Day 1

It’s not a fuckin journey, it’s not X factor. I’m not sure if this is actually the start of a journey or me deciding I’m killing myself and that all the great romantics diarised their own lives, especially my Dad, who I’ve recently accepted and openly deplored as a complete cunt. Great romantic or great cunt.

For some reason I’ve decided to start documenting things, with a note to myself that this is for myself, but an honest and intrnal desire for someone to read it.

Anyway, I’m happy. I’m 36 and I am for the first time in so long, not lying when I say I am so fucking happy. Nothing that’s before me will define me other than now, married to my beautiful, intelligent, sexy, witty wife, with our / the / them / all five kids in our lives. My head feels so fucking clear for once about what I have and what I’ve got.

As ever, the one thing that needs putting to bed in my head is the thing that’s controlled me for so long; the desire to be a runner. I’m no longer a runner. Do I want to be a runner? Was I a runner?

Regardless. I’m now a fat bastard.

Serious note at this point, I don’t like parkrun. I won’t elaborate right now but just for anyone reading this (back to me wanting and not wanting readers….) I really hate parkrun. Like , I won’t do the little P thing as I disrespect it that much. I do believe it’s destroyed running and is one of my many excuses for what a twat of a runner I was. Anyway, for anyone thinking you’ve stumbled into a blog of ‘SteveWay’ist’ (a guy I have ultimate admiration and respect for, mainly for our royal Mail service, and a little bit of the being a hard fucker, less so stealing the slogan thing ) it isn’t, I don’t like running clubs, hence setting up an egotistical elitist one for myself. I don’t like runners really, I mean I like ‘runners’ but can’t handle joggers…hence the parkrun thing. And mainly I’m probably a bit of an elitist snob when it comes to running.

But, I am now the target of a couch to 5k. I am all that I hated. My medical stats are fucking awful. That said I play golf off 6 and play better after 10 pints. My former coach and friends are talking about Tokyo2020 medals and I can run 5k in 20:20 anymore…maybe that’s the first target?

I know what my targets are, short, medium and long. But given I celebrate one day off the booze at the moment I best not elaborate too soon…

Fat bastard. Raced at aged 30 at 75kg, must be 110kg now.

Just checked and I’m 117.1. 36 years old.

Look at what that looks like. Sadly what you can’t see is there’s some fucking good times in there and some fucking laughs. Sadly I didn’t grow up with an appetite for Stella’s sausage.

Anyway, I’ve decided to write this because…I need to track the fact I won’t want to die? About as simple as that really.

Sunday done with wine, beer and Chinese, and what may be another sub plot of this, is that this style of consumption is normal. And was when I was a runner too. I guess age changes you physiologically, as does not being able to run due to 10 years of overuse and 70-100 miles per week.

Add in the depression caused by being addicted to running, the highs and lows, then the depression caused by the medical prognosis at 30, that running will leave me with artificial hips by 40. Getting married. The moving to Saudi Arabia. Bahrain. Children. Divorce. Dubai. Marriage. Children, 5 now…

Not sure I want to do this.

My goal: talk about that another time, let’s try exercising a bit and less booze for 5 days?