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.