So... Here's another thing I've learnt as part of the marathon training:
IT'S ACTUALLY A LITTLE BIT TOO MUCH LIKE HARD WORK
April is fast approaching - April, it's in pissing April! - and I have realised I'm as ill-prepared as a really shit salad. Some of the problem is that my running buddy (which all sounds a bit Brokeback) lives twelvety-hundred miles away, so we can't train together; we can't spur each other on; we can't compete; we have no reason to push ourselves just that little bit harder.
When I train, if I start to break a sweat or find myself even slightly out of breath, I stop running and piss off to the Steam Room to relax. FOR HOURS. If only I could put as much effort into exercising as I do being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body. I'm GOOD at being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body!
Backing out is not an option - I've told too many people I'm doing it. I'll look foolish. And besides... I've already planned what I'm going to spend the "sponsorship money" on. Sod the kiddies, I need a holiday!
So without Mr Lady Bex to gee me along, and unable to chicken out, I have gone for the only other option available to me: Get a personal trainer.
His name is (NOT) Derrick Evans.
Possibly.
Well... It is for the purposes of this blog.
He knows his stuff, and I feel a lot more confident about my chances of not doing a MASSIVE DIE when April comes around. He also works me like an absolute bitch.
"Here's 160kg - push it with just your feet - FOR AN HOUR!"
Why, thank you, kind Sir.
*WEEPS*
Since my latest session, I've been waddling around like an elderly, hunchbacked DUCK who's shat himself and then stubbed his toe getting out of the pond. I'm walking like Assumpta Fitzgerald after a night with her delicious husband. I can't sit down. I just sort of... plonk. It's all terribly ungraceful, but I keep being told it'll be worth it. All this pain is worth it if I do, in fact, want to complete the 26 mile runny thing with my life intact.
(NOT) Derrick Evans insists he's just trying to build up my endurance, which sounds reasonable. And with him pushing me to my limit, telling me not to wimp out and spitting "8 MORE REPS" in my lugholes, I'm sure I stand a better chance of finishing the pissing marathon than were I to be doing it under my own steam. Which is just as well, because I'm not paying him all this money just to die three seconds after leaving Preston Park.
Personal Trainers are expensive. Would it be wrong of me to subtract the cost from the Sponsorship Money I collect?!
-
IT'S ACTUALLY A LITTLE BIT TOO MUCH LIKE HARD WORK
April is fast approaching - April, it's in pissing April! - and I have realised I'm as ill-prepared as a really shit salad. Some of the problem is that my running buddy (which all sounds a bit Brokeback) lives twelvety-hundred miles away, so we can't train together; we can't spur each other on; we can't compete; we have no reason to push ourselves just that little bit harder.
When I train, if I start to break a sweat or find myself even slightly out of breath, I stop running and piss off to the Steam Room to relax. FOR HOURS. If only I could put as much effort into exercising as I do being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body. I'm GOOD at being a lazy fuck in a towel with beads of sweat dripping down his body!
Backing out is not an option - I've told too many people I'm doing it. I'll look foolish. And besides... I've already planned what I'm going to spend the "sponsorship money" on. Sod the kiddies, I need a holiday!
So without Mr Lady Bex to gee me along, and unable to chicken out, I have gone for the only other option available to me: Get a personal trainer.
His name is (NOT) Derrick Evans.
Possibly.
Well... It is for the purposes of this blog.
He knows his stuff, and I feel a lot more confident about my chances of not doing a MASSIVE DIE when April comes around. He also works me like an absolute bitch.
"Here's 160kg - push it with just your feet - FOR AN HOUR!"
Why, thank you, kind Sir.
*WEEPS*
Since my latest session, I've been waddling around like an elderly, hunchbacked DUCK who's shat himself and then stubbed his toe getting out of the pond. I'm walking like Assumpta Fitzgerald after a night with her delicious husband. I can't sit down. I just sort of... plonk. It's all terribly ungraceful, but I keep being told it'll be worth it. All this pain is worth it if I do, in fact, want to complete the 26 mile runny thing with my life intact.
(NOT) Derrick Evans insists he's just trying to build up my endurance, which sounds reasonable. And with him pushing me to my limit, telling me not to wimp out and spitting "8 MORE REPS" in my lugholes, I'm sure I stand a better chance of finishing the pissing marathon than were I to be doing it under my own steam. Which is just as well, because I'm not paying him all this money just to die three seconds after leaving Preston Park.
Personal Trainers are expensive. Would it be wrong of me to subtract the cost from the Sponsorship Money I collect?!
-
