15/04/2012 by admin.

So here we go. My week of resting is over and although I thought I’d rested to the best of my ability it wasn’t enough to let it continue - I have to do some exercise. I must admit it didn’t get off to a great start.

The first activity was listed as “A gentle 10 minute jog” which when I read it looked like it said “A gentle 10 minute job” so I tidied my sock drawer. It made perfect sense at the time as my first instruction was to “rest” so I just thought it was just a way to slide you easily into an exercise routine. Did all elite athletes have to do things like this when they started out? Was Paula Radcliffe’s first steps to stardom to clean out her hamster cage, did Linford Christie have to help his wife hang out the washing? Unfortunately not, I have to jog but at least my sock drawer is tidy.

So the big day has come and I have to jog for 10 minutes. I get up 20 minutes earlier than usual, pick up my bottle of water to rehydrate after the substantial sweat loss I’ll suffer during this prolonged torture, take my towel to wipe the sweat away from my eyes, pick up my headphones and Blackberry so I can listen to inspirational Bruce Springsteen classics when I hit the “wall” after three or four minutes and head off to the gym. I did wonder if I should take a banana to refuel during the session but decided I couldn’t carry anymore and if I’d put it in my pocket there was always the possibility I might bump into the Saudi Religious Police and that would be the end of that session.

I should perhaps explain why I’m going to the hotel gym rather than jogging outside. There’s a number of reasons all of which are to do with being in Saudi Arabia. Firstly, it’s blooming hot - even at 7am. Jogging in this heat is madness - walking in this heat is madness - sitting down and resting is sometime a struggle. So the heat makes it a no-no.

Secondly, the Saudi’s are lovely people but are the worst drivers in the world. They’re crazy - you can’t even rely on them to drive on the correct side of the road. Crossing the road is like taking your life in your hands - even the Green Cross Code man would abandon his role here and put in for job retraining. The drivers have no road sense, have no patience or courtesy. The national language of Saudi Arabia is the car horn. Pity help any driver who doesn’t pull away at a traffic light within half a nanosecond of it turning green - BEEEEPPPP!! So running outside isn’t an option as it’s not safe.

Lastly, the Saudi’s apparently don’t like too much flesh being on show. So running in shorts are out and, as it’s so hot, long tracksuit bottoms are too much for the heat. I’ve never actually seen any law which prohibits the wearing of shorts but I’m told by people who’ve been here longer than me that it’s “frowned upon”. What exactly “frowned upon” means I’m not so sure but I don’t want to accept my hosts and the thought of being pursued through the streets by a load of Saudi’s with wrinkled brows wouldn’t be the right thing to be doing.

So the gym it is! I enter with great excitement, armed with my plethora of running aids (I’d decided to leave sweaty, lumpy man in my room) to be greeted by Gary’s cheery “Good morning”. He’s already been here for 30 minutes pumping away (no not that kind of pumping but more about the effect of Saudi food in later blogs) on the cross trainer.  He’s training for his latest marathon so my 10 minutes is going to look really feeble next to him. I hope he leaves before I finish so he doesn’t know how little I’ve done.

So with great aplomb I step up onto the running machine to be confronted by a bank of lights and buttons - but no instructions. I find the on-off switch and press the green button for ON - it tells me I have 45 seconds to get ready. What’s going to happen? Get ready for what? Armageddon? To Rumble? I frantically look round and see a light asking me to select my programme. Looking through the options of “calorie burning” and “intense” etc I decide that when all else fails go for “manual”. Nothing happens.   There’s another light flashing like a demented Jack Douglas asking me to select my pace. I press the button and the setting of 0.0 becomes 0.5 - the belt I’m standing on cranks into action and the timer starts. I’m away with my first training session.

Now despite what you may think, I’m not stupid. This may be my first ever visit to a gym at the age of 52 but I know that 0.5 isn’t going to do me any good over 10 minutes. Babies just out of the womb have moved faster than this. So I crank it up a notch or two and before you know it I’ve got a walk on. I switch on my music and after a few more confident pushes of the PACE button and I’m into my gentle jog. Like Dumbo taking off for the first time, I’m flying. “Look at me - I’m jogging.” There’s no doubting crows in this room! It’s like Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet on the deck of the Titanic as I feel the rush of the wind (fan) through my hair.

After five minutes of euphoria naging doubts start to creep in. Or rather not nagging doubts - more like screaming pain from my lungs, thighs, knees and calfs. All of them shouting at once - STOP! I frantically reach for my water bottle to gulp some water but it has no effect. Where’s “I Will Survive” or the theme from Rocky on the earphones when you need them? Morrissey’s “You’re The One For Me Fatty” isn’t helping. Regardless, I plough on. 5 minutes becomes 6 minutes. Then 6 minutes 10 seconds. Then 6 minutes 12 seconds. Time just seems to stand still but I’m still going. I can’t stop now because Gary is still here. It’s going to be bad enough just running for 10 minutes but 6 and a half! Gotta keep going.

3 minutes injury time when your 1-0 down at football flies by. The 3 minute warning in an exam doesn’t give you time to turn a page before Mr Clarke is telling you to put your pens down. 3 minutes when you’re on a treadmill, gasping for breath lasts an eternity. It’s as if someone has put their finger on the second hand and is pushing it backwards. One minute left. Oh come on ref blow full time.

Eventually, finally, at last the clock ticks round to 10 minutes. Stop - please stop the pain.I’ve now got two concerns.My main worry now is that Gary doesn’t start up a conversation. It feels like it’s going to take me a month to get my breath back and to be able to talk again but my other concern is that I’ve somehow got to get off the machine without collapsing to the ground and weeping like a baby. Fortunately, at that point Gary waves me goodbye and leaves the gym. What dignity I have left remains intact.

I turn to switch off the running machine (exhausted and still thinking logically eh!) to find that there’s a light flashing telling me the result is 0.87 in 10 minutes. 0.87 eh! Not bad for a first effort! But 0.87 what? There’s no damn unit of measure on the machine. It could be miles, kilometers or marks out of ten for all I know. The screaming pain in my chest tells me that it’s probably light years.

I slowly walk back to my room for a shower. the complimentary bottle of water in my room doesn’t touch the sides. Then I have to wait 20 minutes to try to stop sweating. Even with air-con it’s still really hot here and I’ve just run 0.87! Eventually I shower and get dressed for work. Within 10 seconds on putting on my clean shirt it’s absolutely soaked with sweat but I go downstairs to the foyer to meet Terry to walk to work.

Terry is ex-military. He’s a lovely bloke but still thinks he has to march everywhere. Even walking down the corridor in work is like yomping in the Falklands to him. I swear he can walk faster than I can run. So the 800 meter walk to work, over the pedestrian bridge in the early Saudi sun wasn’t the most pleasant of walks. Rigamortis was already setting into my legs and what with Terry’s military two step double time to work it was pretty painful.

Still, I made it. Sat down at work and vowed not to get up even if the building caught fire. I sat there in my soaked shirt, with legs stiffening with every beat of my shocked heart and thought “How the hell am I supposed to get up-to 13 miles?”

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15/04/2012 by admin.

My first week hasn’t been a complete disaster. In fact I feel I’ve taken the most important step towards ensuring my success (success being I finish the race before everyone shuts up shop and goes home).

Every major event needs a good strategy and planning - so my first week has been spent doing just that. I’ve decided that the best way to ensure that I do the training and the race is to tell as many people as possible that I’m entering. That way I can’t quietly drop out without losing face in front of family, friends and colleagues. So I’ve spent the week telling everyone one I meet at work that I’m running, I’ve told most of my family - the ones who’s email address I know and some of the people I used to work with. I’ve even contacted friends I haven’t seen for years to let them know that I’m stupid enough to enter the GNR again after a gap of 30 years.

The plan has succeeded - they now all ask how the training is going plus they all know for certain that I’m completely stupid.

I mentioned before that I’m in Saudi Arabia. I don’t live in Saudi - I’ve picked up a short term contract to do some work over here. That’s all I do - short term contracts. I don’t have a proper job - I just do what is called “interim” work. There is a bit of snobbery about the term interim. People will be familiar with the term “temp or temping” but not “interim”. Being an interim is just the same as being a temp - only the pay for interim work is higher. So I’m an Interim Procurement Manager - I pick up short term work to cover a particular project or to cover someone’s maternity leave or illness. Once the contract is over, I move on and look for other work as an “interim” - and yes, I’m a snob!

I’d started a new role in Saudi just a few days before I found out I had been successful (or unsuccessful which ever way you look at it) in getting into the GNR. So, in line with my cunning plan of letting everyone know what I was doing as I was introduced to my new colleagues I’d say something along the lines of “Hello, I’m Sheridan and I’m doing the Great North Run in September”. As most of the people I was introduced to were from Saudi Arabia and had never heard of the GNR then there was a lot of blank looks and tilting of the head. You know the tilt - the one that says that you have no idea what I’m talking about but I’ll just move my head slightly to one side and look interested and/or sympathetic.

I got a more knowledgeable reaction from the other Brits over here although they probably all remember me as the fat, snobbish bloke with the strange name who thinks he’s going to be able to waddle for 13 miles in 6 months time. The best of all was from Gary.

Gary is a superfit Scouser who I subsequently learned runs marathons for fun. Now there’s a contradiction in terms. The only fun thing about marathons is watching Paula Radcliffe stop and have a pee half way through. When I burbled my introduction to Gary he turned excitedly to his left, grabbed a magazine and thrust it into my hand. I looked and it was the latest copy of Runners World or Joggers Delight or something like that. “Here have this - it’ll help” says Gary enthusiastically. Now I don’t want to seem ungrateful but the only way this magazine would help would be if I could eat it and like some pill from Harry Potter it would turn me into Dave Bedford or Brendon Foster. (If you’re under 45 you’ll need to wiki these two).

So armed with my new found inspirational magazine (complete with front cover black and white picture of a shirtless, pumped up, lumpy in places I can only dream of, sweaty man running over rough terrain) and the undoubted admiration of my new colleagues and old friends I set about the next stage of my route to fitness - the training plan.

Once you’re in the GNR you get access to an online plan. Its aim is to prepare you for the run by providing you with a daily set of physical tasks to perform. You fill in your personal details then it asks you to complete a section on your current physical abilities. It asks if you’re a Beginner, Intermediate or Serious Runner. Now, sometimes when I’m thinking really hard I can look quite serious so I wondered if I qualified for a Serious Runner category - perhaps not. I certainly wasn’t going to be middle of the road so Intermediate was out and as there wasn’t anything lower than Beginner, like Slob or Fatty; I decided to go for Beginner.

Hey Presto - in a flash up it comes. My training plan. When I was setting up the plan I was really encouraged to read that rest days are just as important as activity days. That’s good I thought - hopefully there will be plenty of rest days - like maybe 6 months’ worth. I eagerly opened up my plan to find that in the first week all I had to do was rest! For seven days - doddle! I’ve been doing that for 30 years so another seven days is a bonus. I looked frantically for the pop up message which said “Why not celebrate with some cheesecake” but unfortunately I was obviously expecting too much.

So my training plan has to be followed and I sat back with black and white, sweaty lumpy man and rested like a demon. Training starts next week.

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15/04/2012 by admin.

What on earth have I done? What was I thinking?

It’s Monday 6th February 2012 and I’m staring at an email in my inbox. ”How on earth has that happened and what the f*** am I going to do now?” Unfortunately, the email isn’t one of those many emails I receive from the president of the Nigerian National Bank saying that they have found a colossal amount of money belonging to me and all I have to send them are my bank details, birth certificate and water bill and all will be mine. Why do they always want your water bill and never the gas bill or electricity bill - maybe water bills are some form of currency in Nigeria? Maybe they’re paying for their scam by selling copies of water bills from Northumbria Water into the Nigerian black market.

Anyway, my email wasn’t from Nigeria it was from the people at the Great North Run saying that they were please to accept my application to enter the Great North Run - a 13.1 mile slog from Newcastle to South Shields - which I’m expected to run and not drive.

I know I only have myself to blame for getting the email but in all honesty I hadn’t expected my application to be accepted. I’ve never won anything not even a raffle at my local cricket club which I used to organise. If I couldn’t manage to swindle first prize for the Chairman’s bottle of Riesling what chance did I have of being accepted for this race when I knew it was vastly over subscribed.

I’d accepted a challenge from my 14 year old son, Matthew, to enter the race and in an act of bravado on my part we’d decided to apply together. I’d pictured it being a nice father & son thing to do, bit of bonding, bit of joint competition and motivation and I’m sure my wife would have been proud as she snapped away at us as we crossed the finish line together - in slow motion - with Chariots of Fire gently playing in the background.

“You go first Dad” says Matthew as we log on to the website to enroll for the race. I complete my application in record time (good start to the training I thought) and hand over to Matthew. Two questions into his application we discover that, at 14, he’s too young to enter. For a moment I consider lying on his application but have a slight anxiety attack at what the punishment would be for such a heinous crime on a Great North Run application. The race is such an institution now it would be like not laughing at repeats of a Ronnie Corbett monologue. It’s just not done - in any case the first sign of a blister on his foot and my wife would kill me.

So, just me with the application. It’s no problem - I’ll never be accepted. As Chandler would say “Could I be more wrong?”. I should point out at this point the fact that the main cause of my anxiety is the fact that I’m so unfit. I’m a 52 year old bloke, weigh 15 stones 7 pounds (98kg) and the last time I ran for anything was down to the local record store to pick up the latest single from Kajagoogoo.

According to all the website I look at my BMI states that I’m obese. Which I think is a bit harsh. Sure, I could lose a few pounds but do you have to be so cutting? Couldn’t they have said cuddly or chunky? According to this BMI rating the only way I’ll be acceptable is if I lose around 20kg - how on earth am I supposed to do that without cutting off a leg and a large part of an arm?

I used to be fit, in fact I have run the Great North Run before. I ran the first one in 1981 when I was 21. At that time, I used to play a lot of football, squash and cricket so the training wasn’t too difficult. Plus I used to live near the running track at Brinkburn School so I knew how far I’d run - none of those satellite tracking apps in those days. All you had to do was keep a count of the laps “that’s 6 laps now gasp gasp, or is it 7 gasp gasp, let’s just be safe and say 8″ - scientific stuff. Mind you running round in circles for hours on end wasn’t much fun so I wasn’t too bothered when my application for the 1982 Run wasn’t accepted and I didn’t bother entering again after that. Plus, I didn’t win the first GNR which was disappointing with all the training I’d put in. In the early stages I was right up with the leaders then this gun went off and I lost them.

So here I am. Faced with a massive challenge - having to go from being an unfit, overweight slob to running a half marathon in 6 months. Got to get started right away with the training - yes! I know - I’ll start tomorrow. Oh one other thing I should mention at this point - I’m working in Saudi Arabia.

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