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
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
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