Globetrotting Ron

Phew!

That’s all I can say.

Phew!

It’s no bed of roses being an elite athlete I can tell you – and the added pressure of being an Olympic Gold Medallist-in-waiting just adds to the workload heaped upon me. But, you know, I just take it in my stride. Because I know that the time spent invested in you and my other fans now will be repaid a million times over when I’m stood on that podium in 2012. (And when I’ve got a boot load of commercial endorsements as well but that’s for later!).

To cut a long story short, I’ve been as busy as the pox doctor’s receptionist these last few days – but I’ll tell you what, it’s been a little eye opener.

I went to Paris last weekend for the Marathon. I wasn’t taking part – but I went to try and source some commercial deals for your man here. As well as shoe and sock deals, I’m also mulling over my idea to launch my own fan magazine – Ronners World – which will chronicle my amazing rise to athletic super-stardom.

And, of course, I went to have another gloat at the Olympics coming home to England.

Travelling with the gin-soaked wasters at Nice Work, I met up with a youngster from Zimbabwe who was doing his first marathon in some 9 years. We discussed the situation in that tragic country and I expounded my theory that it’s all the fault of Yorkshire.

That’s right. I’m of the firm opinion that the leader of Zimbabwe is a former postman from Barnsley who, after being caught red-handed with a bag full of giros decided to do a runner and flit to Zimbabwe. His name may now be Mugabe but he’s as Yorkshire as they come - anyway he simply reversed the letters in his real name – Ebagum to become this nasty bit of dictator stuff.

Anyway, I digress again. Back to my pupil. Do you know what? I think I became something of a father figure to the chap over the course of the weekend. I took him under my wing and gave him the benefit of an elite athlete’s experience. I gave him his pep talk, some tactical tips and I showed him some Leffe locations in the City of Love. In fact he only flinched twice throughout the entire weekend. The first time was when I demonstrated my anal crunch routine on Saturday night at the Trocadero (And I’ll tell you something too - this kiddie still hasn’t lost it. What a crowd I drew!).

And I must admit he also flinched a bit when I offered to Vaseline him – but I can assure you, your man here’s no Uphill Gardener – I was referring to the bits he couldn’t reach and nothing else! Cheeky monkey! Anyway, it was all worth it when he'd finished because I swear there was a little tear in his eye as he hobbled along the Champs Elysee and threw his arms round me. Emotional maybe – and it took me three snifters to get rid of the taste of salt!

I’m not really sure whether the Parisians really deserve their marathon. I mean, they get all precious about it because they think it lives under the shadow of London (yes – so?) – but then do precious little to embrace the thing when it does happen. On a blistering hot day – and certainly not one for running 26.2 miles – the runners needed every bit of support they could get – and from where I was at the 31K mark it was sorely lacking. I stood there from 30 minutes before the leaders came though until their approach – and at its peak I had no more than 20 people stood with me. Around midday the temperature had climbed to just a shade under 28 degrees – and I have to say that seeing some of those brave kiddies didn’t exactly inspire me to look forward to this weekend’s big one in London. I’d already done a sharp 10 myself on Sunday morning at around 7 am and the heat then was debilitating - even for an Olympian like myself.

Anyway I did enjoy Paris. I enjoyed meeting a few of my Ronettes and fans from far flung outposts of civilisation like Cornwall, Bournemouth, Portugal and the USA. But what I liked best was watching the front runners. You see it’s very seldom I can relax with a couple of beers in my hand and watch the front runners. And doing so got me thinking about the difference between those at the front of a distinguished field of athletes and those who are normally to be seen trophy-free at the Blair end.

And so, here’s Ron’s Guide to the Differences Between Front Runners and Club Runners

1. None of the leading 100 or so girl runners had their jackets tied round their waist
2. Not one of the Kenyan or Ethiopian athletes I saw was running with an IMacPod3 thing
3. Not one – I repeat – not one - of the first 1,000 or so runners thought it a good idea – or indeed a fashion statement, to run in rabbit ears. Those of you who know of my last London Marathon will know how hacked off this kiddie was when his London Marathon photos were delivered with a crowd of rabbit-eared numpties in the background – and ruined what could turn out to be a future record of a piece of sporting history.
4. Strangely enough, none of the leaders were nattering away to each other. No mention of shopping amongst the leading ladies – and a similar lack of BMW acceleration stats between the chap from Qatar and his running buddie from Ethiopia.
5. No body piercing or tattoos. You listening Essex?
6. Girls at the front don’t wear them long trouser things – they’re in .. ahem .. little bikini bottom things. To be encouraged, I think. And, I might add, those nippy fillies doing the 2 hour 20-odd minute thing are not afraid of sweating! How many times have we finished a race and there’s some young gal with ne’er a bead of sweat on her brow? But those long kex? I saw only English girls running in those flared jogging bottoms that look as though they’ve been knitted by some overbearing mum – girls, it was 28 chuffing degrees!!
7. Leading runners don’t run six abreast pointing and saying “ooh there’s Darren from the gym”
8. I think I saw about an hour and a half of runners before I saw my first nipple bleed. Now then chaps – we know how painful that can be eh? So, how come those fast blokes don’t get it?
9. Sorry chaps again. About finisher number 5,000 before I saw a beer belly. But best if we gloss over that one eh?
10. Armour. What do I mean? Those at the front get up, put on their pumps, their shorts, a pair of socks and a vest – and that’s it. So how come those at the southern end think it necessary to start a race with their clothing, a computer on their wrist, an IpmacP3 thing on their arm, heart monitor, earplugs, a belt with four water bottles – plus a bottle of water to carry for the first half, another belt with gel tubes, a bum bag, a hat, mobile phone to ring Brenda, bag of jelly babies, a backpack thing with a tube full of water, vest, t shirt, bin liner and an old 1989 Canterbury 10 Mile t-shirt to discard at the off? It’s no wonder we’re slower than the flippin’ Kenyans, we’re carrying half our chuffing house round with us!!

Anyway, from Paris, I then had to spend a couple of days working in Birmingham with my mate Buttocks – where I have to say I’ve suffered more from the language barrier than I did throughout my time in Paris. I thought somebody was presenting me with a souvenir Kipper Tie and I got given a cup of Tetleys! Then, on Wednesday I flew to Germany to tie up a rather exciting long distance project for your man here.

Intrigued?

Tell you more soon.

Oh – and I’m running the London Marathon on Sunday.

It’s at times like this that you realise that adrenaline is brown and smelly.

Keep on tapering.

Ron