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.