Way to many weighs

I need to lose a bit of weight whilst doing this training.

Perhaps a stone ? Just a wee bit less impact on my poor old knees.

I've never really followed a diet. I like food too much to consider denying myself any pleasure. But needs must.

I ask the advice of the internet to help me fathom out which is the best weight loss programme for a budding athelete hoping to continue the pleasures of beer and take-aways for at least a short while.

My goodness, there are a lot of diets out there. How do people cope ? It's bewildering.

Eat this, not that, instantly contradicted by another internet 'expert' on nutrition. Some give food different points, some tell you how to cook food, some to starve yourself frankly. All of them charge you though, this they do have in common.

I decide to use common sense, which is free still.

Cut down on cheese, bread and beer.

Sounds easy to me.

I have to suspend common sense for a few days though. I am off to Ireland for a christening.

Guinness will be taken in quantity, I expect.

Possibly potatoes and bread too.

I'll stick to my guns on the cheese though.

Newton's laws still hold true

I went to my gym. It was still where I left it..

I was feeling good. In fact, quite excited.

I had to have the electronic key to operate the machines re-set by the girl in charge (apparently I hadn't been for a while and it locks itself after 6 months...)

The girl asked me if I needed any explanation of how the machines worked.

I said no.

She asked my if I was training for any particular reason. I told her about the marathon and received the usual look up and down accompanied by the slight widening of the eyes.

I decided to have a quiet jog on the treadmill and watch the first half of the football on the in-built TV screen.

All was going well. Very well. I had broken into a light sweat, but no adverse feelings at all.

I then started to get slight pins and needles in my foot. New trainers, I thought, probably a bit too tight.

I decided to step off the treadmill and loosen the lace.

I didn't switch the treadmill off.

I believed I could turn and step off in one smooth movement.

I couldn't.

As if in slow motion, the impetus took my feet from under me and I ended up on the floor behind the treadmill on my backside.

I thought I had gotten away with it.

I thought no one had noticed.

I sprang back to my feet instantly with only damage done to my dignity.

But the girl in charge of the gym for the evening clearly had a health-and-safety-insurance-claim panic and ran across the gym floor saying "My goodness, Mr Mattey are you okay ?" far too loudly for my liking.

I adopted a teenager stance and mumbled I was fine without making any eye contact and wishing her away as fast as possible while she fussed about showing me how the machine worked.

Especially the big red 'STOP' button. She focussed on that one a lot.

I left shortly aftwerwards.

Doctor, doctor, I may have gone mad

Week Two - 23rd October

Since I can't do any exercise until my back is healed, I decide to at least have a medical check to ensure that death is not an inevitable consequence of starting exercise after 20 years off.

The doc and I know each other well. Upon hearing that I planned to run a marathon she gave me the same quizzical look I am beginning to become used to from everyone else.

"Best have some blood tests too then" she says.

Height and weight. No shockers here - still the same height, and weight within broad limits of tolerance (over 14 stone and I would have to have re-considered kebabs as a food option)
Blood pressure - 120/80 - Woo hoo !
Cholesterol - 5.4 - Bad gymnast score, but apprently ok for cholesterol
Liver and kidney function - normal (didn't ask for a recount on that one - but seriously considering legal action against several vinyards for sub-standard products).

Having this medical re-assurance, I then go shopping. As this is a new hobby I decide to overspend on equipment I don't understand and may not need.

Sports Direct have a sale on and I am now substantially poorer but fully armed with over-priced specialist trainers, rather-too-revealing lycra and assorted flourescent clothing. I have belts to hold waterbottles and Ipods simultaneously, and a pair of fluffy Christmas ear-muffs (a late addition to the shopping pile by my youngest daughter).

The back will be fine in a couple of days, I reckon.

Gladiator.

Ready.

Fell at the first hurdle

Week One 16th October -  training starts.

I recall I have a gym membership I am paying for every month.

I'll probably get up there today and ease myself into a light treadmill run and bike ride.
Maybe a nice sauna afterwards, but resist the pint in the bar and instead have a fruit juice.

Filled with a new sense of purpose I get out of bed and immediately fall down my stairs.

I land fairly hard on my back.

Hard enough to wiggle my fingers and toes before attempting to move, just in case.

I had hurt myself. I knew it wasn't a quick fix either. I couldn't even get my socks on through the pain, let alone try any exercise.

I visited my physio a couple of days later -  I hadn't seen him since the previous year when I performed a knee slide across a dance floor with the kids at a friends wedding and popped my knee ligaments.

He advised me that I had 'knocked' three of my ribs forward slightly in the fall and he could manipulate them back, which he did.

I told him I was running  the London Marathon.

He laughed.

Trousers, beer bellies and unnecessarily difficult challenges

About a year ago I thought I needed a challenge. A visit to M&S to try on a pair of trousers seemed innocent enough. But mirrors on three sides of the changing room, and unforgiving flourescent light confirmed my worst fears. The overweight, middle-aged man looking back at me from several unflattering angles was, indeed, me.

Over twenty years of fine dining, not-so-fine dining, inactivity and pubs had taken a toll on what had been a relatively trim figure.

In my twenties, I had run the London Marathon twice. The fit, former version of myself, had managed this with little training and in pretty decent times for an amateur.

Why not a third medal then? I mused. Have them framed and mounted in the downstairs toilet at home. Impress the neighbours.

Having quickly (and easily with the assistance of red wine) convinced myself that marathon running is mostly a mental challenge, and I could additionally pretty quickly shed 3 or 4 stone and return my body to the toned beauty it once was, I enthusiastically launched myself into the web and applied to run it. I also backed up the official entry with a offer to a charity I have long-supported, NSPCC,to run it on their behalf in return for a place.

Then I forgot I had done both....
Leap forward a few weeks to hole 8 on a beautiful Surrey golf course, I decided to check my e-mails whilst waiting for my partner to find his lost ball. There it was - "NSPCC are delighted to offer you a place at the London Marathon 2012."

Success !

I was childishly excited that I had a place.

I played on with my mind racing.

And then began the slow realisation of what I had done.

I was over 40. I was overweight. I have high blood pressure and high cholesterol. I don't do any exercise to speak of (I am told golf doesn't count as exercise).

And 26 miles is a bloody long way on foot.