I scythed through the field like a spoon through butter

Well if you missed my interview with Steve Crumb on the BBC, it’s because it didn’t take place. God knows what has happened to decent chivalry and respect though. One of this country's greatest Olympians ignored. And Crumb wasn’t the only one to ignore me. I got off the train in London yesterday and hung around for ages waiting for Roland Branston to welcome me. Not a whiff of the chap.

So, I made my way to the start of the London Marathon feeling, if truth be known, a tad grumpy. I've had a strong feeling all week that the organisers seemed to be more interested in getting those Kenyans and Ethiopians on board than they were getting me to the start line. And that feeling turned to reality on Sunday morning when - and I know you'll be flabbergasted as well - I was denied access to the Elite Men's start pen.

And, Ronettes, if you can imagine the scene. There was I, peering through the 6 ft high fence at the hand-picked cluster of Johnny Foreigners masquerading as London Marathon winners-in-waiting. And, do you know, I swear I caught that Sammy Whostisname's eyes lock on to my gaze and his face turned to stare at the floor in embarrassment. Yes, even though he was dressed in a giraffe outfit, he was embarrassed too.

Anyway - enough of egos. How did my race go?

Well, I have to be pleased. I'd paced myself through the race and crossed the line at 3.50 which I thought wasn’t bad. Mind you, if truth be known I'd actually hoped to get there for half three - but ten to four was good enough. My time was a blistering 5 hours 53 minutes - a full 14 minutes quicker than my last marathon - but, oh dear Ronettes. Does it hurt.

Yes, it hurt yesterday and it bally well hurts today I can tell you. But I did it and that’s the main thing. So, what were the highlights of my magnificent victory?

Well there was plenty of anticipation as we lined up to prepare for the race. Unlike my fellow lightweights I popped into O’Neil’s in Blackheath for a last minute carbo loading bacon sarny - and that really set me up. Just stripped down to my orange Lycra ... and the bally heavens opened and drenched the lot of us. Got some funny responses from what were obviously first-time athletes who didn’t seem to understand that my offer to lubricate their wobbly bits with Vaseline was a perfectly reasonable thing to say on an athlete to athlete basis.

The race got underway and I stormed past my first Kenyan at just 400 yards - he was adjusting his Womble outfit and I took advantage of that to leave him for dust. Saw some pretty remarkable sites - Sally Gunnell dressed up as the back end of a bus was one early highlight. Felt a bit demoralised when a bloke carrying a fridge ran past me at 2 miles but I felt a whole lot better when somebody pointed out that the fridge was empty - well anybody could do that couldn’t they?

My race nearly came to a shuddering premature halt when a woman pushing a pram crossed the road in front of me – and then as I ran past her she rammed it on to my Achilles – now what was that about????

I was stalked throughout the first 10 miles by a flippin' partially sighted soldier who was dressed in full camouflage gear. I kept running past him only for him to come right up behind me poking me with his white stick thing. Now I have the utmost respect for people like that but his stick kept hurting the backs of my leg. But then something happened for which I have since reflected was probably not in the spirit of the race - and I apologise now. He came up on my inside for the last time at about 10 or 11 miles and for the umpteenth time I moved aside after being jabbed yet again by his stick. Just at that point, however there was a sharp left hand turn in the course - but your man carried straight on. And he was so determinedly walking straight that the marshals on the corner obviously thought he wanted to come off the course - so they removed the barrier to allow him through. The last I saw of him he was tip-tapping his way away from the course down some main road - presumably wondering why the field had thinned out. I know I should have done something about it but ….

Some blokes with one leg sprung past me at 4 miles followed a few minutes later by a huffing and puffing bloke with a rucksack with a load of spare legs sticking out of the top - what was that all about?

But the early parts of my race were OK. I had decided on a 5/1 walk-run strategy where I would run for 5 minutes and walk for 1 minute - to conserve my energy. At my pace I reckoned that would get me round in 5 hours 27 minutes - and I would have taken that. The plan worked well up until 13 miles when I felt my groin go - but I carried on regardless and at 17 miles I was doing OK and about five minutes ahead of my target time - but by then I was feeling tired and groin-sore. I decided to take a couple of minutes to recover and then set off again but I was soon feeling quite sore and although I struggled on to 20 miles - still about on-target - the wheels began to fall off as I hit the dreaded hedge.

All marathon runners will know the feeling when you do hit the hedge – your legs turn to jelly, you cant control your breathing, you have no energy and every muscle in your legs and arms starts to burn.

The last six miles took me an age to get through. My thighs were really burning and my right calf had stiffened up. The groin strain was making me limp - oh do stop sniggering - and both my knees had taken just about as much as they could. But at 20 miles and then 21 miles I reckoned that if I could just struggle through to run, say half a mile per mile, I could still have made the target time or thereabouts. But it wasn’t to be.

At 22 miles I had a blazing row with myself - and I tell you I damn near hit myself I was so annoyed. Whether it was the heat or whether my brain had just scrambled because of the intense effort I don’t know. But it had so turned to jelly that I just couldn’t calculate where my five minute runs and 1 minute walks started and finished. It is, of course quite easy - you run for five minutes and then walk for one minute - which means that every sixth minute should be the end of the walk - at 6, 12, 18, 24 etc minutes past the hour. Well my brain worked perfectly well for most of the afternoon - but like my legs it just it seemed to give up. I was stopping at 13 past the hour starting walking at 16 - and then I eventually had to stop and start to manually calculate what I should be doing. Am I supposed to be running now … or walking? I almost asked a woman in the crowd for some pencil and paper - and that, Ronettes, is what marathon running does for you.

The last four miles were pretty tough on your man here - but there was a kind of Eureka moment when it suddenly struck me that I had stumbled upon my problem. You see when I was running I was keeping up with those around me. But when I stopped to walk, all those walkers around me were walking past me. So, that I surmised, was my problem. It wasn’t that I can’t run fast - it’s that I walk too slowly!

24 miles came and I was not a happy hamster. I was barely walking and barely thinking straight. Humiliation complete when a bloke ran past me dragging a half-built brick wall.

At the 40K mark I should have been about 12 minutes from the finish line - but it took me damn near on half an hour to get there. Turning the corner into the Mall I summoned one last effort to run to the tape - and effort made slightly more difficult by having to avoid two apples, a donkey, a small giraffe and two Star Wars characters - I needed to have that finish line photo with real athletes in it - not half the cast from some bally pantomime.

And there you have it - the marathon from the perspective of an Olympic hero.

The Half Share had shot off from yard 1 and nipped round in 5 hours 20 and was waiting for me with a Guinness and a pie for dehydrating purposes after the race. And you know, sometimes you get no credit do you? Her mood darkened somewhat when Ernie picked me up in the Transit - now there was only room for me in the van and anyway there was a perfectly good taxi service from the train station to the Cucumber and Trumpet where I was being feted last night for my magnificent achievement. I gave her most of the money for the flippin’ taxi – so just what was the problem eh? But I was not going to let anything spoil my perfect day. After a couple of tubes with well wishers I retired to the bottom of the stairs to wait for morning – well there was no way I was going to climb the things!

And so, to today. How do I feel?

Sore that's how.

But at least I did the thing. And the race was good experience for my next big event which is not far away - I'm planning on running the marathon in Luxembourg next month and yesterday should, at least, help my preparations. In the meantime I'm going to take it easy this week - pop into a few local pubs to show off my medal etc. And then, on Sunday the relentless treadmill that is training for the 2012 Olympics gets switched on again when I travel to Reading to take part in the Shinfield 10K.

Keep on tapering

Ron

All set

Just been out in Ernie's van to check for Volcanic ash and all seems to be OK.

You know something - I can definitely see myself on the podium tomorrow.

For those of you unable to travel down to London to see me, the race is being televised on the BBC. And if that Steve Crumb bloke doesn't mention my name, I'll be having words at my post race press conference in the Scout and Vicar tomorrow evening. In any event though, you should be able to spot me - I'll be the bloke in a white vest.

I'll be reporting in on Monday after the race - so wish me luck Ronettes - and watch out you Kenyans!!

Keep on tapering

Ron

PS Anybody know where I can buy a podium?

A bone to pick

Look - I don't mind roughing it. I mean the Half Share comes from Essex so I know what hardship is all about. But when I am an elite athlete I expect to be treated with the hard-earned respect I like to think I've earned.

So, Mr Roland Branston. The next time you ask me to star in your London Marathon a few hints - or I wont use your flippin' pickle again.

1. I didn’t see Paul Radcliffe queuing with the ordinary people for their number - so why did I have to?

2. You apparently spent £150,000 flying in some foreign runners from Africa. So, was it too much to expect an Oyster card? Or a couple of quid petrol money for Ernie's van?



3. My number is 24,000 and something - so who Roland, is wearing Number 1 then?

4. My sponsor's gift pack appeared to be the same as everybody else's - packet of crisps made by some company nobody has ever heard of, a packet of seed stuff, a cereal bar that'll take me a fortnight to chew through, some girly spray stuff and an apple. Now seriously Mr Branston - is that what the Kenyans are having? Is that what you really consider a quality gift to an Olympic champion in the offing?

5.No red carpet for me. Well OK, there was a red carpet - in fact the whole bally place was covered in red carpet - but OTHER PEOPLE WERE WALKING ON IT MR BRANSTON!! That was supposed to be my red carpet.

6. No private dining facilities - I had to sit with an old bloke with wind problem and eat a plastic bowl of pasta and an apple. Hardly Hoot Cuisine eh Roland? Hardly Gordon Blue I would suggest?

7. I know you're a busy man - what with your record shop and pickle factory. But could you not have spared just a couple of minutes to say 'hello'? First of all I had the humiliating experience of queuing with ordinary people - and yes that did include women, Roland - and then when I got to the front of the queue guess what? You're right. Only two of the four people on the desk recognised me.

8. No free costume. I'm really miffed about this. I bet you gave all them Kenyans and Ethiopians a load of fancy dress stuff to wear - but all I got was a red rain mac.

9. My shoe manufacturers weren’t there. Oh yes, you have your fancy-dan-fancy-pants Adidoss and Asucks - but, come on - no Dunlop Green Flash? A big doo doo I'm afraid Roland.

So, all in all Ronettes I'm not best pleased with this London Marathon bloke at the moment.

I didn’t get treated like this in Hastings.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Preparing for the big stage

Those of you who have been in my company will know that although I am a natural media star in the making, I'm modest with it. Its no coincidence though - it isn't just raw talent that you see when you observe how I can hold a crowd and captivate my fellow athletes and Ronettes. But, you know, I'll let you into a little secret - all is not what it seems. Because I do, in fact, spend many hours working on my image and public persona.

Some weekends I have been known to spend hour upon hour mixing with ordinary people - like women for instance - to cultivate my 'Man of the Common People' image.

And so it was that I was the major attraction on Sunday at the Brighton Marathon. And I have to say the City of Needles made a pretty good fist of it. (Though Ernie does say that Brighton and Fisting do go together quite well but I have no idea what he means).

So, I turned up to offer my support and my advice to the athletes - some 8,000 of whom had gathered to take part in the first event of its kind in the city.

In fact, I turned up at 7 o'flippin'clock in the morning - and although I knew the start wasn't till 9-ish I did at least reckon I could turn in a spot of full English to set me up for the day. Being Brighton, of course, there wasn't a chippy or a bacon sandwich to be seen. So I had to content myself with a Falafel and Watercress pie and a cup of some Johnny Foreigner tea.

And then I sat down at the Finish Line to wait for the runners to meet me.

Well, the first runners home were a bit sharpish and so I reckoned I could have been away and home in Ernie's van in time for a snifter at the Slug and Pellet.

Now I don't want you to be thinking that I'm a fair weather athlete with no time for my fellow runners - after all I've even been to Essex once for a race - but for goodness sake the last runner didn't bowl over the line for nine and a half hours!! That's right - for nine and a half hours I stood there on that line clapping and cheering. And I got roped into handing out Goody Bags - I was there for almost 12 hours!

Well let me tell you - this Sunday at the London Marathon I ain't waiting for nobody! I don't care whether the Kenyan in the Fred Flintstone suit or the Bakewell Tart or those strange blokes who run with a house have finished or not. I'm crossing that line and heading straight for the nearest boozer.

After all I'm a proper athlete - not a spectator.

I wasn't happy - I got flippin' sunstroke; my legs feel as though they'd run the bally race. And for what? A few brownie points on the old media checklist.

Anyway the London thing is only a couple of days away now. I've been busy carbo loading and sitting waiting for a telephone call from the media people at the London Marathon. Well waiting for them is like British Gas nookey - you stay in all day and nobody comes. So, I guess I'll just have to hold my own press conference on Saturday. I've heard that some of the overseas blokes have bottled out claiming something to do with volcanic ash stopping them from flying. Well that's just pumpkins - I've been to Hastings today and I had no problems getting there or back.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Wee wee my cherry

Hee haw hee haw hee haw!!

Yep - this kiddie can speak foreign if he wants too!

Just back from a trip to one of those foreign suburbs and a guest appearance at the Paris Marathon, near a place called France. Its an event I get invited to every year. Rather like that bloke tennis player - Billy Bob King? - who won the Wimbledon Cup and then goes back every year to milk the applause, I took part and damn nearly won the Paris Marathon a couple of years ago and its kind of on my itinerary every year now. To be fair they don’t actually formally invite me back - but I know they really want me there.



I travelled with the Nice Work crew in the back of their Dormobile and, between cans of Stones Bitter, kept my fellow athletes regaled with some fantastic tales from my glorious running career. One or two of them were so impressed they actually suggested that I stay in Paris rather than come back here - they reckoned I could really teach the Frenchies a thing or two about running! It wasn’t a bad trip but the flippin' price of food - almost a fiver for a half pint???? Only trouble I had was at a small bar close to Blackpool Tower. The waiter said I could have two wines for 10 Euros so I told him he had a body odour problem and I didn’t think much of his beer.

No sense of humour these foreigners eh?

But I had a fairly pleasant weekend. I went for a small run in and around the city. And I tell you what - they're such a tolerant lot. I had a bit of bother with my orange Lycra mankini running outfit which I thought I'd try out ahead of its official debut in Dartford next month. Well, was I popular!! Although starting to run on my own I soon had a whole posse of French runners following me - and what appeared to be half the Paris Police Athletic team also kindly ran with me back to the hotel - now how kind was that?

I must hold my hands up to slightly over celebrating though. I have absolutely no memory of the return trip whatsoever following my discovery of a strange drink. I asked the chap in the shop for a pasty – but he gave me a bottle of aniseed ball-tasting stuff. I had a couple of slurps and, well, that was it. The next thing I remember was waking up in a bus shelter in Dover.

I’m doing more celebrity stuff this weekend. Although my training is still in full swing (out with the Old People of Hastings again on Tuesday) I’ll be taking a break on Sunday morning to add a touch of glamour to the Brighton Marathon. I’ll be on hand at the finish to shake a few hands and pass on a few rehydration tips – so if you’re in Needle City on Sunday why not give me a wave?

Then, of course the week after I take centre stage again – this time for my appearance in this year’s London Marathon. As Dale Winton says – ‘You can't beat a bit of bully can you?’.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Easter Eggy thump

You cant beat Easter can you?

A bulk buy from Thorntons used to be the norm at Ron Towers but with the credit snatch still biting it was a trolley dash round Poundstretcher to stock up on Easter goodies. Then we were off to Lidl to get some tubes in - then a couple of carrier bags of take away fodder later it was off to the Barnacle and Bicycle for some decent Easter rehydration sessions. And, you know, that's why I like Easter. As long as the kids enjoy it then its job done eh?

I did a spot of training too as Good Friday approached with a session with the Old People of Hastings and then it was off to Caravan County to take part in the Folkestone 10. Its a race I enjoy because I can enjoy a spot of anonymity there. The locals by and large are used to celebrity. Well why wouldn't they? It is, after all, the birthplace of one of this country's finest classical actresses Hattie Jacques.

So I nipped along the 10 miler in an hour and 47 minutes-ish. Didn’t quite get on the podium - so I found out later - but there's nothing wrong with letting some ordinary people and those less fortunate then me (i.e. women) having a bit of the limelight eh?

So, after my race I retired to enjoy a rather subdued post race celebration with just a couple of Leffes to keep me company.

Mentally though I was as sharp as a zip because in the back of my mind, of course, I've got one of the pinnacles of an Olympians year coming up in a couple of weeks - the London Marathon. And with Paul Radcliffe having bottled out again and some of his Kenyan mates also chucking in the towel - well, lets just say 'who knows' eh? Could I win it? Well stranger things have happened. Just ask that woman in the Bovril adverts.

I'm getting a little bit of big race experience this weekend too with a trip to Paris for their laughable attempt at organising a marathon!!

If you're there - well, wee, give me a wave!

Keep on tapering.

Ron