Distracted Dad
Richard Hearn pledge to get fit and run a marathon
The Brighton marathon has shamed me into getting fit. I didn’t get to see it, but people I’ve spoken to all said what a great atmosphere it was. It also – if I’m going to make this all about me, which my column normally is – shone a light on my own physical state. So it’s time to take action. (I write this bit with a glass of wine next to the computer.)
Let’s list the factors which have created my own perfect storm of unfitness. First up, let’s blame a seven month old. I’m often tired or running late, so I’m getting the bus more, walking less, let alone jogging. This same ‘baby’, or ‘factor one’ as I’m going to call him, causes me to be tired through the day, leading to eat what I perceive as energy-rich foods to keep me going. As he often cries and needs picking up at inopportune times, ‘factor one’ has also led me to eat like I don’t know where my next meal is coming from. (It normally turns out to be later that day, at approximately a mealtime, but the worry is always there.)
“This habit has contributed to me having a figure like I’m smuggling a football”
‘Factor one’ also gives me less time; I’m therefore more likely to need my Netbook in the day to meet writing deadlines such as this column. (I blame you, the readers.) It’s then difficult to jog home with a computer on your back. (I write this section in a coffee shop, hot chocolate – with cream – to my right. I’ve already drunk too many coffees this morning.)
I’ve also got into bad habits. The theme tune to Match Of The Day is like a bell to Pavlov’s dog; sometimes I’m not even hungry but find myself dutifully searching for the biscuits. It’s always biscuits. You’d think, with Gary Lineker presenting, that it would be crisps. This habit has contributed to me having a figure like I’m smuggling a football, so it’s kind of linked.
Having mentioned the marathon, if there’s an exercise I do enjoy, it is running. So let’s make a regrettable declaration and say I’ll run the marathon next year. (I told this to a friend Thursday lunchtime. We were having a Chinese.) Now let’s backtrack and say I’ve no idea what I‘m saying, so set the bar at a half-marathon, by this time next year. This column is my own I.O.U – a promise made; a contract signed.
Writers supposedly write because of some deep-rooted desire for immortality. Personally, over the next 12 months, my motivation will probably be the opposite – hoping everyone forgets these 450 words by the time the next Brighton Marathon comes around.
