Call the Midlife (22 page)

After being examined and then cracked and twisted for a good quarter of an hour or so, I asked Phil the chiro what he thought my realistic chances of getting through a marathon at the end of April might be.

‘Physically you could probably manage with regular sessions here, but how long have you been running?’

‘Four weeks,’ I answered.

‘Oh, really,’ he squeaked in that high-pitched tone of someone trying to suppress their surprise. It was obvious he thought I was pushing it a bit – but kindly agreed to help me the best he could if I wanted to try to go for it.

Done.

Phil was officially the first member of my secret back-up team.

Crunchtime:

‘If I can make it around the lake THREE times without stopping, as long as it’s before a hundred days to go, anyway, anyhow, I will investigate the possibility of gaining a late entry into the Virgin Money London Marathon.’

But until then I was not allowed to even look on the website. Again, when it finally came to it, I was a day late, not actually taking up my challenge until January. On this occasion I didn’t run all the way but nor did I actually stop. I shuffled two and a half laps and then had to walk twice before just about making it round. It was by no means pretty but I’d one what I set out to do.

Bingo! I was clear to proceed.

That evening there were two things I specifically didn’t do.

The next day I contacted the organizers, requesting a secret place. The usual deal being that they are happy to give well-known faces late entry in return for the odd promotional photo or a magazine piece article. I was asking for the opposite.

‘But think of it as a twist,’ I enthused. ‘You’ve got loads of celebs talking about their training and preparation beforehand, but you’ve never had someone pop up from nowhere on the start line on the day. Least of all someone like me, not exactly renowned for running or fitness of any kind.’

I’m not quite sure where, but somewhere during the conversation I must have said something right, as a couple of days later they agreed to facilitate my ruse. In fact, once they had signed up to the idea they very quickly became as excited about the subterfuge as I was.

The plan was as agreed.

As few people as absolutely necessary would know about my involvement until the morning of the race. After that, both at the start and finish line, I would have as many photos taken as they wanted and talk to every news crew in town. It would be the least I could do.

This was really it. I was in. I had to do it now. There was no way I could let these nice people down after they’d gone out on a limb to help me.

Responsibility is an excellent incentive.

The next day my thus far ad hoc shuffling could be officially upgraded to an actual marathon training programme.

I cannot tell you how excited this made me feel. Like I hadn’t been for years.

The internet is perfect for things like marathon training plans.

There are dozens of them: the BUPA Marathon Training Plan, the Lucozade Sport Marathon Training Plan, all with various time frames and beginners, intermediate and advanced options. In the end, perhaps due to a warm glow of loyalty, I opted for Virgin Money’s own official training plan.

Not that there’s much to separate any of them.

Boom, I was in.

Double boom.

Technically I was ahead of the mileage.

But, according to what I was looking at, my ‘training’ thus far was all over the place and would be no use whatsoever come 26 April. Unless I began to adhere immediately to ‘The Way’.

What was also a concern was that my whole body, especially my
legs, was beginning to feel like it were made more of glass rather than stretchy skin, muscles, tendons and bones.

There was no longer any doubt, what I had suspected for years was true – when it comes to physicality, I am indeed one of nature’s more fragile beings. But fragile or not, I was going to do my utmost to get through this marathon, even if it meant crossing the line in several different pieces.

Training for a marathon is unlike any other regime I’ve experienced. If you miss a day while writing a book, for example, you can write for twice as long the next day. If you miss a day while training for a marathon, that day’s lost for ever. You can play catch-up but it throws everything else off. Getting the running days in at the right time is important, but just as important is getting the recovery and rest days right as well. One of the things I’d been warned about was people not adhering to their training programmes early on and then ending up having to overtrain the closer they got to race day.

Saturday, 17 January

100 DAYS TO GO

First official training run. Back to a heavenly just once around the lake but at a new, quicker pace. The pace I’ll need to maintain for six times that distance if I’m to stand any chance of breaking five hours.

MARATHON LORE:

UNDER FIVE HOURS IS WHAT’S REFERRED TO AS A ‘REAL MARATHON’ – ANYTHING OVER FIVE HOURS COULD BE DEEMED A QUICK WALK.

Out of breath virtually from start to finish. Recovery quicker than expected. Worry level, high.

Duration: 45 minutes with new 10-minute walk cool down.

Distance: 4.7 miles.

Sunday, 18 January

99 DAYS TO GO

Family day: once round lake, fits and starts of running while taking turns chasing kids with Tash.

Duration: irrelevant. Fun and fresh air had by all.

Distance: 4.5 miles.

Monday, 19 January

98 DAYS TO GO

The most beautiful day. A dazzling low winter sun, clear blue sky, 3 degrees. Days don’t get more beautiful. Once round the lake, new pace. Legs tired but relatively comfortable. Quick recovery.

Distance: 4.5 miles.

Tuesday, 20 January

97 DAYS TO GO

Have to stay in town as going to meet the Duchess of Cornwall in connection with my ‘500 Words’ – an annual writing competition for children of thirteen and under. Ended up going to Clarence House in my camper van. ‘Are you intending on staying the night?’ she asked as I pulled into her garden. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

Lovely lady.

We had several cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, during which she agreed to host this year’s final over the road in St James’s Palace. Wow, the kids will be thrilled, as will the BBC.

Anyway, back to the training the day before: Radio 2 to Hampstead Heath running and walk back. Wholly enjoyable even though Central London to Hampstead is basically uphill all the way.

Distance: 8 miles.

Wednesday, 21 January

96 DAYS TO GO

Excited for three reasons. Going to be working with the Duchess of Cornwall again, this time spending two hours at a primary school in Haringey, where she’ll watch while this year’s judges and I workshop some of the children on various methods of storytelling; then going home to see my new grandson, Teddy Rupert. He’s come down 200 miles from up north with his mum and dad to see us. He’s only twelve days old! Ahh bless!

And my midlife new motorbike is being delivered. A BMW 800.

Running: once round the lake, very relaxed. Super-relaxed.

Distance: 4.5 miles.

The Midlife Motorbike

The longer one experiences life, the more one comes to the conclusion that, barring war and famine and other reasons why one might end up destitute, helpless and hopeless, life is about coming up with reasons, tenuous or otherwise, to justify doing the things we want to do.

So here I am contemplating my fiftieth year, which already consists of signing a contract to bring back
TFI Friday
and committing to run the London Marathon, while figuring out my commitments in the summer: two four-day CarFests, one Dine & Disco weekend, the Monaco Grand Prix week and the London to Brighton Car Run (driving a vintage bus) all for Children in Need. How the heck am I going to squeeze all this in with a daily radio show, the weekly Friday edition of
The One Show
, an 89-year-old mum, energetic wife, three kids and now a grandson?

‘Well, one thing’s for sure,’ I told myself. ‘It doesn’t help that I get stuck in traffic most mornings on the journey back and forth to Ascot.’

And then I think, ‘Motorbike!’ It’s the obvious answer, isn’t it?

I’ve owned several motorbikes in the past: low-powered machines as a teenager and then a Triumph Thruxton when I first met Tash. She had a full licence and a Triumph Bonneville to go with it. The fact that I ended up returning my Thruxton to the shop, unable to rev myself up enough to take the test is another matter.

Ever since then I’d been trying to convince myself I was anti-bike, more out of bitterness than sincerity. However, the fact remained: I’m a wannabe biker trapped inside a lily-livered non-biker’s body.

But where to go and what to do?

I thought I’d buy the machine first, stare at it for a few weeks and then muster up the necessary to do whatever it took to gain my licence. Fully aware this exact method had failed before, I pressed on regardless. It was time for a boys’ trip, but not before some in-depth online research. The Internet comes good again.

I have always had a soft spot for the Kawasaki Ninja, the dream machine Tom Cruise whisks Kelly McGillis off on in
Top Gun
. A nice bit of Eighties kit, rideable, more reliable than something really old and a very cool-looking thing all round.

Google Images: Mmm, yes please.

I’ve only ever dealt with two motorcycle shops in my life and even though almost ten years had passed, I remembered how well they both treated me. I think most bike shops are generally this way. I would be doing business with one of them again this time, that much I’d already decided.

‘Hey, Chris, great to see you again,’ said Mark from Haslemere Motorcycles, with the same irrepressible enthusiasm as when we last met a decade ago. ‘Tempted to have another go, are we?’

‘Yes, actually. I was thinking about a
Top Gun
Ninja.’

‘Interesting!’ he replied in the same high-pitch tone Phil the chiropractor had employed when I informed him of my secret plans to take on a marathon.

‘They’re good and exciting and iconic and all that, but they are more hobby bikes than daily commuters.’ Which is garage speak for, ‘You’ll probably spend more time wondering why it won’t start than wondering where to go once it has.’ Of course, I should have
known, it’s exactly the same with old cars. Mine all work – just never all at once.

The upshot of my visit to Mark was the purchase of a glorious 1999, one owner (ex-Lightning pilot), 32,000 miles, Honda VFR800 touring sports bike. More born to be mild than born to be wild, as I later found out. But the point was she looked the part, which is often mostly what it’s about for me. When it comes to anything with wheels, I’m much more an aesthetics man than a power-hungry speed freak.

‘Don’t get me wrong, she has some decent poke,’ said Mark, ‘but she’s not the kind of bike that’s going to throw up any surprises without warning. As always, it’s still about the nut behind the handlebars. She’s as friendly, obedient and reliable as these type of bikes come.’

The next day, Richard Hammond was due on the show to help us launch 500, having very kindly agreed to be our head judge again this year. His third year in a row. A big (little) biker himself, I whispered to him for his opinion.

‘What do you think of a Nineties VFR800?’

‘Ooh,’ he cringed. Then he yawned.

Hang on a minute, here was Richard now doing the same face about the bike I had bought as Mark had done about the Kawasaki Ninja that he’d told me not to buy.

‘Well how about an Eighties Kawasaki Ninja then?’