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.

Time to knuckle down.

It dawned on me this week that this mission is now becoming quite serious. With a little over five years before my debut in the Olympic Games I've really got to knuckle down to some serious training.

There are, would you believe, some people, even within my close circle of friends, that doubt my ability to bring home the bacon in 2012. Those that know Ron the athlete - as opposed to Ron the bloke - will find that hard to believe I know. But I think the time has come now to start walking the walk and not just talk the talk.

As a consequence I decided to do some serious training last week. After my toddle round Amsterdam last Sunday, I kept off the beer and pies - all the way through till about 10 o'clock on Saturday night when, I finally crumbled and sunk a couple pints of Stella and a Beef Chop Suey.

You may recall that target number 1 for me is to get that sub-2 hour half marathon before the end of the year - but the opportunities to do so are becoming fewer and fewer. Having done two halfs in the last couple of weeks I decided that Sunday just gone should be nothing more than a training run - but a training run with a very real and finite mission target.

Yup - Sunday was going to be a 2 hour 10 day - and it was going to be 2-10 come what may. And, do you know, when it boils down to the nitty gritty, you can tell a true athlete. One who does the business when it’s needed.

That's why, on Sunday, in Maidstone, your man Ron here came home in 2-10. Well, to be honest it was 2-09-57. But, to all intents and purposes it was a 2-10-er.

I have a soft spot for Maidstone. It's where a very young Ron ran his first ever race all those years ago - a Piddling 10K it was. I remember it well. Between you, I and the Piebald Pony, there wasn’t a chance on earth of me finishing that pesky run - until, that is, I caught sight of this rather agreeable bottom contained within a pair of black Lycra shorts - and that was it - I fantasised my way round the whole shebang!

Anyway, because of the early start, the Half Share and I decided to pop over to Maidstone on the Saturday night to get a bit of an early kip. Arriving at the hotel we found the place full with some wedding party and they were struggling for rooms for us. The young lady behind the desk said to me "We only have two suites available for you, would you like the bridal?" "No thanks says I, I'll just hold her ears till she gets the hang of it". Well, you would have thought I'd broken wind at a funeral - before you could say 'We're in Kent, where's the big gold ear rings?' we were given the bums rush and left out in the car park with the Half Share giving me the third degree about "not being able to take me anywhere."

So it was a kip in the Allegro in the car park for us.

Sunday dawned and, to be honest, it was a very enjoyable day out - and I'm pleased for the Maidstone Harriers people as well - because my appearance in the race had obviously led to a late surge in entries. To be honest after the spot of bother of the last couple of weeks I kept a low profile - restricting myself to signing a few autographs at the start line and winking at some of the spectators.

Off I set at my pre-programmed pace - and, well, I just kept it up! On and on I went like a well-oiled machine - until Mile 9 that is. Those of you who've done the odd marathon will recognise the situation. You're pottering along and you come across a little of row of kids with arms outstretched looking for a High Five - or, as we were in Bearsted, a "Gimme Six" as they like to call it. So I draw level with these kids and one of them is holding out a packet of fruit pastilles. Just what I needed. I grabbed the tube of sweeties only to be stopped in my tracks by a loud wailing and screaming words to the effect "that mans pinched my sweets". For goodness sake. Memo to parents "DO NOT STICK YOUR KIDS OUTSIDE YOUR HOUSE WITH A PACKET OF SWEETS IF THEY CAN'T HANDLE THEM BEING USED FOR WHAT THEY WERE INTENED".

Anyway, to cut a long story short it cost me ten quid to pacify the father and I then had a devil of a job to get back on my pace. But get back I did and crossed the line to an appreciative and knowledgeable crowd in that target time of 2.10.

But I tell you what I'm sick of this weather. So sick, in fact that I'm off to do some warm weather training.

Yup - I'm off to Milan for a spot of R & R, Pasta and Peroni.

I'll let you know what's been happening with my quest for recognition from the Elite Athletes people when I get back.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

Windmills and shopping

I made a welcome return to the international stage at the weekend with a visit to Holland to take part in the Amsterdam Half Marathon. I have to doff my cap to the organisers of the event who had assembled a pretty impressive programme of support races before the main event, including a full marathon and one of those Piddling 10Ks, both run in the morning thus allowing those of us taking part in the feature race a good few hours – and a hearty lunch – before action stations.



We’d arrived in the city on the Saturday afternoon and I took the opportunity to have a peep around the place and enjoy a couple of snifters. I’d agreed to take the Cash Drainers a pressie or two – something to do with not telling the Half Share in the House about a slightly distasteful – but still only alleged – incident with a few fillies at the local Pilates class. So, I asked the hotel chappie where I could do some window shopping. The bloke spooked me a bit to be honest. He had some kind of nervous tick and kept winking and cocking his head at me “Window shopping sir?” he said “I’ll call you a taxi”. Well I thought that was damn good service so on went the banana yellow lycra shorts and pumps (thought I might have time for a few stretches whilst out there and you never know who might be waiting with pen and autograph book in hand do you?) and off I set.

That’s where my weekend started to tumble rapidly downhill. And that, my friend, in a country notorious for being as flat as Kate Moss’s chest.

I seem to recall from my history books that the place is full of canals and so I wasn’t surprised when I was dropped off next to a stretch of water. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Amsterdam but I rather expected something better. All the place needed was a couple of shopping trolleys and you’d swear you were in Gillingham. Ignoring some rather dodgy looking characters that seemed to be trying to make a living by selling coca cola to visitors I set off for the shops. I walked for half an hour and found precisely nothing. OK, I got lost. So beggar the shopping I thought – I’ll do some sightseeing and went looking for the spot where the little chap put his finger in the wall to stop the whole shebang heading south all those years ago. I decided to ask someone “I’d like to have my photograph taken with my finger in a dyke – any ideas?” I think he must have recognised me because, before you could say Max Bygraves, he’d given me an address card and directed me to what seemed to be rather a jolly looking area of the city – I could see in the distance plenty of brightly lit shop windows.

What on earth was going on in this place God only knows. It was like Sittingbourne on a Saturday night. For some reason these shops thought it highly amusing to have their staff sitting in the windows – and, although I could appreciate the lights were probably hot, I really think they could have put on a few more clothes. Frankly it was obscene and were it not for the fact that the young girls seemed ever so friendly I’d have reported them to the shop owners to the local rozzers. One or two of the gals even opened their doors and blew me a kiss or two – and before I knew it I was joining in this wonderful display of Dutch bon hommie!

The only shame was that it started to rain and I thought it would be a good idea to buy a couple of souvenir hats – and I’d take one home for the Half Share in the House. I asked a couple of the girls if they had any Dutch Caps for the wife – but they were rather rude and shut their doors in my face. Strange that.

Anyway, after asking a couple of locals I eventually came across my destination – and without being cruel to the old dears, the shop I arrived at was staffed by a couple of strapping 6 footers both displaying what I swear looked suspiciously like five o’clock shadows. They must have been expecting me because, before I could introduce myself, one of them whipped her thumbs in my shorts and with an impressive turn of speed, she’d closed the curtains and I found myself lying upside down on a purple chaise longue. Now I know all about the ‘when in Rome’ business but these two young ladies then demanded that I pay for my shopping up front – and this kiddie was having none of it. So, in the style of those good old boys from the News of the World, I made my excuses to leave. Well I tried to. …. well let’s just say that it cost me £30 and a nasty bruise to the inside of my thigh before I managed to make it back to the street. Looking slightly bedraggled I staggered back to the main square in Amsterdam, bought three pairs of inflatable yellow clogs for the Cash Drainers and headed for the hotel.

I finally enjoyed an agreeable night out with a bunch of runners from Kent and Sussex and beyond – I even met a Scotsman who didn’t seem to want to drink which took me by surprise. But the usual suspects were there propping up the bar hydrating after an evening of carbo-loading – and after a supper of Leffe, pizza and crisps I fell to my bed to mull over my race strategy.

My appearance in Amsterdam had not been well publicised but I was pleased to see a number of my supporters had made the effort. In particular I noticed a party of Bexhill Runners who’d obviously had a night on the town and spent the night bedded down in their minibus – but at least, despite their unshaven appearance, they’d made the effort to give me some support.

I quite like the Dutch. They speak good English – mind you, any attempt at speaking their lingo usually ends with one or other participants covered in spittle. But they think about the welfare of their runners. How else could you explain the presence of a bacon sandwich and chips stall just yards after the finish line? Fantastic. So, after watching the start of the support races me and a chum decided that pre-race refreshments were called for and we promptly consumed a clog-sized bacon buttie and a handful of chips. Now, I was ready to race!

My pre-Christmas target of a sub 2 hour half marathon is an integral part of my 2012 training schedule – and I know that as soon as I’ve achieved this target a gold medal in 2012 is as good as in the bag. The problem is that I keep getting distracted – for perfectly valid reasons mind you.

And nothing changed on Sunday. First of all, as the bacon sarnie and chips did their stuff, the slight haze induced by a couple too many Leffes began to clear – and I remembered that in my haste to escape from the two gargantuans in the city the previous night I’d left one of my pumps behind. So, I had to trot along to the Expo and buy a new pair of runners. I secured a special 20% Ron discount from those nice people at Brookes for a snazzy pair of runners – bright yellow if you don’t mind. They fitted me like a glove. More to the point they did make me stand out in the crowd and as I went through my press-up routine outside the VIP area a healthy crowd built up to watch me. I’m not sure how many of them knew who I was but by the nudges and knowing glances I was getting I reckon the majority knew my identity.

My next setback occurred whilst chatting to a nice little Eyeball Pleaser from Dover. Poor little lamb was looking to get round the course without getting lost. Well, what could I do? Leave to her own devices? Worse still, leave her at the mercy of a load of Johnny Foreigners? Let me tell you, this kiddie is made of stronger stuff than that and you won’t catch me leaving a lady in the lurch – so I promptly agreed to run the course side by side with her. I knew that that would probably mean me sacrificing a sub 2 hour run – but at least I could ensure that the lady reached the finish line in one piece.

And that, my friends, is exactly what I did. I encouraged and cajoled my new friend around a lovely little course, expertly avoiding the elbows of the Frenchies, the potholes and the remnant and debris from the red light area and we crossed the line side by side in just over 2 hours 16 minutes. My chivalrous act meant that I’d still got plenty left in the tank so after crossing the line in the Olympic Stadium and presenting my friend with a red rose for her efforts I thought I’d do a lap of honour for the thousands that had packed the stadium to wait for me to finish – honestly you’d have thought that I was putting my life in danger! No sooner had I rounded the track, leapt the barrier and began my lap of the track than I was physically accosted by a couple of security goons “But I’m Hill I said” – “You’ll be chuffing Hill in a minute” or words to that effect they said. Anyway, to cut a long story short, for the third time in a week I ended up in the back of a meat wagon discussing the etiquette of road racing with an unappreciative man in uniform.

I managed to persuade them to open the doors about two hours later and made my way back to the city for a night of rehydration, finally arriving back in the Ron house some time the back end of Monday.

I’ve now got to knuckle down with my training. I’m about to wing a letter off to my pals at UK Athletics asking about facilities and training camps for the Elite squad. I’ve also decided to try and shed a few ounces. So, it’s lettuce and cup-a-soups for the rest of the week and I’ve decided to have a bash at the Maidstone Half Marathon on Sunday – no serious attempts at the sub 2 hour there though. This kiddie doesn’t do hills and, after all, when was the last time you saw a hill in Central London and that’s what this quest is all about. I’ll be looking to amble round in around 2 hours 10 on Sunday – that leaves me sufficient time to sign a few autographs and pose for a few piccies. Sunday week though could be a momentous day – I’m off to deepest Sussex to do the Barnes Green Half Marathon. I’m going there with just a hint of revenge as well. I did the thing last year and I thought I’d done OK. But I was humiliated. The first 100 chaps over the line picked up a Gold Medal, the next 200 grabbed a Silver Medal whilst the next 300 were presented with a Bronze memento. Me? I was handed a wooden medal! Well, not this time chummies. I’m going for that sub 2 hour jobbie and you try to pass me anything that doesn’t tinkle when tapped on the side of beer glass and there’ll be serious trouble. Then, in early November I’ve been invited over to France for a Piddling 10K in Etaples, near le Touquet – so my international racing just goes from strength to strength!

In the meantime, I’ll be back to you soon with news of my dealings with the UK Athletics chappies.

Keep on tapering.

Ron

You might well ask ......

I know, I know - I said I'd be back to you toute suite with a report of the progress I was making with my dealings with the beurocrats who are supposed to be helping me in my quest for Olympic Gold. And, of course, my progress with my training schedule which included another appearance on the continent at the weekend.

What happened?

Well, all I can say, is that you can put the blame squarely on the local Constabulary, who appear now to be employing the services of rejects from Lord of the Flies. I obviously tried to warn them of the intense media scrutiny they'd be subjecting themselves too if they tried to lay fingers on this kiddie - but would they listen?

I mean, I wouldn't stoop so low as to utter that abominable phrase "Don’t you know who I am?" - I leave that to overpaid, Neanderthal footballers, drunken Members of Parliament and Cherie Blair - but I did wonder whether my fame and profile had indeed contributed to the sad conclusion to this incident.

It all began innocently enough. I'd bought myself a new pair of banana yellow lycra shorts which were going for three quid in the local Help the Aged charity shop and, eager to try them out, I popped down to the local gym to give them a quick one-two. At this point I must assure you that I'm not a member of the gym. Not on your life matey - you wouldn't catch this kiddie mixing with the likes of those who inhabit those dens of iniquity. The fillies pose with their micro shorts, FCUK glitter tops, new trainers which won't be seen again until the next visit to Bluewater and a bottle of Evian whilst the blokes insist on strutting around in front of the mirror spending more time adjusting the position of their Jack Straw than they do exercising lungs and muscles.

Anyway, I digress. Our local gym – Stallone’s - does have one advantage. They've got a half-handy car park which is convenient to the local kebab shop so I quite often pop down there to do some stretches and crunches between the cars before nipping into Ataturk's for a couple of large Donners for me and the Half Share in the House.

So there I was sorting out my calfs and hammies when this copper, barely out of Primary School, pounces on me and accuses me of watching the girl's Pilates class. I did point out that I was an international athlete and could have the pick of the Elite field by simply clicking my fingers at the next Piddling 10K I do - but the plughead was having none of it and he only went and confiscated my binoculars and step ladder and hauled me off to the nick.

Do you know I sat there festering in what was a pretty poor excuse for a reception area for two days until I could find Brian, my local plumber, to stump up the £400 they insisted on having as some sort of surety?

Humiliated? You bet I was.

Fortunately I did manage to get out of the place on Friday evening - by which time I'd missed my chuffing flight to Amsterdam for the half marathon on Sunday. Up the strasse without a bicycle I was forced to hitch a lift with the Nice Work crowd who were travelling to Amsterdam by bus. A fairly motley crew shared my journey to Amsterdam - gin soaked, my old granny would have called them. But having only just made it back thanks to them employing the services of what appeared to be a 1950's Dennis Lancet single decker, I've not had time to draw breath yet.

So, my report of a fairly eventful weekend in the City of Vice will follow tomorrow. Meanwhile I’ve got to go and see Septic Knuckles the village solicitor and see what he knows about some half-baked peeping tom charge that had plopped on my doorstep whilst I was away. A situation I have to say hasn’t been helped by my telling them I couldn’t pop round to the local nick on Monday – because I was in Amsterdam!

Ho hum.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

The roar of the crowd

I never cease to be amazed at the power of this Internet thing you know.

Just a matter of weeks ago I was an unknown, with a quiet but confident ambition of securing a Gold medal for Queen and Country at the London 2012 games. Today having gone public with my ambitions I’m having to deal with the price that fame so cruelly parcels up and delivers gift wrapped to the modern elite athlete.

Take Sunday for instance. No sooner had I announced that I was intending to take part in one of those Piddling 10Ks in Ashford, than what seemed like the whole of Kent had turned out in force to welcome me to the Julie Rose Stadium.

To be honest it can be quite a humbling experience being amongst so many admirers and I felt it was only right to thank personally as many of them as I could. As I moved amongst them shaking their hands with my unique ‘Ron’ hand grip, I was introduced to a traditional Kent greeting which I can only assume must be reserved for visiting dignitaries. I have to say I’m unfamiliar with the term Tosseur (I think that’s how you pronounce it) myself but it’s obviously a local term of affection and most of those I greeted uttered the same phrase as I passed amongst them.

The price of fame, though, is sometimes hard to take and I must apologise to those of you who were disappointed when, on the advice of the Kent Police, for what I can only assume to be concerns over my personal safety, I had to halt my specially devised pre-race warm up programme of groin thrusts and anal crunches. Fortunately I’d had the good sense to carry them out in the VIP area of the main stand rather than on the track. I think, by the look on her face, my otherwise truncated programme certainly impressed the Lady Mayoress who for some reason had managed to reach the VIP area before me.

As I sat chatting away to the Police Superintendent in the back of a secure police vehicle until the threat to my safety had receded, I began to wonder whether this was just a taster of what is to come? I made a mental note to drop a line to Lord Coe and ask what arrangements had been made for the security and safety of us elite athletes in 2012. I’m not too bothered about terrorist threats or being kidnapped by disillusioned former Soviet Union dissident freedom fighters – I’m only bothered about a decking from the Frenchies when I leave them wallowing in my wake. And if you think that unlikely I refer you only to the reaction from that Zebedee Zidane chap when the French had their derriere’s wupped by the Italians in the World Cup final.

To be honest, by now, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable about my pre-race preparation. A feeling that was confirmed as I passed the stadium snack bar and caught a whiff of their snorker and bacon butties.

I resolved to immediately change my race plans. Yup – today I’d do a kit test run. Making sure that you are comfortable with your kit is just as much a part of big race preparation as running long, hard and fast. So, as I carbo loaded on said butties and altered the pace timer on my Garmin I made my way confidently to the start.

A couple of things bothered me about this race. First of all I had the misfortune to start with a bunch of squaddies. 24 of the Queen’s finest with not an inch of hair between them, in full kit – including combat gear and boots! Good job it wasn’t cross country I thought – you’d never see them.

My feelings of national pride for these chaps disappeared soon after the start though. For some reason they decided it would be very army-ish to shout whenever an obstacle appeared before them. So, when soldier no. 1 came across a ramp in the road, he'd shout ‘RAMP!!’ at the top of his voice to warn the chap behind. Then the chap behind did the same until each of the twenty four had uttered the same chuffing word. The problem was that there must have been thirty speed humps within the first two kilometres! To be honest, it was like running with a bunch of Tourette’s sufferers and their manic shouts were starting to unnerve the rest of the field - certainly this Buddie here was in the mood to tell them where to shove their bayonets.

So, I decided to put in an impressive turn of speed to plonk myself firmly amongst the leading bunch in the field and away from the ridiculous shouts of the soldiers. And that’s when I came across irritant no. 2. I’m talking about a certain type of runner. OK, a female runner – but let me assure you this is not a gender issue.

But what possesses somebody to go running in long trousers? OK, the army can get away with it – but these youngsters must have come straight out of the gym. They obviously haven’t run outdoors before because they turned up to the start with their flippin’ coats on!! So what happens? Coat gets tied around their waist as though they’re away for a Sunday afternoon stroll with Darren their plasterer boyfriend.

Which, of course, is their prerogative.

But why the hell do they then have to run eight abreast and block the whole chuffing road???!!

You don’t see Paula Radcliffe taking her place at the start of the London marathon with an FCUK pink sweat top with ‘Rock DJ Chick’ in silver, emblazoned across her ample chest* and a Reebok fluffy fleece tied to her waist do you?

Not many things irritate this kiddie – but I tell you what sunshine, this is one race technique that is definitely not up my strasse.

Back to the race though and as I started to ease myself into contention I was pleased that so many of my supporters were lining the streets. I made a mental note that I must try to educate them though. My laid back running style does look as though I’m not expending too much effort but all I’m doing is conserving energy for the home stretch. “Ron - you lazy bugger” they were shouting. How on earth they all knew my name I don’t know!

But that was nothing to the chaos at the finish. I appreciate that the organisers were probably acting in good faith – but having so many people at the finishing line waiting for my arrival was a mistake. The problem was that I couldn’t see the damned line! I was also disappointed to see that the organisers seem to have given a medal to anybody turning up in shorts because the finish area was teeming with people with kit and medal. By the time I’d worked my way through the throng my time was showing 57 minutes and half a day – so they’d obviously got something wrong with the timing clock as well.

I did feel though that my little jog in Kent has given me a good workout in advance of my return to European competition on Sunday when I take part in the Amsterdam half marathon. And, you know, I’ve also got to be unselfish about these things – one issue where I disagree with some of my fellow elite athletes is on the number of competitions. Not for me two races a year – this kiddie has a public to satisfy you know. But I see Sunday as a time for honing my race strategy and, although if I do achieve my short term objective of a sub 2 hour half this side of Christmas, to be honest I think Amsterdam is there to be enjoyed. No point in being too hasty at £25 a throw eh?

Anyhow, I’ll be letting you know how I get on in Holland – but in the meantime I’ve got some correspondence with the UK Athletics chaps to catch up on. I'll let you know how I get on.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

*Sorry - just seen another piccie of Paula – forget that ‘ample’ reference.

The problem with elitism

Mentally I'm now completely focused on that Gold Medal in 2012.

OK, physically I could do with a bit of an MOT, but it’s nothing that can't be sorted with a couple of weeks of salads and Cup-a-Soups. I've now got my own posh kit – though obviously I’m hoping to get my official Elite Athletes stuff soon. So all that is needed now to support my push towards Olympic glory is the support mechanism you'd expect an international runner of my class to have and I presume that this will all be provided in due course by the chaps who run the Elite squad.

I decided to check their website to see exactly how I proceed with getting my name down for kit, training, an agent, freebies etc and there appears to be three levels of Elite Athlete. There's the World Class Podium for those who have already got Olympic titles under their belt - I presume this refers to people like Lord Coe and Fanny Blankers Cohen; then there's World Class Development for those who are three to six years away from Olympic glory (which, I think is a category unique to the Brits, for those who are happy to finish as also rans. Such as our swimmers and field athletes). Then there's the category which appears to refer to athletes like myself. They call it World Class Talent and it's supposed to be for athletes considered to be gifted and motivated and who show the potential for a podium finish. I've a slight worry about that reference to podium so let me reassure you, this kiddie isn't lowering his sights.

As far as I'm concerned, there only one step on a podium and that's the one slightly raised and in the middle. Those two on the left and right are purely for the cameras. And Canadians.

Anyway, back to the website and curiosity got the better of me so I clicked on the list of "athletes" (and I use that term very sparingly) who are included in this programme to see whether my name was there yet and do you know - I've never heard of one of them! I do find that slightly worrying because, if things stay as they are, I’m going to be stuck with a bunch of nobodies! Now, correct me if I'm wrong but I thought the purpose of being elite was to be ahead of the best not just ahead of the rest. Not to put too fine a point on it, I’ll be a household name stuck with a load of … well ... who are they for God’s sake??

I know it’s cruel – but winning is a tough game. Am I right? Of course I am! So why on earth they've padded the list with a bunch of losing ne'er do well's God only knows but I'll tell you one thing, they'd better be on their mettle when this buddy turns up for his track suit fitting. I'm a winner and want nothing to do with a load of 'potential finalists' or 'runners-up' or 'game performers' who run 'out of their skins' or to their 'full potential'. Only to come second last.

Of course I blame the blokes that run it - it’s not the poor kids fault. Their so-called ‘performance objectives’ are all wrong. They are asking for 'potential podium finishers' to be part of their squad. And what does ‘potential’ mean? Well, in my book ‘potential’ means ‘not a winner’. Potential? It's a cop out! It means a bunch of silvers and bronzes at best. Silver? Bronze? Pah! Might as well be made of plastic in my eyes.

Have you ever really thought about the power of winning? Do you really know how much better than silver and bronze a gold medal is?

Let’s go forward in time for a minute shall we? To the summer of 2012. It's the penultimate day of the London Olympic Games and its marathon day. Now, unfortunately, the UK team haven't had a good games. In fact they've only secured one solitary bronze medal – probably for shooting something. And so, as the athletes line up for the start of the marathon, the UK languishes in 184th place with that one bronze. True, we'd be 163rd but for the fact that we begin with 'U' - but, hey, that's life. Why do you think Burkina Faso changed its name from Upper Volta?

But 2 hours and a couple of minutes later what's changed? I'll tell you what’s changed sunshine. We've only gone and shot up to 34th in the medal table. Why? Because my Gold Medal puts the UK way above the also rans - countries like Belgium who win 18 silvers and 22 bronze's are now below us because of my single Gold medal! It's as simple as that. The power of Gold you see?

I shall be writing to the Senior Edam at UK Athletics to tell him exactly what I think of them setting out to recruit losers and I’ll be hammering home a few home truths too. I pull no punches when it comes to ambition and I'll be offering them my ideas on how to recruit the best to get the best.

I'll let you know when they reply.

Anyway it's back to the schedule. Don’t forget that if you're in Ashford on Sunday don't feel embarrassed - I'm always happy to sign autographs or pose for a photograph. My reputation is apparently spreading far and wide and the organisers tell me that because of my appearance they are expecting around a thousand runners on the day. And that's great. I do think it important that we continue to encourage the social joggers and your average club runners - because, who knows? I've shown them that it is possible to achieve star status and notoriety - so there's a ray of hope, even for them.

The local Kent rag hasn’t been in touch yet but no doubt, like all small newspapers and parish mags it’s staffed by a bunch of lazy old soaks sitting around doing Sodukus until deadline day, so I’m expecting a last minute request for an interview. Mind you, it’s not all a bed of roses for us chaps in the media spotlight, you know. Take last night. I was in the middle of a series of anal crunch exercises in the local park, watched by a small crowd of kids and a policeman, when Haille-Minogue my eldest Cash Drainer arrives to say that a chap from Sky was on the phone. I dashed home and put on my best media voice only to find some Scottish oik trying to flog me a subscription!

Such is the price of fame.

Yours, with feet firmly on the strasse.

Keep on tapering.

Ron