Christmas spirit? Don't make me laugh.

Well I'm almost half way through my Rest Fortnight. I was reading a book by some expert who was insisting that rest and hydration are two of the most important components of an elite athlete’s training schedule. So, mark my words, I'm resting and hydrating extremely well!

But, of course, if I'm to expect that Gold in 2012 I understand that I have to look after my body carefully. So that's how we came to be in the Harrods store in Livingstone's Pit yesterday. I took the Half Share in the House for a spot of Christmas Shopping and decided to have a butchers at the posh food bit to see how the other half live.

Well, I tell you, for a kiddie brought up shopping in the Spar or the Londis I was gob smacked. You see we needed some posh cheese in the house because the eldest daughter, Haille-Minogue, has foolishly invited her bloke's mum round for tea and apparently Cracker Barrel isn't good enough for her. So, I popped into the Cheese Hall and guess what? It had a bar!! So, I had a couple of snifters - a bargain at eight quid a throw I thought not! Then, feeling suitably lubricated I decided to have a neb around - and do you know there were another five or six bars in the blessed place! So, not wishing to miss out on a West End Shopping Experience I tried the whole chuffin’ lot!

Now I have to say, I hold my hands up to being a tad unsteady on the old pins by the time I reached the chocolate shop but, having reached there, my day suddenly headed south with a gross display of unfestive spirit from some flippin’ rich foreign bloke.

It all started when the lady in the chocolate place started handing round bits of choccie to taste. Well I don't know what they'd put in the stuff but, frankly, it was horrid. So, I pulled out of my rucksack my box of Celebrations which the window cleaner had left as a tip for the Half Share (no, I couldn't work it out either - I thought it was the other way round).

Anyway, my favourites are the miniature Mars Bars and Galaxy Bars you get in the Celebrations selection - but I'm not too keen on the nutty sweeties like the Mini Snickers. So, being a friendly chap I got talking to this posh filly in a fur coat - and I offered her one of my sweeties. She picked out a Snickers Bar - but because she was wearing gloves she was struggling to get the wrapper undone. So, being a chivalrous bloke I offered to open the sweetie for her - at which point this woman's hubbie arrived at our side, complete with camel coat over his shoulders, dark glasses and a big heavy bloke carrying his shopping. He did look a bit miffed about me chatting to his missus so, trying to put his mind at rest all I said was "I'm just trying to get into your wife's Snickers".

And that's when his minder kneed me in the groin and I was escorted rather heavy handedly into the street and hoyed on the pavement with the tin of Celebrations chucked after me.

Christmas Spirit?

Don't make me laugh.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Blow me down I nearly forgot!!

I'm so sorry Ronners - I've been so manic of late that I'd forgotten that I'd left untold my tale of terror from Oslo!

You will recall that I visited the city to seek some advice and guidance from some Norwegian Olympic motivational specialists.

You will also recall that I hinted that Norway wasn't exactly stuffed with marathon household names. That can be partly explained by the fact that they haven't got any. Anyway I arranged to meet these three blokes in Oslo after they promised to show me one of their favourite techniques for sharpening up the reactions and mental strength of their athletes.

I should have been wary when I was given the address of the place we were to meet. I'll not bore you with the postcode dear Ronner - but just check the place out below!




Its called the Holmenkoll and it only happens to be the Olympic Ski Jump arena. And the three blokes I'd met didn't know one end of a 10K race from another - but they were Olympic coaches alright. Coaches to the Norwegian Ski Jumping squad.

To cut a long story short they insisted on taking me to the top of the blessed thing - and if you want to know what that's like .....



I have to admit I'm not too keen on the old heights. I usually ask the Half Share in the House or the middle daughter, The Droog, if any ladder work is needed (to be honest, The Droog doesn't even need the ladder now). Now, if that wasn't bad enough - one of the three guys stood eyeing me up, rather unnervingly scratching his beard and then, muttering something inaudible, chucked a load of ropes at his two mates and, nodding and smiling in my general direction they began to strap me into some kind of harness.

I cannot begin to describe what was going through my mind at this point. In a strange kind of way I was comforted by the fact that I couldn't see any skis - so I didn't think I was going down the ski jump. But what on earth were they going to do with me?

The answer was as swift as it was terrifying.

They were only going to hoy me off the top of the chuffing thing!

I kid you not. And that's exactly what they did. They strapped me into a boon and swung it and me over the side of the ski jump tower some 300 feet above the ground and then ... well, basically I was told to make my way down. Yup, I was doing something called freefall abseiling. As I went over the side I do remember breaking wind in one of those worrying ways. I think I also whimpered something.

Then I shat myself.

I'm sorry for being so graphic but it was quite simply one of the most frightening three minutes of my life. So, I made my way gingerly down the rope and after what seemed like ten minutes I looked up to see a Norwegian head about a yard from my face. The face seemed to be rather taken aback by the fact that I was still there - I'd only dropped about two feet at this point - only another 298 to go! As I made a brave attempt to lower myself I was caught repeatedly by gusts of wind and battered against the side of this towering structure.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, whimper by whimper I made my way down. The technique is to pull on the rope to lower yourself. And after about ten minutes I got used to this technique. I didn't say I was enjoying it - but I got used to it. It was then that I had a sudden horrifying thought. I recall Mr Benzone, our Science teacher at St Gabs Primary indicating to me that I may need some knowledge of some of his 'stupid' scientific theories at some point in my life. And I think I was about to reach such a point in my life.

Yup. I'd reached half way. And that pulling motion to ease my down? No longer required. Instead just a desperate need for this kiddie to hang on to the blessed rope for dear life to stop myself plummeting to a painful and lonely death on the side of some Norwegian mountain.

I managed it dear Ronner. Managed it with smoke billowing from my hands after gripping that chuffing rope so tight.

And, in conclusion, let me tell you this. I will never, ever, ever, ever trust a Norwegian in my life again.

"But you must feel great now?" "Wow what a sense of achievement". They crowed.

Rubbish.

My pants still smell now.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

What is it with these flippin' foreigners?

I know that many of you are under the impression that us elite athletes are rolling in money. There's our lottery funding, elite athlete grants, sponsorship and the odd bung for 'losing a shoe' and not winning a race. But I tell you something, this kiddie here is struggling in that respect. For some reason the lottery chaps haven't been given the nod to pay me by the Olympic team chaps, the elite athletes programme people now refuse to answer my letters and seem to think I'm some kind of nutter - and as for taking a bung - well, chance would be a fine thing.

The bottom line is, that I'm skint. A problem that wasn't made any easier when, after taking the decision to focus on Olympic glory and assuming that I'd be a shoe-in for the Elite Squad, I promptly told my boss to stick his job where the sun doesn't shine. And for some reason he wasn't too keen to let bygones be bygones when I enquired after my old position. I apologised to his wife and daughter and I even offered to clean the bits of carpet I'd damaged during what has become known in the factory as Ron's Resignation Rant - but no deal. So, I'm left to eke out a living where I can. Whilst, naturally, trying to get as many freebies and jollies as I can.

And that's how I found myself - quite conveniently again - in that fine Belgian city of Bruges. Culture, Museums, Christmas Markets, Chocolate stores, fine lace and, of course, the best beer in the world. You can find all these in the City of Leffe. But I was there because my mate Buttocks wanted a few hundred Bennies - and at £2.50 a pack it was a good enough deal to persuade me to go and earn some dosh for the kids Christmas pressies.

Now rattling all the way to Bruges in the back of Transit isn't a lot of fun so I decided to liven up the day with a couple of snifters in the local bars and indulge in my love of Leffe. (Incidentally, don't worry, the training is off the agenda until next week - I've decided it's a rest week. Sorry. rest fortnight). Anyhow, after shifting half a dozen of Belgium's finest I decided to try and find the Half Share in the House a peace offering for upsetting the Vicar last week (long story - don't go there - and I'm not homophobic either). Off I trundled into the Christmas Market - only to find it stuffed full of wooden sheds flogging ..... more booze. So I thought it rude not to at least taste the stuff .... and that's where my day kind of went south again.

Next door to the beer hut was a coconut shy and after spending 220 euros I finally won one of the blessed things. I think that the police were first called when I tried to break the darned thing open. Even now I insist it looked like the kid was wearing a crash helmet but it turned out to be one of those continental hair styles much loved by the Germanic nations. Admittedly, the kid did squeal a bit and put out quite a bit of unneccessary noise but I didn't really take much notice of him. I was far too interested in devouring my newly opened coconut.

And do you know? The strangest thing happened. All the birds in the town square flocked to my feet and began pecking away at the bits of coconut on the floor. It was marvelous display of bird life - there were rooks, pigeons, tits, some seasonal robins and a couple of other species that must be in the Observer Book of Birds.

At this point, I was so overjoyed at this wonderful display of nature that I'd failed to notice the two coppers standing either side of me - one male and one female. The kid must have ratted on me. I looked at the lady copper - a pretty young filly admittedly - and I swear all I said to the male copper was 'Tits like coconuts'. What I meant was that the birds eating my coconut seemed to enjoy it ... well, whatever. He thought I was passing opinions on the size of his colleague's Blairs.

Anyway that was it. I was whisked away, had Buttocks' fags confiscated and politely pointed in the direction of the Transit. And the Exit strasse from Belgium.

Honestly. Some people.

Anyway, my week ahead isn't that exciting. I'm now having to find a few bob to make it through to Christmas and that means going back on the stump with my mate Handy. He's a one-armed window cleaner and I ring out his chamois for him.

Such is the life of an elite athlete eh?

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Never trust a country with holes in its coins

Well, Ronners, I've been a touch on the qt side these last few days - but it’s all been for a good cause.Looking ahead to 2012 and dreaming of Olympic glory is one thing. But actually living, breathing and sniffing the dream is something else altogether.That’s why it is so important that I’m as well prepared as I can be for that sprint down the Mall in six years time. Consequently I decided to take myself off and visit a real life, proper Olympic site and try and get an insight into what life is like when I perch myself on that bar stool and order my first Leffe in the Olympic Village bar.

Of course we couldn't visit the sights in London because they are either a) not there b) contaminated with asbestos or c) impossible to reach without a team of huskies. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I booked a flight with ConAir and after a couple of snifters in the bar at Gatwick, I was on my way to Barcelona.

Arriving in Spain, I took myself straight down to the site of the old Olympic Village and was I pleased I did. It’s now a network of bars, cafes and restaurants. The weather was quite pleasant too and, to be honest, it was so damned hot though that I stayed in a bar and sunk a few San Miguels - that got me feeling very Olympic so I took myself along to the offices of the City Mayor and presented myself at the front door. The result, I have to say, wasn't spectacular.

I ended up in the nick.

I'm happy to admit that the San Miguel may well have lubricated my tongue. And I know I might have been wrong to include the phrases 'bag snatchers', 'car thieves' and ‘your mama’s got a moustache anyway’ in my attempt to persuade the chap on the door to let me in. But that was no excuse for the display of wanton violence - not helped admittedly by me insisting I show them my now famous Ron handshake to demonstrate that I was indeed the real Ron.

Oh – and I also tried the 'Don't you know who I am' routine!

It didn’t work!

Anyway after some careful negotiation with a very nice filly from the Consul’s office I agreed that as I'd done the place before - and it wasn't that much to write home about anyway – it might be best if I looked for an Olympic experience elsewhere. So I jumped on another flight and made my way to that home of Olympic Marathon greats.

Oslo.

Now I have to say that if lived in that place for longer than a week I'd top myself. It never gets light. It's dark until 9.30, gets gloomy until 2.00, then dusk arrives and its pitch flippin' black by 3.30! What kind of place is that I ask you? Add to that the fact that a snifter is about eight quid a pint and every dish contained remnants of Rudolph and you get the general drift of my stay.

I had the misfortune to arrive bang in the middle of their Christmas celebrations – it’s not actually until the 6th December that the real day comes along – but Norwegians need absolutely no excuse to get ratted. In fact I can put hand on heart and say I’ve never, ever seen so many people fall over drunk in one place. Each day brought a new demonstration of this art – always with the same result. A final stagger, buckling of the knees, a sickening thud as cranium meets pavement, the gentle raising of the head – and then the stupid grin as they staggered to their feet.

A truly amazing bunch of people.

They did make me feel quite special although most of those I met pretended they’d never heard of me. But I did get an invite to join one bunch of people for a traditional Norwegian Christmas Dinner of something called Lutefisk.

Big mistake.

Lutefisk is dried cod that has been soaked in acid – I kid you not – then soaked in something called a lye solution to rehydrate it. It is then boiled to kingdom come, then baked and served with butter and salt and pepper. The finished lutefisk usually has the consistency of jellied eels – but with the taste of something that has rotted in urine for three months. Understanding why Norwegians love it so much is impossible. The only reason I can think of is that after eating it, you really appreciate whatever is served next.

Anyway I completed three days of R & R in the place and that included a visit to some motivational guys who work with the Norwegian Olympic Squad. Now the meeting was set up by somebody with half a brain because when I turned up at the appointed hour the three guys I'm faced with turned out to be not marathon runners but .... wait for it ... ski jumpers.

What followed that fateful afternoon can only be described as the most terrifying 90 minutes of my life.

My story follows soon!

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Like a racing snake

Well all those weeks of hard training finally paid off last Sunday and, in some small way, your man here signed off the Blair end of 2006 with what us Elite Athletes call 'a bit of a result'.

Mind you the whole shebang nearly went down the pan before it even started. Everything was going swimmingly when the two girl kids - Haille-Minogue and The Droog - caught me during an off-guard moment whilst watching Children in Need on Friday in the company of a half case of Leffe. They asked if I could give them a lift to a concert on Saturday night. Well, I love my kids some of the time and, feeling in a good mood, I agreed to take them.

That's when they told me it was in Sheffield.

So I spent Saturday night in the company of 2.000 balloon heads in Sheffield Arena watching some noise by a combo going by the name of Muse or Mucus or some such label. To be honest I thought I'd got my head caught in a grinding machine such was the racket but after being bribed with a couple of 12 inch hot dogs I persevered and then brought the chuffing kids back, arriving home at 3 am!

Then it was up at 7.30 and off to Brighton - great preparation eh?

You will recall that I set myself an interim target of a sub-2 hour half marathon by Christmas - achieve that and I was half way down the Mall and on my way up the podium in 2012. Well, plans are, by their very nature, dynamic and I pretty quickly realised that there's absolutely no point in rushing myself. After all, I don't want to do a Radcliffe and bottle out half way through the race do I? So, some careful - rather than intensive - training has been the order of the day for the last couple of weeks.

Those of you who flocked to watch me in recent events might have thought I was just plodding. Good God, someone actually thought I was struggling. But not this kiddie. All the while I was storing up the power, energy and motivation - and like a coiled spring I unleashed myself on Sunday at the Brighton 10K.

Now my favourite place isn't the City of Filth and Needles to be honest. It's always had rather too high an opinion of itself in my view. My grandfather always said to me 'never visit a place where they still point at aeroplanes'. And he was right you know. What was once a nice, sleepy seaside town has become a melting pot of most things filthy and the chuffing place reeks of drink, drugs and sex - particularly at 10 o'clock on Sunday morning when most of the inhabitants are still shuffling home after a night on the vomit.

I knew that the place had really fallen down the nick when we reached the Falmer turn-off on the A27 and there was one of those home made banners by the side of the road "Happy 30th Birthday Nan" it read.

I ask you - what is this world coming to?

Anyway, I digress. The 10K event each November is normally popular and, naturally enough, news of my participation had caused a rush on entries and the thing was sold out. 3,000 runners in place on the sea front - many of them, it has to be said, casting knowing glances at me as I performed my now famous pre-race warm up routine of anal clenches and groin thrusts. Knowing the reputation of the place though I skipped the wheelbarrow stretch - there was no way I was running the risk of being pushed 200 yards down the prom by some over-promiscous local.

This fame thing is really strange though. And I have to say to those of you who do travel such long distances to watch me "don't be shy!" I'm more than happy to sign your shirts and pass on a few training tips. The problem with Brighton though is that it makes some of the fillies a tad over-defensive and, after offering to use my magic marker on the chests of half a dozen of them I decided to stick to my sport and, well frankly, ignore my fans to concentrate on the task ahead.

So, to the race. I'd set myself what I thought was a fairly ambitious target of touching 52 minutes for the race - that was just about in keeping with progress on the training and diet schedule. Well, dear reader, the gun went - and like the proverbial well-oiled machine I set off to scythe my way through the field. Progress was halted after a few hundred metres when some noodle bonnet shifted a crowd control barrier and crashed it into my knee.

But slight annoyance turned to seething anger at 3K when a dog walker casually ambled in front of me - with his chuffing eunuch poodle (complete with pink sheepskin coat, I ask you).

Or, to be precise, the dog walker ambled in front of me - the other end of the flippin lead that contained the dog was some 50 yards away peeing up a lamp post! I mean what on earth is the point in walking your dog on a 200 metre long bit of rope - you need chuffing binoculars to see the bloody animal!

You can tell from my demeanor that I was not a happy kiddie. But you know what? I decided to channel this raging energy into sporting performance - and I zipped through the field still faster and faster.

I crossed the line in what I thought was a pretty impressive time of 50 minutes 34 seconds. My fastest 10K of the year by some distance - and a minute and a half inside my target time.

Job done I thought.

So, then settled for a spot of serious re-hydration and polished off a few Buds and a couple of vodkas in the local on the way home.

Sadly that's the last of my races on the road for 2006 - although there is half a chance I might pop out over Christmas for a spot of crowd pleasing. I'm considering an offer to do a cross country race this Sunday in Eastbourne - but we'll have to see. I know the organisers of these small races are looking for me to pull in a crowd and boost their entry - but it is a tad too near the start of the Festive season for me. And I've got a headache. And my leg hurts.

OK - the truth. I've never finished a cross country race in my career. The last attempt ended in abject failure when I slid 100 yards down a hill on my rear end after colliding with a sunken oak tree root - so you'll forgive me for approaching cross country races with a certain degree of trepidation.

This week too I carried out a bit of R & R at the home of Leffe - Bruges - and my diet has slipped somewhat. I mean, when you're in the home of such a fine beer you just have to indulge. After all, a fine beer may be judged with just one sip – but it’s better to be sure! I then decided to go on a vodka diet which worked a treat - and I lost three days. But next week I'm off to Barcelona and then Oslo and I'm looking to see if I can't do a bit of warm weather and ice training in the same week.

Which reminds me of a harrowing incident suffered the last time I flew to the land of maraccas and hairy ladies. I got on the plane at Stansted and in front of me was a very small bloke. OK, he was a dwarf - only about 4 foot tall. He had his duty free in a carrier bag and try as he may he couldn't reach the overhead locker to put his bottles away. No matter how many times I offered to help he refused - but the poor chap just couldn't reach. In the end, and with some frustration I have to say, I grabbed the bag off him and lobbed it into the overhead locker - where it landed with a sickening sound of broken glass. I'd smashed his bottle of whisky.

I looked at the dwarf as he sat there with whisky dripping onto his face and I made a half hearted attempt at an apology.

"To be honest" he said "I'm not Happy".

"Oh" I said. "Which one are you then?".

And that's when he nutted me in the crutch.

Have a good week.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

The spectre of Les Page Neufs looms again

Now let's get a couple of things straight.

Number 1 - there's been a suggestion that these carefully written words are some kind of spoof and written for the amusement of my admirers. Well, all I can say is that if they are - then its cost me an arm and a leg, not to mention hours of pain and anguish. And if you think I'm going to run 20 or 30 miles a week just so some spotty herbert can accuse me of writing a pack of porkies let me assure you - you are very much mistaken. And if I ever catch anybody even remotely suggesting I'm writing fiction, they will get a dose of the famous 'Ron Bonce'.

That's right I'll deck you.

Number 2 - this kiddie does not bottle from a challenge. But ever since my infamous inclusion in Les Page Neufs in some Johnny Foreigner race in France a week or so ago, it seems as though the whole flippin' world is conspiring against me. Well, I refuse to be spooked by the prospect of appearing towards the southern end of the results list. After all, this whole journey towards 2012 glory is no sprint - it is, quite literally, a marathon. That means a carefully planned schedule of training and races - combined naturally with a number of very public appearances - will be neccessary if I am to achieve that Gold medal in London five years or so from now. But just because I'm racing here and now doesn't mean that I'm going to win here and now. So, ha chuffing ha to those detractors who turned up in the City of Filth and Needles last Sunday to see if I'd trip up at the Phoenix Park event.

Well I didn't.

I finished fifth from last.

But that's exactly where I wanted to finish OK?

I don't intend commenting any further on what was a pretty miserable afternoon. Suffice to say I was a minute and 10 seconds below my target time and that's all that matters to this kiddie. And if that makes me sound prickly - then so be it.

But the next time my management suggests to me that it would be a good idea to run four times round a public park with dog walkers, perverts, children, animals and Polish ice cream sellers in the way, they too will get a dose of Ron decking.

Stupid event.

Anyway so enamoured with the city were we that I've only got to go back again this weekend and take part in the Reebok piddling 10K. I don't mind to be honest because I'm no doubt being lined up with the other local celebrities to add a touch of razzamataz to the morning. So do look out for me - I'll be demonstrating my anal cruch and groin thrusts close to the start line from around 10.30 onwards and I'll be happy to pose for any piccies you need.

But to be honest Taperers I am a little prickly today. The weather is like something you normally only see in Yorkshire or Wales - I wouldn't even send the Half Share in the House out in it to be honest, so there's no way I'm going out running in the stuff. And my training kind of headed a touch south ever since I bumped into a bloke with a chocolate fountain and I've had this 'full up' feeling ever since.

So the weight is not peeling off me at quite the speed I'd like it to - but I have lost six pounds in weight since the beginning of the month - so I'm 25% of the way towards my 'weight lost' target. Which sounds great - but what that also means is that I've still 18 pounds to shed before I can really knuckle down and start to work on my marathon speed. You'll remember that it looks as though I'll be accepting a guest place at the London Marathon in April and with around 20 weeks to go before that I'll be working hard at reaching a number of milestones over the coming months.

Like weight. And speed. And stamina.

So, how have I lost that impressive six pounds?

With hard work, dedication, a determination you'd be proud of - and just sheer willpower. I also found it helped switching from using BP fuel to using Murco. Murco garages only sell Bobby's food and Rola Cola and nobody in their right mind would consume that stuff - so the Ginster pies have stopped, as have the McCoys Crisps (they sell Krunchy Krisps - I mean, for goodness sake who would buy them?). Plus the daughters Haille-Minogue and the Droog are practising for their cookery classes - and there's just no way you'd touch the stuff the system teaches them to cobble together now.

I've also slowed up the old alcohol intake a tad - and I'm restricting myself to just a few drinks on two midweek evenings - obviously I still like a couple of Leffes on a Friday and Saturday night. Plus, of course I still like a good rehydration session after the race on Sunday. But apart from that - oh and a quick livener with the footie on Tuesdays and Wednesdays - I'm remaining pretty abstemious. Then there's my diet. Each day I try to enjoy something from each of the four main food groups: the fruit group, the vegetables group, the pizza group, and the "whatever-the-thing-in-the-tinfoil-in-the-back-of-the-fridge-is" group. I'm pretty confident that if I carry on following my eating regime religiously I'll soon be the shape I want to be.

And I've always wanted to be triangle shaped.

Anyway - can't stop. It's Friday night - and I'm off for a spot of hydration in the R & C.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Well at least I know where I stand

They're a crafty bunch these Frenchies you know.

Over the channel I popped last week to take part in one of those piddling 10Ks. We were going to head for Etaples for their little bash but, from what I gather, some shady goings-on in the town seemed to have put paid to the event. Of course, being the French, they’d got the message through to me about the cancellation about 12 hours before I was due to travel! However, this kiddie has his ear close to the ground and I'd found about the postponement a full week before the pesky Johnny Foreigners had the decency to tell me!

Anyway, the French were obviously keen to have an eyeball at yours truly and I was pointed in the direction of a place called Saint Hilaire Cotte - which was celebrating the 33rd running of its 5K and 10K events. So, I called Monsieur Roseaux - the Mayor - told him who I was - and that was it – Robert was votre Oncle and I was in!!

I cadged a lift with 20 or so has-beens who were making their way with the Nice Work crew - and, I have to say, I've never seen such a beer-soaked, gin sodden excuse for athletes in all my life.

So I felt perfectly at home.

After a full English on P & O, it was off for a spot of R & R in Le Touquet - kind of like Deal with a touch more class. And do you know? No matter how much I could feel the weekend slipping downhill I was powerless to stop it. The sun was shining so we had a couple of Leffes to slake the old thirst - then it seemed rude not to take wine with the locals and, after checking into some digs in Montreuil it was off for a decent carbo loading three courser at a local restaurant.

They were quite a pleasant lot we troughed with - a couple of dodgy characters from Essex who knew all about hydrating - he went for it hammer and tongs during happy hour and was still propping up the bar at gone bedtime. There were also some peculiar people from Sussex who I felt sorry for and took them under my wing. So now they know what a Leffe hangover is.

Sunday morning and there were more than a few scratchy bodies at breakfast. But a plate and a half of scrambled eggs later and we were all fit to race.

We arrived in Saint Hilaire to a wonderful sight - registration and sign-on was in the village bar! That shows the event had class. But that was probably the last smile yours truly had on his boat race for a good couple of hours I can tell you.

The course was quite simple. So simple in fact that you had to run the chuffing thing four times to make up the 10K distance. And it was a tad of a grueller. Four times we went up a hill for 3/4 of a mile - and four times we ran downhill. I decided pretty early on - after half a lap to be precise - that I was going to treat the run as a training exercise rather than a proper race. A decision partly prompted by the fact that I couldn't see any of the other runners. They’d disappeared into the flippin' distance. All I was left with was the rump of the coach party that had drunk its way from Dover - and what a wheezing, gasping sight we were too.

The bottom line is that it took me nigh on an hour to finish the damn thing!

More to the point when the results were published some six or seven beers after crossing the line we looked through the first eight pages for the finishing times – no sign! Turning to the last page - page nine to be precise - and there we were! Occupying eight of the last nine places in the race. And so, dear reader, that's when the French excuse for hilarity began and from thereon in we were referred to as ‘Les Page Neufs’. The cheek of it.

One nice touch from the Johnnies though was when they presented me with a trophy for turning up to their event. Yes - you read that correctly. I received a trophy - just for turning up. I'm not proud - its there on the sideboard now with my Esso World Cup medals.



Anyway, after a very pleasant lunch and a few bottles of the local poison shared with the Mayor we bade him farewell and made our way back to Calais. Not before I’d signed a few autographs and gone through the old photo routine – I felt humble really because they won’t get many opportunities to share bread and wine with a future Olympic medallist (Gold, natch).

Your man here though has arrived back in Blighty with renewed determination. First of all - never - repeat never - will I appear on his flippin Page Neuf again – and we’ll be back next year to have another bash. Secondly - that's my foreign racing done for a couple of months and I'm now concentrating on getting some of this Leffe stuff off my midriff. Thirdly - I've decided to have a dry run for London 2012 and accept an entry into the London Marathon next year. Apparently my name's on the list - and so the old training needs to step up a gear.

In the meantime though I'm still waiting for a reply from those chaps at UK Athletics - and I'm still waiting for my elite kit. I'll be pushing some buttons this week on those issues too I can tell you.

Finally for now, I've been asked to make an appearance at a sweet little event in Brighton on Sunday - that's two consecutive Sundays in the City of Filth and Needles, with the Brighton 10K the week after.

Got a sneaky feeling it could be another Page Neuf experience though - it’s the Phoenix Park Races run over an odd distance of 7.3K. Having done it before - it's another flippin' three or four lapper by the way - I can tell you that there's only one focus for an athlete of my persuasion and it isn't trying to win.

It's trying not to finish last!

Last year I was fifth from the end - but three of the four behind had pulled hammies.

Ho hum.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

What is it with the Italians?

They’re completely obsessed with food, drink and rummpy pump!

Sorry about the silence chaps but don't think for one minute that I've been idle. Life for any Olympic hopeful is hectic enough but for this kiddie with my substantial and ever growing fan base it is manic, I can tell you.

Last thing you heard I was popping off for a spot of warm weather training.

Big mistake. On two counts.

Mistake number 1 was even thinking that I could focus on my Olympic 2012 schedule with the distractions posed by the Ron family in tow. The Half Share in the House had insisted on coming along and bringing with her the three Cash Drainers - Haille-Minogue, The Droog and The Sod and so we pitched up en masse in the rather charming town of Bergamo. Of course what was once a pretty, quiet, charming, mediaeval walled town far enough away from Milan to be worth visiting has now ended up overwhelmed with Ryanair punters. I haven't got a problem with Ryanair per se - if you like flying with the airborne equivalent of the Reliant Robin then that's your choice - but it was fine when it was simply the preserve of us weekend trippers from the Home Counties. We could pretend that, ‘of course, we wouldn’t normally be seen dead on a budget airline, but it’s fine for the third half-term break of the year.’ Now, for God's sake, they’ve started flying them in from the north! Can you believe that they now operate flights from Durham, from Hull, from Leeds and ... wait for it ... from Doncaster! Now forgive me for sounding cruel but should we really be inflicting the residents of Doncaster on any location more than ten miles from that miserable place? Doncaster – where the phone book has only one page and the MacDonald’s only one arch.

Anyway, to Bergamo for warm weather training. Well, it was warm and perfect for running. Did I run? Never got the pumps out of the case chaps! The pasta, pizza, polenta and Peroni were simply too tempting! To cut a long story short I ended up spending four days hydrating and carb loading leaving very little time for anything other than belching and breaking wind. The bottom line my friends is that I arrived back in the UK on Friday weighing a full 8 pounds more than when I left for the pesky place.

Mind you I did pick up a couple of tips on dealing with fans whilst I was out there. Obviously very few Italians had heard of me - although my famous Ron wink did elicit a couple of responses. To be honest I thought a couple of the fillies I winked at in Luigi's pizza parlour could have been a little more respectful to a visitor to their country. You'd have thought I was the first guy they'd seen enjoying pizza in Lycra. And don't tell me they haven't seen that single finger press-up routine before!

Anyway I think I’ve found out how to impress these Latin girlies. And, to be honest, it takes very little! Back here, of course, when Ron wants to impress the Half Share and drop a little evening post-kebab hint, I know exactly what is required. A little glass of sherry for her, a bit of love food - she normally likes the green chillies - a little hug, a compliment here or there - "new duffle coat dear?", that little Ron wink and a hint of a smile before smooching into romance mode. The Italians? Well as far as I could see, you simply show up naked with a beer in one hand, a slice of Margherita in the other and a sprig of Oregano between your teeth!

So you can forget that warm weather training lark - from now on it's Hastings for me.

Back in Blighty on Friday I had the little matter of a visit to the local Constabulary to sign some bit of paper. They did question me about the black eye I was sporting - and the oaf behind the desk mumbled something about receiving a call from some uniform in Italy about a pizza parlour incident. This delayed me so much I missed out on my pre-Sunday race shake down. And that - more than my Italian adventure - I think contributed to a bit of a struggle down in deepest Sussex on Sunday morning.

I toddled off for a bash at the Barns Green half marathon - probably my last opportunity to hit that sub 2 hour time before Christmas. It was great to see such a turnout to greet me. In fact I was slightly overwhelmed - they were such a modest crowd too. Not one of those I approached took up my offer of an autograph or a photo - how thoughtful of them not wanting to disrupt my pre-race routine of anal squeezes and groin crunches! But don't be so bashful chums - I'm fully aware of my responsibilities as a celebrity and I'm only too pleased to oblige. So if you do see me, come up and I'll give you one of those famous Ron winks and my unique Ron-grip handshake!

My God was it warm though on Sunday. At 20 plus degrees I realised I’d wasted the best part of a month’s wages on my trip to Italy. I could have stayed in flippin’ Horsham! Anyway, I think a fourth half marathon in five weeks finally took its toll on the Ron body. I'd discounted the extra weight and gut full of pasta and beer - after all you can't run a Formula 1 car on paraffin can you? But boy did I struggle! The prospect of a sub 2 hour time disappeared after about 400 yards as I struggled to find any rhythm at all. I managed to make an effort though and up to around 10 miles I was on a steady 9.30 pace - which put me on target for a 2 hour 5 minutes finish. To be honest I would have been happy with 5 seconds less than this - my time last year at BG was 2.04.57 - but at 11 miles I blew up and hit a brick wall and that last mile took me 12 sodding minutes!

I eventually wobbled over the line in an exhausting 2.07. To be honest I wasn't very good company and I declined the opportunity to attend the prize giving - I didn't feel in the mood for any kind of token trophy just for turning up and helping to put 500 extra runners on the start line.

On reflection though, it was my fourth half in five weeks - and my time was my quickest half of the autumn season. So maybe I should be satisfied. The Mall in 2012 still beckons!

The problem is that I'm desperate to prove to the selectors that my place in the 2012 squad is one awarded on merit not simply on the back of a wave of popular support. I'm no Ashley Cole. I’m no Matthew Kelly. I've got real talent as well as mass popular support.

Anyway the exertions of Sunday sent me to my sick bed with some rather grumpy memories of Barns Green for a day or so - which is a shame because the event is a top day out - a huge field, good support and a cracking Burger Van.

This weekend I've been invited to join the Nice Work crew - a kind of celebrity endorsement if you like - as they take a bunch of over-the-hill old soaks to a race in France. The problem is that we're staying in a rather agreeable place called Montreuil-sur-Mer - which, apart from anything else, is just a shed load of calories opportunities. On Sunday we travel to the small village of Saint Hilaire Cottes to take part in the 33rd running of the Circuit Pedestre. The Nice Work chaps had a bit of a set back when their original race in Etaples was called off last week, so your man here used his extensive contacts to grab hold of the mayor of Saint Hilaire - Monsieur Roseau - who fixed us some entries for this cracking little race.

I'll let you know how we get on.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Time to knuckle down.

It dawned on me this week that this mission is now becoming quite serious. With a little over five years before my debut in the Olympic Games I've really got to knuckle down to some serious training.

There are, would you believe, some people, even within my close circle of friends, that doubt my ability to bring home the bacon in 2012. Those that know Ron the athlete - as opposed to Ron the bloke - will find that hard to believe I know. But I think the time has come now to start walking the walk and not just talk the talk.

As a consequence I decided to do some serious training last week. After my toddle round Amsterdam last Sunday, I kept off the beer and pies - all the way through till about 10 o'clock on Saturday night when, I finally crumbled and sunk a couple pints of Stella and a Beef Chop Suey.

You may recall that target number 1 for me is to get that sub-2 hour half marathon before the end of the year - but the opportunities to do so are becoming fewer and fewer. Having done two halfs in the last couple of weeks I decided that Sunday just gone should be nothing more than a training run - but a training run with a very real and finite mission target.

Yup - Sunday was going to be a 2 hour 10 day - and it was going to be 2-10 come what may. And, do you know, when it boils down to the nitty gritty, you can tell a true athlete. One who does the business when it’s needed.

That's why, on Sunday, in Maidstone, your man Ron here came home in 2-10. Well, to be honest it was 2-09-57. But, to all intents and purposes it was a 2-10-er.

I have a soft spot for Maidstone. It's where a very young Ron ran his first ever race all those years ago - a Piddling 10K it was. I remember it well. Between you, I and the Piebald Pony, there wasn’t a chance on earth of me finishing that pesky run - until, that is, I caught sight of this rather agreeable bottom contained within a pair of black Lycra shorts - and that was it - I fantasised my way round the whole shebang!

Anyway, because of the early start, the Half Share and I decided to pop over to Maidstone on the Saturday night to get a bit of an early kip. Arriving at the hotel we found the place full with some wedding party and they were struggling for rooms for us. The young lady behind the desk said to me "We only have two suites available for you, would you like the bridal?" "No thanks says I, I'll just hold her ears till she gets the hang of it". Well, you would have thought I'd broken wind at a funeral - before you could say 'We're in Kent, where's the big gold ear rings?' we were given the bums rush and left out in the car park with the Half Share giving me the third degree about "not being able to take me anywhere."

So it was a kip in the Allegro in the car park for us.

Sunday dawned and, to be honest, it was a very enjoyable day out - and I'm pleased for the Maidstone Harriers people as well - because my appearance in the race had obviously led to a late surge in entries. To be honest after the spot of bother of the last couple of weeks I kept a low profile - restricting myself to signing a few autographs at the start line and winking at some of the spectators.

Off I set at my pre-programmed pace - and, well, I just kept it up! On and on I went like a well-oiled machine - until Mile 9 that is. Those of you who've done the odd marathon will recognise the situation. You're pottering along and you come across a little of row of kids with arms outstretched looking for a High Five - or, as we were in Bearsted, a "Gimme Six" as they like to call it. So I draw level with these kids and one of them is holding out a packet of fruit pastilles. Just what I needed. I grabbed the tube of sweeties only to be stopped in my tracks by a loud wailing and screaming words to the effect "that mans pinched my sweets". For goodness sake. Memo to parents "DO NOT STICK YOUR KIDS OUTSIDE YOUR HOUSE WITH A PACKET OF SWEETS IF THEY CAN'T HANDLE THEM BEING USED FOR WHAT THEY WERE INTENED".

Anyway, to cut a long story short it cost me ten quid to pacify the father and I then had a devil of a job to get back on my pace. But get back I did and crossed the line to an appreciative and knowledgeable crowd in that target time of 2.10.

But I tell you what I'm sick of this weather. So sick, in fact that I'm off to do some warm weather training.

Yup - I'm off to Milan for a spot of R & R, Pasta and Peroni.

I'll let you know what's been happening with my quest for recognition from the Elite Athletes people when I get back.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Windmills and shopping

I made a welcome return to the international stage at the weekend with a visit to Holland to take part in the Amsterdam Half Marathon. I have to doff my cap to the organisers of the event who had assembled a pretty impressive programme of support races before the main event, including a full marathon and one of those Piddling 10Ks, both run in the morning thus allowing those of us taking part in the feature race a good few hours – and a hearty lunch – before action stations.



We’d arrived in the city on the Saturday afternoon and I took the opportunity to have a peep around the place and enjoy a couple of snifters. I’d agreed to take the Cash Drainers a pressie or two – something to do with not telling the Half Share in the House about a slightly distasteful – but still only alleged – incident with a few fillies at the local Pilates class. So, I asked the hotel chappie where I could do some window shopping. The bloke spooked me a bit to be honest. He had some kind of nervous tick and kept winking and cocking his head at me “Window shopping sir?” he said “I’ll call you a taxi”. Well I thought that was damn good service so on went the banana yellow lycra shorts and pumps (thought I might have time for a few stretches whilst out there and you never know who might be waiting with pen and autograph book in hand do you?) and off I set.

That’s where my weekend started to tumble rapidly downhill. And that, my friend, in a country notorious for being as flat as Kate Moss’s chest.

I seem to recall from my history books that the place is full of canals and so I wasn’t surprised when I was dropped off next to a stretch of water. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Amsterdam but I rather expected something better. All the place needed was a couple of shopping trolleys and you’d swear you were in Gillingham. Ignoring some rather dodgy looking characters that seemed to be trying to make a living by selling coca cola to visitors I set off for the shops. I walked for half an hour and found precisely nothing. OK, I got lost. So beggar the shopping I thought – I’ll do some sightseeing and went looking for the spot where the little chap put his finger in the wall to stop the whole shebang heading south all those years ago. I decided to ask someone “I’d like to have my photograph taken with my finger in a dyke – any ideas?” I think he must have recognised me because, before you could say Max Bygraves, he’d given me an address card and directed me to what seemed to be rather a jolly looking area of the city – I could see in the distance plenty of brightly lit shop windows.

What on earth was going on in this place God only knows. It was like Sittingbourne on a Saturday night. For some reason these shops thought it highly amusing to have their staff sitting in the windows – and, although I could appreciate the lights were probably hot, I really think they could have put on a few more clothes. Frankly it was obscene and were it not for the fact that the young girls seemed ever so friendly I’d have reported them to the shop owners to the local rozzers. One or two of the gals even opened their doors and blew me a kiss or two – and before I knew it I was joining in this wonderful display of Dutch bon hommie!

The only shame was that it started to rain and I thought it would be a good idea to buy a couple of souvenir hats – and I’d take one home for the Half Share in the House. I asked a couple of the girls if they had any Dutch Caps for the wife – but they were rather rude and shut their doors in my face. Strange that.

Anyway, after asking a couple of locals I eventually came across my destination – and without being cruel to the old dears, the shop I arrived at was staffed by a couple of strapping 6 footers both displaying what I swear looked suspiciously like five o’clock shadows. They must have been expecting me because, before I could introduce myself, one of them whipped her thumbs in my shorts and with an impressive turn of speed, she’d closed the curtains and I found myself lying upside down on a purple chaise longue. Now I know all about the ‘when in Rome’ business but these two young ladies then demanded that I pay for my shopping up front – and this kiddie was having none of it. So, in the style of those good old boys from the News of the World, I made my excuses to leave. Well I tried to. …. well let’s just say that it cost me £30 and a nasty bruise to the inside of my thigh before I managed to make it back to the street. Looking slightly bedraggled I staggered back to the main square in Amsterdam, bought three pairs of inflatable yellow clogs for the Cash Drainers and headed for the hotel.

I finally enjoyed an agreeable night out with a bunch of runners from Kent and Sussex and beyond – I even met a Scotsman who didn’t seem to want to drink which took me by surprise. But the usual suspects were there propping up the bar hydrating after an evening of carbo-loading – and after a supper of Leffe, pizza and crisps I fell to my bed to mull over my race strategy.

My appearance in Amsterdam had not been well publicised but I was pleased to see a number of my supporters had made the effort. In particular I noticed a party of Bexhill Runners who’d obviously had a night on the town and spent the night bedded down in their minibus – but at least, despite their unshaven appearance, they’d made the effort to give me some support.

I quite like the Dutch. They speak good English – mind you, any attempt at speaking their lingo usually ends with one or other participants covered in spittle. But they think about the welfare of their runners. How else could you explain the presence of a bacon sandwich and chips stall just yards after the finish line? Fantastic. So, after watching the start of the support races me and a chum decided that pre-race refreshments were called for and we promptly consumed a clog-sized bacon buttie and a handful of chips. Now, I was ready to race!

My pre-Christmas target of a sub 2 hour half marathon is an integral part of my 2012 training schedule – and I know that as soon as I’ve achieved this target a gold medal in 2012 is as good as in the bag. The problem is that I keep getting distracted – for perfectly valid reasons mind you.

And nothing changed on Sunday. First of all, as the bacon sarnie and chips did their stuff, the slight haze induced by a couple too many Leffes began to clear – and I remembered that in my haste to escape from the two gargantuans in the city the previous night I’d left one of my pumps behind. So, I had to trot along to the Expo and buy a new pair of runners. I secured a special 20% Ron discount from those nice people at Brookes for a snazzy pair of runners – bright yellow if you don’t mind. They fitted me like a glove. More to the point they did make me stand out in the crowd and as I went through my press-up routine outside the VIP area a healthy crowd built up to watch me. I’m not sure how many of them knew who I was but by the nudges and knowing glances I was getting I reckon the majority knew my identity.

My next setback occurred whilst chatting to a nice little Eyeball Pleaser from Dover. Poor little lamb was looking to get round the course without getting lost. Well, what could I do? Leave to her own devices? Worse still, leave her at the mercy of a load of Johnny Foreigners? Let me tell you, this kiddie is made of stronger stuff than that and you won’t catch me leaving a lady in the lurch – so I promptly agreed to run the course side by side with her. I knew that that would probably mean me sacrificing a sub 2 hour run – but at least I could ensure that the lady reached the finish line in one piece.

And that, my friends, is exactly what I did. I encouraged and cajoled my new friend around a lovely little course, expertly avoiding the elbows of the Frenchies, the potholes and the remnant and debris from the red light area and we crossed the line side by side in just over 2 hours 16 minutes. My chivalrous act meant that I’d still got plenty left in the tank so after crossing the line in the Olympic Stadium and presenting my friend with a red rose for her efforts I thought I’d do a lap of honour for the thousands that had packed the stadium to wait for me to finish – honestly you’d have thought that I was putting my life in danger! No sooner had I rounded the track, leapt the barrier and began my lap of the track than I was physically accosted by a couple of security goons “But I’m Hill I said” – “You’ll be chuffing Hill in a minute” or words to that effect they said. Anyway, to cut a long story short, for the third time in a week I ended up in the back of a meat wagon discussing the etiquette of road racing with an unappreciative man in uniform.

I managed to persuade them to open the doors about two hours later and made my way back to the city for a night of rehydration, finally arriving back in the Ron house some time the back end of Monday.

I’ve now got to knuckle down with my training. I’m about to wing a letter off to my pals at UK Athletics asking about facilities and training camps for the Elite squad. I’ve also decided to try and shed a few ounces. So, it’s lettuce and cup-a-soups for the rest of the week and I’ve decided to have a bash at the Maidstone Half Marathon on Sunday – no serious attempts at the sub 2 hour there though. This kiddie doesn’t do hills and, after all, when was the last time you saw a hill in Central London and that’s what this quest is all about. I’ll be looking to amble round in around 2 hours 10 on Sunday – that leaves me sufficient time to sign a few autographs and pose for a few piccies. Sunday week though could be a momentous day – I’m off to deepest Sussex to do the Barnes Green Half Marathon. I’m going there with just a hint of revenge as well. I did the thing last year and I thought I’d done OK. But I was humiliated. The first 100 chaps over the line picked up a Gold Medal, the next 200 grabbed a Silver Medal whilst the next 300 were presented with a Bronze memento. Me? I was handed a wooden medal! Well, not this time chummies. I’m going for that sub 2 hour jobbie and you try to pass me anything that doesn’t tinkle when tapped on the side of beer glass and there’ll be serious trouble. Then, in early November I’ve been invited over to France for a Piddling 10K in Etaples, near le Touquet – so my international racing just goes from strength to strength!

In the meantime, I’ll be back to you soon with news of my dealings with the UK Athletics chappies.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

You might well ask ......

I know, I know - I said I'd be back to you toute suite with a report of the progress I was making with my dealings with the beurocrats who are supposed to be helping me in my quest for Olympic Gold. And, of course, my progress with my training schedule which included another appearance on the continent at the weekend.

What happened?

Well, all I can say, is that you can put the blame squarely on the local Constabulary, who appear now to be employing the services of rejects from Lord of the Flies. I obviously tried to warn them of the intense media scrutiny they'd be subjecting themselves too if they tried to lay fingers on this kiddie - but would they listen?

I mean, I wouldn't stoop so low as to utter that abominable phrase "Don’t you know who I am?" - I leave that to overpaid, Neanderthal footballers, drunken Members of Parliament and Cherie Blair - but I did wonder whether my fame and profile had indeed contributed to the sad conclusion to this incident.

It all began innocently enough. I'd bought myself a new pair of banana yellow lycra shorts which were going for three quid in the local Help the Aged charity shop and, eager to try them out, I popped down to the local gym to give them a quick one-two. At this point I must assure you that I'm not a member of the gym. Not on your life matey - you wouldn't catch this kiddie mixing with the likes of those who inhabit those dens of iniquity. The fillies pose with their micro shorts, FCUK glitter tops, new trainers which won't be seen again until the next visit to Bluewater and a bottle of Evian whilst the blokes insist on strutting around in front of the mirror spending more time adjusting the position of their Jack Straw than they do exercising lungs and muscles.

Anyway, I digress. Our local gym – Stallone’s - does have one advantage. They've got a half-handy car park which is convenient to the local kebab shop so I quite often pop down there to do some stretches and crunches between the cars before nipping into Ataturk's for a couple of large Donners for me and the Half Share in the House.

So there I was sorting out my calfs and hammies when this copper, barely out of Primary School, pounces on me and accuses me of watching the girl's Pilates class. I did point out that I was an international athlete and could have the pick of the Elite field by simply clicking my fingers at the next Piddling 10K I do - but the plughead was having none of it and he only went and confiscated my binoculars and step ladder and hauled me off to the nick.

Do you know I sat there festering in what was a pretty poor excuse for a reception area for two days until I could find Brian, my local plumber, to stump up the £400 they insisted on having as some sort of surety?

Humiliated? You bet I was.

Fortunately I did manage to get out of the place on Friday evening - by which time I'd missed my chuffing flight to Amsterdam for the half marathon on Sunday. Up the strasse without a bicycle I was forced to hitch a lift with the Nice Work crowd who were travelling to Amsterdam by bus. A fairly motley crew shared my journey to Amsterdam - gin soaked, my old granny would have called them. But having only just made it back thanks to them employing the services of what appeared to be a 1950's Dennis Lancet single decker, I've not had time to draw breath yet.

So, my report of a fairly eventful weekend in the City of Vice will follow tomorrow. Meanwhile I’ve got to go and see Septic Knuckles the village solicitor and see what he knows about some half-baked peeping tom charge that had plopped on my doorstep whilst I was away. A situation I have to say hasn’t been helped by my telling them I couldn’t pop round to the local nick on Monday – because I was in Amsterdam!

Ho hum.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

The roar of the crowd

I never cease to be amazed at the power of this Internet thing you know.

Just a matter of weeks ago I was an unknown, with a quiet but confident ambition of securing a Gold medal for Queen and Country at the London 2012 games. Today having gone public with my ambitions I’m having to deal with the price that fame so cruelly parcels up and delivers gift wrapped to the modern elite athlete.

Take Sunday for instance. No sooner had I announced that I was intending to take part in one of those Piddling 10Ks in Ashford, than what seemed like the whole of Kent had turned out in force to welcome me to the Julie Rose Stadium.

To be honest it can be quite a humbling experience being amongst so many admirers and I felt it was only right to thank personally as many of them as I could. As I moved amongst them shaking their hands with my unique ‘Ron’ hand grip, I was introduced to a traditional Kent greeting which I can only assume must be reserved for visiting dignitaries. I have to say I’m unfamiliar with the term Tosseur (I think that’s how you pronounce it) myself but it’s obviously a local term of affection and most of those I greeted uttered the same phrase as I passed amongst them.

The price of fame, though, is sometimes hard to take and I must apologise to those of you who were disappointed when, on the advice of the Kent Police, for what I can only assume to be concerns over my personal safety, I had to halt my specially devised pre-race warm up programme of groin thrusts and anal crunches. Fortunately I’d had the good sense to carry them out in the VIP area of the main stand rather than on the track. I think, by the look on her face, my otherwise truncated programme certainly impressed the Lady Mayoress who for some reason had managed to reach the VIP area before me.

As I sat chatting away to the Police Superintendent in the back of a secure police vehicle until the threat to my safety had receded, I began to wonder whether this was just a taster of what is to come? I made a mental note to drop a line to Lord Coe and ask what arrangements had been made for the security and safety of us elite athletes in 2012. I’m not too bothered about terrorist threats or being kidnapped by disillusioned former Soviet Union dissident freedom fighters – I’m only bothered about a decking from the Frenchies when I leave them wallowing in my wake. And if you think that unlikely I refer you only to the reaction from that Zebedee Zidane chap when the French had their derriere’s wupped by the Italians in the World Cup final.

To be honest, by now, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable about my pre-race preparation. A feeling that was confirmed as I passed the stadium snack bar and caught a whiff of their snorker and bacon butties.

I resolved to immediately change my race plans. Yup – today I’d do a kit test run. Making sure that you are comfortable with your kit is just as much a part of big race preparation as running long, hard and fast. So, as I carbo loaded on said butties and altered the pace timer on my Garmin I made my way confidently to the start.

A couple of things bothered me about this race. First of all I had the misfortune to start with a bunch of squaddies. 24 of the Queen’s finest with not an inch of hair between them, in full kit – including combat gear and boots! Good job it wasn’t cross country I thought – you’d never see them.

My feelings of national pride for these chaps disappeared soon after the start though. For some reason they decided it would be very army-ish to shout whenever an obstacle appeared before them. So, when soldier no. 1 came across a ramp in the road, he'd shout ‘RAMP!!’ at the top of his voice to warn the chap behind. Then the chap behind did the same until each of the twenty four had uttered the same chuffing word. The problem was that there must have been thirty speed humps within the first two kilometres! To be honest, it was like running with a bunch of Tourette’s sufferers and their manic shouts were starting to unnerve the rest of the field - certainly this Buddie here was in the mood to tell them where to shove their bayonets.

So, I decided to put in an impressive turn of speed to plonk myself firmly amongst the leading bunch in the field and away from the ridiculous shouts of the soldiers. And that’s when I came across irritant no. 2. I’m talking about a certain type of runner. OK, a female runner – but let me assure you this is not a gender issue.

But what possesses somebody to go running in long trousers? OK, the army can get away with it – but these youngsters must have come straight out of the gym. They obviously haven’t run outdoors before because they turned up to the start with their flippin’ coats on!! So what happens? Coat gets tied around their waist as though they’re away for a Sunday afternoon stroll with Darren their plasterer boyfriend.

Which, of course, is their prerogative.

But why the hell do they then have to run eight abreast and block the whole chuffing road???!!

You don’t see Paula Radcliffe taking her place at the start of the London marathon with an FCUK pink sweat top with ‘Rock DJ Chick’ in silver, emblazoned across her ample chest* and a Reebok fluffy fleece tied to her waist do you?

Not many things irritate this kiddie – but I tell you what sunshine, this is one race technique that is definitely not up my strasse.

Back to the race though and as I started to ease myself into contention I was pleased that so many of my supporters were lining the streets. I made a mental note that I must try to educate them though. My laid back running style does look as though I’m not expending too much effort but all I’m doing is conserving energy for the home stretch. “Ron - you lazy bugger” they were shouting. How on earth they all knew my name I don’t know!

But that was nothing to the chaos at the finish. I appreciate that the organisers were probably acting in good faith – but having so many people at the finishing line waiting for my arrival was a mistake. The problem was that I couldn’t see the damned line! I was also disappointed to see that the organisers seem to have given a medal to anybody turning up in shorts because the finish area was teeming with people with kit and medal. By the time I’d worked my way through the throng my time was showing 57 minutes and half a day – so they’d obviously got something wrong with the timing clock as well.

I did feel though that my little jog in Kent has given me a good workout in advance of my return to European competition on Sunday when I take part in the Amsterdam half marathon. And, you know, I’ve also got to be unselfish about these things – one issue where I disagree with some of my fellow elite athletes is on the number of competitions. Not for me two races a year – this kiddie has a public to satisfy you know. But I see Sunday as a time for honing my race strategy and, although if I do achieve my short term objective of a sub 2 hour half this side of Christmas, to be honest I think Amsterdam is there to be enjoyed. No point in being too hasty at £25 a throw eh?

Anyhow, I’ll be letting you know how I get on in Holland – but in the meantime I’ve got some correspondence with the UK Athletics chaps to catch up on. I'll let you know how I get on.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

*Sorry - just seen another piccie of Paula – forget that ‘ample’ reference.

The problem with elitism

Mentally I'm now completely focused on that Gold Medal in 2012.

OK, physically I could do with a bit of an MOT, but it’s nothing that can't be sorted with a couple of weeks of salads and Cup-a-Soups. I've now got my own posh kit – though obviously I’m hoping to get my official Elite Athletes stuff soon. So all that is needed now to support my push towards Olympic glory is the support mechanism you'd expect an international runner of my class to have and I presume that this will all be provided in due course by the chaps who run the Elite squad.

I decided to check their website to see exactly how I proceed with getting my name down for kit, training, an agent, freebies etc and there appears to be three levels of Elite Athlete. There's the World Class Podium for those who have already got Olympic titles under their belt - I presume this refers to people like Lord Coe and Fanny Blankers Cohen; then there's World Class Development for those who are three to six years away from Olympic glory (which, I think is a category unique to the Brits, for those who are happy to finish as also rans. Such as our swimmers and field athletes). Then there's the category which appears to refer to athletes like myself. They call it World Class Talent and it's supposed to be for athletes considered to be gifted and motivated and who show the potential for a podium finish. I've a slight worry about that reference to podium so let me reassure you, this kiddie isn't lowering his sights.

As far as I'm concerned, there only one step on a podium and that's the one slightly raised and in the middle. Those two on the left and right are purely for the cameras. And Canadians.

Anyway, back to the website and curiosity got the better of me so I clicked on the list of "athletes" (and I use that term very sparingly) who are included in this programme to see whether my name was there yet and do you know - I've never heard of one of them! I do find that slightly worrying because, if things stay as they are, I’m going to be stuck with a bunch of nobodies! Now, correct me if I'm wrong but I thought the purpose of being elite was to be ahead of the best not just ahead of the rest. Not to put too fine a point on it, I’ll be a household name stuck with a load of … well ... who are they for God’s sake??

I know it’s cruel – but winning is a tough game. Am I right? Of course I am! So why on earth they've padded the list with a bunch of losing ne'er do well's God only knows but I'll tell you one thing, they'd better be on their mettle when this buddy turns up for his track suit fitting. I'm a winner and want nothing to do with a load of 'potential finalists' or 'runners-up' or 'game performers' who run 'out of their skins' or to their 'full potential'. Only to come second last.

Of course I blame the blokes that run it - it’s not the poor kids fault. Their so-called ‘performance objectives’ are all wrong. They are asking for 'potential podium finishers' to be part of their squad. And what does ‘potential’ mean? Well, in my book ‘potential’ means ‘not a winner’. Potential? It's a cop out! It means a bunch of silvers and bronzes at best. Silver? Bronze? Pah! Might as well be made of plastic in my eyes.

Have you ever really thought about the power of winning? Do you really know how much better than silver and bronze a gold medal is?

Let’s go forward in time for a minute shall we? To the summer of 2012. It's the penultimate day of the London Olympic Games and its marathon day. Now, unfortunately, the UK team haven't had a good games. In fact they've only secured one solitary bronze medal – probably for shooting something. And so, as the athletes line up for the start of the marathon, the UK languishes in 184th place with that one bronze. True, we'd be 163rd but for the fact that we begin with 'U' - but, hey, that's life. Why do you think Burkina Faso changed its name from Upper Volta?

But 2 hours and a couple of minutes later what's changed? I'll tell you what’s changed sunshine. We've only gone and shot up to 34th in the medal table. Why? Because my Gold Medal puts the UK way above the also rans - countries like Belgium who win 18 silvers and 22 bronze's are now below us because of my single Gold medal! It's as simple as that. The power of Gold you see?

I shall be writing to the Senior Edam at UK Athletics to tell him exactly what I think of them setting out to recruit losers and I’ll be hammering home a few home truths too. I pull no punches when it comes to ambition and I'll be offering them my ideas on how to recruit the best to get the best.

I'll let you know when they reply.

Anyway it's back to the schedule. Don’t forget that if you're in Ashford on Sunday don't feel embarrassed - I'm always happy to sign autographs or pose for a photograph. My reputation is apparently spreading far and wide and the organisers tell me that because of my appearance they are expecting around a thousand runners on the day. And that's great. I do think it important that we continue to encourage the social joggers and your average club runners - because, who knows? I've shown them that it is possible to achieve star status and notoriety - so there's a ray of hope, even for them.

The local Kent rag hasn’t been in touch yet but no doubt, like all small newspapers and parish mags it’s staffed by a bunch of lazy old soaks sitting around doing Sodukus until deadline day, so I’m expecting a last minute request for an interview. Mind you, it’s not all a bed of roses for us chaps in the media spotlight, you know. Take last night. I was in the middle of a series of anal crunch exercises in the local park, watched by a small crowd of kids and a policeman, when Haille-Minogue my eldest Cash Drainer arrives to say that a chap from Sky was on the phone. I dashed home and put on my best media voice only to find some Scottish oik trying to flog me a subscription!

Such is the price of fame.

Yours, with feet firmly on the strasse.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

A finish with a flourish

Well, friends I'll have to come clean. I’ve let you down this week.

I have to admit to a teeny weeny setback in the old training schedule. I know I promised that I'd try the old salad and cup-a-soup routine for a few days. And I know that I also promised to stay off the beer for three days. Well, I managed to stick to the routine until just before lunchtime yesterday – and guess what happened? Yup - a flippin' Twix landed on my desk! Well, having snaffled that I couldn't see the point of carrying on so then I had some Jelly Beans and although I tried to redress the healthy balance by gobbling a bag of plums - they just made me thirsty. So I finished off Monday with a couple of nice cold bottles of Carlsberg to wash the lot down with.

In any event I've not actually been out of the front door yet for any meaningful training. To be honest though I've got a damn good reason.

It was cold.

The weather here in Ron-land is just chuffing miserable and 2012 is still six years-ish away, so one week’s training missed now isn’t going to make that much difference is it? Anyway I'm conscious of the need to rest before my next two events. This Sunday I’m popping over to Ashford for a Piddling 10K before resuming my international career with a bash at the Amsterdam Half Marathon on October 15th.

I'm also hoping to pop out tomorrow with the Half Share in the House who mumbled something about needing to do an 8 miler tomorrow. So I might drive round half way and see how the land lies. I have to say that it's at times like this that I hanker after some warm weather training - another point I'll be taking up with the UK Athletics Elite Training squad blokes in due course.

On Sunday I travelled to a place called Beckley in East Sussex to watch another Piddling 10K. It was the usual motley turnout with tattered vests that hadn't seen an iron in months plus a good few hangovers on show. I have to say though that there also one or two sparkling performances too. I tell you what, there’s a young lady from Tonbridge there who's a nippy young filly and she completed the very hilly course in 38 minutes and finished 5th overall. Very impressive indeed, although I did suspect - her being from Kent and all that - that she's probably a shoplifter's mate anyway.

I thought it would be good for my profile to visit one of these small rural events. Although I hadn't announced my arrival and the local rag rather stupidly turned down my offer of an interview (yeah - and guess who'll be first in the queue come 2012???) I was delighted that a couple of hundred people had turned up to meet me. That said I was puzzled at the reaction of some of the young girlies when I approached them to shake hands and thank them for their support - some of these country folk can be funny can't they?

But no matter the reaction, I think it remains for us elite athletes not to lose touch with reality. So I'll carry on turning up to these events, diary willing, even if it's just to sign a few autographs for the other runners and pass on some tips on diet and race strategy. I'm not sure about being in full kit though. Although it was pleasing to receive the admiring glances of some of those present as I carried out my 3 press-ups on one finger routine for the fillies waiting for the loo, my offer to pose for photographs was misinterpreted somewhat I suspect.

Anyway two aspects of this event caught my attention. The start and the finish.

First of all for some reason the race was started by a bloke dressed as Henry VIII – I kid you not.



Apparently last year it was started by Napoleon. Again I kid you not:






Anyway I was malingering round near the start line doing some crutch stretches and having done the usual after the runners had set off. If you're a non runner who has to trail around the country pretending to be interested in the other half jogging, you'll know the routine. Give 'em a big round of applause and a raucous cheer when the gun goes off - then it's away at top speed to the Burger Van for a half pounder and tea. (You know, it is true – running just isn’t a spectator sport is it? I mean, if I wasn’t in the damn race I'm sure I wouldn’t turn up to watch. I reckon Tommy Docherty, the ex Man United boss, was right. Make the races more interesting by shooting the last six runners every kilometre).

Anyway back to Beckley and just after the runners had departed there was a bit of a commotion and along comes this uniformed copper. Apparently just a few yards from the start line there'd been an attempted break-in at one of the houses. So this wet-behind-the-ears keeper of the peace - out of breath already, by the way, after just 75 yards - says "You seen anyone running?" "Yes” says I pointing in the direction of the fast departing field of athletes “There's a gang just gone running up that there lane" Well, before I had chance to explain exactly what I meant by that, this young nark started legging down the strasse in breathless pursuit! Well, apparently he finished the course in 58 minutes which ain't bad in boots, a tunic and with his helmet on full view.

The other aspect of the race I found fascinating was the finish. Now I don't know about you but whenever I've finished a race - whether it's a marathon or one of these Piddling 10Ks - frankly, I'm no good for anybody. That's because, being an elite athlete, I'm putting real effort into the race. Now I'm not saying that these chaps on Sunday weren't trying. But within seconds of ambling – note, ambling, not even a dip for the tape - over the line, they're all smiles and handshakes! Some of them hadn't even broken sweat for God's sake!

What you need is a bit of needle I reckon. Earlier this year, as part of my altitude training, I popped over to Belgium for the Ostend to Bruges 10 Mile Race. Before you ask, no it wasn't for the beer and chocolate. Anyway, blow me down if I don't get caught with a bit of a groin strain on the way back from the kebab shop on the Friday evening so I decide I'd better not aggravate the situation. Instead, I decided to concentrate on recovery, enjoy a couple of Leffes - and watch the race instead.

Not being too sure where to stand, I approached one of the locals for help in finding a suitable place from where to watch. Now the problem with Belgium, much like it's over-sexed neighbour Holland, is that if you ask a local a question that requires any kind of vocal response you're likely to end up covered in spittle. But, taking my life in my hands, I asked the question and, following the chaps advice, settled down outside a rather nice cafe around 200/300 yards from the finish with a frankfurter omelette and Leffe to watch.

Now this is a fast race I can tell you! It's a pancake flat course run alongside the local canal - but, unlike our canals there wasn't a bike or shopping trolley in sight! Anyway, around 300 yards from the finish I see that there's a Belgian and a Frenchie hammering it neck and neck for 1st place. What happened next was truly astonishing. At the 200 yard mark the Frog only goes and nudges the Belgian bloke in the ribs - causing said Belgian to stumble. Having none of it the Belgian races after the Frenchy and, like any decent Johnny Foreigner, gives him a nudge back. They continued to nudge each other until 100 yards from the finish and then the French bloke - as bold as you like - simply shoves the Belgian causing him to trip over the grass verge. But this Belgian is made of real stern stuff - and natch, he gives as good as he gets and shoves him back. Well, this to-ing and fro-ing then intensified as the finish line drew ever closer until, about 20 yards from the line, from nowhere, a haymaker appears out of the mist and lamps the Belgian on the chin! Now this really did upset the Walloony but, being made of rum stuff - he fought back like a good 'un and so the finish was quite simply a blur of blood, skin and hair as these two chaps continued to trade blows until eventually they both stumbled over the line - I have to say that I became quite animated in my encouragement for the Belgian - there's nothing like seeing spilt French blood is there eh? The finish caused such a kafuffle though that nobody could really tell who had won the damn race.

Well, the organisers were in a quandary. But let's just have a think about this. There's very little to choose between 1st and 2nd. It's between a Belgian bloke and a French bloke. The race is in Belgium. And there’s an eager Brit keen to give his twopennorth as to who he thinks crossed the line first. Guess who won? No contest Froggy - you loser!

But thanks for giving me the pleasure of watching the 2nd best finish ever.

The first?

Aaah dear reader. That would be earlier this year too - at the Night Run in Luxembourg. This is a great event. It's a marathon and a half marathon run simultaneously - and if you enter the full Monty you can opt for the short distance at the 10 mile mark by simply turning left rather than right. Now this kiddie wasn't born yesterday! Having copped the sausages and beer awaiting finishers I'd made my mind up at the 1K mark - I was doing the half!!

This had the added benefit of allowing me to watch the finish of the full marathon. So I'm malingering at the finish line doing some groin snatches for the benefit of the watching RTL TV cameras when the leader came into view. Now the finish of this race is indoors. And if you've been a couple of hours in the cool evening, running your socks off it can be a bit of a shock to the system to run into an arena with lasers, lights, music, dancing pom-pom boys (I kid you not, and I can tell you that it's not just the country of Luxembourg that's small!), dry ice and God knows how many other razzy gimmicky things.

Now us runners could see what was going to happen. But the President of Luxembourg - or Lord Mayor bloke thing - the Chief Executive of the sponsoring bank, the Coca Cola girls, the pretty young thing with the laurel wreath and the rest of the welcoming party obviously didn’t recognise the signs. And as they flocked around the poor guy, with cameras flashing, the TV cameramen got up close to beam pictures to the thousands in the stadium and the millions watching live on Eurosport.

And then it happened.

He vomited over the lot of them!!

Fantastic TV and it really did bring a whole new meaning to the word Technicolor!

Anyway, must dash - I've got loads to do. I'm working on setting up my 2012 support team and to be honest it's getting quite messy. I'm currently in correspondence with those bods at UK Athletics trying to get the terms of my place in the Elite squad sorted. You know they really don't like people giving them advice - but I'll persevere and let you know my progress.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

How long is your finger?

Like most Grumpy Old Men, I suppose I do resent paying my TV licence fee and even more so when I hear some of the tut that escapes from the air waves, supposedly in the name of music. Indeed, I truly despair when I hear some of the stuff put out by our public service broadcaster on the wireless. I'm not hankering for a return to the days of Two-Way Family Favourites (which, if I do recall, from my student days, became the title of a rather interesting party game involving a couple of sisters from Gateshead), Tony Blackburn and the Jimmy Clitheroe Show. No, what makes me chuck coffee cups at the radio is listening to those News Numpties obviously struggling to make a story out of what is, essentially, a complete non-news story. This is particularly common on BBC Local Radio stations which seem only too willing to have live link-ups and half-hourly updates 'from our reporter on the spot' simply when Mrs Beeston from Crawley reports the loss of her flippin' budgie.

But occasionally - just occasionally - our finest broadcaster spits out something that makes me put said coffee cup down gingerly rather than propel it at speed towards the source of the tosh. And yesterday the ‘Ron’ household experienced such a rarity.

I was at my desk trying to get the back off my Garmin with a spoon to try and recalibrate the heart rate readings when the Numptie reported a story about some researchers from Germany having discovered the secret of the athletic performance of women - apparently it is all down to the size of their wedding ring finger!
I kid you not - take a look at the report for yourself if you don't believe me http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/health/4202199.stm.

I was immediately struck by the opening paragraph of the BBC story which reads: "Spatial skills such as map reading and parking may be difficult for some women because they had too little testosterone in the womb." Now that's a load of Latin for a start because in my experience both these skills are sorely lacking primarily because of said gender's complete inability to distinguish between left and right.

But, apparently, having discovered this fact, the researchers then decided to measure the length of the wedding ring finger in the women they had tested. ….
Now – if you will, just run that past me again. So, they find out that the Half Share in the House can't tell Port from Starboard. So then they say, "Right, best check the length of her finger then"?

Well, fair play to them I thought. I'll put it to the test.

So I popped down to the local Spar just before 9 o'clock when the local mothers are dragging their pre-school brats back home having dropped off little Asbo at Primary School. Experience round my neck of the woods seems to suggest that that's the best time to meet women in tracksuits - when they call in for their breakfast Woodbines and Double Chocolate Muffins around school dropping-off time.

I have to report though that my mission failed.

I asked three such women if I could have a look at their wedding ring finger "to see how quick you are?" That was my first mistake. My second was not having put on my Dunlop Green Flash before venturing out - and I'm afraid, from a standing start, I was just not quick enough. My God, these Female Eunuchs can cover 100 metres in 12 seconds dead without knocking the ash of their Woodbines. Thank God I'm not due to come up against specimens like that in 2012. Mind you I'll not be doing the Shot Putt anyway.

Fortunately the Spar does sell Elastoplast so as I write to you now I'm feeling pretty sore and looking not dissimilar to Stevie Wonder on the day he decided to shave after a night on the Harveys Best. And I’m rueing the day I ever put ear to radio.

Anyway back to my Olympic Training Schedule. Although there are still five years left before I enter the final weeks of my 2012 Olympic Marathon programme, I'm fully aware that the time spent now investing in my health, well-being and fitness will pay dividends when I turn that corner on the Mall and race down the final few hundred metres with Ethiopians, Kenyans and Chinese floundering in my wake.
I know you'll be keen to hear how training has gone this week - so, what have I achieved?

Well, after the half marathon in Luxembourg last weekend I decided that recovery time was important. Paula Radcliffe takes a few months off after a race. “What does she know?” I hear you shout. And yes, you’re quite right – at least I’ve finished every marathon I’ve entered (three actually!). But she’s quite a nippy sort of bird so I’m taking a leaf out of her book and I've taken the week off. Instead, I’ve been concentrating on some of the mental aspects of my race strategy.

I’ve now convinced myself that a Gold Medal in 2012 is all but in the bag.

Oh - and I've reviewed my race kit.

I'm coming to the conclusion that my kit - vis Dunlop Green Flash gollies, Millets Coolmax Cotton socks, a pair of Trekker Khaki shorts and quality St Michaels Singlet - whilst attracting some attention from sartorial admirers - might not be quite trendy enough. You see, I'm a cutting edge kind of guy and whilst I'm not always at the head of the fashion strasse I certainly don't want to be stranded down the couture cul-de-sac. So, having discussed my options with support team members I'm going to wear the stretchy and rather fetching black skin-tight shorts which I modelled twice last weekend - on the ferry and over breakfast - and combine that with a long sleeved proper running top – twelve quid for the both of them from the bin end at Decathlon in Boulogne. A bargain! I’ve also selected a pair of trendy black 17 socks (eldest cash drainer says it's a 'D' for Donnay on the socks but I must have seconds because it's got '17' on mine) and - wait for it - Nike pumps! Yes – my pumps have cost me more than the rest of my kit put together (in fact, twixt you and I they were a hell of a price and I’m just praying they’ll last me till 2012). To say I look 'the business' is a tad of an understatement. I went down to the local market this afternoon to do some calf and groin stretches near the lingerie stall - and I certainly attracted some admiring glances I can tell you.

So - that's my kit sorted and, in January, once I've achieved my target time of 2 hours for my half marathon, I'll obviously be looking to apply for my official Olympic training kit from the 2012 elite training squad. I can't tell you how excited I am at the prospect of running in the red, white and blue of my country.
I'll also be popping out for a little jog on maybe two nights this coming week. No point in being too hasty about these things but I do want to have a bash at nipping round the Ashford 10K next Sunday in around 52 minutes.

But to do so is going to involve some sacrifices.

So I'm making some fairly radical changes to my training programme this week. On Monday I'm going to have a bash at this salad and cup-a-soup malarkey and see if that makes me run any quicker. I'm also cutting out the beer for three days to see if it makes a difference. (That's a double benefit actually, because I'm skint until next Thursday anyway until payday comes around.)

Before then - on Sunday this weekend I'll be nipping over to a place called Beckley (a '1,000 people with just three surnames' type of place) in East Sussex to have a neb at this 10K lark. I'll let you know what happens.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

A blow struck for chivalry

Well I'm now back from Luxembourg after taking part in the famous race along the banks of the Moselle - the Route du Vin. A great three days away. No cash drainers in sight - just peace, tranquility and the prospect of 13.1 miles to run in 90 degrees heat on Sunday.

And so, to Luxembourg. A couple of early impressions.

First of all my scepticism about joining the EU has now been confirmed. When I was in Mr Bridges' Geography class at school, Luxembourg was just south of Calais but I notice now its part of the EU it's been shifted a couple of hundred miles south - and it's a heck of a long way I'll tell you.

Secondly, they've a very peculiar dialect in Luxembourg. And no matter how many times I corrected their pronunciation of 'Vin' they kept calling it 'Van'. Most peculiar.

Thirdly I have to bow to the inevitable. I've always been fairly sceptical about the power of the Internet, e-mail and this Blogging lark. Personally I've always been of the opinion that the only people who use the Internet are perverts, civil servants and bankers and, well, frankly, people who've nothing better to do (not that there's much difference between that lot any way). But how wrong can I be? Only hours after announcing to the world my intention to begin training for the 2012 Olympics I have to admit my utter astonishment at the number of people who turned out to watch my first competitive event. The power of the Internet indeed! There were around 2,000 runners who had decided to run with me - and a few thousand more crowding the banks of the Moselle to cheer me on! What was really touching though was the thirty odd people who made the decision to travel from the UK with me and help me prepare for this crucial race.

You may recall that since my decision to make public my determination to be first down the Mall in 2012 I'd set myself an intial target of a sub 2 hour half marathon before Christmas 2006 - that would be just the fillip I needed before contacting the chaps at the Elite training squad and passing on the measurements for my new training kit.

So, how did I do?

Well, let me leave you in suspense for just a minute and I'll take you through what was a pretty intensive race weekend I can tell you!

Those of you who consider themselves committed runners will know the importance of diet. And, of course, each athlete is different. To be honest, I've not really settled on a fixed diet. I mean, you can forget all that heejy-beejy stuff with salads, nuts and bean sprouts - after all you can't run a Formula 1 car on 2 stroke fuel can you? And I'm certainly not going down the vegetarian strasse. I'm far too old and long in the tooth to change religion. Anway I've tasted that tofu stuff once and that was once too many times for my liking I can tell you. So, I'm still tinkering away with my calory intake and, having one eye on the weather forecast - and noticing too that there were a dozen or so Kenyans in the race - I decided that the decision boiled down to a simple choice. It was 50/50 - was it good old fashioned carbo-loading? Or should I revert to the F Plan?

I decided to play safe and went for both.

So Friday started with a couple of snorker and bacon rolls - lunch was a packet of McCoys Cheese and Onion, a Twix and a Ginsters Brunch Bar and then I went stir-fry in the evening (well I had Chicken Chow Mein from a cracking Chinese take-away in Gillingham but it's the same stuff isn't it?).

Saturday came and I then went into 'hydrate' mode - partly, I suspect following the consumption of said Chicken Chow Mein - and off we went by coach to Dover. Left the Cash Drainers to look after my two dogs and a cog (I've a cat that thinks it's a dog) but had to go easy on where I put my hands and pointed the eyes cos the Half Share in the House was accompanying me. To be honest, it was rather a motley crew on board but I was grateful for them giving up their weekend to follow me and support me. I discussed race strategy with a group of very nice girls from Canterbury Harriers but they got all funny with me when I receommended some interesting streching exercises I'd seen on a mates 35mm home movie camera. On board ship I moved into F Plan mode with a P and O Full English and chatted to a couple of my supporters from Hastings Runners who didn't satisfactorily explain why on earth they'd decided to join me on the weekend. They tried to tell me that they'd had the trip booked for ages - but they couldn't fool me. I could see the look of admiration in their faces when I put on my brand new Adidas skin tight black shorts with the white flash. I told them it was OK to get dressed in the bar - after all they've had people from Ashford on these boats. Anyway they went off muttering something about shopping . I thought 8 o'clock was a bit early for lager so I contented myself with a Guinness or three and settled down for a kip.

Then it was off to Luxembourg and as I've already explained - it's a chuffing long way! Lovely place though - nicer than Stevenage, Crawley or Deal. I wouldn't mind, but when we got to this place called Remich there was nowt to the place - a river, a couple of forests and about 400 petrol stations. Apparently the Germans like to cross the river and fill their cars and wagons up at about half the price we Brits pay for fuel. You should have seen the look of gratitude on the face of our coach driver when I took him some bottles of diesel to take home. You see I'd found a dozen or so wine bottles in a skip and thought - well, better to take something home that's useful - and at half a quid a bottle I thought it was a bargain.

Anyway once we'd eventually found our lovely hotel in Mondorf-les-Bains, courtesy of that nice couple at http://nice-work.org.uk I set off to do some exploring.

Now - can you tell me what is it about foreigners and bodily functions? Here we are in a lovely Spa hotel with every conceivable health and fitness facility and you get some Johnny Foreigner who sets out deliberately to spoil your day.

It all started innocently enough. I followed a couple of rather nice girls from Sandgate after overhearing that they were going to try one of the naked saunas in the hotel. Well, you know what it's like, the old ears pricked up and I thought 'well, no harm in looking eh?'. Off I went in my dressing gown and approached this 6 ft 6 inch Germanic-looking attendant called Helga for directions to the naked sauna. Well, without a blink of an eye, this collusus then proceeded to strip me of my dressing gown and left me there standing with nothing but my Runners World covering my embarassment. She'd obviously got the hots for me but I was having none of it - or so I thought. But she grabbed me by the arm and threw me into this wooden shed contraption next to the swiming pool. Once the mist on my specs had gone I looked around in the gloom and found myself in what can only be described as a very warm and sweaty airing cupboard. There were three wooden slatted shelves and a rather minty smell emanating from some stove-like contraption.

But no girls from Sandgate.

Just as I was trying to work out what to do - to be honest I was all for leaving, but Helga had done a runner with my dressing gown and I didn't fancy wandering through the bar with my bits on public show - when I heard footsteps and voices approaching the door. So, being a Brit I decided to dive onto the bottom shelf of this shed-thing and lie and see how things progressed. I pressed myself up against the wall of the airing cupboard thing and made sure that I couldn't be seen by anyone and waited with breath held tightly for the door to open. I had a fleeting vision of some lovely Luxembourgoise stepping in gingerly with her three 21 year old triplet sisters but no sooner had this vision appeared in technicolour on the back of my eyelids than it was dashed. Instead, in trooped two of the fattest, hairiest French blokes I'd ever seen in my life. Stinking rotten of garlic and some fishy thing they carried on in their hee-haw, hee-haw, hee, haw lingo before chucking some water on the fire - and then, to my horror, moved towards me to sit down. I was obviously still invisible to them as they stepped on to my shelf - but then, dear reader, things took a turn for the worse. Rather than sitting on my shelf, they stepped on to my shelf - and sat down immediately above me. Or, to be precise, immediately above my face.

You will recall that I told you that the shelves were slatted.

I cannot begin to tell you the view that I had from my vantage point. Suffice to say, it's put me off pork scratchings and honey-cured ham for life. And if that wasn't bad enough, these two Gallic blubber merchants sat there for 35 sodding minutes. What dropped on me and from whence the drips came I shudder to think. Eventually, their time finished they waddled off - presumably to ruin somebody else's day and put a family of fifteen off their dinner that evening.

Anyway I eventually escaped and then went to change and enjoyed a very agreeable three-courser with my supporters before retiring to the hotel bar for a few slurps of Leffe - well, race time wasn't until 3 pm - plenty of time for the old dull ache to ease I thought.

And then it was race day! There was a murmur of noticeable appreciation as I turned up for brekkies in my vest and shorts and did a couple of calf and groin stretches against the hot plates - one young lady even asked me for my room number. "But we've only just met" I protested. Tried to tell me she was some kind of Breakafast Czar and that she needed my number for the accounts but she wasn't fooling me!

And then down to Remich for the start and this was it! Race 1 - only a few dozen to go before the Olympics in 2012 - and mark my words the time will go fast! Mind you, old Johnny Foreigner has a funny way of dealing with its Elite athletes - I was shoved in a pen with not a Kenyan in sight! Instead I was amongst the also rans of Luxembourg, France and Germany - but no worries I'd soon leave them standing. I began at a steady 5.30 minute K pace before deciding to hold back and save a bit for my sprint finish. No point in being too hasty I thought. After around 500 metres I reckon I was easily in sight of the front runners and set about clawing my way towards the front. At 2K I stopped for a welcome drink and tried to chat to a couple of blokes about their Asics shoes - I was wearing Dunlop Green Flash and just wanted their opinion - but they were so rude and pushed me to one side before dashing off. After 4 K, I'm bang on target for my sub 2 hour - 22 minutes exactly. Keep this up and I'm on course for a 1.57. 5K, fine, 6K still OK, 7K I shaved a few seconds in my favour and then - well, frankly, dear reader, it all went to pot.

I'd had my eyes on a bit of posh totty in front of me. You know what it's like lads? There's no way us chaps can shuffle up any hill without focusing on the rear of some nice young lady in front is there? Personally I try and spot my botties early on - that way I can concentrate on keeping up with them. We'd just reached the 8K mark - just a shade under44 minutes and still bang on schedule - when my totty bottie pulled in to the side in some obvious discomfort. Well, what could I do? Run straight past her? Hey, I'm not French! I'm a Brit. And despite the fact that I knew what I was about to do would have a serious affect on my Olympic training schedule I did what I hope any of you would do. That's right I stopped. I checked on the young lady's condition - she was wheezing and gasping for breath and couldn't get any words out. I was trying to explain that a spot of Fiery Jack rubbed on her chest would probably crack it when this Luxembourg marshal bloke came up and asked if we were OK. He spoke good English but I was puzzled when he said to his mate that it was unusual to have two runners with exactly the same condition stop at exactly the same spot. Dunno what he meant by that. Anyway, I helped this young lady back to the marshal point and took a bit of water on board myself before setting off on my way - but not, I emphasise, before I was absolutely convinced she was in very capable hands.

Well, with race times and targets out via le fenetre what could I do? This act of blatant chivalry had cost me my race. Was I upset? A little, obviously. Was I glad I'd stopped? You bet. And before you say anything don't you dare suggest that I only stopped to have a little blow myself - that never even entered my head.

Anyway I obviously pretty soon got myself back into a race pattern and carried on to the finish. I was really pleased that so many people had decided to wait for me to finish and I can tell you that a huge roar erupted at the finish when I entered the funnel. I waved to the galleries - and they waved back at me. My supporters were there en masse with a welcome glass of beer and Croque Monsieur waiting. It was quite emotional really. The only negative I suppose was that in diving for the tape to knock a Frenchie back another place I tripped over the chip timing mat and twisted my chuffing ankle - but what the heck. My finish time was a touch over 2hrs 11 mins - but if I'd carried on and not helped my damsel, I reckon I was pretty close to 2 hours. The heat was almost unbearable though - so, in the circumstances, I've got to say, I'm happy.

My finishing time put me about 1 hour 10 minutes behind the first Kenyan bloke home (1 hour 29 seconds!!). And do you know, that's a thing that really annoyed me. If I'd won that race I'd have jolly well hung on to cheer the Kenyans in - but did they wait for me? Not on your life - so that's just given me added determination to make sure those guys are eating my dust come 2012.

And so, after touching base with my supporters it was back to the digs and a fine old party in the evening. Pizza and beer it was - good old fashioned race food - Ron Hill would have approved!

Then, a long journey back home and time to reflect. Was my race strategy OK, was my diet and preparation what it should have been, did I run to the best of my ability, was I mentally strong enough?

What do you think? Let’s hear a big ‘Yes’.

So, now its back to the rigorous grind of my daily training schedule. No race this week but thought I'd pop out to the sticks to see that Beckley lot in East Sussex and watch their 10K on Sunday. In fact my team have suggested a sprint would be good for me too, so I've decided to risk going to Ashford on October 8th for one of those piddling 10K efforts. My time target at the moment is around the 52 minute mark and if I achieve that then my sub 2 hour target could be reached on October 15th - when I take part in the Amsterdam Half Marathon.

Before then though I'll keep you up to speed with the highs and lows of an Olympic hopeful.

Keep on tapering.

Ron