Oh Dear

Well Week 3 of my training to win the Himalaya 100 Mile Race in Indialand passed by with just a couple of notable incidents - which, I have to say, pale into insignificance compared with Week 4.

But more of that later.

I travelled over to France the weekend before last to try and get some endurance training under my belt. Not strictly a running weekend, the three days were spent walking the 30 or so miles between Boulogne and Le 2K in Northern France. Now isn't that just typical of the French? Naming a seaside town after five laps of the track!! The route took us three days or so and was comfortably interspersed with a liberal quantity of wine bars, food shops and a rather tasty hotel to lay my head.

In a way it was a humbling experience for your man here. Not being in the company of fans, admirers and other runners I felt more able to relax - I wasn't having to hide from a legion of well wishers or feel as though I had to put on a show for my fellow travellers.

Indeed it was almost like what it used to be before I became a celebrity. In fact I thought I struck a somewhat anonymous figure amongst a group of, lets face it, ordinary people. People with dogs; people with jobs. (Hell fire two of them even lived in a council house!).

Mind you I got a tad bored with it. Its all right not being noticed on sight. But after a while enough is enough. And so, after a couple of hours when, intros completed, and not one of them had posed even a single question about my Olympic ambitions I decided to let them into my little world. And right after Dinner on the Friday I decided "right - I'll show 'em!" So I did my 3 minute one fingered press-up routine, finishing off with a 10 rep session of anal crunches and pelvic squirts. My how they laughed in the restaurant! The locals even entered into the spirit of things and began chanting what I can only imagine is a French colloquialism for 'Olympic Champion'. Homber Seal they chanted Homber Seal Homber Seal .

What a great bunch of foreigners they were.

Unfortunately the English lot I was with couldn't stay to the end of my routine which I thought was rather grumpy of them - but there you go, there's no accounting for taste. Anyway, one of the couples were from Wales. Nuff said.

So the Saturday I felt in good shape and covered 10 miles and then the day after I managed a quite impressive 17 miles. And after a night in the French equivalent of the Royal Oak I went to bed believing that the jaunt up Everest was all but in the bag.

But, on the Monday morning, I awoke and my knee had done a Ratcliffe on me. It had decided to stop running. I could hardly get the thing off the bed. So the final stage of the walk was completed for me in the back of a Transit and then it was the long, lonely way home for me. I have to say a feeling of hopelessness came over me. I might be able to win a few marathons on one leg - but 100 miles?

It called for drastic action. On Wednesday last week, after giving the old leg a couple of days to get better, I went to see a man called a Sports Psycho. Apparently with his Kango fingers he'd sort my knee out a treat and, so he promised me over the phone, he'd soon have me back on the training ground and I'd be back on track with Himalaya Charlie.

Now three things annoyed me about this Psycho. It started when I went into his treatment room. And he acted as though he'd never heard of me! How rude is that! Well that got my goat up right away and I was forced to do a bit of an Eric Morecambe and warn him that if he and I were going to get along, he'd better start showing some flippin' respect. I'll give hime 'Ron Who?'.

Secondly, he said he was going to give me a little prick - and I pulled another flippin' muscle turning round pretty sharpish. Turned out he wanted to give me a puncture. And so he did. Have you tried having a puncture? He stuck these four ruddy long needles into my knee. And told me to relax!! Relax?? It was sodding painful!!

But the thing that really hacked off this kiddie was his diagnosis. He reckons I've done my cartilage in? Oh yeah? And tell me this Mr Clever Flipping Psycho Man - how could you possibly tell that when you never even looked in my ear??

The bottom line is I gave the Psycho bloke short shrift and instead toddled off to see my GP, Dr Crippen. Well ... what can I say? His diagnosis was swift and immediate. "You've got GOK" he said. Which apparently is medical jargon for God Only Knows.

He then insisted I'd just "banged my leg"! Hell fire these blokes study at medical school for half a lifetime. And the best they can come up with is "Sorry Ron, you've banged your leg".

The bottom line Ronnettes though is not good. I've hardly exercised for a month; I've not run for a month. I'm eight weeks away from leaving for the Himalayas - it just ain't going to happen is it?

So, I've come to what I think is a mature, professional, pragmatic decision.

I'm going to deck that Psycho.

This Sunday I was due to travel to Caravan County for the Kent Half Marathon - but there's just no way I'll make the distance. So it looks as though my Himalayan Dream is over before it even began. I'm still going over there - but it looks like the race is off and we'll just have to complete some of the distance by walking.

Say La Vee as they say in Poland.

I'm sick, I'm gutted. And its going to be a huge psychological and medical problem for me to deal with. What is lurking deep in the recesses of this razor sharp brain of mine is ... will I ever get back to Olympic Gold Medal winning form?

I'm going to have to sleep on that for now.

Talking of Olympics I was sad to see that my old mate Dave Collins has been rubber pumped from the job of my coach and jacket holder for the English national team. I hate to tell you I told you so and I hate to see myself proved right in such tragic circumstances. But I'll just pose one question.

Would he have been bulleted if he'd taken me to the Chinese Olympics in Peking?

Makes you think eh?

Keep on tapering.

Ron