T minus 5

The countdown is almost at an end.... In just over an hour I will be leaving to head towards Wembley Stadium to hook up with everyone else. TFL have conspired along with Mother Nature and the incompetence of Nike to make the situation as big a mission as possible...

The tube from Brixton is off today, meaning an epic bus ride towards Baker Street followed by a tube up to Wembley - what you don't see on FA Cup Final coverage is that Wembley is actually in the arse-end of nowhere somewhere north-west of London. I'm not entirely sure it's still in London - it may possibly be jumping on the same bandwagon as London Stansted airport (45 minutes out into the Essex countryside) in claiming to be in the city when in fact stuck out somewhere near Watford. It doesn't help, of course, that I currently live in the depths of the South East London suburbs where "Sunday public transport" is an alien concept.

So, I have been preparing this morning, trying to get everything sorted. I've spent most of my time in a nicotine-deprived fug, imagining I'm in one of those montages that the BBC does as an intro to sports programmes these days. You know the sort: Eddie Butler waxing poetically over slow motion shots of rugby playes battering seven shades of shit out of each other; Andy Murray twirling his racquet on his hand as he tries to focus; horses being exercised in the chilly crisp morning near Newmarket....

So this morning, to the tune of that awful M People song "Reach for the hero inside yourself" (how did Heather Small manage to corner the market in rubbish inspirational sporting anthems?), life has been one long atmospheric clip fest. After waking up this morning, I rolled over as the 'camera' panned and the time on my alarm clock came into focus. There was a close up of a splash of milk on Ricicles and quiche going into the oven. I was captured in silhouette in my bedroom window as I spoke to Euan trying to arrange meeting up. The camera arced as a chunk of toe nail flew from my clippers and landed amongst a pile of clothes on the floor. Finally, a look of quiet contemplation as I worked through my race tactics whilst attaching my little electronic chip thing to my shoe laces.

Soon, the final scene will see me - gorged on Spaghetti Bolognese - kissing my girlfriend goodbye in my full race kit and locking the front door behind me. All that will remain is for the tv pictures to cut to live coverage with John Inverdale and a shaky helicopter image of my team coach arriving at the stadium.

The waiting is over. The preparations are complete. The weather forecast is for severe thunder storms and near total darkness.

Let's do it.

An apology

Having reviewed my last post in the cold and slightly groggy light of day, i perhaps missed the inappropriate nature of getting all misty-eyed over gun-crime-inspired hip hop whilst stood at the epicentre of this city's gang warfare. Sorry.

Hits from the pod

Thanks to the power of the internet, i recently downloaded the mp3 version of my long-loved but never listened to cassette of Black Sunday by Cypress Hill. I'm stood, slightly drunk, at the bus stop in Brixton, awash with glock-inspired warm fuzzy teenage nostalgia.....

Management material

I'm currently looking for a new assistant at work, having proved somewhat incapable of hanging on to one for more than a few months at a time. During a meeting yesterday i was describing my ideal candidate, trying to be diplomatic before getting to the crux of the matter and passionately declaring, "i just want someone exactly like me, can that be so hard?!". In that one moment, i instantly became the sort of person i've had the misfortune to work under on several occasions throughout my long and nondescript career to date. The look on my colleague's face more than confirmed it. If i can master the art of avoiding a straight answer and churning management buzz phrases out in response to every simple request, the boy could go far. In the meantime, i'm considering getting the word "cock" tattooed backwards across my forehead to remind myself each time i look in the mirror. Just in case it's not too late.

The Human Race just got more interesting

Yes, a mere 5 days prior to the big day, I now have my first international competitor to run against; uber-hack Gav has signed up for the New York leg of the run. He's apparently been pounding the cinders in Central Park for a few months now, working towards an eventual tilt at the New York marathon, so I imagine it will be a walk in the park for him. I extend the laurel wreath of friendship across the miles to you...

Meanwhile, I cunningly avoided (well - make that "was prevented from") training again tonight, leaving work at the most un-tattieish time of 8pm, by which time it was dark and I felt more like blubbering than pushing my body round the streets. Following a lengthy phone rant to my long suffering girlfriend when leaving, severe delays on the district line, and a return home to find my dinner cooked and a beer chilling in the fridge, I feel much better now. Thanks J....

I now have 1 transatlantic opponent, 5 workmates and 5 friends in the same Wave in London to run against on Sunday. Am facing not even making the top ten.

5 days and counting

and my ankles still hurt when climbing stairs, despite not having run at all since last monday. Hardly ideal preparation. I'll give an 8k a stab today, followed by a 5k tomorrow and a cheeky 3k on friday, and we'll see how it goes. Not exactly brimming with confidence though, as may be apparent.

Picked up my race kit yesterday

The t-shirt is a very attractive fire engine red, with my number (933,000-something - the aim is to have 1 million competitors across all the participating cities) on the front, and the list of cities taking part on the back, a la a band tour t-shirt. Also got my ticket for wembley stadium, so i can sit and listen to a techno concert between 5.45 and 7 before setting off at around 7.45 in wave 3. It's all very odd in terms of set up, but it's wembley so i won't grumble. I almost said "shan't grumble" there. Is that a word? It sounds like it should be.

I think i have a stress fracture of my ankle

Ok, so it's blatantly not, but it hurts when i put any pressure on it. A combination of running too much recently (10k, 8k and 7k in the last 5 days), inappropriate footwear for my running style and a general weediness has given me a bit of an injury. The idea of the fracture came about based on the fact it's a weird sort of pain and that paula radcliffe had something similar before the olympics. But then, she was on crutches. I think part of me wouldn't mind a proper injury - i'm 30 years old and have never broken a bone, although admittedly that's probably not a bad thing at this stage. I can't help feeling it makes me less of a man though, like not being able to talk about football down the pub, take the lids off jars or understand why indiana jones and james bond are so good.

Finally got a hair cut this evening

Which was just as well, as my girlfriend had started calling me Andy Murray....

Can't see it myself

The social event of the season

I'm off to the motherland again on Wednesday for the wedding of the year at Castle Leslie, previously only famous for being the site of the McCartney-Mills nuptials. An inauspicious start, but I have every faith that the events on Thursday will do more than enough to dispel that unpleasant heritage.

My friend Julie Anne is celebrating finally breaking in her Aussie boyfriend John by making an honest man of him. You may remember him from his scene stealing dancing at my friends' wedding in December. I've known John for about 6 years now, when I arrived back from New Zealand to discover a real life antipodean living in my home town. It was the first sign that the 20th Century had finally breached the Presbyterian Force field surrounding the town and persuaded me that, if an Aussie could make his home there, then I could too.

Julie-Anne I have known since we were 4, as we were in primary school together. She used to drive me to work in Belfast whilst putting on her make up with one hand, and turned up at our school formal wearing a pair of green Puma States, thus ensuring legendary cool status in my heart. What can I say, I was impressionable at that age.

I'm taking my trainers home with me on the off chance I get an opportunity to live out my fantasy of running along a windswept beach, like in the movies. I'm trying to find a suitably epic soundtrack to accompany me, but have only managed the National Velvet theme tune so far. A childhood spent in the country having my pop culture references influenced by my sister comes back to haunt me again.

We return from Ireland late on Saturday night, and head off straight to Get Loaded in the Park on Sunday. Awesome line up this year, with Iggy & the Stooges, Supergrass and Gogol Bordello on the main stage. I can think of no better way of avoiding thinking about the end of the summer (already) than by getting drunk in a field and moshing my little bits off.

Gotta love the night bus

We have the ubiquitous guy playing his tunes through his phone on the way home this evening.... Only he's in his 30s and is playing gospel music. It's actually rather pleasant.

Rooney or Dallaglio?

A question not a million miles away from: "liver or marmite"

These two paragons of arrogant English ugliness have been selected by Nike, in their infinite wisdom, as the "team captains" for the Nike 10k - the idea being that you designate yourself as Northern or Southern English and get a bit of friendly rivalry in the London leg of the race.

This obviously presents me with a considerable problem - in that I can't stand either of them, and I certainly don't feel the slightest connection or allegiance to either the North or South of the country that happens to contain London.

Given that the independent city state in which I reside is in the South and I have (save for a two day visit to Leeds in 1998) never been to the North, logic would suggest I should pin my colours to Dallaglio. But, as painful and appealing as that sounds, I couldn't possibly bring myself to do it.

I assume David Healy's little legs are too short to get him round the course, worse luck.

I've finally run 10K

despite the fact I have already done one 10K this summer, my stupid waste-of-money Nikeplus gadget did not recognise the fact, as I ran the first 400m of the race with it turned off (unknown to me). So, following my crap efforts last Thursday and now that my groin no longer feels like it's Casanova's hand me down, I was determined to finally get through the magic 10K barrier this evening. And get through it I did, albeit at crawling pace. I made it from my house to the park, did one lap, ran back, swore a lot near my house again as the stupid American voice advised I'd only done 7.6k, then did another "S" up and down some roads nearby to get to 10.21k. It took me an hour and 1 minute and I'm sore again, but I took on the fear and beat it into a bloody pulp so I'm happy. I figure I have maybe four or five more opportunities to run prior to the race in two and a half weeks time - but my commitment is such that I am taking my trainers back to Norn Irn next week and plan on fitting in a jog at some point whilst not quaffing vast amounts of plonk at my mate's posh wedding. "Plan on".

In other news, we all got an email today telling us our race t-shirts and electronic chips are ready for collection from Nike Town! No backing out now. I still can't help but feel disappointed that after all the hype and build up of 2006, there's been virtually no advertising this time around. It really does make a difference, if only that you feel more like you're part of something. Bah.

The countdown begins again

less than three weeks to go to the Nike 10k, my friends, and things aren't going particularly well... I've been trying to increase my speed in the interim between the British 10K and the upcoming corporate megathon. Unfortunately, it would appear that my body is incapable of pushing itself even a tiny bit to achieve the desired result. I've managed to run at a pace which would see me coming in at under 50 minutes for a 10K - only problem is that I only made it round for 2.5k and just about managed to crawl home.

Last Tuesday I felt pretty good, so ran 5k in 26 mins - not that bad and it felt quite quick; the only problem was that, with around 2k still to go, I felt a sharp pain in my groin. Knowing that I was on a reasonably good pace, and being a generally stubborn and idiotic soul, I kept going and as a result have had a sore thigh for the last week. I tried to go for a longer run on Thursday but a combination of the thigh and general lack of fitness saw me have to stop after 6k - around 2k from home. The walk back was bloody demoralising - as I've previously stated I tend to have a stubbornness when running that always sees me home no matter how wrecked I feel. Not this time; the walk seemed to take around half an hour, and by the time I got back to the house i was cold and pathetic. I tried to cheer myself up by reminding myself that I had run further than at any point since the last race - somewhat unsurprisingly it didn't help.

19 days to go. 4km to find. Two nights training this week sacked off at a second's notice to enable alcohol consumption. Plans made to see old mates for the first time since Christmas on the 28th of August, followed by a good friend's leaving do on the 29th before he moves to the Czech Republic - leaving me a day's recovery prior to the race.

To borrow my girlfriend's surname, I am Fokt.

My sleepy rural train station

With south london's eiffel tower rising lazily from the tree tops... Sometimes it's worth being up early on a saturday.

The Care Bear Papparazzi

The whole of the south of London was lit up this evening as an odd thunder storm did it's thing.... It was weird, it didn't rain at all (and as a result is still humid and sticky and making me all aggro) and there was virtually no thunder, but flashes of bright light filled the whole sky south of Crystal Palace when I was on my way home from the shops. Initially I thought it might be lightning hitting the TV transmitter but on closer inspection it was further away, and instead looked like a massive flashbulb in the clouds. Guess it must have been Tenderheart's birthday or something.

Spooked

Check out the new star of BBC3's spy spin off, Spooks Code 9. Admittedly, I found the website thanks to my mate Murray, who works in "media" and therefore gets wind of these things way ahead of most. The odd thing is, having seen his video on Facebook, we apparently look identical. Either that or the face mapping widget isn't that great. Still, I think I look more handsome in the clip than I do in real life, so I'm happy!

Report

Beware the urge to take training to the next level

For verily, it doth burn muchly.

Have broken my groin. and not in a good way.

Life moves pretty fast.....

As a now aging and paunchy Matthew Broderick once said. You ain't kidding, Ferris.

My annual leave whooshed past in two shakes of a lamb's tail and I returned to the office today, full of vim and vigour ready to take on the world. Had you going for a second there, didn't I? What actually happened was that I dragged my sorry depressed arse back out to East London and spent the entire day scowling at the computer screen, trawling through the emails that were clogging up my inbox after a fortnight's absence.

My break was good though - I did very little last week but did manage to exercise quite a lot to ease my angst over the forthcoming Nike 10K. I followed up a run on Tuesday morning with a bike ride in the afternoon - the first time I have been further than the post office on the feckin thing since I bought it in February. I managed a meandering cruise to the park and did a couple of laps - all was going well until I took a wrong turn on my way home and ended up on the main road. Cue pumping of legs and a look of sheer terror on my face as I got spooked by traffic, signaling, lights, junctions - you name it, it scared me. As a result I couldn't walk by the time I got back to the flat. I highly recommend it as a way of giving your legs (and heart) a good workout without even noticing.

On Wednesday I came out of retirement to find myself on a 5-a-side pitch for the first time since May 2001, thus finally giving my sexy 'gun-metal' Diadora footie trainers their first run out (following purchase in mid-March). The £12 proved well spent as I missed hopelessly with my first attempt on goal before slotting home my second into the bottom corner, to the mild complimentary murmuring of my team mates. Alas, things were not to go from strength to strength and this proved to be the high point of my performance, unless you include the 'shot' that cleared the boundary fence and narrowly avoided clocking a young netballer on the noggin on the court next door (see video clip of the incident, below).

Having followed up this punishment with a 6km jog on Friday, I'm not feeling in totally rubbish shape at the moment - despite the alcoholic battering I gave myself over the holiday. Bring on the 10K.