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

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.

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.