-hat sort of way and a good beat makes hills seem much flatter and more forgiving.

Incidentally, this is a lie perpetuated by the Music companies.

About half-way down the first hill, my left knee and thigh finally began to feel like the Alligator that had been gripping it was getting bored and letting go, although I was concerned he was merely aiming higher and would soon have a crack at the chest and I was moving more easily. Please understand - this is not a claim to gazelle-like grace, just less like a shopping trolley with three wheels.

This was the point I began to feel good.

This was also the point that it began raining.

At first, just a fine mist. 'No problem' I told myself, it's nice. Refreshing.

Perhaps this was my mistake. Had I cursed it and huddled somewhere, the Rain-G*ds may have settled. But oh no, not me. I have to be all stoic and stiff-upper-lipped (incidentally the only part of my that wasn't stiff after Judo). As a consequence, I could hear them say "Oh right, so that's the way you want it".

And it started to rain. Really rain. Rain like it meant it. And not content with raining ON me, it decided to rain AT me, so they conjured up a wind that blew it straight in my face. This was clever, as even when I changed direction, it still managed to be right in my face.

Now music hath charms to sooth the savage breast, but it doesn't do much for a rain-sodden asthmatic one. So the last mile of my walk was spent trying to wedge my head between my shoulder-blades, to desperately keep my phone and iPlod dry and wondering why, oh why, did I not go to the gym and run on one of those hamster-track thingies?

The ones just a few feet from the cappuccino bar.

So, the result is a somewhat abbreviated walk, at a pace that was, I have no doubt, restricted by the fact that I was wetter than Cod's belly-button and more miserable than an MP whose expenses claim is being checked.

Do you have to stretch more when you're in danger of shrinking?

Oh well, it will be worth it in the end, particularly if you sponsor me (which incidentally, you can do here http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2 )

After all, if I can do things that make me look like this......