One does not simply WALK into Brighton

Day 0:

Let me set the scene for you.

As I write this, I am a 51 (I'm not 52 until tomorrow so dammit, I am STILL 51) year old man living just outside London.  I am overweight, asthmatic, lazy, gluten intolerant, disorganised, sedentary, complacent. I leave things to the last minute and sometimes things get completed on a 'satisficing' basis (a wonderful word I learned about on a University course, which means "to just do enough".  I love this word).

And those are my good points.

I have never been what one may call 'enthusiastic' when it came to exercise, certainly not for its own sake.  Although as a child we did activities such as play football, cricket, cowboys and whatever-you're-meant-to-call-Indians-these-days, ride bikes, throw Frisbees (typically at each other, hard) in what is nostalgically known these days as 'outdoors', I have to say I was never really that good at any of them.  But I enjoyed them as I was playing with my friends.

At school, I was the kid who would come home with a huge smile when I got picked one-FROM-last in team sports - even though this typically meant that one of my classmates had broken his leg and, being in plaster from ankle to thigh, was marginally less competent than me.  I was the kid who Games Teachers loved to torment, in the way a pack of wolves will single out the weakest member of the herd.  It didn't help that my asthma was not diagnosed as such until I was nearly 16 (and therefore excused from sports).  Until that  point, I was merely the fat wheezy kid.  With one tiny flourish of the GP's pen, I became the fat wheezy kid who'd forgotten his inhaler.

Actually now I think of it, Games teachers are more like sharks.

Although none of my close family could be considered athletic (with the exception perhaps of my nephew, who is a keen competitive cyclist - but that's mutation for you), my late Father maintained a life-long love affair with football (soccer for those of you in weird parts of the world) and was a qualified referee.  Yes, he did need glasses and no, he did know who his father was.  He came to this fairly late in life and as a consequence, lost a lot of weight and became very fit.  Not long afterwards, he was diagnosed with Cancer and in under two years he was gone.

So much for fitness then.

So, given this background, I was comfortably settled into a life where the closest I got to exercise was jumping to conclusions and was, in all honestly, drifting comfortably towards my first (and possibly last) heart attack.

I have made periodic efforts to lose some weight and, when I put my mind to it, can normally shed a couple of stones (28 pounds or about 5Kg), but then, as stresses, work, kids, money, the weather, where I've put my keys, the result of the rugby match between Madagascar and Burundi or other important things intrude, the weight would gradually creep back on, the way the tide can catch walkers on a beach unaware.  They don't realise they're caught until the water is around their neck and people on the beach are looking horrified/smug. Most of my forays into losing weight have involved dieting, or at least eating less of the bad things, rather than any concerted attempt to become more active.

Just over a year ago, I started dating A. She is a somewhat unlikely partner for me, given that she is a personal trainer and weight-loss coach with a love of exercise and sport.

Actually, thinking about this, I am a rather unlikely partner for HER.

Over the last year, I have nobly supported her in a number of activities.  She ran a half-marathon in Edinburgh and I accompanied her around the course on an adult version of a kids push scooter.  A push scooter that, incidentally I fell off when training with her with the result that I ******** my hand and couldn't ride my motorcycle for several months.  Sympathy? What's that?

I have been designated driver and support person for Triathlons.  I have walked in solitary silence several meters behind at Golf competitions.  I have worn a false moustache at 5K charity runs.  And throughout, I have managed to avoid the need for Lycra, taped muscles, deep heat or energy drinks, which I have been told does not include coffee.

Who knew?

So, when some months ago, she announced her latest challenge was a walk from London to Brighton, I was not phased in the least.  I girded my loins, took a deep breath and prepared to book the hotel.

For those of you who don't know, Brighton is on the south coast of England, a distance of some 100km/62 miles from London.  Every year, I act as a motorcycle marshall for a big London to Brighton charity cycle event and even that is tiring.  Shortly before the end, the route has to climb over a ridge known as the 'Devil's Dyke' which reduces many of the cyclists to tears and it's not unheard of for bike marshalls to give weary cyclists a tow to the top.

When we met, I explained that I don't run.  I don't run from choice.  I don't run if there's a bus pulling out - my philosophy allows me to believe that another will come, one day.  I don't run if someone is shouting at me to run.  Well, not unless they're shouting at me to run because there's a leopard behind me.

I like leopards, but do not want to find out the answer to the question.  I suspect I know what it will be.

However, I did say I liked to walk. 

Now, this is true.  I like to walk.  In my youth, I loved the Lake District in North West England and often went on walking holidays there with my family.  I love walking along the cliffs of Cornwall and even did some back-packing there in my teens.  I am happy to spend several hours walking around large shopping malls filled with shiny objects and coffee bars.  I have even spent some happy hours watching TV programs about marathon walks up Everest, to the South Pole, Kilimanjaro or even just walks around the UK.  On occasion, this has led to the ubiquitous Google search and a little wistful thinking, but that's as far as it has gone.

So, given all this background, it seems somewhat unlikely that, despite a lifetime's preparation for facing the challenge of declining, I found myself signing up for this walk.  The fact that it gave me the opportunity to raise money for Macmillan Cancer Care, a charity dear to my heart who supported my family when my Dad was dying helped but in truth, I can't say I was fuelled by altruism. 

So why?

I have a feeling this is a question I will be asking myself a great deal throughout the course of the next few months and, through the medium of this blog, perhaps someone will supply the answer which is eluding me at the moment.

Perhaps this is a mid-life crisis, although I have certainly had more than my share of things falling into that category.  I would like to say it's a sudden realisation that I need to change my life for a more positive and healthy one, but the siren-call of the sofa I can see out of the corner of my eye as I write seems to contradict that. Perhaps I just want to see if I can truly rise to a challenge?

Or maybe I just want something to blog about.

Whatever the reason, I did nothing about the walk for several months after signing up.  It was 'next year' and therefore far enough away to be 'in the future' and, given my propensity for last-minute panic completion, not something to bother about now.  However, the start of the new year suddenly makes the whole thing rather more real and the horror stories that others rejoice in relating when you tell them what you are going to do convinced me that, for once in my life, I couldn't just go with the flow and it would be ok.  A wonderful cruise holiday over the new year allowed me to indulge in eating too much and taking things easy but I returned to the realisation that I really, REALLY needed to start preparing for this challenge, particularly as all who know me look at me with horror/pity/shock/amazement/ridicule/bemusement/all of the above.*

(*Delete as applicable)

And so my journey begins.  I posted a couple of updates on Facebook and some friends have suggested that I maintain this as a Blog, and so, dear reader, I welcome you to "One does not simply WALK into Brighton".

I cannot claim that this will be as well-written (or popular) as the book from which I stole that phrase (The Lord of the Rings for those that don't recognise it) and I certainly have about as much optimism of success as the characters, but this blog will chart my encounters with my own personal Orcs and Trolls in my quest.

If nothing else, I hope it will bring a smile to your face and if it encourages you to get up from your chair, put on some training shoes or walking boots and get out there to exercise, then I can only apologise.