The Next Day

Note to self: Do not skip stretch number 7.

Day...Quite some time later

"Fail to prepare, prepare to fail"

Okay okay, so I cheated a little bit. I had posted day one, roughly, a month and a half ago. Ashamed by my lack of progress I have copied and pasted my last post into a new blog to give the illusion of commitment to the cause.

With the journalistic skills of conviction bestowed upon me, I could easily type away here and convince you, my loyal readership, that I have been training hard during the past six weeks. I however, will not lie to you. I have not. The closest I came to training was missing a bus and strolling a mile down the road. My research extended as far as having cocktails with Super-fit Stephen who ran a marathon one time. He advised me against it.

Now, despite Stephen's wise words I am determined to struggle on. Partly because this blog is now a college assignment and partly because I really really want to go to Paris in spring.

Alexander Graham Bell once said; "Before anything else, preparation is the key to success".

For most people, I suppose this would mean hiring a personal trainer, maybe even popping into the gym every once in a while. Perhaps even just asking a fit friend for advice.

I am not like most people. I do not have the resources to hire a trainer. I do not care for the gym. I do not want to embarrass myself in front of a fit friend. And so, I consult google.

Exhibit A.

In approximately 15 minutes, I will be fully dressed in my jog-wear, in my kitchen ATTEMPTING these stretches. Except number three, because I can't quite figure out which way the arms are actually going. And perhaps not six either because it just looks a bit crude. Oh and definitely not seven because I know for a fact that I actually cannot do that.

Wish me luck. I will need it.

Jogging Playlist Song of The Day: The Lion King - Be Prepared.

Day One

"Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Neighbour's Jog-wear"

I don't know why I expected to open my wardrobe and find state of the art run wear. From the moment I decided that I was capable of running the 2011 Paris Marathon I envisioned myself clad in Nike therma-training whats-its and Adidas vapour-vanishing something or others. I can picture crossing the finish line, perspiring in Paris, tiny perfectly formed beads of sweat running down my (by then) perfectly toned torso. And perhaps the fantasy finish line is so sweet and vivid in my mind that I've managed to forget the work that it may take to get me there.

The decision to run the marathon was made in a split second, partly because it was mentioned by a very handsome Scot, in a very endearing accent. The first thing that sprang to mind was of course the sultry image of me crossing the finish line, sticky and sweaty, yet positively irresistible. The reality is I am your average, unfit student. I think my dog ate my runners in an act of revolt ages ago. I have never watched a marathon let alone run one. It is approximately 6pm on the day I have appointed as Day One in my official Marathon Training regime and I probably should have know it was off to a bad start when I decided to have muller rice for breakfast. Yet, being the bastard child of Monsieur Stubborn and Lady Ignorant, I have decided to indeed train for this wee marathon and in fact, blog my efforts. It must be noted that writing this blog is in no attempt a way to delay the actual exercise part of this challenge. None what so ever.

I have begun my pre-training preparations. Running playlist. Check. Facebook status update about decision to run marathon. Check. Google image Boutique Parisian Hotel to stay in post-marathon. Check. Sleek running gear. No chance. Florescent blue sale Adidas tracksuit bottoms (roughly one inch too short), green University of Michigan hoody, half-chewed runners. Check.

My last attempt at physical activity did not go so well. It was approximately a year ago and I swear I'm still walking with a certain swagger. I went rock climbing. It was a date. Mistake numbero uno.

I sat next to a torso baring soldier on the edge of a quarry in Killiney. The views were some of the greatest I've ever seen of Dublin bay. As i sat there absoring both beautiful sights it occured to me that i could get used to this. There had been no previous spark between I and the soldier but after the 2nd date, who knew? Things felt like they were picking up. Hopeful and trusting in my budding new relationship I got eqipped with a harness, very unflattering but at this stage I felt it was perhaps okay if soldier saw the true me. I attempted to climb A QUARRY. A flat wall of solid rock on a swealtering hot day. I never led soldier to believe i was a successful climber. In fact, I distinctly informed soldier that at times my spaghetti arms lack the strength to opens doors, let alone hoist me up A QUARRY. But alas, like a fool, I tried. Honestly, I got about 3/4 of the way up THE QUARRY and died a little. I couldnt even feel my arms. I fell. I shouted up to soldier that I had enjoyed my experience but felt it was time to absail back down.

I got to the bottom again and walked up to the top of the climb, which in itself is no walk in the park. It took a fair while, wrestling with bushels and twigs and strange foreigners. I finally returned to soldier, bleeding and scratched, red faced and out of breathe but proud that i had climbed three quaters of a quarry. I was becoming a new person, trying things i never before dreamed of, completing goals i never dreamed possible, enjoying dating people with completely different interests. I bid adue to soldier and hobbled back to my car, taking my time as the climb had me walking suspiciously like John Wayne. I climbed a quarry.

I never heard from soldier again.

Things will be better in Paris. This time, I shall be prepared.

Watch this space.

Jogging Playlist song choice of the day: Miley Cyrus - The Climb