Week 1 and five pounds down

Okay fat fans, the scores on the doors after one week are looking pretty good as I weighed in on Friday morning five pounds lighter than a week ago.

However, as a veteran around this particular block I’m well aware that the first week on this journey is often the easiest, and the mere fact of cutting calories and going to the gym a couple of times has a huge impact, when starting from a very low base point of activity. Next week is unlikely to be quite so dramatic I suspect, particularly after this weekend’s Jamie Oliver-inspired massive pie:

Steak, Guinness and cheese pie, from Jamie at Home 

And this is the biggest part of the challenge I think; living like an abstemious monk from Monday to Friday, and then falling into a vat of pie, red wine and indulgence at the weekend. So the five pounds that was shed so diligently is then layered back on by Monday morning. Now, that would be fine if I was oscillating between ten and ten and a half stone, dancing around the room in my skinny-arsed 26” waist jeans. But at this stage I just need to keep the good habits up seven days a week in order to make progress, otherwise all that will happen is that I keep going back to the start like a needle jumping on a scratched record. And nobody wants to sound like a broken record do they? (For anybody reading this who doesn’t understand that reference, this is a record.)

That makes me think that maybe the start of December, the run-in to the biggest overindulgence of the year, is not the best time to start trying to lose weight and get, but it shouldn’t take the brains of a trussed up turkey to realise this. In fact in some ways I think it is the best time, because I can at least get used to the idea before the cold harsh reality of January hits home, and the harrowing bleakness of a English mid-winter sets in.

What is interesting is looking at the stats of my progress through the magic of the interweb and the app My Fitness Pal, which helps me stay in control of calorie consumption. It not only tells me how many calories I’m taking in, but how many I burn during exercise, and what levels of carbs, fat, sodium, sugar etc that’s going into my system. Following my faithful entries this weekend including the pie, it looks like I’ve almost doubled the entire week’s calorie allowance

I’ve also been entering my weight on a regular basis and the past 12 months my chart looks not unlike a Manhattan skyline, with all its ups and downs:

The ups and downs of dieting

The stats are good and enables me to see exactly what’s happening and the make-up of my diet, but it’s also confirmation in black and white that the next three weeks are going to be a challenge for the waist line with two work parties, one for the St Paul’s Players and at least two invites to friends before we even make the trip to Amy’s family to tuck into the traditional huge turkey dinner. Frankly January comes as something of a relief, although I’m looking forward to all of those things of course. It is, after all, the season to be jolly. Cheers, I’m off for a run.

This is why I run

When I mention to some people that I am in training to run the London Marathon 2012, they often ask, 'why the hell would you want to do that?'. On the face of it, it's a fair question as for somebody of my athletic ability running a full length marathon takes in excess of five hours on the day and about six to 12 months training. On top of working full time, trying to organise a wedding and thinking impossible dreams like buying a house.
But every now and then there are some big obvious reminders as to why I am looking to spend my winter evenings plodding round Bristol on the training treadmill towards April 2012 for my Olympic year marathon.
Anyway, we were just on a holiday and I had to take the chance to get a picture outside Rye's favourite teashop, see pic below:

I thought it might serve as a timely reminder of what being called Simon and eating all the pies really does to a man. Which is why since returning from our Kent sojourn I have been running three times, including a three miler yesterday and lost five pounds, a good couple of pies in my book.

So, I'm posting this picture today to serve as a reminder, if any is needed, as to exactly why I need to run, and, more importantly, stop eating pies. Nothing too deep or philosophical about it, no need to strive to find inner-peace, or to reach a point of zen tranquility to immerse myself in complete understanding of humanity, more like wanting to fit into a pair of jeans that I last wore in March 2010 which cost £40 and that's a lot of bloody money in this day and age to be stuffed at the back of a wardrobe devoid of any practical use. Come to think of it, an entire rack of shirts is hanging like a row of Lib Dem principles in my cupboard, utterly forgotten and unlikely to see the light of day for a while to come.
So instead of spending what hard-earned money I have left after the monthly outgoings on clothes that get a couple of days out before somehow shrinking beyond all wearability, I am, to paraphrase RUN DMC, going to take Take The Fat Back, mother lover. And that means running, lots, and for long distances. Or until I collapse.

First meeting of the all new F B Running Club

Had a great run last night at the first meeting of the all-new Fat Bastards' Running Club.
Myself and Marc were joined by Dave and his wife Tina, who really don't qualify as proper FBs in the lardy sense, but wanted to join us for a run anyway which was really nice.
Dave and Tina have been there and done it where my challenge is concerned, but they both run so that they can enjoy the good things in life, which is just the right attitude for the club.
According to the plan I should have been doing 30 mins fartleking, but I decided  running for that time was more useful. I promise to try fartleking soon, but I just want to get used to running again and try to build some fitness before trying to do anything exotic.
So we went round the Downs and it took about half an hour, and if I'm honest it was probably a little quicker than I would normally go, but that is what is great about running with other people, it really helps to push yourself.
I wasn't overdoing it and I know it's really the sort of pace I should be doing anyway, so it was a really good run from that point of view, I'm still a little bit pleased with myself for being able to keep going.
I also have to say what nice people Dave and Tina are and how much I appreciate the fact they are up for training with us because it's that kind of support that I think is going to be crucial in getting through the bleak winter and all those long runs.
Anyone else who fancies it are still more than welcome, every Wednesday at 5.30, meet at the water tower on the Downs. Thanks to the London-based readers of this blog who said they'd like to join if only they didn't live at the wrong end of the M4.
But here we are, the movement has started, as it were. I'm sure there must be plenty of people out there who want to run but can't keep up with club runners or who feel a bit intimidated by how fit they all are.
I've decided that after next week, which is really busy in terms of some work I'm doing, I'm going to start my publicity campaign to try to get those donations rolling in and start the fundraising.
Still waiting for my fundraising pack from the British Heart Foundation, hope they haven't forgotten me.
I signed up for some training advice on the BHF website. You fill out a questionnaire and they get back to you with a plan tailored for your needs. I think they must still be laughing at the answers I gave, as it asks for height and weight, and if you've had any health issues. I can almost hear them guffawing, and thinking "and he wants to run a marathon? No chance!"
Just a brisk 20 minute jog on the slate for today. Still not sure that one rest day a week is a good thing, and I've just looked ahead to week three to see there is no rest day at all! Mind you, all that lard isn't going to shift itself is it?

Now for the hard work

Pic caption: Asics Gel Nimbus. They should just call them Asics Carling.


I've just come down from the ceiling after a week of being over-excited about getting a place in the London Marathon, and it's not unlike waking up on New Year's Day and wondering where a part of your life went, apart from down the toilet.
The marathon hangover is kicking in. The inescapable reality of the situation has arrived, and he doesn't appear to be carrying a party-pack of beers.
Jubilant euphoria was much more fun, he had a whole keg of happiness and no dull friends like eight months of training, running in the rain, pain and general struggle.
So I started my regime with a week of resting up, no point rushing into these things, there is after all, eight whole months. I'll bet the Kenyans don't even dust of their tracksuits until about a month before the race.
I have done a lot of walking this week though, around Clifton sniffing out leads like a proper newshound to find content for Clifton People. Maybe one day I will be good enough to get a job as a proper journalist on a real newspaper...
...anyway, Clifton is bigger than you think, on foot, so I reckon that's got to count for something.
Walking down Whiteladies Road I did think of going into the running shop Moti to look at buying some new running shoes, but I can't help feeling you probably need to run for your county at least before you can go in there.
I'm sure it's not that bad really and I expect they will be very lovely and helpful when I finally get enough money together to buy some new running shoes.
I may have to put off buying a house, a new car, or anything more than a loaf of bread for a while, but I know it will be worth getting a new pair of running shoes.
I've had the same pair of Asics Gel Nimbus trainers, which does sound a bit like a hair product, for the past few years. Admittedly a bit like me they haven't been in full time employment for that whole time, but they are a bit tired now, again, a bit like me perhaps.
They have been brilliant though, the best trainers I have ever had, and I have had a few different pairs down the years. Seriously, if anybody reading this works for Asics and can get me a discount I will gladly sell my soul to the company, they are so amazingly brilliant.
That's the thing about running shoes though, it's quite an individual thing, what works for some people doesn't work for others. One man's Asics may be another man's wooden clogs.
It is a bit expensive, I expect I'll have to shell out more than £100 on my new pair, but it's really worth it not only because of the obvious comfort and support, but the right running shoes will also go a long way to preventing injuries. Problems with knees, hips and all sorts of long term damage can be caused if you don't have the right running shoes.
It's common sense really, you wouldn't go hill walking in flip flops, for example, would you? Everybody in Clifton seems to wear flip flops, everywhere. There's a bit of a uniform for blokes, a polo shirt preferably with some kind of pattern on it, a pair of combat shorts, stupid hair and flip flops. I'm not saying I don't conform, obviously I do, but I'm scared to wear flip flops out the house, I think somebody will tread on my feet or the road in front of me may suddenly turn into hot coals and I'll perish in the furnace. But mainly I don't wear them because on the whole it's just not suitable footwear for outdoors is it? By the way I am 34 going on Victorian these days.
So the general plan is to do a long run this weekend, but not go mad because I do have the half marathon in about ten days, although there is no sign of a race pack as yet, does anybody have theirs?
Then I go on holiday, where the only running I intend to do is with my finger along the edge of a bottle opener.
All of which means I should be hitting the ground running into marathon training at some point towards the end of September, just as the temperature drops, the nights draw in and it rains even more.
I can't wait. I do mean that though, I really can't wait.

Pic caption: Roller blades, a completely pointless purchase.


A whole week of opportunity stretches ahead as I sip on my first coffee of the morning and contemplate my next move in the great chess game of life.
I have decided, against my better judgement, not to go to my Weight Watchers meeting. This is possibly one of the worst things you can do as a member, as that small step leads to the dark side and obese oblivion.
But I will only upset myself if I go. I would rather crack on with being good to myself this week as I've had a funny few days which have involved increased consumption of utter crap.
The life of a freelance hack in the middle of a deep recession isn't exactly as busy or productive as it could be, and I have found myself on occasion with more time on my hands than was good for me.
I also found myself battling some hunger demons and I am afraid to say I've given in to temptation more than once.
There is a weird twilight zone part of the day, about 3.30 to 5pm, when lunch is a distant memory and dinner is still some way off. Energy levels are running low so motivation to do any work is rock bottom, and I just cannot for the life of me see how to get through the next few hours to dinner.
I can't stop thinking about how hungry I am, and that if I only had a little snack to get me through to dinner I could probably do a lot more work as well.
When I have been good, I have at this point reached for the Special K or some other similar low fat cereal. But lately I've been reaching for the French loaf, packet of ham, cheese and bag of Kettle Chips to make a Homer Simpson-style snack, rather than a Weight Watchers inspired low cal morsel.
And then I would also be telling myself that a large portion of pasta for dinner is a good thing because I will be running it off the next day, so I need to draw on the energy.
Well, I did go running last week, but that was three miles round the Downs on Monday morning. Not sure I've burned off the energy consumed on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday just yet.
I think the problem is my attention span, I get bored of something so quickly. My life seems to be littered with the skeletons of half-baked ideas or projects that never really got off the ground.
I recently got rid of a load of stuff at a charity shop after moving, and I realised what a load of useless things I have been hoarding which were bought at the time with the utter conviction that I really needed them.
For example while on holiday four years ago in France I bought a pair of roller blades, thinking that they would be a great new way of keeping fit. I had probably read somewhere that it was a great alternative to running, building fitness and toning muscles without the impact on your knees that running gives you.
I thought that living near the Downs was perfect and I had visions of how I would glide along with the grace and elegance of Torvill and Dean, yes both of them, transforming the Downs in Bristol into a California street scene at sunset.
Anyway, the reality was that I strapped them to my feet not long after getting home, and ventured out into the streets.
I managed to get a decent head of speed going and memories of the roller disco I used to go to at the local leisure centre when I was about ten flooded back. I could really skate back then, about 20 years ago, surely I'd lost none of the old magic?
But after rolling down hill on the pavement, waving my arms around like a duck that's forgotten how to fly, I suddenly panicked as I approached a junction and how no idea how to get round the corner to stay on the pavement, and felt shooting across it without stopping may have been detrimental to any ideas I had of having a long and fulfilling life.
So I had to stop pretty quick and did something I really only thought happened in Benny Hill shows and I grabbed onto a lamppost before I shot past it. By this point some people had been observing my progress and I think having a bit of a chortle, so I gave them a right laugh when having grabbed the lamppost the tank-like momentum I had built up meant I actually swung around it a couple of times, just like in the cartoons, before finally coming to a standstill about six feet from the junction.
I'm sure I clocked a passing driver chuckling as he went past.
I decided I should probably practise somewhere less dangerous, took off the boots and tiptoed through the mean streets of Clifton in my shoeless feet back home.
The roller blades went into a corner from whence they never moved again, until their final journey to the charity shop a few weeks ago. Pointless.
The only other time I threatened to break the dust off of them was a couple of years ago while recuperating from my heart valve replacement operation.
This is an operation which involves sawing open the sternum and breaking a couple of ribs so that the unbelievably talented and very clever surgical team can get at the old ticker.
The resulting injuries to your chest and ribs are pretty much the same as if you were in a car crash. A few weeks into my recovery I thought it would be a good idea to slip on the old roller blades and head up to the Downs, not really considering the consequences of falling over and how it might shatter my already frail chest and rib cage.
Thankfully by this point I had met Amy, who suggested it would probably not be the best idea I'd ever had, and gave me a couple extra pain killers just to make sure I didn't have any more daft ideas.
Similar items have included an Irish boron drum, which I needed to start my travelling troubadour career, a couple of cake and muffin tins for my flirtation with home baking (too much time at home), a yoga mat, two pairs of light dumbbell weights, a gym ball and a boxing ball on a sprung pole, which I got rid of once, then bought again, and both times failed to break into the blubber weight boxing scene. There was also a knackered old record player that I had to buy as I was going to restore it to its former glory, but of course never did and just threw it out.
One of the greatest unfulfilled ideas I ever had though was shortly after finishing university I found myself living back at home in Dorset, unable to find a job despite my hard-earned third class degree in ancient Greek and classical studies (weird that), so I decided to draw on years of experience in treading the boards and start my own youth theatre company. I felt that what the disaffected youth of North Dorset really craved was the chance to meet up in a drafty church hall in the middle of nowhere and be taught the finer points of Stanislavski and Brechtian theatre style, while rehearsing for a radical interpretation of an obscure Christopher Marlowe play, which would be all of them to anybody who hasn't studied A Level English.
Fortunately it didn't even get that far as I thankfully managed to get a job before I could inflict my dire theories on any young innocents - and then promptly forgot any ideas of becoming the next Peter Hall.
But, I am determined that this weight loss and marathon running project does not go the way of the roller blades etc, and that I complete it. I just need to get my head back into it, which I will now it's Monday and I've got plenty to do to keep me busy and stop me thinking about food all the time. Such as finding a job!

Weight loss is the new religion

Pic caption: Waiting for a miracle in the Church Of Weight Loss.



I'm sure it has already been said, by many and more eminent people than me, but something I have felt over the past weeks and months is that my obsession with weight loss and dedication to dieting is easily comparable to following a religion.
For a start the meetings tend to be held in church rooms, (maybe because we're all hoping for a miracle every week) and there is an overarching organisation which runs the services, I mean meetings, according to their own particular doctrine.
Weight Watchers has its own ministers, or leaders as they like to call them, who are sent out to spread the word and convert people.
But of course there are other fat fighters clubs out there, and I wouldn't rule out the possibility of some kind of violence breaking out between Weight Watchers and Slimming World for example. It could be called the Doughnut Wars, or something similar. And there are those weird, break away extremists who practise a dangerous cult of eating nothing but soup and porridge for months on end.
Every week we walk into church, sorry, the meeting room, feeling a mixture of guilt and hope. You know you are going to have to pay for your sins and have been living in a kind of limbo for the past week, punishing yourself for each little transgression. Instead of using rosary beads to pray you scatter a load of dried lentils on the ground to kneel on seeking forgiveness through the pain.
When you get into the meeting you wait in line to walk up to the altar to take communion, or get weighed as they call it, hoping for the high priest to absolve us of our crimes against the God of weight loss. (who would be the patron saint of weight loss, Saint Katona? Saint Idris? - see last blog) But there is no escaping the Truth. God, or the scales as they call them, can see everything and his word is, the word.
Then we confess our sins to our leader, we hope for forgiveness after coming clean about that second helping of lasagne, or the possessed way we attacked the barbecue at the weekend and partook of the devil's brew, or home made cider.
After the rapture of the scales we vow to lead a better life for the next week, and get given the latest scripture (or information leaflet they call it) from on high about how to be a better person.
Then follows the communal gathering to hear the sermon for that day; how to get a bikini body for the summer, or how to drop a dress size, or how to eat healthy food without dying of boredom at the dinner table.
Then we all go home and try to be good for the rest of the day before going back to normal the next day and pigging out in front of Eastenders making a silent promise to yourself to try harder next week, but you know you're going to hell in the end.
And of course you have to pay for it in cash as well as emotional suffering.