The Day After The Race - In Praise Of Neoprene

Well, we did it. Daughter Number Two and I both finished the Royal Parks Half Marathon, she in rather more style than I. All in all a great experience but not without the usual slings and arrows of outrageous fortune for the accident-prone Big Fat Pig.

My ten day taper for the event brought with it a cold, the after-effects of which are still with me. Not ideal but perfectly manageable. Much worse was an injury most curiously acquired. Last Friday I attended with a selection of old rugby buddies a sporting lunch at Veseyans Rugby Club - a club for whom I bear an affection even though the ignominy of my sole sending-off came against them. Because I have been on the wagon in preparation for the race, I had taken nothing more damaging than two pints of water at our rendezvous, the Three Tuns, when I essayed the short walk to the car park. It was at this innocent juncture that I felt the top of the bloody right calf muscle ping. I was only walking and not a drop of alcohol had passed my lips. Honest.

Now that I have got through it, it is safe to admit that in normal circumstances I would have stayed off the roads for at least a week in an effort to get over the injury. Bluntly however I was not giving way to this bloody upset, not after the training and the commitment to Rachel. So I delved into my collection of bandages and neoprene and devised a scheme to suffocate the strain under a neoprene elbow bandage, a bandage chosen to give more support than is I suppose recommended. Thus accoutered I set forth on Sunday and all went well enough for the first five miles, up in fact to the point where I passed the cheering Groupie and Daughter Number One. This was around Trafalgar Square and I even accepted a high five from a small child in the crowd. Rookie mistake, because as I left the Square I felt the familiar shooting pain in the lower portion of the right calf - the very site of my commonest injury. I stopped briefly, stretched and carried on. This wasn't working so on the Mall I slowed again and made a tactical decision - the neoprene had to be relocated at the locus of the new strain. Adrenaline would have to cope with the upper calf tear. Long story short, I got away with it and shuffled to the finish for an emotional reunion with Daughter Number Two who had finished twenty minutes earlier and returned to the finish line to look out for her old man. Between us we have raised fifteen hundred pounds for mental health charities and done wonders for our own self-esteem. You can't buy moments like that.

Can you see me?

You may recall my slightly jaundiced recollection of the London Marathon which a rather less fat pig did aeons ago. Well this was way better. Fabulous crowds and no dehydration this time, nor was the bloke in the rhino costume there to prove my nemesis in a sprint finish - I guess he had probably finished much earlier. If anything I had over-hydrated this time and had to take a call of nature at seven miles (don't worry I used the public toilets) so this was still not the perfect competitive run. Certainly I had runner better (and indeed further) in my last long training run but all in all I felt distinctly well-disposed to the world. A world that felt even more accommodating when I was reunited with alcohol by means of a glass of Pol Roger chez Daughter Number One, before I enjoyed the most welcome shower I can recall. Therafter it was on to pub and later restaurant to wallow in beer and a lobster dinner with  my absolute favourite people, The Groupie and Daughters Numbers One and Two. Late train home and still with the daft grin on my face. The calf muscle is shredded and I can barely walk today but when all is said and done this has been a worthwhile venture. Would I do it again? Ask me in a few weeks' time.    

9 Days To Go - Knackered But Exultant

I've just managed to achieve that elusive thing, the fabled Runner's High. I awoke feeling mildly grotty (nascent sore throat) and first had some domestic duties to attend to, taking garden rubbish to the dump for the aged parents. I had it in mind to go for today's run in the afternoon but fought that lily-livered instinct and set forth in the late morning more in hope than expectation that this would be my projected longest training run. One hundred and fifty minutes later I was in full state of High, knackered but exultant. Now I can manage my taper. I will need to be careful that the training does not better the experience of the race itself - that was certainly what happened when I did the London Marathon nineteen years ago. I made all sorts of miscalculations on that occasion and finished badly dehydrated and diminished by the sprint finish in which I lost to a man in a rhino costume and a bloke with a prosthetic leg.

Time for one of our occasional consumer recommendations - this time for Mere Green Service Station to whom I have had recent cause to entrust both Helen's Precious Peugie (it's a Peugeot) and Rachel's Precious Fifi (Ford Fiesta). Swift, courteous, reasonably priced - you can't say much better than that - A Good Garage

The Overgraduate (who as any fule kno is a considerable intellectual) had a nasty moment the other day. He was surfing internet records of obscure second-hand books which might have a bearing on his studies when he was disturbed to find a listing for The Memoirs of Walter Bagehot. Now the received wisdom in the OG outpost of the halls of academe is that the Boy Walter died before he could pen any memoirs. Were this not to be the case, well I'm afraid OG would look not a little like a chump. We are therefore relieved to report that the said Memoirs are the recent confection of an Oxford historian Frank Prochaska. OG has a copy and has to say that it is rather good, a clever work of reconstruction. Here is a rather tasty morsel,

There is no method by which men can be both free and equal. If it be said that people are all alike, that the world is a plain with no natural valleys and no natural hills, the picturesqueness of existence is destroyed, and, what is worse, the instinctive emulation by which the dweller in the valley is stimulated to climb the hill is annihilated and becomes impossible. In contrast to our system of removable inequalities, there is an opposite system which prevails in the East - the system of irremovable inequalities, of hedged-in castes, which no one can enter but by birth, and from which no born member can isssue forth. In England, this system needs no attack, for it has no defenders. 

RWC - Bulletin 3

Whoops! England ran into an implacable Welsh unit and now stand on the threshold of elimination from their own RWC. Wales were superb, Faletau and Biggar notably so. But it needn't have been like this. England froze in the face of the victory their first hour's play had seemed to earn. Their previously creaky scrummage was working splendidly and the line-out was good, the much lambasted Farrell was kicking faultlessly and all was well in the world. But actually it wasn't - for in amongst the polished muscularity one part of the collective English anatomy was not up to the job - this team lacks brains. A penalty was conceded in the very first passage of play and by the end they were no closer to learning the lesson. Unprofessional. As, I'm afraid was Robshaw's decision making in those final dramatic minutes. Kick your bloody goals - I was taught this by two wise men in my youth, my Dad and J.G. Smith my coach at school. And if you're not going to take the offered points then at least make a better fist of your line-out drive, rather than going down the narrowest (and thus easiest to defend) channel. If this was some sort of elaborate double bluff by England then it sure as Hell didn't work.

Overgraduate/BFP conveniently remembers his Welsh heritage

 

Oh well. This is Dai Roberts signing off with a hearty Cymru am bloody byth. Oh and a reminder to my Welsh cousins that it is not alright just to beat the bloody English - there is further business to attend to.

Refereed a game of uncontested scrums yesterday, which is always a little unsatisfactory but it was a run-out for the dodgy legs. Those same legs did a two hour run/shuffle this morning and I'm feeling it now. Thirteen days to go.

RWC - Bulletin 2

Never ever before have I been so proud of my Japanese heritage. Well of course I made that bit up because I have no oriental connection of which I am aware. But my oh my, what a thing - quite simply and after all has been considered, the single most important result in the long history of international rugby union - South Africa 32, Japan 34. Nothing more need be said, just revel in our sport shattering its way out of parochialism.

International rugby's greatest moment

Another pleasant weekend surprise was to see Richie McCaw actually sin-binned for once. Not surprising was the forensic way that his New Zealand team unpicked the seams of their Argentinian opponents and constructed their victory. They are a highly impressive and ruthless outfit, but they can be beaten. By whom is not yet clear. England started fitfully, France well enough, South Africa woefully. As for Wales, we learned very little from the relative stroll against the amateurs of Uruguay, and as for Ireland, I am inclined to think that they are coming nicely to the boil, their physical peak having been very calculatedly scheduled for the crux of the group stages.

The unfairness inherent in five team groups is laid bare by Japan having to face Scotland only four days after the Herculean effort against the Boks. Fiji also suffer in having to take on the fresh Australians. Australia need to be watched - they arrive with a scrum that actually works, rather in the face of their own Union having fought a thankfully unsuccessful battle to 'depower' the scrummage to the point of extinction.

After Friday's wretched spectacle on the refereeeig front, things thankfully speeded up over the weekend and we were not subjected to quite as many unnecessary longeurs of video officiating. It is hardly an original comment (nor one that hasn't been made here before) but Nigel Owens is brilliant. I would not care a jot (and nor I suspect would the England camp) if he were to do the England/Wales match. And yes I do know that is not allowed - I'm just making the point.

Finally, am I the only one perplexed by the use of Cardiff as a venue? No doubt there was some financial imperative  or possibly some back-room deal over the voting for the hosting rights. Whatever, it was wrong when England and others got home advantage during Wales's RWC and it is wrong now.

Finally finally, and in case anyone is bothered, I got through my own refereeing appointment on Saturday without any new damage so BFP is still on the road, or at least he will be when Waitrose deliver the bloody shopping - already fifteen minutes outside the two hour window.

RWC Bulletin 1

So it's here - Rugby World Cup 2015 kicked off last night with an indifferent England beating a determined Fiji.

For England: much to worry about, in particular some basics that should be in place by now if the team is to have any realistic chance of going deep into the tournament. For decades we have taken it as read that the England set-pieces will be strong. The current scrum is not strong. The current line-out is limited (ie whenever they throw long they lose the ball). On both counts one has to wonder if they are missing the brain-dead Dylan Hartley. Perhaps most distressing, why oh why is the passing of professional players so poor? Brad Barrit had a notably poor game in that respect - one attempt to put Johnny May away would have embarrassed a competent schoolboy.

But all is not lost. The bonus point was (just) secured. Nor should we be too disparaging of Fiji as opposition. Regrettably the injustices of a tournament structure that persists with pools of five are such that Fiji now get a limited turn-round before thay have to face a fresh Australia.

The worst aspect of the game was the video refereeing which added fully twenty minutes to the playing time. Yes, we want officals to get it right but for Heaven's sake boys get a bloody move on. 

A bit of bad news: BFP felt a twinge in the other calf yesterday and had to abandon a run. He has agreed to referee this afternoon so fingers crossed please. We are too close to the big day to tolerate any drama.

25 Days To Go

Big Fat Pig is not counting his chickens but things seem to be coming together. I have been genuinely touched by the generosity of those willing to sponsor me and that spirit has kept me going in my training efforts.

Today we had another landmark - BFP dented the pavements for just over two hours, his longest run since way back in 1996 when a rather slimmer pig did the London Marathon.

My giving page can be found at uk.virginmoneygiving.com/davidroberts40

49 Days. Another Film

I ran for an hour and twenty minutes at lunchtime. So I am back at the point of endurance I had reached before the calf strain the best part of two months ago. This is not going to be easy. Stating the bleeding obvious.

I've been distracted by rather too much food and drink since getting back from Anglesey and have briefly neglected the blog because it felt like my stomach would not let me get close enough to the keyboard. There is one remnant of that Welsh sojourn which I should record and that is the film that I watched on my last night there. I had somehow managed to put off seeing Amadeus for thirty years. I had even bought the Director's Cut DVD a decade ago so my intentions were good. I have no idea quite why the time had never been right to open the case. Film lasts too long? An ingrained suspicion of films that scoop lots of Oscars? I only need to say Titanic to explain this latter prejudice. Well anyway I got around to it on Thursday evening and the conclusion - very,very good. Tom Hulce as Mozart is even better than he is in the seminal National Lampoon's Animal House and anybody who knows me will know that I will fight the man who disputes that movie's place in the pantheon. Misogyny and puerility do have their place after all. Back to Amadeus - this is a film which belies its theatrical roots and expands onto the big screen as a compelling study of the troublesome nature of genius. 9/10 and one that will cause me to revise that list of my top fifty films, when I can find it again.

59 Days To Shape Up - An Uncomfortable Yet Comforting Ride

I laughed in the face of ill-fortune and took the Precious Bike out for a spin this morning. Drumroll - no punctures. The discomfort I refer to in the title was from the decrepit state of the roads juddering up through the highly inflated tyres via the frame. Result - sore derriere. The comforting effect comes from the knowledge/hope that I am free of the bane of constant deflation. And I'll tell you this - that final hill is several degrees easier on the Precious. For tomorrow's ride I am going to revert to the mountain bike and get that righteous burn in the thighs.

Here's something I didn't think I'd be saying - I heard that Andy Burnham/Scott Tracy dealing sensibly and illuminatingly with questions on Radio 4 at lunchtime. Instinctively I am not a fan of the franchise being extended to 16 year olds but I have to grant that there is an appeal to Burnham's soundbite "If you're old enough to be exploited by Sports Direct on a zero hours contract then you're old enough to vote." This is that rarity - a crafted soundbite that actually prefaces a serious debate.

Ed explains the voting system

I have avoided any lengthy pondering of the Labour leadership election, comparing interest in the event  to an intrusion into private grief. However it is now getting very arresting. Only now is it becoming clear to the dozy apparatchiks that they have somnambulated themselves into an existential fight for the life of the party as an electable proposition. All of this comes as a parting gift from the disastrous Ed Miliband whose legacy fittingly includes, or possibly comprises nothing other than, the plain daft voting system. So we now have the other candidates piqued into action by the prospect of actually losing to Jeremy Corbyn - a figure notably antediluvian in his policies and his friendships, Hamas, the IRA etc etc. Corbyn is a reminder of the student left of my youth, the sort who would miss an exam rather than miss the chance to throw eggs at Margaret Thatcher. I didn't make that up by the way, it actually happened with one bizarrely admirable loon of my acquaintance. Golden days.  

Of Exercise And Eating

The training is going well at this early stage and giving me a feeling of outrageous well-being. On Monday I ran for an hour, an important personal milestone. I confined myself to my local circuit of the small estate over the road, its great attraction being that I am never too far from home if my body gives out and it does not involve any steep hills. The problem with our location is that we sit at the top of a hill - great for views and avoiding floods but carrying with it the inevitability of a concluding haul up the slope if I venture very far.

But sometimes I do want to head down the hill for a change of scenery and Tuesday was such an occasion. Still a little tender from the hour on my feet on  Monday I was aiming for forty minutes and managed only a leaden-footed thirty. I risked the hill again today and set myself a target of thirty minutes but was pleased to do forty. Yesterday was definitely one of those days when the gods are against you. The rain it did rain and the wind it did blow, hell it even bloody hailed. Thus did I set out in my long tights and my waterproof jacket though I have to confess I did not abandon the Oakleys. Result? No rain, no hail, just a strong wind which always seemed to be against me and which inflated my jacket like a spinnaker. At various points I felt like I was going bloody backwards and it took me an indecent time to pass an old lady with a shopping trolley. Memories came flooding back of losing in a sprint finish to a bloke in a rhino costume in the 96 London Marathon. Great moments in sport.

Pig's training regime

Diet. I'm attempting the 5/2 diet - this is the one where you fast for two days and eat normally for five. I've been fasting today and although I feel vaguely virtuous I feel rather more hungry and I am being tormented by cravings for a glass of red (also verboten).

Tomorrow I will be answering a challenge I have set myself. I am cooking lunch for my venerable parents. We are to have Nigella's chicken and chorizo. I raided Waitrose this afternoon and I'm well psyched.

This is BFP signing out. Wish me luck.

Support Your Local Pig

There's no going back now - I've made a public commitment and more important than that I have promised Daughter Number Two that I'm going to do it. So, barring illness and injury (either of which will have to be suitably severe) on October 11 I will be in Rachel's company as we run the Royal Parks Half Marathon. Many, many, many moons ago Big Fat Pig (aka BFP, that's me not Rach) did the full London Marathon and although he finished he did get badly dehydrated and lost a sprint finish to a bloke in a rhino costume, who in turn was just touched off by a man with a false leg. So you will appreciate that BFP does not do this thing lightly.

BFP in his Oakleys

Both Rachel and I will be raising funds for Mind, the mental health charity, something close to my heart as our resident mentalist. If you are minded to support our efforts you can find my giving page at David Roberts's Giving Page

After the rigours of a week in Ireland and in particular the onboarding of enough calories to sink a battleship, it was with some trepidation and an inevitably heavy tread that I set out for my latest run this morning. All went to plan and I shuffled about three miles. This afternoon I have been to the chiropractor for the first time in an age and was rewarded by three resounding cracks of the spine - by my simple reckoning the louder the crack the better the value for money you are getting.

My training regime will include red wine -which is good for your heart. In moderation. That's my story and I'm sticking got it.