Dib dib dib, dob, dob, dob

The motto of any self-respecting Cub Scout is to ‘be prepared’. This motto transfers nicely to marathon running, as you also need to be prepared for every eventuality. Which shoes don’t rub, which kit works, which gels you can take, which drinks help and which hinder etc etc. So a schooling in Cub Scouts ought to be a big help, not least if you picked up the athletics activity badge. Unfortunately for me, I gave up cubs after a few sessions because I found it deathly boring, and that came back to haunt me in a very, very bad way on Sunday morning.

We had friends due for lunch at 12.30 so we had lots to do in the morning - the house needed tidying, the food needed to be prepped and Evie needed looking after. So I felt incredibly bad about upping sticks and going out for a run for an hour and a half. So much so, that I managed to get out of the door at 8.20. We’d realised when cooking dinner on Saturday night that we’d run out of black pepper, so I took a fiver and left the house with the express intention of running a bit quicker than I should do, picking up the pepper and returning home early to pleasantly surprise Clare. So far, so good.

What I forgot to do, was to check a map, and to see whether the 10 miles I thought I was going to run was, in fact, actually 10 miles. I decided to do a route I’d never done before - heading up to Ickleford, Henlow, chucking a right, and then heading back through Arlesey. I hadn’t ever been around the second half of my route (by car or by foot), but I’d done the first half a while ago and from memory it didn’t seem too far.

I set off, and started pretty quickly. I hadn’t done any exercise for a week because of Christmas parties, and given the temperature was just above freezing, it was good to get moving. The first four miles passed by without incident, and I felt surprisingly good. I got to Henlow and turned right as planned and was expecting the road to head off at a right angle to the last one, to start the turn for home. Unfortunately for me it didn't, as after turning right immediately, it then started to head diagonally further away again. I went past RAF Henlow and saw a few planes coming into land, which took my mind off of things, but by the time I got to the signpost to turn right for Arlesey, I’d done 5.9 miles (instead of 5) already.

Be prepared Wood, you idiot

In my head I’ve got two options. I’ve never been down that road to Arlesey, although my guess is that if it isn't too far from here to the town centre, I'll probably end up doing 11, or 12 at a push. I’ve been running a minute a mile quicker than I should, so all in I’ll end up 5 minutes late if I don’t run out of steam, which isn’t too bad. Or, the second option, admit defeat, turn around, and at least then you’ll know it’s just under 12 miles. My first mistake (or second, if not looking at a map before going out was the first), is that I decide to carry on.

I follow the road to Arlesey but, having never been through the town, I don’t know exactly what the layout is. The only time I’ve ever been there was when I fell asleep on a train and missed my stop, but I got a cab back and wasn’t paying attention. After 6.75 miles I see a sign for the station – but it says ‘Set down only’, not a sign for Arlesey itself. As I don't know the way, I decide I’m better off following the main road as Hitchin is bound to be signposted a bit further down. Mistake number three.

I carry on along the road, picking up a sign for Arlesey and think ‘great, I’m back on track’. I go around a roundabout and head straight back to whence I came. After a further 1.5 miles (now up to 8.25) I’ve just done a massive loop and am back at the train station. The reason it’s 'Set down only' is because there is a train track in the way of the road, but as a pedestrian there’s a handy footbridge, which would have saved me a quarter of an hour and, more importantly, a stack more effort. I’m getting increasingly annoyed. And it’s at precisely this point that it starts to snow.

I’m trying to keep a cool head and my thoughts are as follows…you were due back at 10 o’clock, and it’s currently 9.40. You know you’re at least 5, maybe 6 miles, from home but you don’t know the way. You are tired because you’ve run too quickly. So even if you decide to plough on, there’s no guarantee you’re not going to blow up and end up walking. It’s snowing heavily. Best case, you’re going to be 20 minutes late, worst more like 40. This isn't good. It’s at this point I remember I’ve got a fiver, so I run into the station to see what time the next train is. 10.24 – gutted! No good as even if I run the rest of it, I ought to get back earlier.

I leave the station and carry on running and, after a detour through an estate, I find Arlesey High Street. There must be a bus stop somewhere. Find bus stop. Next bus, 10.24. Would you believe it! And it’s slower than the train and doesn’t even get to Hitchin until 10.45, and then I’ve got to get home from there. I’ll be an hour late and time is really of the essence! It’s about then that mild panic started to set in as I still didn’t know how far away I was, and because I was worrying I’d stopped paying attention to my running and was now doing 90 seconds per mile quicker – totally unsustainable and only a matter of time before I’m dead on my feet.

I carry on some more, and spot a payphone. Thoughts = find a shop, change up your fiver, and hopefully, just hopefully, this can be rescued. I find a Londis, and I can pretty much guarantee from the look on the shopkeeper's face, that he’s never seen anything like it before. I’m dressed in running tights, shorts, luminous green coat and a luminous wooly hat, and am covered in snow. I stride nonchalantly up to the counter, “Excuse me, do you have any black pepper?” I ask. “And also, I don’t suppose you’ve got the number for a local cab firm too have you please?” He did a double-take, tried to work out whether I was being serious or not, and led me off to find a pepper mill.  He dug me out the number of a cabbie, and I trudged off into what was rapidly turning into a snow blizzard.

I go to the phone and the cab number rings off. Great! That happened when I ended up stranded there on the train too – don’t think they answer phones in Arlesey. Next plan, let’s try our house phone.  I call Clare, who is extremely surprised/shocked it’s me on the phone, and wonders what's gone wrong and where I am. After a random and vague effort at an explanation (I was mindful I couldn't do it justice before the pips started beeping) she agreed to order me a cab. I then spend 10 minutes huddled in a telephone box whilst snowflakes the size of 50 pence pieces drop all around me.

The cabbie turns up (see shopkeeper above for initial reaction), and proceeds to drive me home. It’s another 4.5 miles, and Clare pops out to give me some money. The cabbie charges me £16.50 for the pleasure, and I refrain from calling him Dick Turpin for his highway robbery as I shut the door.

I walk in the house and Clare just bursts out laughing at the state of me. I’m freezing cold, feeling mildly ashamed at my incompetence, and my daughter wants a cuddle but I can’t pick her up or she’ll catch hypothermia. But on the plus side, I’m only 10 minutes late and I proceed to pull a pepper mill out of my pocket for comedy effect.

On the bright side - if there is one - I never, ever go out running with money or a phone. So, bizarrely enough, the fact I had a fiver for some black pepper saved my bacon. And going forward, I think it'll probably make sense to carry both items from now on.

The only thing that remained was to look at a map and realise that my gentle 10 mile run, if completed, would in fact have been 14.5 miles. As the nation’s favourite Captain never tired of saying - you stupid boy!

Not a great start to my marathon training, but hopefully a painful lesson learned early on…

And I’m telling you this because…

I’m running the 2012 London Marathon for the Hertfordshire Community Foundation (HCF).

If you feel inclined to sponsor me to help the Hertfordshire Community Foundation continue their great work, you can do so here:  http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BenWood2 

The joys of avoiding the Drunken Express

As mentioned in an earlier post, one thing I won’t miss during my training is the wonderful journey on the late night ‘Drunken Express’ – AKA the scourge of all Londoners.

I had barely a night out last month, so I was pretty unlucky to have encountered the following trip, which I’m sure many of you will be able to relate to in some way, shape or form.  Having had a few beers, I got myself on the 10.23 from Kings Cross to Hitchin. I was aware of a girl sitting next to me who was on the phone, but all seemed well as we pulled out of the station. Little did I know…

I had my headphones on and thought she was having a barney with her bloke. It quickly became apparent, primarily from the expression of the people sat around me, that she was actually completely hammered. In what is every late night ‘Drunken Express’ customer’s worst nightmare, after hanging up the phone she then tried to engage me in conversation. I politely refused, which obviously wasn’t acceptable, so she started punching me in the arm to get me to speak. It was at about this point that the two people sitting opposite me got up and left.

Now, I should say at this stage that I am a bit of a stoic bloke, and as such getting up to leave would make me think I was being rude. After all, despite her punching me, the girl is in a right state and more unscrupulous characters have been known to prey on them. So if my arm taking a battering is the worst that can happen, then that’s not actually that bad a thing. In fact, the other passengers should be grateful to me for keeping her preoccupied.    

Having decided to sit tight and grin and bear it, I proceeded to take a punch to the arm about once every two minutes, in line with her goldfish brain’s pattern of remembrance. After about fifteen minutes of this I struck lucky. One of the other passengers knew her but had obviously sat tight, hoping she’d fall asleep or something. She obviously began to feel sorry for me and sheepishly came over to start talking to her. She looked very embarrassed but my arm is eternally grateful that she did.

I thought that would be the end of it, but unfortunately the fun didn’t stop there. I got up five minutes before my stop to stand by the door for some respite, but it was just my luck that she was getting off at the same station. And it was highly symptomatic of the journey I’d had when the train ground to a halt 300 yards outside the station. It was absolutely pitch black outside, so it’s obvious we’re not in the station. Obvious, that is, apart from to my lovely friend, who started shoving me in the back and into the door, shouting ‘open the doors you t*at, I want to get out’.

It was all I could do to stop myself saying, ‘we’re parked outside the station but if you insist, I’ll happily open them and shove you under a train you moron’. But as I alluded to earlier on, I’m far too polite for that. So I just ignored her, whilst hoping that I would bump into her on the platform the next morning to get my revenge – you know the deal, loud headphones, bacon sandwich, phone keypad sound on, rustling newspaper etc, the tools of the annoying commuter are endless.   

Her friend spent the next couple of minutes whilst we were stopped trying to distract her. She phoned her brother, but that wasn’t spectacularly successful as drunken moron insisted to be put on the line to him. ‘Have I ever told you how wonderful you are Dave? I really love you, you’re a great bloke. You are. No really, you are. I love you’. I was beginning to wonder how much more of this I could take which, evidently, was more than him as he hung up having no doubt witnessed it countless times before. Fortunately for me, the train started moving shortly afterwards and my ordeal was over.

I’d like to say this was an isolated incident, but then I spent the entire train journey back from a Christmas party last week listening to three different people ralphing their guts up in the toilet. So it really isn’t. Other wonderful things I’ve encountered over the years are a tramp that actually had a whole Piccadilly Line carriage to himself going through Covent Garden at 10 o’clock at night. How did he manage that I hear you wonder? Well, let’s just say he was so drunk he wasn’t entirely in control of his bodily functions. At either end. We all think tube drivers are overpaid, but whoever had to wake him up and get him off of the train at Cockfosters that night would have earned every penny.

My particular favourite however, just for sheer visual excellence, had to be an incident at Farringdon station in the middle of the rush hour six or seven years ago. It was Christmas and I’d crammed into a train as you would on any normal working day. I could see a bloke a bit further down who’d obviously been to his office party and who looked a bit worse for wear. He’d been given an exclusion zone of sorts, but as the train was packed, it was reasonably small.

I was only on for one stop, but it was one stop too far for this guy. He started retching before throwing up all over four or five seated rush hour commuters, who had absolutely nowhere to go. It was the retching that did it as it made it like a slow motion picture in a film – everyone knew it was coming, but they were trapped, and couldn’t get away. If they hadn’t been so covered in sick / horrified, I’m pretty sure one of them would have punched him. As it was, he fell out of the train at Kings Cross and probably awoke the next day oblivious as to why he had sick down his trousers and all over his shoes. It wasn’t a particularly edifying sight, but it’s not often you see a gaggle of suited and booted commuters covered in someone else’s sick. A Christmas I’m sure they’ll all remember.

I can never work out whether stories like these are a) funny, b) character building, or c) an indictment of society. In truth, they’re probably a mixture of all three. And they’re exactly why everyone steps aboard the Drunken Express with a heavy dose of trepidation. So next time you witness something similar, I’d definitely recommend engaging a bit of stiff upper lip as you’ll have a cracking story to tell everyone when you get to work in the morning.

And I’m telling you this because…

I’m running the 2012 London Marathon for the Hertfordshire Community Foundation (HCF). They help all sorts of vulnerable people in the county.

For example, last year they paid a £5,000 grant to help decorate / kit out a room in the style of the 50s for people with mild dementia in Welwyn Garden. I watched a programme on the Beeb a few weeks back which highlighted exactly the same thing, and it really is amazing how well it works. I'm no expert, but I do know that your long-term memory is different than your short-term memory - so for mild dementia sufferers, transporting you back to the great times you had in your childhood is a proven technique to put a smile on your face.

If you feel inclined to sponsor me to help the Hertfordshire Community Foundation continue their great work, you can do so here:  http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BenWood2 

November – the month in review

I was thinking that it would be good to give you a nice little monthly review, just in case I forget to post anything during the month. Obviously when I say forget to post, I actually mean run out of anything even remotely interesting to blog about (and yes, I know you could argue I ran out ideas a few articles back).

So anyway, here are a few stats about my running in the past month…

Miles run in the last month = 117
If you’re unsure of how far that is, it’s basically step out of the office at Piccadilly Circus, chuck a left and go all of the way along the M4 until you get to Bristol. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed at myself with that. It’s just a shame I didn’t actually run to Bristol as then I could have taken in a game under the McInnes revolution, but there you go.

Time spent running = 13 hours and 43 minutes
That translates to the time it takes to fly from London to Hong Kong, with an hour of faffing either side. It's fair to say that I’m no aeroplane me, as you travel 6052 miles on that trip, putting my paltry 117 to shame.   

Pre-6am starts in the name of running = 8
I am a loser for this, I know. But early starts are a necesity, hence the blog name. It’s a straight choice between hauling my arse out of bed to go running in the morning versus not seeing my daughter if I wait to do it after work. So there’s only one winner really. 

Night’s out sacrificed = 5
This is slightly subjective but as it’s Awards season at work and I haven’t been to a single one, I think I've sacrificed 5 which is a very noble effort. I can only hope I’m able to say the same in my December review, although I have a feeling it'll be a big, fat zero and my training will be seriously off track.

Some of the things I’ve learnt from my running this month:

• The first rule of running. I will never beat my brother
• Whichever way you look at it, getting up at 6.30 on a Sunday morning is a really stupid thing to do
• If running keeps me off of the late night ‘Drunken Express’, then running is my friend (I will tell you about a comical recent experience in a future post)
• It never ceases to amaze me just how rude some people are
• To nail a PB you have to be both brave / stupid and give it some welly from the off. This is a very dangerous game, as I discovered the last time I did the marathon. I went off too quick, died a slow and very painful death at Canary Wharf, and the next 9 miles were agony. Once bitten, twice shy and all that, which I think is why I was so happy that St Neots didn't blow up in my face.
• It’s impossible to run a race as a training run because your competitive instincts take over – if they didn’t, you wouldn’t be there in the first place. These competitive juices are never far from the surface, and tend to boil over when people annoy you. In football you can kick them, in cricket you can try and smack them for six (and invariably get out), but in running you have to try and beat them which, if they're better than you, can be a bit of a problem. 
• It’s starting to get really cold, which in turn begs the question - at what point are gloves acceptable? (i.e.they’re never acceptable on a football pitch)

And I'm telling you this because...

I'm running the 2012 London Marathon for the Hertfordshire Community Foundation (HCF).

If you feel inclined to sponsor me to help the Hertfordshire Community Foundation continue their great work, you can do so here:  http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BenWood2  

Race Report: The St Neots Half Marathon

Today, Sunday 20th November, was the St Neots half marathon, one I’ve been really looking forward to since I entered way back in June. I’d heard what a great race it was - nice scenery, extremely well organised and great PB-potential (see what I did there, put PB potential third as if it wasn’t the most important thing, yeah right!).

In time honoured running fashion, I told everyone beforehand that I’d be happy with 1.42 and that anything better would be a bonus. After all, 1.42 is a full two minutes quicker than last week and another PB. Secretly though, I know I’ll be gutted with that as my training suggests I can do 1.40 whereas the Runners World time predictor (I’ll have a pint of whatever that’s drinking) reckons I can do 1.37!

To add some context, I was running this one with my brother and he’s a far better runner than me. I’ve never beat him and I don’t imagine I ever will. So I convinced myself long ago that getting close to him would be an achievement in itself. When he then turned up at mine on Saturday complaining of feeling unwell, is it wrong that my first thought  was that maybe I’ll beat him at long last? Or is that sibling rivalry stemming from many a football / cricket / tug of war / computer game / anything contest when we were growing up? Either way, I should know better than to think it’ll ever happen - he turned up looking half-dead at Watford in February and still beat me by a good couple of minutes.

My Dad and brother’s boy Tyler decided to come along to watch, in what can only be described as one of the most foolish decisions made by anyone in the UK this weekend. It’s freezing cold and so foggy you can’t see further than 30 yards. By the time we’ve picked up our race packs, we all beat a hasty retreat back to the car for an ‘unconventional’ race warm up of putting the heaters on to regain the feeling in our hands rather than loosening the muscles.

Off to the start and I decide that keeping up with my brother is my best chance of a good time.  We pass through the first mile in 6.57 which quite frankly is suicidal for me - so I reluctantly say goodbye to my brother’s heels yet again to prevent a hideously painful next hour and forty minutes.

Mile’s 2 & 3 pass quickly and we get to the first hill. Fortunately for me, being from the Cotswolds, I’m quite used to hills. I don’t mind them at all. In fact, I’d almost go so far as to say I quite enjoy them in a sadistic kind of way. So I'm pleased when I get up the hill with the minimum of fuss and pass a few people on the way. The course is a figure of eight so it does this hill again at the 8-9 mile mark. Hmmm, if that’s as tough as it gets, you could be on for a PB, says one side of my brain. The other side quickly tells me to stop being an idiot, and that engaging in such crazy talk will lead to blowing up at mile 10 and lead to an excruciating final 25 minutes.         

Fortunately the next few miles go through in a bit of a blur and, feeling fresh as a daisy I go through half-way at 49.59, so bang on for 1.40, but I know that my second half is always slower, so I don’t get carried away. I like following people as it takes my mind off of the running. So much so, that at times I’m guilty of not bothering to overtake people when I probably should. I’ve settled in behind someone for almost four miles now, but I motor past him back up the hill through to mile 9. I look at my watch and, knowing the last three miles are gently downhill, tell myself to keep it tight until 10. Then, and only then, should I think about going for it.  

Scenic St Neots...



The good news is I get to 10 and still feel good, so really put the hammer down (all things being relative, obviously) for a big PB. The only other thing going through my mind is that I keep expecting to see my brother in the distance. If he’s ill, he’s surely gone off too fast and I’m going to catch him, right? Wrong. The miles pass by and there’s still no sign of him, until, having spent half an hour scouring in front for anyone in a blue top, I see him in the distance at 12.8 miles. But alas, it’s way too late and I can’t catch him.

I do the last three miles in 7.33, 7.20 and 7.07 and, after giving my nephew a big smile and wave, I get over the line in 1.38.57. A PB by a whopping five minutes and twenty seconds! And better still, I’m only 6 places behind my brother.  

Once we’re recovered, I ask my brother if he saw me coming. He denies point blank that he turned around, saw me and put more effort in at the end. I deny point blank that I spent the last four miles scouring the distance for him, and that I put more effort in at the end in the hopeless pursuit of catching him. Unsurprisingly, my wife later tells me that we both confessed to her that we did, indeed, see each other and start to try harder… good to know the sibling rivalry goes both ways.

A final word on the St Neots half-marathon. I’ve no idea about the scenery as the fog was so bad I couldn’t see any of it, but it is a cracking course and one I’ll definitely do again. My mate Chris (not he of last week’s no show) knocked two minutes off of his PB too in a massively impressive 1.24, just to prove the suspicion that he’s taking part in completely different sport to the likes of me.  

All that’s left is to get back home, eat a lovely lunch prepared by Clare, and then settle in to watch Bristol City beat Millwall on Sky in the afternoon. With a glass or two of red wine thrown in for good measure.

If Carlsberg did Sunday’s they’d almost definitely be like this (thanks for that line Anthony!)

And I’m telling you this because…

I’m running the 2012 London Marathon for the Hertfordshire Community Foundation (HCF).

They issue grants to a whole range of charities and groups, helping people across the county. For the equine / animal lovers amongst you, here’s a story to tug at your heart-strings:

One of the grants the HCF made last year was to the Riding for the Disabled Association (RDA). They exist purely to deliver opportunities for therapy, achievement and enjoyment to people with disabilities. When the Hertfordshire branch of the RDA lost one of its ponies due to ill health and old age, the HCF supplied a grant to help them buy a new one – thus ensuring continued enjoyment and riding opportunities for disabled people in the Welwyn/Hatfield area.

If you feel inclined to sponsor me to help the Hertfordshire Community Foundation continue their great work, you can do so here:  http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BenWood2  

Race report: The Grand Union Canal Half Marathon

I’ve taken in a couple of races in the past two weeks so I thought I’d give you a glimpse into how they went as a nice gentle introduction… 

First up was the Grand Union Canal Half Marathon, which took place on 13th November. I signed up to do this run with my mate Chris. He’s doing a Masters and I’ve got a baby daughter so we don’t see as much of each other as we used to. It’s fair to say that you know you’re getting old when you view running 13 miles as the lesser of two evils when the other ‘catch up’ option is skulling 8 pints of strong continental lager.

At this point I should say that I’ve also got the St Neots Half Marathon next week, which makes me sound like some kind of keeno. I’m not, I’m just incapable of performing a task as simple as checking my diary before agreeing to do something. That or I’m just plain unlucky / stupid – in March I put my name down to do the Norwich half as an excuse to watch Bristol City play there – I signed up at lunchtime, then checked the City website to catch up on the latest news, which was that they’d moved the game to Monday to put it on Sky. Cue a weekend in Norwich, no football and not a drink in sight thanks to running 13.1 miles the next morning. Thanks Sky. Anyway, I digress…

The Grand Union half is a picturesque point-to-point course, following the canal from Uxbridge to Watford before finishing in an autumnal Cassiobury Park. The aim was to take it easy, have a chat with Chris, and use it as a training run for next week. So far, so good. 

My alarm goes off at 6.30 on Sunday morning, having had barely any sleep. My daughter Evie contracted hand, foot and mouth over the weekend, and spent the entire night screaming the house down. Not an ideal start. I then drive to Watford to get a coach from the finish to the start, and have to make small talk with a stranger on the bus at 8am. I did this whilst mindful of the fact that the only reason I signed up was to go for a run with my mate Chris, the same Chris who’d text me at 11pm the night before to say he could no longer make it. I console myself that I am a good person for still doing it, when the easy option would have been to stay in bed.   

When the small talk with the stranger runs dry, I peer down at my watch and notice that my Garmin has frozen. Out the window goes the nice pacing strategy of taking it easy, as I’m no longer going to ensure I keep my heart rate down. I’m not good without sleep and can sense myself getting thoroughly annoyed – a sure fire way to run far too quickly in a bid to release some frustration.

We arrive at the start and I pick up my race pack. The world seems a bit better and we have a nice minute’s silence for Remembrance Day before the start. I say nice, but the bloke in front of me seems more interested in talking to his mate through most of it, despite looks of horror/annoyance from all of the people around him. (I’m never quite sure what the etiquette is in situations like that – I’ve been to football many times where I’ve heard people shout at the top of their voice at people to shut up, but I don’t know whether that makes you as bad as them?). More about our friend later…

The race starts with a nice lap of the park to space you out before getting onto the canal tow path. I was determined not to push very hard but the problem with this is that you know you can run quicker, and your competitive spirit is watching people stream past that you know you can beat. It’s really difficult not to give in to your ego and go after them – fortunately for me this is where being inherently lazy definitely helps.  

I saunter through to 10 miles, letting people pass, and the only thing of any real note is that I run past a water station, pick up a drink, and then hear a woman behind utter an expletive as she’s got it all wrong and missed out. Instead of giving her the dilemma of stopping and going back, I offer her half of mine – which she gratefully takes, without even so much as a word of thank you. Charming.

The leisurely Sunday morning jog

I decide to push the last three, especially given the last one is uphill, to see what shape I’m in ahead of St Neots next week. I really go for it in the last mile, and close in on ‘rude drink woman’, who I tell myself I have to beat. I cruise past and stick a metaphorical two fingers up to rudeness. Next up, and by sheer coincidence, I spot ‘Mr I can’t observe a minute’s silence’, way ahead in the distance, and tell myself the disrespectful urchin needs to be taught a lesson. I strain every sinew to get up to him but just as I get alongside he kicks for the line and I end up just behind him. I’m bitterly disappointed with myself, even though he has absolutely no idea how much he’s just annoyed me. Is running the only sport where complete strangers have the ability to impact your mood for the day without even realising it? At least in football if someone kicks you then you can kick them back.

I finish in 1.44.17, which is a PB by a minute and a half, without really pushing myself. I’m reasonably happy with it, but you always have a nagging doubt in your mind – the last mile was pretty painful so have I really got a much quicker time left in me? My other main thought as I walk through the park back to the car is that I’m glad I gave up Sunday morning football - I walk past three pitches and on each one they are screaming at the ref for being incompetent, when the standard of football suggests they ought to be looking a bit closer to home.    

I get back home and it’s clear Evie is quite ill, giving me one of my many ‘is it really fair that I go out running?’ moments. I conclude that no, it isn’t, but then if I don’t exercise I’m a grumpy bugger so it’s probably better for all concerned that I do. As the afternoon disappears and Evie goes to bed, it becomes clear that my enduring image of the Grand Union half won’t be of the run itself. It will be one of sheer exhaustion, lying face down on the sofa, wishing, begging, Evie to stop crying.  Clare, who has had to put up with two days of this already is in a worse place than me.

As the clock ticks by and the screaming continues, we are both a bit on edge. I know I’ve had no sleep, have run a half-marathon, am heading for the uncomfortable bed in the attic, and am going to have an interrupted night’s sleep ahead of a busy day tomorrow. But I also know I have the easier side of the bargain. Clare is going to be up all night trying to console an inconsolable soul, and will have pretty much the same for the next week.  When people question why on earth you’d want to run 13 miles, I can assure you it’s an absolute doddle compared to full-time child care.

And I’m telling you this because…

I’m running the 2012 London Marathon for the Hertfordshire Community Foundation. Four of the main areas of social welfare they issue grants across are;

·         Disadvantaged children and families

·         Activities and opportunities for young people

·         Access to education, training and employment

·         The quality of life of older people

An example of this is that they made 133 grants totalling £25,813 to the Hertfordshire Children’s Fund last year. This was distributed mainly for beds for disadvantaged children and their families. A really worthwhile cause if ever there was one.

So if, at any point when you’re reading my drivel, you feel inclined to sponsor me to help the Hertfordshire Community Foundation continue their great work, you can do so here:  http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BenWood2  

The reason for these ramblings...

I’ve signed up to do the London Marathon in 2012. I appreciate there’s nothing out of the ordinary in that, especially as I’ll be lining up alongside 35,000 other people, many of whom will have infinitely more inspiring stories to tell.

As anyone who has completed a marathon before will know though, it isn’t the actual running of it that’s the story. It’s the training at stupid times of the day (hence the blog name), in horrific weather or whilst hungover and the mishaps and sacrifices along the way that make it such an achievement.

So I’ve taken the decision that to keep myself committed, and to raise as much money as possible for the charity I’m running for, I’m going to keep a diary of my training. And (hopefully) publish it for your entertainment.

I should just add that I have zero journalistic skills, and have never written anything in my life apart from marketing copy, so you’ll have to take this as it comes. Sorry about that. On the plus side for you (unless it's mind-numbingly boring of course, which is a distinct possibility) I’ve never given anyone an insight into my world before. The main reason for that is my West Country upbringing, where we’re taught that ‘son, talking about feelings is a sign of weakness’…  

The West Country leads me nicely on to the reason I’ve chosen my charity. When I left home to have the time of my life, I was definitely a country boy. I got a job in London and had the great fortune of settling on the Hertfordshire border, and have been in the county ever since. I’ve spent pretty much every single weekend playing football or cricket in a different part of it, and I’ve made some great friends and loved every minute. I’d also wager a small bet that I’ve sampled a far higher than average amount of the drinking establishments it has to offer, so it stands to reason that it’s about time I give something back.

The charity I’ve chosen to run for in 2012 is the Hertfordshire Community Foundation. I’ll tell you more about them as we go along, but here’s an interesting fact to start. The word Community leads most people to think of a small number. 30 maybe? 100 at a push? 1,000 at the very most? Well, not when we’re talking about the C in Hertfordshire Community Foundation - they helped a massive 228,000 people in the county last year alone. That’s a pretty large number, and over 20% of the population. So you know a donation to them will be finding its way to a very good cause.     

If at any point whilst reading this drivel you feel inclined to sponsor me, you can do so here: http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/BenWood2  

And with that, a new blog is born…