Time to get the sponsors in - but first let's get them out!

Well, I've not had a bad week of training to get ready for my visit to Livingstone's Pit tomorrow morning. Tuesday saw me do a 16 mile training run - only slight problem was I didn't actually get very far. The chuffing weather we've been having around Ron Towers of late made it impossible to train outdoors - so I had to do 16 miles on the flipping treadmill - now is that dedication or what?

I've been working hard this week on getting my sponsorship proposal ready and I've already got a short-list of companies that I'll be offering myself to. The choice of company is obviously a fairly important decision for me to make. Not only will I be carrying the responsibility of their brands with me - but when I stand on that podium with the Gold Medal around my neck I want to make sure that those commercial enterprises who are associated with me will not tarnish the medal I've worked so hard to get.

So, first off, I have compiled a short list of those companies and organisations that I want nothing to do with. These companies will not have their logo or names within a hundred yards of this kiddie. Just to make sure that they don't see this as sour grapes come 2012, and to avoid any unpleasant or embarrassing scenes in the aftermath of my Gold Medal triumph, I'm writing to the Chief Executives of these organisations now to make sure they understand my reasons for banning them. My 'no-way-Jose' companies are:

Bernard Matthews - for obvious reasons. Poor media relations, low brand integrity and shit meat.
EDF Energy. They might sponsor everything else that moves - but not this kiddie. They're French. And you can stick on this list Moet & Chandon, Perrier and Burtons Cakes (they make those French Fondant Fancies) as well!
Transport for London - you watch these bunch of corduroy-shoe-wearing, no-car-driving, hermaphrodites jump on the bandwagon just as soon as they hear the Olympics are coming to their town. Well they make my life a nightmare every time I visit Livingstone's Pit - so this is, quite honestly, just pay back time.
Coca Cola - yes, sorry chaps. You might think you'll have the pick of the endorsements. But not this kiddie here. I've got a conscience and when I heard of the conditions that Coca-Cola workers have to work in their sweatshop labour houses in Chelmsford I was horrified. Did you know that some of their workers have to do twelve hour shifts for as little as £14 an hour? It's exploitation.
British Telecom - I'm going to get a tad political here (but, just because I'm famous doesn't mean I can't have opinions). How on earth have we come to a position where our own phone company employs staff in India - and kicks our own boys and girls over here out of a job? My mate Buttocks was made redundant after 25 years loyal service to BT - so this one's for you Buttocks!
Morrison’s Supermarkets. They're Yorkshire. Nuff said.
Smart Cars. They just look stupid and I'm not going on no victory parade in an open top Smart Car. I want a bus like the Ashes team had.
Campbell’s Meatballs. Surely an Oxymoron?
The Guardian Newspaper. (and you can take it from this that they will not be one of my preferred media partners either!) Any national newspaper that doesn't have a decent sports page is just not worth the paper it’s printed on. Add to the fact that half of the blessed paper is .. well ... it's just boring. Only a very small proportion of the population want to know what's going on in the French Sahara or want to hear the views of some Guatemalan Tribesmen's Leader. I want to know what's happening in Hastings and Bexhill and Luton.
JJB Sports. I just refuse to wear a Burberry vest and baseball cap when I'm running.

So, I'll be firing a letter of to what I call my Top Ten Ron List Of Shame - that'll show 'em.

Anyway - I must dash. The Half Share in the House has promised to help me prepare for tomorrow's efforts with a rub down and her famous clench and wrinkle treatment. I'll let you know how I get on tomorrow.

Keep on tapering.


Ron

Time to step up a gear - properly this time!

My trip to Caravan County to take part in a piddling 10K in Ashford on Sunday was eventful if nothing else. The race is a tidy affair and, as soon as it was known I'd be appearing, it was another sell out. And you know, it makes me feel really humble that I can be of assistance to the ordinary running community. You see, its OK us elite runners turning up to the Olympics and to the London Marathons of this world - but we wouldn't ever have reached such dizzy heights if it hadn't been for the existence of these small club events. So come on Paula – how about the Bewl 15 or the Hastings half then? Let us both be beacons of light in the murky world of paid athletes eh?

Because that's why you'll always find this kiddie trying, week by week, in my own little way, to put a little back into the sport which has given me so much. (Mind you it hasn't given me any really tangible rewards yet but that's something I'm going to address very shortly).

Mind you the organisers had a great way of ensuring that all the runners went through a proper warm down and stretching routine at the end. They made sure that all the cars in the car park sank up to their hub caps in mud – and we had to spend 45 minutes pushing the buggers out!

Anyway, so it was that I lined up for the piddling 10K and, after signing a few autographs and going through my start routine of groin thrusts and anal crunches I was away - like a racing snake I was. I had a target time of 54 minutes but I was really trying to get as far south towards 52 minutes as I could. That required me to run at just over 5 minute kilometre pace. Things were going OK and at the 7K mark I was on 36 minutes, so continuing that pace would see me cross the line in a little under 52 minutes – job done. To be honest I wasn't that confident because I'd been out on the rehydration for each of the previous five nights - so I was beginning to feel the pinch a tad. But I was still confident of exceeding my target.

To pause for a moment though. It just shows you how much I've regressed over the last couple of years - my target time was a full five minutes slower than my best time for this event and I was just thinking about this when I approached the hill at just past 7K. And I suddenly got a chuffing stitch. I've never had a stitch whilst running before - so to get one here was a tad annoying to say the least. As a result I had to walk for a couple of minutes and although I picked it up again towards the top of the hill by then I'd dropped behind my pace. I did put a bit of a spurt on for the last kilometre and eventually crossed the line in 53.02.

Now whilst that was ahead of my target time I know that I could have done so much better so I was a bit miffed. That flipping stitch must have cost me a trophy as well because whilst I'm not sure exactly where I was in the field, there were not too many ahead of me - I reckon I was 2nd or 3rd but eventually finished 285th.

So that has got me thinking now. And I've decided that the next couple of weeks are going to have to see a step-up in class from your man here. First of all, I've thrown away the bottle opener - and thrown away it will stay until at least Sunday night. That will give me plenty of time to prepare properly for my visit to Livingstone's Pit this Sunday for the Roding Valley Half. My target isn't a namby, pamby 2 hours plus jobbie either. I'm going for an event pb. The only time I've run the race before I ran it in 1.59.21 - so I'm going to beat myself up if I don't tip that time. There – that’s sticking my neck out!

I follow that with my first overseas event of the year with a visit to Bruges (yes, I know, the home of my lovely juice!) for the Ostend to Bruges 10 Mile Race - target? Under 85 minutes. Finally I then take up the challenge of the Hastings Half marathon when I'll be pushing as hard as I can to get as close to 1 hour 55 minutes as I can.

In the meantime I'm focusing on getting miles under my belt - and as I sit here today in Ron Towers I'm contemplating my 16 mile training run which I need to do today.

I've also got some work to do on securing sponsorship and selecting my media partner - and I hope to bring you news on this later in the week.

Until then ...

Keep on tapering.


Ron

Brussels Pouts

Thought I'd tell you about my rather eventful visit to Brussels in midweek.

I was over there for a spot of R & R and found the chance to pass up a couple of glasses in the home of Leffe just too much to resist.

We arrived by Eurostar and as the weather was rather Northern, I found myself in a bar full of Germans. Irritatingly they thought I was some Welsh bloke because they kept shouting 'Morgan' at me, but this apart the place was quite pleasant. As I sat there quaffing the Lovely Juice my eyes were drawn to a rather smart Ferrari that pulled up outside the front door - and out pops this long-legged blonde stunner. When she entered the bar the Germans were silenced and they started the old Euro-drool - but I was shocked when this pretty thing proceeded to order a coffee - in perfect English!

She was one of ours.

I thought I'd impress her with some of my Ron one fingered press-ups and the tactic produced results when she asked if I'd care to join her! I have to say she was a pretty filly and I’m afraid I became captivated with her as she told me her story.

Turns out the girl was a smuggler! A real life smuggler - and she was so brazen about it. Apparently her trick was to smuggle precious stones from the diamond capital of Europe - Antwerp - into the UK where she then had some scam to shift the things to a couple of dodgy jewellers.

"But surely you draw attention to yourself with the fast car and the designer gear" I said. "No" she said "Because I hide the diamonds in a place where the Customs people don't look".

I was getting more and more intrigued and my curiosity turned to incredulity as she explained her modus operandi. She told me that she smuggled the diamonds by encrusting them on to yo-yo's - and to demonstrate, out of her handbag, she produced this child's yo-yo and, sure enough, it was studded with thousands of pounds worth of diamonds and other precious stones!

"But I still don't get it" I said "How do you manage to get the things past the Customs people?". "Easy" she says "Us girls have a little pocket that you boys don't have – and that’s where I hide the yo-yo"

I was stunned "What you put it .... up there?" I stammered, pointing towards her naught bits.

"Yup" she says "And I leave the bit of string showing - and then when I get home, I slip out of my undies and, with one tug of the string the diamonds are mine"

"Aaah - but what if they did a body search?" I countered.

"Listen, sweetie, I've been body-searched a dozen times" she said coolly and, with a long, sleeky pull on her cigarette, turned to me and whispered "But I still haven't come across a Customs Numptie brave enough to pull that string"

You do see life don't you?

Keep on tapering.

Ron

You have to go backwards to know what forwards feels like!

Well what an eventful week for this kiddie!

I started the week feeling a tad tender after my efforts in Dover last Sunday so I popped down to the local gym on Tuesday for a session of anal crunches and groin thrusts. The young fillies have some sort of shouting class on Tuesday evening and I often position myself close to their class to have a butchers. And I'm sure they appreciate me going through my extensive routine so close to them so they can watch me and, perhaps learn something. And, let's face it, some of them might be better off following the old Ron routine rather than wasting their time doing their silly dance things. They spend 45 minutes getting ready - designer kex, shoes, t-shirt and headband, tight little shorts – and then, of course, they have to tie their coat round their waist and then prance around for half an hour to old Bee Gees songs before sitting down for a thousand calories worth of Weight Watchers Puddings and Cakes. And the day one of them breaks sweat is the day I'll put the old leotard on myself too!

Anyway, the week has gone very much south for me since Tuesday. I've spent an agreeable - and eventful - couple of days in Brussels and I'd decided that after my gruelling training and dietary effort of the first few weeks of the year, this old kiddie deserved a break. So, I spent two days eating and drinking - and, well I carried on where I left off as soon as the old Eurostar hit Britain. So, my training for tomorrow's piddling 10K in Ashford has, to be honest, been non-existent. So my strategy is to treat tomorrow as a bit of an 'ease back into it' event. I should be able to complete the course in under 54 minutes - but twixt you and I this kiddie will be hammering away trying to get as close to 52 minutes as I can. But who knows? Maybe the excesses of the week will take their toll?

Then, after a decent spot of re-hydration with some members of my fan club in the afternoon and a decent kip in front of the footie I'll be ready to face the regime once again next week. I've a hard week of good behaviour - and on Tuesday I'm due to complete a 16 mile run as part of my marathon training. Then, on Sunday it's off to Livingstone's Pit and a stab at the Roding Valley Half Marathon in North London.

But whilst my week has been less than brilliant training-wise, I've had some news off the track. First of all my chum Seb Coe has endorsed my quest for Olympic Gold - and I'll stick a copy of his letter (personally signed, mind you) here for you to see. But whilst it's great that his Seb-ship has taken the trouble to personally acknowledge my journey to bring home the Olympic bacon, there is a sting in the tail of his letter.

He's not accepted my entry!

But this potentially devastating state of affairs ain't going to put this kiddie off! But you know I would have thought it would be in their interests to accept entries now - can you imagine the chaos there's going to be in 2012 if they're planning on accepting entries on the day? And surely the Olympic movement can't be that hard up it needs the extra £2 for on the day entries? Anyway, I'm grateful to him for at least endorsing my Olympic struggle.

I've also had a response from the Sports Minister regarding my offer to become an Olympic Ambassador for the country. Unfortunately it’s not from the man himself but from one of his numpties. However he does sign off by saying he looks forward to seeing me standing proudly on the podium! At last he knows where I’m headed.

So that's another supporter in high places in the bag and you can see his letter here shortly.

Still no response from my media adviser Max Clifford or from Sue Barker regarding my offer to take over from Ali McBeal on Question of Sport - but there’s time yet. I'm currently in the process of putting my sponsorship proposal together and drawing up a shortlist of potential Official Ron Partners - and I'm also studying the form book to check out a couple of potential media partner - but more news on this soon.

For now it's relax, put my feet up and an early start for Caravan County in the morning. I'll let you know how I get on.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Rain. Sleet. Wind. Hail. And Hills. Marvelous

You know, when I grow up I'm going to be a weather forecaster.

Those of you who checked my notes last week will know that I confidently predicted that the weather on Sunday in the south east of England would be cold, miserable and wet.

Well, I was right.

A bit.

It was more than that. It was chuffing cold, chuffing miserable and chuffing wet I’ll tell you!

Each time I've ventured into Caravan County and wandered down to Dover for their half marathon, I've ended up soaked and frozen to the bone. And it was no different on Sunday. A light drizzle and cold wind just before the start gave way to torrential rain, hailstone and sleet - and then we had a gale blowing in from the channel. Which is all very well - but then I had to run up hills as well.

But this kiddie is nothing if not resilient and I fought my way through the field to finish underneath my target time of 2.05 - but agonisingly short of another sub 2 hour jobbie. Which would have been a marvellous performance on this course in these conditions. In fact I managed 2 hours and 48 seconds which, considering it took me almost 30 seconds to cross the start line was a performance that will have had the Ethiopians and Kenyans dobbing themselves. And do you know, just to make it worse - not one of them showed up to test themselves against me or the elements. And that just proves my point that some of these elite athletes have grown just a tad too big for their spikes.

Sure, we can all do these luxury, big ticket events - your New Yorks, Paris and London events. But it's in the dark waters of southern England where men are men and boys are left behind the bushes. And that's why this kiddie here will always be there at these marvellous events. Not only is it great for the soul - its good too to let your public see you.

To be fair there weren't many of my public out watching Sunday's race - and even if there had been I wasn't getting out of the Allegro until I absolutely had to. Nope, Sunday was one of those days when the warm-up was an extra notch on the car heater.

But after Dover, I do feel that I'm getting my stamina and strength together OK. The old war wound of an injury is being nursed by my medical team and, apart from a couple of twinges here and there it seems to be standing up to scrutiny.

Having told you about my magnificent pre-race diet of beans I must admit to trying something else last weekend. A Dupiazza on Friday evening, accompanied by a couple of Leffes, was followed by a Saturday evening supper of Steak and Kidney Pudding. But don't go thinking for a minute that my standards are slipping - it was just a bit of an awkward weekend for sticking to the rabbit food - and you can rest assured that the old regime will be followed closely this week.

Well apart from a couple of days when I pop off to Brussels.

Anyway, training-wise, I've a light session tomorrow followed by a gigantic leap of faith - I've got to get a 16 mile run under my belt and that will probably have to be on Friday. Can't wait!

And then this weekend I'm back to Caravan County for a bash at one of those piddling 10Ks in Ashford.

So, I’ll be back later in the week to let you know how I get on – and I’ll let you have a butchers at the correspondence with Max Clifford and Sue Barker at Question of Sport.

Till then, enjoy the weather.

Keep on tapering.


Ron

Another week gone, another milestone reached

As we reach the end of our sixth week in 2007 it is quite frightening what us athletes have to put our bodies through. Normal people and women have no idea what a gruelling life we lead. My punishing schedule of fitness training, diet, early nights and some pretty intense psychological sessions would leave their mark on a mere mortal - never mind this elite athlete's body.

Until now I've made it to the ranks of Superstar athlete and media personality by using my own unique training methods - but the progress I've made since Jan 1, using some rather unconventional methods it has to be said, is quite startling. Which just goes to show that you must always be open to ideas from others.

You know I think I've just been too comfortable with my pie and Leffe diet. But since trying this new fangled low-fat, low carb, low protein, low taste, no alcohol, no sweeties just plenty of exercise programme ... guess what? I've lost almost 16 pounds.

That's a pair of twins!

So, now that I'm not running with a wheelbarrow of blobness around my middle I've suddenly discovered a frightening burst of speed which, I tell you what - it must have those old Frenchies and Ethiopians dobbing in their EU subsidies!

But am I complacent?

Not on your Nellie! This kiddie's nothing if not dedicated to the cause. And that cause, need I remind you, is a commitment not just to beat those Frenchies - but to rub their gallic noses in it! So, I'm continuing with the training and diet thing through the rest of this month and next at least. I've decided I've got to fill that wheelbarrow up with a few more pounds of blob - and I've a target of sending another pound a week south right up to my first marathon of the year - that's London on April 22nd. At the moment, I'm something stone 12 lbs - so I'll be something stone 9lbs before the end of Feb; something stone 5lbs by the end of March - and something stone 2lbs come Marathon time. At that point I'll have dropped almost 2 stone - and if that ain't dedication to the cause I don't know what is.

I've a return to Caravan County this weekend when me and the Sod, my youngest, brave the elements for a stab at the Dover Half Marathon - the Sod's taking part in the youngster's run. His training regime of Playstation, Tomb Raider, Tizer, Penny Sweets and crisps should see him through that one! And if you're out and about on Sunday, I can confidently predict the weather. It will be cold and wet and chuffing miserable. How do I know? Simple. It is always cold, wet and miserable for this race. Target-wise I'm still bathing in the euphoria of last weekend's sub 2 hour half. Logic tells me that I should be able to repeat that effort on Sunday - but Dover's not a flat course by any means and I think, twixt you and I, I'll struggle to do so. So, I'm playing safe and aiming for a 2-05 jobbie but if I get sub 2 hour I'll kiss the mother-in-law.

As for the rest of the month, its back to Kent next week for a piddling 10K in Ashford and then the week after I'll be visiting Livingstone's Pit for a return to the Roding Valley Half Marathon.

Away from my punishing Elite Atlete's Training Schedule (EATS) I've a big problem ahead next week - I visit my spiritual home of Belgium on Tuesday and Wednesday for a two day visit to Brussels - and I've a feeling the training might just head south for a couple of days. Certainly this kiddie ain't taking the Belgian Strasse without checking up on me old mucker Leffe - and, of course, travelling Elite Athlete's Class on the Eurostar means a freebie decent full English breakfast!!

I am expecting some progress on improving my media profile next week and you'll not be surprised to know that I'm recruiting the best possible team around me to help mould your man here into a smoothie media personality. I've just fired off a letter to Max Clifford confirming his appointment as my media adviser - I'll stick a copy of my appointment letter here shortly. And, between you and I, I've some exciting news about my TV profile. I think I'm a midge's away from being appointed a captain on Question of Sport now that that Scottish drunk has left to concentrate on losing football matches with his national team. Obviously it's not confirmed yet - but when you see the application I've fired off to Sue Barker you'll be as impressed as I think she'll be.

Well, that's it for now - take it easy with chickens, turkeys and budgies till that Bernard Matthews thing blows over.

Keep on tapering.



Ron

I just couldn't resist

Further to my last note about the power of beans and their benefit to us athletes.

I've just been sent proof that Triathletes have also discovered their powers.

Keep on tapering.


Ron

Beanz Meanz Timez

So, you want to know the secret of top-notch athletic performance?

Well, I’ve discovered it.

Beans.

Not just any old beans mind you – to be specific, Branston Baked Beans. Let me explain.

As the fog hung like a discarded duffle coat over Sussex early on Sunday morning, your man here swung his legs out of the pit. Between you and I it was a heck of a wrench to continue that process and actually get myself out of the bed. It was bleak, gloomy, cold, miserable – and, of course, it was Sunday. Ahead of me was a 120 mile journey to Essex for my first half marathon of 2007. The alternative was a lie-in, breakfast in front of Match of the Day and a morning with the Sunday newspapers.

No contest.

Because, to achieve sporting excellence you just have to accept that pain and sacrifice are part and parcel of life’s daily curriculum. So I jumped into the Allegro and set off for Great Bentley.

Of course an essential part of any athlete’s training regime is diet and you’ll know from our previous conversations that I place a significant emphasis on ensuring I have the right food and fuel inside me. You’ll also notice, however, that as my date with destiny and the 2012 Olympic Games draws ever closer, my diet has had to evolve accordingly.

Incidentally, whilst the Ginsters and Leffes may have disappeared – my yearning for them remains and it is truly a great sacrifice sometimes to ignore their temptations. (Actually the Ginsters fetish is only symbolic as any pastry connoisseur knows that there’s only pie manufacturer worth its place on the Lard Podium – and that, of course, is Holland’s.)

But the question of choosing the right pre-race fuel has been worrying me for a few weeks now. Obviously, I’m quite partial to a full English – particularly if I’ve had a couple of Leffes and a kebab the night before. But with my new found conversion to proper race preparation I’ve started experimenting with some weird concoctions.

I’ve tried Special K, Muesli and Shredded Wheat but all three to me have the consistency – and taste - of rotting vegetation. I’ve tried poached egg but I’ve always considered the poached egg as the hermaphrodite of the breakfast menu – its not really good, wholesome and filling in the way that a bacon sandwich is. And whenever I’ve eaten one I’ve just been left with an urge to eat a fried egg!

I also went through a fruit phase with a bowl of apple, banana, orange and grapes as an early morning appetiser. The problem there was that within seconds of emptying the bowl clean of fruit I knew I was seconds away from … well, filling the other bowl.

But I’ve had a kind of religious moment. And it all started on Sunday morning when, with just minutes to go before we needed to scrape the ice off the Allegro, we were still scratching around for some brekky. Things haven’t been too good on the old finance front of late and all we had in the cupboard was a tin of Branston Baked Beans and a couple of slices of bread.

And that was the start of a remarkable discovery.

Two slices of toast and a decent dollop of BBB’s later and we’re off to Great Bentley. Now, admittedly there is a downside of this particular pre-race meal especially when in a confined space with my other half. The Half Share in the House does have something of a reputation, with just one glance at a Brussels Sprout all that is required to bring on a rush of wind to rival the Sirocco.

So, arriving in Great Bentley must have been a sight for sore eyes – having had to keep the old car windows down meant the pair of us arrived looking as blue as a couple of Smurfs and it didn’t half take some warming up to get the old circulation going. A huge crowd of people had turned out for this first-time half marathon – and I reckon my appearance had added a good few hundred to the entry list too. A goodly crowd of pretty things in Great Bentley too – and I was faced with a queue of them who seemed keen to have their frontages signed by your man here. So, naturally I spent a happy few minutes obliging.

And then it was time to go. You’ll recall that my target time was a tad under 2 hours 5 minutes. Well those beans did the trick I can tell you. Because I only went and zipped round in a full ten minutes under my target time!

That’s right I finally achieved that important sub 2 hour half marathon that had eluded me for so long last year. Yup, I dashed over the tape, complete with my ceremonial Ron-dip for the line, in 1 hour 55.18.

And for that I have to thank those Branston Baked Beans!

So I’m going to use Sunday’s performance as a springboard for the future. I now need to build on that performance and consolidate this sub-2 hour benchmark before mounting an attack on the important next mark – a sub 1 hour 50 minutes half marathon. That should propel me into the world rankings and from there it should be downhill all the way. By this time next year I hope to be approaching the times set me by my Elite Athlete coaching staff.

I’m also now so convinced about the power of my Branston Baked Beans that I feel duty bound to write to the bloke who makes them and offer my services as an ambassador for his product. Now, can you see how I’m developing my select group of product partners?

So, I’ve a few letters to fire off this week as I sort both my media and product partners – plus, of course sorting out my training partners. In the meantime I’m knuckling down for a return to Caravan County this Sunday with a bash at the Dover Half Marathon. Its not an easy course though so a sub 2 hour performance here could be just that little bit too much – so I’ll play safe and aim for a 2-05 again.

But I’ll be back to you before the end of the week with an update of my progress.

Keep on tapering.


Ron

Time to step up a gear (1)

One of the downsides of being a top athlete is the threat of injury or accident. Set yourself a goal of athletic glory and there’s bound to be something – or somebody - waiting just down the Strasse ready to give you a bite on the bum. Indeed the curse of injury is something that has stalked this particular kiddie for some time now and I’ve suffered my fair share of missed opportunities, pain and suffering as I strive for Olympic perfection.

Fortunately I’ve been relatively lucky since beginning to tell you my story last autumn – but I have the feeling that my good fortune could be about to take a turn for the worse.

A worrying niggle on my left shin is starting to concern my medical back-up team (well, my mate Buttocks) and there is a chance that your man here might have to take a little break from competition to give the injury time to heal.

Not!

This kiddie ain’t nothing if not brave, fearless and ready to address whatever challenges fate chucks his way. You see, I know that pain and suffering are just two of the currencies I’m going to find jingling in my Olympic wallet – and I know a little pain now will bring that big Gold Medal gain in 2012.

So, all bets are still on and I’m busy with the mental preparations required for my next tough challenge – my first half marathon of 2007, tomorrow, in Essex. The biggest challenge is, of course, Essex itself. Not only is it a heck of a long way – but its chuffing close to that Bernard Matthews Turkey Bird Flu farm that’s been on the news today! News has just been confirmed that the turkeys have contracted the H5N1 virus. Which is not only a scary virus but also the first illness to be named after a National Insurance number.

Anyway, I’m sure that the people of Great Bentley will turn out in force tomorrow to see me mount an attack on my latest target. I enjoyed a light session down the gym last night and at my weigh-in I’ve seen a further reduction in my blobness – and I’m now almost half way to my target of shedding 28lbs before my first full marathon of the year in London, in April. I’m looking to shove a further 6 pounds south before the end of February and I’ll keep you up to date with my efforts to disappear pound by pound. I also opened the old lungs this morning with a nippy six mile training run – which left the Half Share gasping in my considerable wake and which was needed if for no other reason than to equalise the half pound of choccie I couldn’t resist last night! (That said, I have managed to keep off the old loopy juice with just a couple of glasses to help celebrate the Half Share’s birthday on Wednesday night.)

Time-wise, tomorrow, I’ve set myself a target of a tad over 2 hours and I’ll be chuffed if I’m anywhere under 2 hours 5 mins. That psychologically important sub-2 hour mark will probably remain part of my race preparations for later in the month – and I’ve provisionally chalked in the Dover Half Marathon in a couple of weeks time for an attack on the time – assuming I’m not crocked!

Now, I’ve already said that its time to step up a gear – but I’m not just talking about my performances on the road. The more I think about it, the more I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to step up a gear organisationally.

I’ve had great encouragement from my mate Dave (the head honcho at UK Athletics) – you can see his letter to me here http://www.nice-work.org.uk/blog/UK%20athletics.jpg.

Now, listening to his advice, I’ve decided to expand my team of advisers and I’ll be working hard to put in place the necessary building blocks that I reckon are needed to give me the best possible chance of Olympic glory.
And I’m starting with my media presence.

Basically, I think I need to work harder at my media persona so I’m putting together a team of people to help me achieve a much higher – and much more professional – profile. I’m not messing about either – so, I’ve decided to appoint that Max Clifford bloke to advise me. I’m also considering having a couple of media partners too – I know it might mean having to make room for a couple more stickers on my vest – but hey, ho have you seen Paula Radcliffe’s kit bag? I’m a little unsure of where to go in this respect but I thought I’d start with our own running bible Runners World and I’m also looking at one or two national newspapers to see if I can’t take a few bob of ‘em . This media lark though is all about opportunity – and I'll tell you something cocker - I’m one of the sharpest knives in the box when it comes to opportunity I can tell you. So, I’m also firing off a letter to take over from that Scottish bloke Ali McBeal on Question of Sport. Which as well as bringing me some much needed exposure will also relieve the British public from his incoherent drunken ramblings. Amazing display of judgement from the bloke though – he’s leaving to take a job working for the Scottish National football team – so at least his experience of losing will come in handy!

So, I’ll let you know how I get on with my media work – and once that is all sorted I’ll be turning my attention back to the world of sport as I try for my ultimate objective of the year – to try and secure myself some training partners as I focus on my 2012 training plans. I’ll be looking at some of the arrangements that the second greatest hope for Olympic marathon glory in 2012 has in place and try to persuade Miss Radcliffe’s management that I’m probably a better bet for them. At least I don’t run the risk of screwing up nine months of earnings for them every time I get ga-ga after a few Leffes!

Anyhow - that’s for later – in the meantime, I’ll let you know how Essex goes tomorrow.

You watch out for sneezing birdies now.

Keep on tapering.


Ron

Hey, ho - things are looking up

Well, it's been an interesting week.

First of all my schedule - carefully structured to enable me to peak in 5 years time - progressed smoothly enough this week. I had another of my 'lose 2 lbs' weeks - but to be honest I've no idea whether or not I achieved that particular target. I toddled off down to the gym and, well, frankly, I was distracted by this pretty young filly on the Arc Trainer. So distracted in fact that, having introduced myself, I thought she may be interested in one or two of my stretch and thrust pelvic exercices which have done me proud in my athletic career.

All I can say is what has this flippin' world come to when you can't even have a chat with a young thing without being slung out of the place? The bottom line is that I had to leave in such a hurry that I didn't have time to stand on the old scales. That means I'm focusing on this Friday when a double-week weigh-in will, hopefully, see me dip through that important psychological barrier - clinical obesity.

On the track I ventured forth once more into Caravan County on Sunday for the Canterbury 10. My entry had attracted a huge crowd of both athletes and spectators and I busied nyself pre-race, signing a few autographs for onlookers. I know that it's a chore - but I also realise that a few minutes spent now will pay dividends in the future. And I'm not referring to small potatoes here - without spelling it out, just think Sports Personality of the Year 2012!

Anyway - my race time target was to knock back my Dartford 10 time by a couple of minutes and try and finish in around 91 minutes. And that's exactly what I did, sprinting over the line in 91 minutes 15 secs - so job done there!

I have to say that my preparation wasn't 100% - it was the Half Share's birthday and we celebrated by cracking open a couple of Leffes the night before. The fact that I've only had the forbidden juice on four occasions this year contributed to my early Sunday Morning sluggishness. However the race started brightly enough for me - at 11.00 but not for a dog walker who decided that 11.01 would be the best time to take her dog for a walk along a quite, narrow country lane - against the flow of over 700 runners. Her cursing and attempts to knock over as many competitors as she could made even her poor dog try to hide its face in embarrasment.

I managed fairly consistent, just over 9 minute miles through to the half way mark and I crossed the 5 mile mark in 46 minutes - which made my target of 91 mins look something of a tall order. However a monumental effort by your kiddie here saw me return what those of us in the know refer to as a negative split - and I zipped round the second half quicker than the first.

Unfortunately the day ended in something of a disaster on the personal front for yours truly.

The day was rather spoilt somewhat by the Half Share in the House throwing a strop at the finish. She decided to nip off a bit sharpish and I lost her after about half a mile. As luck would have it though I spotted her ahead of me around 2 miles in and decided to maintain sight of her - she was around 200 metres ahead - and the plan was to use her as a sprint target at the 9 mile mark - and then to catch her up on the line. All went swimmingly and at 9 miles I made my move and started to reel the old bird in. As I got closer I do recall thinking that it was ironic that on this day of all days - her birthday - she did seem to be carrying a fair amount of undercarriage. What I hadn't realised though was how bandy her legs had become. 400 metres from home and it all became apparent. I'd been shadowing a 62 year old fella.

That wasn't my mistake.

My mistake was being honest and telling her. A mistake compounded by me shouting at the top of my voice and gesticulating enthusiastically - "That's the bloke I thought was you".

Not the nicest journey home.

Some fantastic news off-track though. Whilst there's been a deafening silence from both the Sports Minister and Seb, I have had an interesting letter from Dave (that's Dave Collins, Performance Director at UK Atletics) who had some very encouraging words for me. I'll publish his letter just as soon as I work out which buttons to press - but he's come up with an interesting couple of suggestions.

Quite apart from endorsing my training schedule and confirming that your man here is now very firmly "on the radar", he reckons that I might well have a future in two other athletic disciplines. First of all he reckons I'd cut it as a sprinter and all that I need is "some quality bling" and a "pronounced strut" He also suggested a strong lead for some commercial backing by suggesting I approach Ratners. And that's obviously what I'll do - quoting Dave's ringing endorsement,of course. As for the sprint thing - sorry Dave. Any bloke who can only run 100 yards is not a proper athlete in my book. For goodness sake I've run further chasing a bus!

His other suggestion is that I consider myself as an endurance athlete - he mentions signing up to run the Great Wall of China. Well that's too flat for ths kiddie.

I want a hill to run up.

So I'm signing up to run the Himalayan 100 - its held in October each year and includes a couple of runs up Everest. So, I'm going in 2008 and I'll let you know more about this in due course.

This week sees another monk-like period as I prepare for my first half marathon of the year on Sunday. I've accepted an invitation to run in Essex and the temptation to hire a white Escort for the weekend and dye the half share's hair blonde is almost as irresistable as it is stereotypical. Reminds me of the time when I courted a rather brash she-girl from Southend all those years ago. She came back from the library saying she'd borrowed a book called 'How to Hug'. Turned out she'd got Volume 7 of Encyclopedia Brittanica.

So, its the Great Bentley Half Marathon on Sunday - and I'm torn between going for that psychologically important sub-two hour mark and being sensible and aiming for 2.05. I'll sort this little connundrum out before the weekend and let you know how training goes this week.

Keep on tapering.


Ron.

One foot on the podium

Today is a very significant day indeed for us all.

According to some numpty in the Olympic press office it is exactly 2012 days to the 2012 Olympics. Good God – how many lottery tickets were sold to pay for that stunning piece of information? And so, on this momentous day, I can now put your minds at rest. Start the engraving now chaps – because this kiddie has Gold Medal written all over him!

I had three objectives for the weekend just gone. The first was the latest target in my slight realignment of body shape and mass – target for the week? Two pounds. And how much dropped off? Two pounds chummies! No messing! My second was to stay off the juice again – a feat I managed comfortably and I saw in my seventeenth day of the month without alcohol.

Then, on Sunday I ventured way into Caravan County for the Dartford 10 – my first competitive race of the year. I’d set myself a target time of 95 minutes – a mark I finished comfortably within, eventually strolling over the line in a shade over 93 minutes.

A couple of points about Dartford. First my finishing time should have put me comfortably in the leading bunch but there was deffo some dodgy goings - on because as I passed through the finishing funnel there were a good few hundred runners milling around looking as though they’d run some kind of race. If it was the same race as I ran I can only assume they’d all packed it in half way round.

Sunday was also the day that winter finally arrived. It was a tad parky I can tell you. In fact with the old wind blowing Irishmen across the channel it called for a pretty nifty start to get the old blood pumping. I did manage 9 minute miles on eight of the ten miles – only slowing up for a two minute breather at the end of a tough-ish uphill mile 5; and then I endured a 10 minute last mile up another flippin’ big hill. On the whole though I was pretty pleased with my consistent pacing – and over a distance I hadn’t run for a good few weeks.

There was a decent turnout of Ron fans too and I kept them entertained with the odd bit of Olympic banter and a couple of my Seb Coe riddles – I had them in stitches! They were good enough to leave me alone though as I went through my anal crunches and groin stretches on the start line – indeed there wasn’t a single runner within 20 yards of me as I went through my routine. And I like that. Respect for an Olympian can only help maintain the already strong bond I have with my fans.

Still no response to my letters to Seb, the Sports Minister and the UK Athletics kiddie yet but I expect they have to have my details rubber stamped by some numpty committee or other. In the meantime I’m now looking for a media deal and some PR advice. I thought I’d drop that Max Clifford chap a line – just as soon as he’s finished with that Big Brother girl’s problems.

Saw an interesting article in the Daily Telegraph today (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/main.jhtml?xml=/sport/2007/01/22/sofit22.xml) which had some young pretty thing doling out advice on what it takes to be a winner. Like me the young girl is an Olympic prospect (although I have to say that I was a touch peeved to learn that she’s already got her lottery funding in place, but that’s an argument for another day). Anyhow this Becky Lyne girlie listed her ‘Top Tips’ for winning in life and sport. Now, how on earth a 24 year old can dish out advice on life is beyond me but I thought it worth comparing her ‘Becky’s Top Tips’ with my own strict training regime – “Ron's Red Hot Recommendations”.

1. Have a goal. Take that as read Becky. Olympic Gold in 2012 is my aim. No more, no less – so, what’s yours Becky? And don’t dare fall for that Podium finish tosh. Its Gold or failure girl.
2. Prepare. She suggests treating yourself to some new kit – did you hear that UK Athletics? Where are my new pumps?
3. Share. Becky says you should tell people about your goal and she’s right. That’s why you and I, dear reader, are in this Olympic dream together. And that’s why Seb and I are the 2012 Dream Team.
4. Start slowly. Never been a problem for this kiddie I can tell you.
5. Add activity to your routine. Now this one gets really bizarre as she suggests, amongst other things ‘Doing some vigorous housework’ or ‘playing with your kids’. Becky – please!! There ain’t no medals for hoovering or Formation Jenga Mixed Doubles are there? Tosh.
6. Enjoy it. Becky – get real. No pain, no gain!
7. Re-fuel correctly. At last, common sense. I recommend Leffe.
8. Have a trigger. Listen to this: “When temptation stands in my way I lift my t-shirt and tap my belly”. I’m intrigued – but I’ll try it the next time I’m in the Rose & Crown Becky and see what happens!
9. Sleep. I like this one.
10. Persevere. You’re speaking sense now girl. Totally agree. And if you can’t persevere then pack it in is what I say.

All in all, there’s a fairly routine week ahead for this Olympic hopeful. I’ll be out pounding the Strasse again this week and I’m looking forward to Sunday when, in addition to a further 2 pounds shed and another five days out of seven alcohol-free, I’m anticipating another sub 95 minute run at the Canterbury 10. In fact, after my Dartford time, I’ll be disappointed not to get down to around 91 minutes.

You look after yourselves this week – it’s going to get chilly.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Sitting here. Poised. Like a coiled spring.

Well, the weather's been blowing Irishmen across the channel and as I sit here with a right old storm raging it's bringing home to me what it really takes to become an Olympic athlete.

Because, forget the 60 mph winds that are raging; forget the peeing rain; forget the biting cold - some of us kiddies are going to have to brave the lot of it. Today's a 7 mile training run and I'm sat here in my pumps and vest like a coiled spring waiting to venture out.

But no need to be too hasty eh?

The weather numpty on the radio says it should quieten down by 4 pm - so I've told the team to stand easy till half three and we'll revisit the situation then.

I'm feeling fit to run though and, even after a speedy 4 miler last night, the enthusiasm is still there. Only problem is the facial injury that I'm carrying at the moment. All a misunderstanding but it got a bit dodgy down at MFI last night. I'd gone there with the Half Share in the House who wanted to buy a new bed for our middle daughter The Droog. I thought there was another couple of years left in her cot to be honest, but the Half Share seems to think that just because she's 15 she should have something more up to date.

Anyway I'm stood in MFI and I couldn't find where the beds were. After a couple of enquiries went unanswered by the 28 year old YTS blobs these places seem to employ, a rather pretty filly approached me and said 'Do you want bedding?'. Well it just went downhill from there - she got upset, her boss and hubbie got involved and, well let's just say we won't be darkening MFI's doorstep again.

What else has happened? Well, I've finally got round to sorting out my entry and kit for the 2012 marathon.

You can view my letter to Lord Coe here and I'll let you know when I get a reply. http://www.nice-work.org.uk/blog/Letter to Lord Coe.doc.

Whilst I was in 'write' mode I also dropped a note to the UK Athletics bloke to sort out kit and training - have a neb here. http://www.nice-work.org.uk/blog/Letter to Dave Colllins.doc.

Finally - after some suggestions from a couple of Ronners I thought it only fair to offer my services to the Sports Minister. http://www.nice-work.org.uk/blog/Letter to Richard Caborn.doc.

I'll let you know when I get a reply and my kit arrives.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

All right, all right – I know ….

I know I should have let you know I was all right – but, the bottom line is, dear reader, well, to be honest, I’ve been in a spot of bother.

I’m afraid my quest for Olympic Gold in 2012 has slipped by the wayside a tad over the last four weeks – but I can assure you my silence has been for very good reasons.

For a start there was two weeks of Christmas. I have to say that it was all going swimmingly well until the Half Share in the House decided to pick a fight and start counting the Christmas coppers - after we’d already spent them. It was Christmas Eve and I’d just popped another Leffe, grabbed a tube of Pringles and was about to settle down to watch Men and Motors when she started to quiz me about our spend on booze for the festive period. Then she threw in that old chestnut about athletes and alcohol and, well, before you knew it Christmas was heading south and I was on the one way Strasse to Wrongdom.

What made it worse was not so much that she worked out I’d spent £248.50 on Leffe in December – but my counter-argument that she’d spent roughly the same amount on perfumes, flippin’ bubble baths, haircuts and all the rest of the beauty palaver that currently carpets half the bedroom floor and bathroom cabinets. She claimed that she had to spend that much on beauty stuff to make herself attractive to me. Fine. But, dear God, you should have heard the racket when I put forward a similar principle - that I drank so much Leffe to try and make herself look attractive too. The racket was such that it stopped next door watching Countdown and out they came suspecting murder had been committed.

They weren’t far wrong.

Suffice to say that I didn’t spend an awful lot of time round the Ron house over Christmas. But that said I had an agreeable sort of few days with my mate Ernie. I did pop in – obviously – on Christmas morning to wish the family Bon Noel. And to fetch my bottle opener. But apart from that it was a strange sort of Christmas for this kiddie.

But, of course, true love runs deep and all that. And it didn’t take her long to come round to my way of thinking and I eventually moved back into Hill Towers on New Years Eve. Just as well really – Ernie only stocks Carling and he was running a bit low.

Anyway. to tell you the truth I’ve been on best behaviour this year and having kind of messed up my end of year preparations I started 2007 with a real determination to sort out my body and get myself back on track for 2012.

First though it was the weigh-in. So, on January 1st I sunk my last Leffe around lunchtime, trotted off to the footie, snaffled a couple of Pukka Pies – and returned home to find the scales on the front door step.

Now I don’t know about you but I like to prepare for a weigh-in and, well, without getting too graphic, I like to try and lighten my load as much as I can before I stand to be weighed. But there was no chance here as the Half Share had whipped off my Duffel Coat and thrust me on the scales and, before I could say Paula Radcliffe, I was watching the dial enter uncharted territory. I think the medical experts have a word for my condition. I think it’s called Round. Because that’s what I’d become. A Blob. A Mass. In fact a round, blobby mass.

Modesty forbids me from actually spelling out in English money just what I did weigh on that fateful New Years Day. Suffice to say my target weight loss for my first marathon of the year in April – is 28lbs!! That’s right I’ve got to shift that wheelbarrow load of blobness before I can even begin my first proper tilt at my chosen Olympic distance.

How am I going to do that?

Well let me tell you.

With the same grit, determination and dedication that brought me all my athletic glories in 2006 – that’s how. This kiddie is nothing if not determined.

So the regime has started. And I’m pleased to report that I’ve shed 11 of those 28 pounds already. Friday’s weigh-in saw another 3 pounds heading south and I’ve a target loss of a further 2 pounds before this weekend’s weigh-in.

My marathon training meanwhile is – well, let’s just say I've found it difficult! However I did enjoy a tough 7 mile training run on Sunday and entered this week full of confidence – until I was struck down my some lurgy yesterday. As a result my next venture out won’t be until tomorrow when a little 6 miler is on the cards.

I’ve also drawn up my racing schedule for my pre-London Marathon programme. To be honest this is always a tricky one because naturally I’m asked to appear in so many different events that I get spoilt for choice. Obviously a lot of these running clubs can make a good few extra quid when the entry is boosted by the appearance of Yours Truly. So I do try and spread myself around a little and try to reach as many different outposts of my fan base as I can. I even go to Essex sometimes.

But just to prove what a decent chap I am I’ve even decided to make a couple of appearances in Kent and so watch out you Ronners in Caravan County as I make a guest appearance at this Sunday’s Dartford 10 Mile event. I have a soft spot for Dartford – they always put on good events and it’s the home of one of my favourite girlie runners. I’ll spare her any embarrassment by revealing her true name. So lets call her Cara - cos that’s her name anyway.

The Half Share and I first bumped into Cara the night before a prestige piddling 10K event in Nice, in the south of France a couple of years ago. I was injured and being one of those accompanying spouses set about knocking back the stuff in the optics behind the bar. Going great. Except this girl, a county athlete no less, kept up with me – drink for drink! Then at 3 o’clock in the morning she decided to start smoking and I think the evening – or morning - was finished off with a kebab. Well, come the following day the Half Share and Cara lined up for the start of the race whilst I lined up behind dark glasses and another Kronenburg. My missus lasted 200 yards before emptying up over the sea wall and into the Mediterranean. Not Cara though. What a girl – only legged it to complete a 34 minute 10K!

What a girl!

So, its Dartford this week then back to Caravan County for another 10 miler in Canterbury the week after before hitting Essex for the Great Bentley half marathon on February 4th.

Short term targets for your man here are to get round the first couple of 10 milers in as close to 95 minutes as I can – and then have bash at reaching that sub 2 hour mark for my half marathon in February. That lines me up pretty nicely for an attack on some times in February and March. I’ve earmarked a couple of events that I want to do well in. On March 3rd I’m in Belgium for the Ostend to Bruges 10 miler and I’m looking at sub 90 minutes for that one. And I’d like to do well in our local half marathon in Hastings the week after.

But I’ll keep you up to speed with my progress. In the meantime I should be back with you on a regular basis.

Especially now that I’ve got my front door key back.

I’ll also let share with you over the next couple of weeks the correspondence I’ve had with the Olympic people and my place in the Elite training squad.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Christmas spirit? Don't make me laugh.

Well I'm almost half way through my Rest Fortnight. I was reading a book by some expert who was insisting that rest and hydration are two of the most important components of an elite athlete’s training schedule. So, mark my words, I'm resting and hydrating extremely well!

But, of course, if I'm to expect that Gold in 2012 I understand that I have to look after my body carefully. So that's how we came to be in the Harrods store in Livingstone's Pit yesterday. I took the Half Share in the House for a spot of Christmas Shopping and decided to have a butchers at the posh food bit to see how the other half live.

Well, I tell you, for a kiddie brought up shopping in the Spar or the Londis I was gob smacked. You see we needed some posh cheese in the house because the eldest daughter, Haille-Minogue, has foolishly invited her bloke's mum round for tea and apparently Cracker Barrel isn't good enough for her. So, I popped into the Cheese Hall and guess what? It had a bar!! So, I had a couple of snifters - a bargain at eight quid a throw I thought not! Then, feeling suitably lubricated I decided to have a neb around - and do you know there were another five or six bars in the blessed place! So, not wishing to miss out on a West End Shopping Experience I tried the whole chuffin’ lot!

Now I have to say, I hold my hands up to being a tad unsteady on the old pins by the time I reached the chocolate shop but, having reached there, my day suddenly headed south with a gross display of unfestive spirit from some flippin’ rich foreign bloke.

It all started when the lady in the chocolate place started handing round bits of choccie to taste. Well I don't know what they'd put in the stuff but, frankly, it was horrid. So, I pulled out of my rucksack my box of Celebrations which the window cleaner had left as a tip for the Half Share (no, I couldn't work it out either - I thought it was the other way round).

Anyway, my favourites are the miniature Mars Bars and Galaxy Bars you get in the Celebrations selection - but I'm not too keen on the nutty sweeties like the Mini Snickers. So, being a friendly chap I got talking to this posh filly in a fur coat - and I offered her one of my sweeties. She picked out a Snickers Bar - but because she was wearing gloves she was struggling to get the wrapper undone. So, being a chivalrous bloke I offered to open the sweetie for her - at which point this woman's hubbie arrived at our side, complete with camel coat over his shoulders, dark glasses and a big heavy bloke carrying his shopping. He did look a bit miffed about me chatting to his missus so, trying to put his mind at rest all I said was "I'm just trying to get into your wife's Snickers".

And that's when his minder kneed me in the groin and I was escorted rather heavy handedly into the street and hoyed on the pavement with the tin of Celebrations chucked after me.

Christmas Spirit?

Don't make me laugh.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Blow me down I nearly forgot!!

I'm so sorry Ronners - I've been so manic of late that I'd forgotten that I'd left untold my tale of terror from Oslo!

You will recall that I visited the city to seek some advice and guidance from some Norwegian Olympic motivational specialists.

You will also recall that I hinted that Norway wasn't exactly stuffed with marathon household names. That can be partly explained by the fact that they haven't got any. Anyway I arranged to meet these three blokes in Oslo after they promised to show me one of their favourite techniques for sharpening up the reactions and mental strength of their athletes.

I should have been wary when I was given the address of the place we were to meet. I'll not bore you with the postcode dear Ronner - but just check the place out below!




Its called the Holmenkoll and it only happens to be the Olympic Ski Jump arena. And the three blokes I'd met didn't know one end of a 10K race from another - but they were Olympic coaches alright. Coaches to the Norwegian Ski Jumping squad.

To cut a long story short they insisted on taking me to the top of the blessed thing - and if you want to know what that's like .....



I have to admit I'm not too keen on the old heights. I usually ask the Half Share in the House or the middle daughter, The Droog, if any ladder work is needed (to be honest, The Droog doesn't even need the ladder now). Now, if that wasn't bad enough - one of the three guys stood eyeing me up, rather unnervingly scratching his beard and then, muttering something inaudible, chucked a load of ropes at his two mates and, nodding and smiling in my general direction they began to strap me into some kind of harness.

I cannot begin to describe what was going through my mind at this point. In a strange kind of way I was comforted by the fact that I couldn't see any skis - so I didn't think I was going down the ski jump. But what on earth were they going to do with me?

The answer was as swift as it was terrifying.

They were only going to hoy me off the top of the chuffing thing!

I kid you not. And that's exactly what they did. They strapped me into a boon and swung it and me over the side of the ski jump tower some 300 feet above the ground and then ... well, basically I was told to make my way down. Yup, I was doing something called freefall abseiling. As I went over the side I do remember breaking wind in one of those worrying ways. I think I also whimpered something.

Then I shat myself.

I'm sorry for being so graphic but it was quite simply one of the most frightening three minutes of my life. So, I made my way gingerly down the rope and after what seemed like ten minutes I looked up to see a Norwegian head about a yard from my face. The face seemed to be rather taken aback by the fact that I was still there - I'd only dropped about two feet at this point - only another 298 to go! As I made a brave attempt to lower myself I was caught repeatedly by gusts of wind and battered against the side of this towering structure.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, whimper by whimper I made my way down. The technique is to pull on the rope to lower yourself. And after about ten minutes I got used to this technique. I didn't say I was enjoying it - but I got used to it. It was then that I had a sudden horrifying thought. I recall Mr Benzone, our Science teacher at St Gabs Primary indicating to me that I may need some knowledge of some of his 'stupid' scientific theories at some point in my life. And I think I was about to reach such a point in my life.

Yup. I'd reached half way. And that pulling motion to ease my down? No longer required. Instead just a desperate need for this kiddie to hang on to the blessed rope for dear life to stop myself plummeting to a painful and lonely death on the side of some Norwegian mountain.

I managed it dear Ronner. Managed it with smoke billowing from my hands after gripping that chuffing rope so tight.

And, in conclusion, let me tell you this. I will never, ever, ever, ever trust a Norwegian in my life again.

"But you must feel great now?" "Wow what a sense of achievement". They crowed.

Rubbish.

My pants still smell now.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

What is it with these flippin' foreigners?

I know that many of you are under the impression that us elite athletes are rolling in money. There's our lottery funding, elite athlete grants, sponsorship and the odd bung for 'losing a shoe' and not winning a race. But I tell you something, this kiddie here is struggling in that respect. For some reason the lottery chaps haven't been given the nod to pay me by the Olympic team chaps, the elite athletes programme people now refuse to answer my letters and seem to think I'm some kind of nutter - and as for taking a bung - well, chance would be a fine thing.

The bottom line is, that I'm skint. A problem that wasn't made any easier when, after taking the decision to focus on Olympic glory and assuming that I'd be a shoe-in for the Elite Squad, I promptly told my boss to stick his job where the sun doesn't shine. And for some reason he wasn't too keen to let bygones be bygones when I enquired after my old position. I apologised to his wife and daughter and I even offered to clean the bits of carpet I'd damaged during what has become known in the factory as Ron's Resignation Rant - but no deal. So, I'm left to eke out a living where I can. Whilst, naturally, trying to get as many freebies and jollies as I can.

And that's how I found myself - quite conveniently again - in that fine Belgian city of Bruges. Culture, Museums, Christmas Markets, Chocolate stores, fine lace and, of course, the best beer in the world. You can find all these in the City of Leffe. But I was there because my mate Buttocks wanted a few hundred Bennies - and at £2.50 a pack it was a good enough deal to persuade me to go and earn some dosh for the kids Christmas pressies.

Now rattling all the way to Bruges in the back of Transit isn't a lot of fun so I decided to liven up the day with a couple of snifters in the local bars and indulge in my love of Leffe. (Incidentally, don't worry, the training is off the agenda until next week - I've decided it's a rest week. Sorry. rest fortnight). Anyhow, after shifting half a dozen of Belgium's finest I decided to try and find the Half Share in the House a peace offering for upsetting the Vicar last week (long story - don't go there - and I'm not homophobic either). Off I trundled into the Christmas Market - only to find it stuffed full of wooden sheds flogging ..... more booze. So I thought it rude not to at least taste the stuff .... and that's where my day kind of went south again.

Next door to the beer hut was a coconut shy and after spending 220 euros I finally won one of the blessed things. I think that the police were first called when I tried to break the darned thing open. Even now I insist it looked like the kid was wearing a crash helmet but it turned out to be one of those continental hair styles much loved by the Germanic nations. Admittedly, the kid did squeal a bit and put out quite a bit of unneccessary noise but I didn't really take much notice of him. I was far too interested in devouring my newly opened coconut.

And do you know? The strangest thing happened. All the birds in the town square flocked to my feet and began pecking away at the bits of coconut on the floor. It was marvelous display of bird life - there were rooks, pigeons, tits, some seasonal robins and a couple of other species that must be in the Observer Book of Birds.

At this point, I was so overjoyed at this wonderful display of nature that I'd failed to notice the two coppers standing either side of me - one male and one female. The kid must have ratted on me. I looked at the lady copper - a pretty young filly admittedly - and I swear all I said to the male copper was 'Tits like coconuts'. What I meant was that the birds eating my coconut seemed to enjoy it ... well, whatever. He thought I was passing opinions on the size of his colleague's Blairs.

Anyway that was it. I was whisked away, had Buttocks' fags confiscated and politely pointed in the direction of the Transit. And the Exit strasse from Belgium.

Honestly. Some people.

Anyway, my week ahead isn't that exciting. I'm now having to find a few bob to make it through to Christmas and that means going back on the stump with my mate Handy. He's a one-armed window cleaner and I ring out his chamois for him.

Such is the life of an elite athlete eh?

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Never trust a country with holes in its coins

Well, Ronners, I've been a touch on the qt side these last few days - but it’s all been for a good cause.Looking ahead to 2012 and dreaming of Olympic glory is one thing. But actually living, breathing and sniffing the dream is something else altogether.That’s why it is so important that I’m as well prepared as I can be for that sprint down the Mall in six years time. Consequently I decided to take myself off and visit a real life, proper Olympic site and try and get an insight into what life is like when I perch myself on that bar stool and order my first Leffe in the Olympic Village bar.

Of course we couldn't visit the sights in London because they are either a) not there b) contaminated with asbestos or c) impossible to reach without a team of huskies. So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I booked a flight with ConAir and after a couple of snifters in the bar at Gatwick, I was on my way to Barcelona.

Arriving in Spain, I took myself straight down to the site of the old Olympic Village and was I pleased I did. It’s now a network of bars, cafes and restaurants. The weather was quite pleasant too and, to be honest, it was so damned hot though that I stayed in a bar and sunk a few San Miguels - that got me feeling very Olympic so I took myself along to the offices of the City Mayor and presented myself at the front door. The result, I have to say, wasn't spectacular.

I ended up in the nick.

I'm happy to admit that the San Miguel may well have lubricated my tongue. And I know I might have been wrong to include the phrases 'bag snatchers', 'car thieves' and ‘your mama’s got a moustache anyway’ in my attempt to persuade the chap on the door to let me in. But that was no excuse for the display of wanton violence - not helped admittedly by me insisting I show them my now famous Ron handshake to demonstrate that I was indeed the real Ron.

Oh – and I also tried the 'Don't you know who I am' routine!

It didn’t work!

Anyway after some careful negotiation with a very nice filly from the Consul’s office I agreed that as I'd done the place before - and it wasn't that much to write home about anyway – it might be best if I looked for an Olympic experience elsewhere. So I jumped on another flight and made my way to that home of Olympic Marathon greats.

Oslo.

Now I have to say that if lived in that place for longer than a week I'd top myself. It never gets light. It's dark until 9.30, gets gloomy until 2.00, then dusk arrives and its pitch flippin' black by 3.30! What kind of place is that I ask you? Add to that the fact that a snifter is about eight quid a pint and every dish contained remnants of Rudolph and you get the general drift of my stay.

I had the misfortune to arrive bang in the middle of their Christmas celebrations – it’s not actually until the 6th December that the real day comes along – but Norwegians need absolutely no excuse to get ratted. In fact I can put hand on heart and say I’ve never, ever seen so many people fall over drunk in one place. Each day brought a new demonstration of this art – always with the same result. A final stagger, buckling of the knees, a sickening thud as cranium meets pavement, the gentle raising of the head – and then the stupid grin as they staggered to their feet.

A truly amazing bunch of people.

They did make me feel quite special although most of those I met pretended they’d never heard of me. But I did get an invite to join one bunch of people for a traditional Norwegian Christmas Dinner of something called Lutefisk.

Big mistake.

Lutefisk is dried cod that has been soaked in acid – I kid you not – then soaked in something called a lye solution to rehydrate it. It is then boiled to kingdom come, then baked and served with butter and salt and pepper. The finished lutefisk usually has the consistency of jellied eels – but with the taste of something that has rotted in urine for three months. Understanding why Norwegians love it so much is impossible. The only reason I can think of is that after eating it, you really appreciate whatever is served next.

Anyway I completed three days of R & R in the place and that included a visit to some motivational guys who work with the Norwegian Olympic Squad. Now the meeting was set up by somebody with half a brain because when I turned up at the appointed hour the three guys I'm faced with turned out to be not marathon runners but .... wait for it ... ski jumpers.

What followed that fateful afternoon can only be described as the most terrifying 90 minutes of my life.

My story follows soon!

Keep on tapering.

Ron

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.

The spectre of Les Page Neufs looms again

Now let's get a couple of things straight.

Number 1 - there's been a suggestion that these carefully written words are some kind of spoof and written for the amusement of my admirers. Well, all I can say is that if they are - then its cost me an arm and a leg, not to mention hours of pain and anguish. And if you think I'm going to run 20 or 30 miles a week just so some spotty herbert can accuse me of writing a pack of porkies let me assure you - you are very much mistaken. And if I ever catch anybody even remotely suggesting I'm writing fiction, they will get a dose of the famous 'Ron Bonce'.

That's right I'll deck you.

Number 2 - this kiddie does not bottle from a challenge. But ever since my infamous inclusion in Les Page Neufs in some Johnny Foreigner race in France a week or so ago, it seems as though the whole flippin' world is conspiring against me. Well, I refuse to be spooked by the prospect of appearing towards the southern end of the results list. After all, this whole journey towards 2012 glory is no sprint - it is, quite literally, a marathon. That means a carefully planned schedule of training and races - combined naturally with a number of very public appearances - will be neccessary if I am to achieve that Gold medal in London five years or so from now. But just because I'm racing here and now doesn't mean that I'm going to win here and now. So, ha chuffing ha to those detractors who turned up in the City of Filth and Needles last Sunday to see if I'd trip up at the Phoenix Park event.

Well I didn't.

I finished fifth from last.

But that's exactly where I wanted to finish OK?

I don't intend commenting any further on what was a pretty miserable afternoon. Suffice to say I was a minute and 10 seconds below my target time and that's all that matters to this kiddie. And if that makes me sound prickly - then so be it.

But the next time my management suggests to me that it would be a good idea to run four times round a public park with dog walkers, perverts, children, animals and Polish ice cream sellers in the way, they too will get a dose of Ron decking.

Stupid event.

Anyway so enamoured with the city were we that I've only got to go back again this weekend and take part in the Reebok piddling 10K. I don't mind to be honest because I'm no doubt being lined up with the other local celebrities to add a touch of razzamataz to the morning. So do look out for me - I'll be demonstrating my anal cruch and groin thrusts close to the start line from around 10.30 onwards and I'll be happy to pose for any piccies you need.

But to be honest Taperers I am a little prickly today. The weather is like something you normally only see in Yorkshire or Wales - I wouldn't even send the Half Share in the House out in it to be honest, so there's no way I'm going out running in the stuff. And my training kind of headed a touch south ever since I bumped into a bloke with a chocolate fountain and I've had this 'full up' feeling ever since.

So the weight is not peeling off me at quite the speed I'd like it to - but I have lost six pounds in weight since the beginning of the month - so I'm 25% of the way towards my 'weight lost' target. Which sounds great - but what that also means is that I've still 18 pounds to shed before I can really knuckle down and start to work on my marathon speed. You'll remember that it looks as though I'll be accepting a guest place at the London Marathon in April and with around 20 weeks to go before that I'll be working hard at reaching a number of milestones over the coming months.

Like weight. And speed. And stamina.

So, how have I lost that impressive six pounds?

With hard work, dedication, a determination you'd be proud of - and just sheer willpower. I also found it helped switching from using BP fuel to using Murco. Murco garages only sell Bobby's food and Rola Cola and nobody in their right mind would consume that stuff - so the Ginster pies have stopped, as have the McCoys Crisps (they sell Krunchy Krisps - I mean, for goodness sake who would buy them?). Plus the daughters Haille-Minogue and the Droog are practising for their cookery classes - and there's just no way you'd touch the stuff the system teaches them to cobble together now.

I've also slowed up the old alcohol intake a tad - and I'm restricting myself to just a few drinks on two midweek evenings - obviously I still like a couple of Leffes on a Friday and Saturday night. Plus, of course I still like a good rehydration session after the race on Sunday. But apart from that - oh and a quick livener with the footie on Tuesdays and Wednesdays - I'm remaining pretty abstemious. Then there's my diet. Each day I try to enjoy something from each of the four main food groups: the fruit group, the vegetables group, the pizza group, and the "whatever-the-thing-in-the-tinfoil-in-the-back-of-the-fridge-is" group. I'm pretty confident that if I carry on following my eating regime religiously I'll soon be the shape I want to be.

And I've always wanted to be triangle shaped.

Anyway - can't stop. It's Friday night - and I'm off for a spot of hydration in the R & C.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Well at least I know where I stand

They're a crafty bunch these Frenchies you know.

Over the channel I popped last week to take part in one of those piddling 10Ks. We were going to head for Etaples for their little bash but, from what I gather, some shady goings-on in the town seemed to have put paid to the event. Of course, being the French, they’d got the message through to me about the cancellation about 12 hours before I was due to travel! However, this kiddie has his ear close to the ground and I'd found about the postponement a full week before the pesky Johnny Foreigners had the decency to tell me!

Anyway, the French were obviously keen to have an eyeball at yours truly and I was pointed in the direction of a place called Saint Hilaire Cotte - which was celebrating the 33rd running of its 5K and 10K events. So, I called Monsieur Roseaux - the Mayor - told him who I was - and that was it – Robert was votre Oncle and I was in!!

I cadged a lift with 20 or so has-beens who were making their way with the Nice Work crew - and, I have to say, I've never seen such a beer-soaked, gin sodden excuse for athletes in all my life.

So I felt perfectly at home.

After a full English on P & O, it was off for a spot of R & R in Le Touquet - kind of like Deal with a touch more class. And do you know? No matter how much I could feel the weekend slipping downhill I was powerless to stop it. The sun was shining so we had a couple of Leffes to slake the old thirst - then it seemed rude not to take wine with the locals and, after checking into some digs in Montreuil it was off for a decent carbo loading three courser at a local restaurant.

They were quite a pleasant lot we troughed with - a couple of dodgy characters from Essex who knew all about hydrating - he went for it hammer and tongs during happy hour and was still propping up the bar at gone bedtime. There were also some peculiar people from Sussex who I felt sorry for and took them under my wing. So now they know what a Leffe hangover is.

Sunday morning and there were more than a few scratchy bodies at breakfast. But a plate and a half of scrambled eggs later and we were all fit to race.

We arrived in Saint Hilaire to a wonderful sight - registration and sign-on was in the village bar! That shows the event had class. But that was probably the last smile yours truly had on his boat race for a good couple of hours I can tell you.

The course was quite simple. So simple in fact that you had to run the chuffing thing four times to make up the 10K distance. And it was a tad of a grueller. Four times we went up a hill for 3/4 of a mile - and four times we ran downhill. I decided pretty early on - after half a lap to be precise - that I was going to treat the run as a training exercise rather than a proper race. A decision partly prompted by the fact that I couldn't see any of the other runners. They’d disappeared into the flippin' distance. All I was left with was the rump of the coach party that had drunk its way from Dover - and what a wheezing, gasping sight we were too.

The bottom line is that it took me nigh on an hour to finish the damn thing!

More to the point when the results were published some six or seven beers after crossing the line we looked through the first eight pages for the finishing times – no sign! Turning to the last page - page nine to be precise - and there we were! Occupying eight of the last nine places in the race. And so, dear reader, that's when the French excuse for hilarity began and from thereon in we were referred to as ‘Les Page Neufs’. The cheek of it.

One nice touch from the Johnnies though was when they presented me with a trophy for turning up to their event. Yes - you read that correctly. I received a trophy - just for turning up. I'm not proud - its there on the sideboard now with my Esso World Cup medals.



Anyway, after a very pleasant lunch and a few bottles of the local poison shared with the Mayor we bade him farewell and made our way back to Calais. Not before I’d signed a few autographs and gone through the old photo routine – I felt humble really because they won’t get many opportunities to share bread and wine with a future Olympic medallist (Gold, natch).

Your man here though has arrived back in Blighty with renewed determination. First of all - never - repeat never - will I appear on his flippin Page Neuf again – and we’ll be back next year to have another bash. Secondly - that's my foreign racing done for a couple of months and I'm now concentrating on getting some of this Leffe stuff off my midriff. Thirdly - I've decided to have a dry run for London 2012 and accept an entry into the London Marathon next year. Apparently my name's on the list - and so the old training needs to step up a gear.

In the meantime though I'm still waiting for a reply from those chaps at UK Athletics - and I'm still waiting for my elite kit. I'll be pushing some buttons this week on those issues too I can tell you.

Finally for now, I've been asked to make an appearance at a sweet little event in Brighton on Sunday - that's two consecutive Sundays in the City of Filth and Needles, with the Brighton 10K the week after.

Got a sneaky feeling it could be another Page Neuf experience though - it’s the Phoenix Park Races run over an odd distance of 7.3K. Having done it before - it's another flippin' three or four lapper by the way - I can tell you that there's only one focus for an athlete of my persuasion and it isn't trying to win.

It's trying not to finish last!

Last year I was fifth from the end - but three of the four behind had pulled hammies.

Ho hum.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

What is it with the Italians?

They’re completely obsessed with food, drink and rummpy pump!

Sorry about the silence chaps but don't think for one minute that I've been idle. Life for any Olympic hopeful is hectic enough but for this kiddie with my substantial and ever growing fan base it is manic, I can tell you.

Last thing you heard I was popping off for a spot of warm weather training.

Big mistake. On two counts.

Mistake number 1 was even thinking that I could focus on my Olympic 2012 schedule with the distractions posed by the Ron family in tow. The Half Share in the House had insisted on coming along and bringing with her the three Cash Drainers - Haille-Minogue, The Droog and The Sod and so we pitched up en masse in the rather charming town of Bergamo. Of course what was once a pretty, quiet, charming, mediaeval walled town far enough away from Milan to be worth visiting has now ended up overwhelmed with Ryanair punters. I haven't got a problem with Ryanair per se - if you like flying with the airborne equivalent of the Reliant Robin then that's your choice - but it was fine when it was simply the preserve of us weekend trippers from the Home Counties. We could pretend that, ‘of course, we wouldn’t normally be seen dead on a budget airline, but it’s fine for the third half-term break of the year.’ Now, for God's sake, they’ve started flying them in from the north! Can you believe that they now operate flights from Durham, from Hull, from Leeds and ... wait for it ... from Doncaster! Now forgive me for sounding cruel but should we really be inflicting the residents of Doncaster on any location more than ten miles from that miserable place? Doncaster – where the phone book has only one page and the MacDonald’s only one arch.

Anyway, to Bergamo for warm weather training. Well, it was warm and perfect for running. Did I run? Never got the pumps out of the case chaps! The pasta, pizza, polenta and Peroni were simply too tempting! To cut a long story short I ended up spending four days hydrating and carb loading leaving very little time for anything other than belching and breaking wind. The bottom line my friends is that I arrived back in the UK on Friday weighing a full 8 pounds more than when I left for the pesky place.

Mind you I did pick up a couple of tips on dealing with fans whilst I was out there. Obviously very few Italians had heard of me - although my famous Ron wink did elicit a couple of responses. To be honest I thought a couple of the fillies I winked at in Luigi's pizza parlour could have been a little more respectful to a visitor to their country. You'd have thought I was the first guy they'd seen enjoying pizza in Lycra. And don't tell me they haven't seen that single finger press-up routine before!

Anyway I think I’ve found out how to impress these Latin girlies. And, to be honest, it takes very little! Back here, of course, when Ron wants to impress the Half Share and drop a little evening post-kebab hint, I know exactly what is required. A little glass of sherry for her, a bit of love food - she normally likes the green chillies - a little hug, a compliment here or there - "new duffle coat dear?", that little Ron wink and a hint of a smile before smooching into romance mode. The Italians? Well as far as I could see, you simply show up naked with a beer in one hand, a slice of Margherita in the other and a sprig of Oregano between your teeth!

So you can forget that warm weather training lark - from now on it's Hastings for me.

Back in Blighty on Friday I had the little matter of a visit to the local Constabulary to sign some bit of paper. They did question me about the black eye I was sporting - and the oaf behind the desk mumbled something about receiving a call from some uniform in Italy about a pizza parlour incident. This delayed me so much I missed out on my pre-Sunday race shake down. And that - more than my Italian adventure - I think contributed to a bit of a struggle down in deepest Sussex on Sunday morning.

I toddled off for a bash at the Barns Green half marathon - probably my last opportunity to hit that sub 2 hour time before Christmas. It was great to see such a turnout to greet me. In fact I was slightly overwhelmed - they were such a modest crowd too. Not one of those I approached took up my offer of an autograph or a photo - how thoughtful of them not wanting to disrupt my pre-race routine of anal squeezes and groin crunches! But don't be so bashful chums - I'm fully aware of my responsibilities as a celebrity and I'm only too pleased to oblige. So if you do see me, come up and I'll give you one of those famous Ron winks and my unique Ron-grip handshake!

My God was it warm though on Sunday. At 20 plus degrees I realised I’d wasted the best part of a month’s wages on my trip to Italy. I could have stayed in flippin’ Horsham! Anyway, I think a fourth half marathon in five weeks finally took its toll on the Ron body. I'd discounted the extra weight and gut full of pasta and beer - after all you can't run a Formula 1 car on paraffin can you? But boy did I struggle! The prospect of a sub 2 hour time disappeared after about 400 yards as I struggled to find any rhythm at all. I managed to make an effort though and up to around 10 miles I was on a steady 9.30 pace - which put me on target for a 2 hour 5 minutes finish. To be honest I would have been happy with 5 seconds less than this - my time last year at BG was 2.04.57 - but at 11 miles I blew up and hit a brick wall and that last mile took me 12 sodding minutes!

I eventually wobbled over the line in an exhausting 2.07. To be honest I wasn't very good company and I declined the opportunity to attend the prize giving - I didn't feel in the mood for any kind of token trophy just for turning up and helping to put 500 extra runners on the start line.

On reflection though, it was my fourth half in five weeks - and my time was my quickest half of the autumn season. So maybe I should be satisfied. The Mall in 2012 still beckons!

The problem is that I'm desperate to prove to the selectors that my place in the 2012 squad is one awarded on merit not simply on the back of a wave of popular support. I'm no Ashley Cole. I’m no Matthew Kelly. I've got real talent as well as mass popular support.

Anyway the exertions of Sunday sent me to my sick bed with some rather grumpy memories of Barns Green for a day or so - which is a shame because the event is a top day out - a huge field, good support and a cracking Burger Van.

This weekend I've been invited to join the Nice Work crew - a kind of celebrity endorsement if you like - as they take a bunch of over-the-hill old soaks to a race in France. The problem is that we're staying in a rather agreeable place called Montreuil-sur-Mer - which, apart from anything else, is just a shed load of calories opportunities. On Sunday we travel to the small village of Saint Hilaire Cottes to take part in the 33rd running of the Circuit Pedestre. The Nice Work chaps had a bit of a set back when their original race in Etaples was called off last week, so your man here used his extensive contacts to grab hold of the mayor of Saint Hilaire - Monsieur Roseau - who fixed us some entries for this cracking little race.

I'll let you know how we get on.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.