Never run with children or animals

The Olympic roadshow just keeps on rolling.

Your man here is having to really knuckle down though to try and lose a bit of pie and Leffe from the midriff and, not to put too fine a point on it, until I do, there ain't gonna be any World Records come 2012. I'm not saying I won’t win the Gold Medal - that's a foregone conclusion - but my time might be a tad slower than I would wish.

Unless, of course, I can slim down a tad. I'm currently on a Monday to Friday, lettuce, cup-a-soup and snack-a-jack diet - with the odd belt loosening blow-out allowed as a treat on a weekend. It seems to be doing the trick too - but time will tell.

On Friday I popped up to Stiletto City to take part in a very agreeable event organised by Springfield Striders. It's a 5 mile race around the country lanes of a village just outside Chelmsford. If you've never been to Chelmsford it's very much commuters-ville with all those who've passed their insurance exams congregating on one big estate. They’re a strange bunch - the kind of people who get a thrill out of buying electrical gadgets, personal number plates and sitting on trains for hours at a time.

But the chaps out running on the Friday were a different breed - very approachable, pleasant, and appreciative of our turning up. In fact they didn't behave like Essex people at all! Obviously, my appearance had attracted a bit of a crowd but I'm not sure they were ready for me. For some reason my display of anal crunches, pelvic squelches and groin thrusts didn't go down too well with the spectators - a few of whom just turned their backs on me and ushered their kids away.

Their loss I thought.

Anyway, the race started and finished in a pub - so after I'd thrashed my way round the course in 44 sizzling minutes I settled down for a couple of beers, a free burger and offered to sign autographs for the assembled masses - a very pleasant evening.

But Sunday was not pleasant.

The Half Share in the House decided she wanted to take part in the North Downs Run - a gruelling 30K race in, along and around the North Downs Way. I'm just coming back from my post London injury scare so I've not really got 30K in my legs yet. In any event to be honest I couldn't be arsed. Instead I decided to accompany my youngest - The Sod - in the Fun Run, a gentle 2.5K jog.

Never again.

For a start off it was full of bally kids. Not the kind of kid who appreciates and respects the event. But the kind of kid to whom manners and respect are just two words that they might have to spell in a Citizenship class.

So, here's what happened. It turns out that there are 40 kids and two adults - me and a woman who looked like a Jehovah’s Witness and wearing, wait for it - OPEN-TOED SANDALS!! She'd turned up to run in open-chuffing-toed sandals. For goodness sake, I'm an Olympic bloody athlete and I'm lining up next to somebody dressed to go shopping!

The gun went off. That’s normally a signal for people to run in one direction - towards the finish line. Not this lot. The gun goes bang - and they scattered in all directions. Some heading for the correct course, others walking from side to side, and some inexplicably running back towards the start line to collect sweets and drinks off their parents. It was bloody chaotic.

Three young oiks decided it would be great fun to run in front of me. And then just stop. I shimmied past them - but they caught me up and stopped in front of me again. Great fun for them. For the first four times anyway but not quite so funny after I had I delivered a size 9 Timpson up the jacksy of the eldest one - caught him a cracker I did. He retired from the race complaining to his single parent that "That fat bloke just booted me up the bum". "Sorry - tripped" I yelled apologetically as I ran past them.

Of course after 400 metres the vast majority of the kids had stopped, most clutching their sides, crying or complaining about having a stitch. The Sod, meanwhile, who is supposed to be running with his father has become a dot in the distance and is running with that 'eat my dust' style so common amongst little Herbert’s of that age. So I decided just to take it easy. But then, 500 metres from the finish, the bloody woman in Jesus boots only went and overtook me! She was flying. The straps on her open toed sandals were flapping away in the breeze - but she went past me at some rate of knots. I wasn't having that, of course - but it took all my strength to catch the bloody woman. Eventually doing so just 50 metres from the finish – and let me tell you the temptation to turn round and give her the Ron finger was almost unbearable.

I suppose what really hurt though was running in this race for oiks and nobody having a clue who I was. Olympic hopeful? Gold medal cert? I might just as well have been George Bush for all the notice they took of me. But what really, really, really grated was entering the finishing funnel to be told by a helpful marshal - "just a few more yards to go - come on, you can do it".

Err, excuse me. I can do it? Of course I can chuffing do it - it's only 6 weeks since I finished the London Bloody Marathon - so I know I can run 2.5K!!!

I suppose you can sense my feelings of annoyance and frustration - I don't normally use expletives. But I was so pigged off by the experience I promptly went home and got absolutely lashed at my mate Ernie's Birthday Bash.

That’ll learn 'em I thought!

Keep on tapering.

Ron