Christmas surprises

Christmas eve and instead of doing the usual (nursing a sore sweet sherry head) I'm running around Killerton House. A beautiful estate just outside Exeter. This was courtesy of the local parkrun

In crushingly typical fashion, I'd failed to recce the course, assumed it was similar to Hampstead Heath and turned up in trainers.

Assuming had made a big arse out of me again.

Trainers are not suitable attire for cross-country. Uphill. Mud up to the knees. The only saving grace was that this time it was a fun run, rather than the 5-minute-mile sprint of my last proper race. That meant, after a general bundle across a field I settled into a comfortable pace. Slow.

Delighted to report my time was not as bad as I'd feared and the atmosphere was lovely. Plus I managed to outrun an 11-year-old dressed as a Christmas parcel - and a gorilla. A very merry Christmas all round, I think.

(Stats: 5k/3.1 miles; 27.35 minutes; just off to brother's family for Christmas so no time to work out minute/mile. Better than feared.)

The shortest day

Yesterday, I woke up to Armageddon. The sky was black. Admittedly, it was very early, but still, this rarely happens in London because of the light pollution. I immediately rolled out of bed and went for a run. And so it was that before the sparrows had even showered, I was racing around the streets of Hampstead. And that's when I discovered where all the bin men go in the winter. To NW3. There must have been at least three lorries to every street*. There were loads of them. Like doozers making sure the expensive roads were clean. I also suspect they were taking the wealthy residents breakfast in bed. I live in Camden too! Where's my breakfast in bed? After fighting the urge to become a communist, I ran home for a hot lemon and porridge with a side-order of smug. I then fell asleep on the train because the early morning smugness had worn me out. How on earth do people do this kind of thing every day?

(Stats: 4.34 miles; 44.12 minutes; 10.11 minute/mile.)

(*Possibly a small exaggeration, but only a small one.)

It's a man's, man's, man's pond...

On Sunday, I pottered off for a swim on the Heath, only to discover the ladies' pond was closed. Iced over. A sign indicated we could use the men's instead.

How exciting! Not only is the men's pond much larger than the ladies', it also has a diving board. I didn't take advantage. I was nursing a sore head so had no intention of smashing it into the (literally) ice cold water. But it was great to have a nose around 'someone else's house'. I discovered the men also have a mini-gym, a tennis court and, most interestingly, a nude sunbathing area. That's prohibited at the ladies'. I think at the men's it may well be compulsory.

(Pond temp: 3 degrees. As the blackboard said: Very cold. Very very very cold. But good for a hangover.)

One heath. Four seasons.

Last night I imbibed a fair amount of Christmas cheer, so I was proud I even made it to the start line for today's parkrun.

There would be no striving for a PB, I'd decided a gentle potter was on the cards.

An approach that was further endorsed when I arrived to find Hampstead Heath under a thin layer of ice. It was treacherous.

In fact, I nearly ended up on my arse during the pre-race briefing.

I was listening attentively when I received a firm shove in the rear. I wondered briefly if it was the man I'd pipped to the post on my last outing, but thankfully not. It was just a very excited dog. And, after a bit of wrestling, his apologetic owner managed to separate us just in time for the start of the race.

I'd resolved to take it easy - and I did. On such a gorgeous morning, it was comparable to taking a leisurely sightseeing tour. Even running uphill was a pleasure. And when I got to the finish, I was red faced, but human.

Time for fitness part two - off to the ladies' pond.

It was freezing. Fricking freezing. In the time it took me to put my cozzie on, the weather had turned from cold but bright to sodding cold and sleeting grey. Walking from the changing room to the water took less than 30 seconds and yet I nearly changed my mind. Twice. In the end, I think I was only in there for about a minute. Every single bit of my body hurt. I swam out to a buoy, then as fast as I could back to the ladder; all the while reciting the calming yogic chant: 'f**k, f**k, f**k'.

Once I'd regained my senses, I spotted a funny machine by the entry platform. It seemed to be churning the water. I spoke to a lady and she said it was used to stop the pond from icing over. In the past, they would just break the ice with a broom, but understandably that didn't leave much room for laps. Fascinating stuff, but I couldn't help thinking it was a great shame it didn't heat the pond too.

(Stats: 5k/3.10 miles; 28.39 minutes; 9.13 minute/mile. Pond temp: 4.5 degrees celsius/40 degrees fahrenheit. Cold enough that an hour on and my woolly hat is still glued to my head. And that's despite being at home under a blanket.)

(Pic: Lovely light on the heath this morning - pre-sleet.)

I'm in love

With the HoMedics Shiatsu & Massaging cushion.

My flatmate has one and he's set it up in the kitchen. It's transformed everything.

Why sit on a chair and eat your dinner when you can sit on your chair, eat your dinner and get a massage at the same time? Unlikely to be good for the digestion but who cares?

Prior to this, I'd filed massage cushions alongside sandwich makers and foot spas, i.e. objects most likely to end up in the charity shop. What a fool!

This morning, after a quick four-mile jaunt, I returned and promptly placed myself in the hands of the cushion. It was lovely. And if you lean back, you do get a fairly vigorous assault.

Five minutes in, I had a brilliant idea.

I've slightly strained a muscle in my right buttock and I was sure a massage would help. The challenge was how to optimize contact between the massage rollers (which are on the back of the chair) and my bum.

I tried standing on one leg a la karate kid and hooking the other over the back of the chair, but I couldn't quite get my bottom low enough or the rollers high enough to connect.

Finally, after many contortions usually seen only in a circus, I managed to find the perfect position and spent a glorious five minutes having a good shiatsu.

Should you find yourself in a similar situation, I recommend touching your toes then 'backing up' towards the cushion. The remote control has a long lead so you can still easily operate the rollers. It also allows you to lean your bottom firmly against the chair, therefore maximizing the massage.

The only drawback is the blood does tend to rush to your head, which limits the amount of time you can spend down there. Also, if you do have a partner/flatmates, I recommend waiting till they're out before you try it. With this image in their minds, I fear they wouldn't be your partner/flatmates for much longer.

(Stats: 4.34 miles; 40.37 minutes; 9.21 minute/mile.)

(Pic: Lovely massage chair next to lovely wine rack. I look forward to combining the two.)

The beauty of rain

The beauty of rain is it means I feel no compulsion at all to leave the house. I ran yesterday, therefore I can stay in my pyjamas today without guilt or regret.

It is also a good opportunity to do some marathon training research. Despite spending a lot of time reading about training schedules, I've not really been following one. I say not really. I mean, not. I've been told by my successful running friends that I need to have a plan. One that I stick to. Not just keep in a drawer.

To that end, I've just found this 16-week beginner's one on the Runner's World website. It seems pretty straightforward and, more importantly, is flexible enough for me to stand a chance of actually sticking to it.

Well the flexibility starts here. I'm changing Monday to Sunday so I can begin today. And, would you Adam and Eve it 'day one' is a rest day? That means by not getting out of bed, I have already commenced my new regime in earnest. Result.

Sunny but cold. Very cold.

I'm so cold I want to climb in the airing cupboard. I've just been for a (relatively) early morning run and the beautiful white-blue sky was accompanied by sub-zero temperatures. My hands are like two frozen lumps of butter. I can barely type. For the first half of the run, I thought I had frostbite. I seem to remember Sir Ranulph Fiennes trying hacksaw off his own fingers because of that. I had my front door key on me, but I'm not convinced of its cutting capabilities.

The cold also makes my nose hurt. I breathe in and soon my sinuses feel like they're going to explode. It got so painful at one point I had to hold on to a lamppost. It attracted the attention of a passing traffic warden. I think he thought I was angry. Well I was quite angry about my painful nose. In the past, wearing earphones has helped so I may have to revert to running with my iPod. I must also buy something menthol to stick up there pre-run. I do hope Vicks Sinex isn't a banned substance. I wouldn't want my running to be overshadowed by a doping scandal.

(Stats: 4.08 miles; 39.18 minutes; 9.38 minute/mile.)

A good reason to run

I took up running (as if I'm a professional?!) about 8 years ago.

I was given an iPod when I left my job in Devon. Suddenly getting out of the door to run became a lot easier.

Nowadays I don't necessarily need a reason to run. It's become an end in itself. That said, with a marathon looming it seemed a shame to be doing all those miles (not just 26 on the day, but the thousands of miles of training too) without it meaning something.

So, I'm raising money for a little charity that I came across on a trip to Ethiopia. Mossy Foot UK helps to fight a nasty disease called podoconiosis that affects the feet and can even stop people from walking altogether.

It seems right that I can use my feet to help others'. I will not, however, be wearing a fancy dress costume. I think getting round in a small pair of shorts is challenge enough for now.

(Pic: I think this is the Mesket Escarpment. One of the most breathtaking places I have ever visited. And not just because we trekked 18 miles up a mountain in one day, though that was quite tiring.)

A matter of physics

I went to the ladies' pond today. There was a letter pinned to the notice board in the changing room. It said that one of the longest-standing regulars had passed away. She was 98 and, until recently, she swam on the Heath three times a day. That's impressive at any age. It was with this remarkable lady in mind that I took to the pond myself.

Halfway into the water and I feared I might soon have my own letter on the notice board.

At what point you get used to the cold, I don't know. But it certainly wasn't today. Still, I chucked myself in and aimed for a buoy. I would swim there and back and get out.

Despite the pain and cold, the plan went very well. In fact, I crossed the pond in what felt like record time. I don't think I've suddenly become Michael Phelps so pondered what had happened. The water seemed to be 'thinner' than usual when it's normally like wading through cold treacle.

That's when I recalled a conversation I'd had with a clever friend. He'd said that water gets more dense, the colder it gets - until it falls to around 4 degrees, then it gets less dense as it becomes ice. A speedy bit of research (i.e. google) confirmed this. That's why ice floats. I see.

And that's why I like swimming in the pond. It's excellent for enhancing both the body and brain. Though whether a truly intelligent person would be swimming in an icy-cold pond in the first place is up for debate.

(Stats: Pond temperature: According to the board, it was 6 degrees, but I'm more inclined to trust my very empirical evidence and think it was nearer 4.)

(Pics: Spurious pond temp; Even chillier than it looks.)

It is an offence to remove your trousers

Went for a massage at the weekend. It was in Chinatown and the place was rather 'spit and sawdust'. A world away from spas like the Sanctuary, but all the better for it. After half an hour of vigorous pummelling you emerge feeling ten feet tall. I've been going on and off for a couple of years so I know what to expect. But I still wasn't prepared for the lady to climb completely on my back and ride me round the massage room. Then she pulled my arms so far backwards over my head, she lifted me off the table. Given I was half-naked and facing out of the open booth, this provided an interesting view for my fellow massagees. Afterwards, she made me do some stretches. It was while semi-naked stretching that I noticed a small sign on the inside of the booth declaring it was an offence to remove your trousers during the massage. I was somewhat perplexed as to how this would be achieved. Particularly if you have a confidently-built masseuse tap dancing on your back. Anyway, I have to say that two days on and I am still feeling the benefits. I feel lighter and taller and when I went for a run this morning, it was relatively easy. I will certainly be booking in with her again soon. And when I do see her next, I can return the thumb she's left in my spine.

(Stats (re this morning's run, not the massage): 8.1 miles; 1 hour 24 minutes; 10.22 minute/mile.)

The perils of the sea

This week has not been a good one for running.

I fell at the first hurdle when I failed to do a long run on Monday.

I fell at the second hurdle when I also failed to run on Tuesday.

I finally made it out on Wednesday, determined to do 11 miles along the south-Devon coastline.

I did 1.4 miles. A triumph in nobody's eyes.

I blame my parents. They wished me a good run, then pointed out the perils of the coastal path, flanked as it is by the sea and a train track. They warned I could end up blown off into the water. I pooh poohed this, but the pooh poohing soon came back to haunt me when I arrived to the highest tide I've ever seen. In places, it was virtually covering the path. So I was already twitchy when a train whooshed past, sending me leaping out of my skin and almost into the Atlantic. In what is fast becoming my catchphrase, I gave up and went home.

Friday and I was back to pounding the safe streets of London. It was nice to run without the risk of a high-speed drowning. I'm aware that compared with me a frightened rabbit looks like Andy McNab but, as my mum says, 'he who hides and runs away lives to hide another day'. Or something like that.

(Stats (for the London run): 4.09 miles; 41.48 minutes; 10.12 minute/mile.)

(Pics: Danger everywhere: high tides and fast trains; falling rocks; crazy golf.)