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......

 

 

Day 2 of London to Brighton Training: After the 14k walk on Sunday, it was time for some strength and aerobic exercise. As I've always hated the gym (boring) and the training guide suggested interval training, I decided to return to martial arts and, after checking out a few such as Aikido and Iaido, returned to my first love of Judo, which was always the most intense workout I remember doing.

...Athough in my mind it was only a few months since I was last on the mat, the way I feel this morning suggests that it was in fact some time in the mid-Seventeenth Century.

The club I joined boasts a number of members of the British Squad and they regularly win a lot of medals in national competitions. However the Sensei was very good and completely understood that I needed to start gently as I work to regain my fitness and that although previously graded, I was wearing a white belt. He paired me with another beginner whose first session was last week, so although I knew more, we were relatively evenly matched. Having said that, he threw me a lot more than I threw him, but then he did have a major advantage in being nearly 10 and, as such, both fitter and with a greater capacity to learn new motor skills.

My fitness wasn't good enough to do all the Randori (free sparring) and I had to sit some of that out, instead working with resistance bands to practice techniques that, oddly, began to come back to me. I guess muscles remember better than brains sometimes - where ARE my keys anyway?

A hot bath when I got home seems to have alleviated most of the aches, although I'd forgotten how much the burn marks from where the suit gets violently rubbed against the skin look like hickeys. However, something seems to have happened to my left knee, which has registered a formal protest and is demanding that I return, forthwith, to my sedentary lifestyle. If knees could type it would, first thing this morning, have put my Judo suit up on eBay and I have no doubt have bid on a LazyBoy recliner with built-in popcorn maker.

However, this does mean that my good-intentioned plan to get up early and get another shortish walk in was, in retrospect, rather optimistic. Liberal application of Tiger Balm and some gentle stretches will hopefully ease it enough to let me walk later - if only to the kitchen for a coffee.

Will I be going back to Judo? You bet. There is a 9-year-old's scalp with my name on it and the honour of his grandad's generation is at stake!See more

Day 1 of London to Brighton training:

We have designed a training plan.

Or rather, A has designed her training plan, whilst I still struggle to come to terms with the need to prepare and be structured and organised, itself a major lifestyle and personality adjustment.  The organisers of the challenge have created a website for the event, which includes details of the route, training suggestions and informs me that there are currently over 1,400 people taking part.

It seems insanity is rife, but there are degrees of insanity.

Some have signed up to do a 56km walk, which I believe is the second half.  These are the mildly delusional.

Some, like me, have signed up to do the full 100km.  We are the certifiably insane.

Some have signed up to RUN the distance, as what the website tells me is called an 'Ultra-Marathon'.

Not being a Psychiatrist, I looked these ones up.

They're barking mad.

So, according to the training plan, it's not enough to just walk, building up my distance over the coming weeks, although that is certainly a part of it.  I have to do other things like strength training to "build my core" and something called "Cross Training". 

Insert Puns Here (I'm sure you don't need me).

However, for now, A's schedule says a longish walk on Sundays, building up the distance and so a walk it is.  The sun is, rather unusually for the UK at the moment, shining on Sunday morning, but it seems the procrastination is still something that needs to be worked on, so it's early afternoon before we get out the door.

I am not yet prepared to wear 'sports' clothing, particularly for walking, as I don't yet feel comfortable enough with being identified with 'them'. Besides, sports clothing looks good if you have the sports body to go with it.  Otherwise you just look like a shrink-wrapped sausage or, if you go for the baggy look, like someone who's just woken up from a binge to find nothing short of a kaftan fits.

Besides, I have, for now, decided to walk in walking boots, and these seem incongruous when teamed with anything with a logo, be it swoosh, slash, leaping animal or whatever.

I bought these boots some time ago, with the intention of, well, walking.  They are big, brown, clumpy and have a sole that I'm sure would, given sufficient incentive, allow me to walk up a wall.

What they are not is forgiving.

When younger I wore boots when hiking, so I'm not unfamiliar with them, although I do seem to remember that they used to be easier to tie up.  Or rather, it was easier to bend DOWN to tie them up.  However, after some struggling, I managed to get them on and we set off.

75 yards later I stopped to re-tie them, as they hurt.
400 yards later, I stopped to re-tie them as they were slipping.
300 yards later, I stopped to re-tie them as they were rubbing.

However, finally they were, if not comfortable, at least not something would expect to find being used in Guantanamo Bay to elicit a confession and off we went.

For those familiar with North London, the plan was to walk from Finchley to Hampstead Heath and back, going via the Bishop's Avenue.  This is very famous road in the area, as it consists of some of the most expensive properties in one of the most expensive cities in the world.  The houses are large and elegant and cost many millions of pounds, but in recent years there has been a trend to buy them, knock them down and replace them with new, even larger houses, many of which look like office blocks or prisons, not solely because of the huge amount of security, whilst others look like the architect's 7 year old child has had access to the plans whilst they were away from their desk and have been clicking on the palette of 'Architectural features', adding everything they could find.  This ensures that Greek columns are twinned with a deep-south veranda and a gothic bell-tower topped by an English village weather-cock.

Not so much a design as a collage.

What is interesting is the number of houses that are empty, for sale, sometimes by the official receiver.  It would seem that the recession has hit the mega-rich too, which I am embarrassed to say leads to an expression on my face that could well be used to illustrate 'Schadenfreude' on Wikipedia.

(Incidentally, I still wince every time I don't spell it 'Wikipaedia').

The Challenge website informs me that the walk will be approximately 40% on roads, and 60% on footpaths and bridleways and, therefore, I should train by walking off-road too.  This opportunity presents itself as we reach the Heath, and a diversion is taken down a small footpath.

Now, consider that the last 3 months in the UK have been the wettest since Noah first picked up a hammer, and you may begin to see the issue here.  The path was, all things considered, not that bad.  By which I mean that you neither needed to swim, nor did you find yourself emulating the scene in many a movie where someone sinks to a horrible death in quicksand.

However, for those of you who understand Star Trek analogies, I was very glad I wasn't wearing a red Starfleet uniform.

To maintain the movie theme however, it WAS slippery and slimy enough underfoot for me to do a passable imitation of Bambi during his foray onto the ice.  Now, I have no idea whether windmilling your arms and saying "whoooah" actually has any real benefit in maintaining balance - they don't do it in Cirque du Soleil - but it provides some emotional comfort, as if you're actually doing something to prevent a face-first pratfall into the ooze, rather than relying on fate.  I'm not sure that I can sustain windmill arms for 100km however, as it doesn't seem to feature in any training plans, so if you can find it in your hearts to put in a prayer for dry weather in the run up to the challenge, I would be grateful.

I was feeling fine on the walk and actually feeling quite pleased with myself, until we passed a small shop where, not having had lunch, I decided to stop and buy some soup.  A couple of minutes browsing before resuming the walk seemed to confuse my legs somewhat.

Whether they considered that I had finished and that they had therefore done their part I don't know, but trying to resume what had been, to my mind at least a purposeful and even quite impressive stride proved problematic.  Neither leg seemed particularly keen on resuming their activity and what's worse; they had given up any pretence of team-work, refusing to work in concert with each other or me. Efficient progress does rather depend on your legs either being willing to move alternately or, indeed, at all.  Through force of character (plus the promise of a hot bath) I coaxed them back into motion, but they were as happy as a Teenager being asked to visit an elderly aunt with halitosis and cats on Prom Night.

Given that there are a number of scheduled stops for drinks and food on the walk, this is worrying and I truly believe that if I sit down on this walk, I may never move again.

Now I read that back, it doesn't sound such a bad thing.

On getting back, I struggled out of my boots which, I have to confess, made tying them seem trivial and was informed that I needed to stretch.  Apparently this doesn't mean raising your arms above your head and yawning, but rather lying on your back on the floor and using one leg to push the other up your nostril.  I am a novice, so am allowed to push left leg up left nostril, but aspire to the sort of flexibility that will  allow opposite-nostricular insertion.  Who knows, in time I may become flexible enough to stand up afterwards.

A feeling of self-satisfaction ensued, not merely for completing an 8 mile walk, but for having made a start.  Who knows whether this journey (rather than this challenge) will instil in me a love of exercise for its own sake, but as they say, the journey of 100km starts with the first step.

Footnote (no pun intended)

My left thigh feels tighter than an Politicians alibi, to the extent that I'm limping everywhere.

I blame the stretches.  I'm going online to see if I can get an operation to bring my nostrils closer to my knees.  And yes, I know, nature did that for me.