What is the point of a hill?

That's it. I've had enough of training like ordinary people. I'll be writing to Sir Sid Coe first thing tomorrow to demand some proper respect for us Olympic greats - and that includes some bally warm weather training.

I've just got back from a personal appearance at the Crowborough 10K. It was cold. It was wet. It was miserable. And it was tough.

Tell me this Ronettes.

What is the point of hills?

I mean. Just what is the bally point?

(To be continued)

Sorry, it's a day later. Had a bit of trouble with Septic Knuckles the Rent Man's stooge so had to lie low for a day.

Anyway, where was I?

Oh yes. Hills.

Crowborough is built on a hill and the locals' idea of fun is to design a 10K course that includes the local peak - and because it's a two lap course you have to negotiate the damn thing twice.

Well ha flippin ha Crowpeople. I suppose you thought that was funny eh? Good gracious, I swear on the life of Ronnie Corbett I am never doing the thing again. It's just far too much exertion for a Sunday morning. I mean, OK, so I posted a time of 1.09.31, which is just outside the top ten I think, but why? Why? Why?

Why have that hill eh? Indeed, why have any hill? In fact ... what is the point of hills full stop? What useful purpose do they serve eh?

Do you see Sir Steve Bygraves rowing his Olympic canoe down a hill? No!! Do you see Paul Ratcliffe running the women's marathon up the side of a bloody mountain? No!! Do Boxing men fight on the side of the mountains? No!! Do they have uphill hurdles? No!(Oh, OK, some of them funny people in Brighton do uphill hurdling, but that's their business). Do they have fencing matches with one bloke 3 foot higher than his opponent? No!!! Bally No!!!

A resounding 'No' to all of these questions.

And that's because all these sports have decided that it is plain stupid involving hills. You can't sit comfortably on a hill without falling over. You cant put a tube down on a hill without it falling over. Ernie's van rolls down hills without us in it.

So, sort it out Crowborough - and any of those other Flash Harry's who decide it's a bit of a laugh having a race up a hill.

Anyway, I've made my point.

Having recovered from the thing I did train like a proper Olympian today. Ernie said I'd done a Fartlek but I think it was just my pumps squeaking. I ran for about 40 minutes alternating between lightning speed and slow jogging.

But the best news of the day was ...... my plea for warm weather training did NOT fall on deaf eyes. And so, tomorrow, I fly to Barcelona for a couple of days warm weather pootling. So, you can say Bonjour to this kiddie - this time tomorrow I'll be feasting on Bratwurst and Steins of Lager as I introduce myself to those nice people in the Land of the Popping Sun.



N'est Pas Non Amis - and Sayonara.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

Dykes, Dog Poo and Mad Dutchmen - all in a days work for an Olympic hopeful.

I've stepped up my training this week. You see, the likes of Paula Wotsit and co. all relaxing by the pool or spending their hard-earned in Monte Carlo might be OK for them - but to this kiddie here, the Gold Medal in 2012 will only be in my mitts if I keep up the training. You have to have a strong work ethic. And because my summer of discontent has upped the old weight a tad, I reckoned a couple of weeks hard work now will soon have me back to running near-world class times again.

I'm currently in a place called France - and in a town that seems to be obsessed with running.

Its called Le 2K.

How cool is that?

Mind you I can run that distance in my sleep - but isn't it just typical of the French to aim low? The Greeks had a town called Marathon. And the French have a town called Le 2K. I think that says it all don't you?

I mean, just how unambitious can you get?? That's why the French are tosh when it comes to running and Olympic success and why the Greeks are ... well, drug cheats.

The other thing about France that makes running such an ordeal is the dog poo. This Le 2K place is right on the beach - its got a smart prom, some decent bars, good restaurants and fancy shopping. But try and go for a run along the prom and you spend the entire session dodging big dollops of dog poo. Perhaps that's why the French are so good at skiing - they have to slalom just to walk to work!!

Anyway, I managed a four mile run tonight and tomorrow morning its a 6 miler and then its back to Blighty in time for the Kent Christmas Cracker race on Sunday. I'm not running myself but will be there to start the race, sign a few autographs etc.

Of course, I'm still in catch up mode with you Ronettes - and there's an adventure or two I've still to tell you about. For instance, I didn't tell you about my little trip to Arnhem in a flat country called Holland - and yes, I did get into trouble over some comment about Dykes but that's for another day. I stayed there to take in a local race which, not to put too fine a point on it - is sheer lunacy.

The Bergrace By Nacht race is an event held in Wageningen, near Arnhem. The race is run from the top of one mountain to the peak of another. Great. But the peaks are no more than 40 ft! So, yes, it is a flat country!!

To make things interesting though, the race is held in darkness - with the top event, run over 11.6K, setting off at 10.30 pm. The runners have to negotiate their way along dark, country lanes with no street lighting - and the finish line is in a zoo. With a cheesy 70's disco in full swing as you cross the line.

And this barking mad event attracts over 3,000 runners.

From there we travelled on to Saint Hillaire Cotte in Northern France for another embarrassing shot at trying to get one over the French. Yours truly did manage to prise a trophy from the Frogs, but, apparently it was only given to me on account of my celebrity status. This kiddie doesn't do patronising. So, after politely but firmly telling the Mayor of Saint Hillaire what I felt about his gesture and where he could stick his trophy, I decided to do the decent thing.

I got trolloped at his expense.

In fact so begorrah-ed was I that I left my wallet, my door key, my Dunlop Green Flashes and my passport in his chuffing bar!! So, how was I to get back to Blighty?

I decided to front up and when I arrived back in Calais I made my way to HM's Immigration Numpties - and what a bunch of humourless toe rags they are too eh? I tried to explain who I was - I don't like using the 'Don't you know who I am' trick, but, hey, needs must. Anyway, they were having none of it.

So, I held my hands up. I said I'd got no passport, no money, nowhere to stay (I hammed that one up a bit for a bit of sympathy) - and, because I'd enjoyed a few Leffes, I ventured to say that I had no obvious means of support.

At that, the Numptie raised his eyebrows, gave me a smile - and before you could say Olympic Dream, he'd arranged for me to have a house, some money, new clothes for the kids, a whole heap of furniture and more Tesco food vouchers than you could shake a stick at!!

And all for turning up at the border with no passport or money!

So, all's well that ends well eh?

Keep on tapering.

Ron