Readers' Postbag

I know you will have been puzzled by the small number of online comments my blog posts have attracted (often significantly fewer than one). But fear not, lovely people, fear not. Because in fact, over the weeks I’ve actually been receiving huge numbers of emails, letters and telegrams from my surprisingly old-fashioned readers. I’ve been saving up these questions for an end of blog special, and I’ve done my best to answer each and every one - from the heart. 

Congratulations - what a time. You must be very proud.
Thank you! I am very proud, though not as proud as you are of me. Not only did I finish the run in a barnstorming time of 3.52 - in extraordinarily harsh conditions, I should add - but I beat the times of world-class celebrities like Steve Coogan, Ed Balls and Arg from Towie. I don’t think people will ever misunderestimate me again.

What you would say was your greatest achievement?
What with the injuries, my asthma and the dog attack, it was touch and go there for a while! But I’d say my greatest achievement was to touch so many lives.

Tell us about the run. I hear the conditions were horrendous
You heard right. Freezing winds, sleep and hail - it couldn’t have been much worse. I’m certainly not one to make exaggerated claims, but it was quite literally a war zone out there. In fact it was so cold I couldn’t get my jelly babies out of my pocket - and no, before you ask, that’s not a euphemism! After the run I didn’t warm up for fully ten or 15 minutes. Much longer and I’d have been a goner for sure.

Hi Sam, love the blog! How come you haven’t updated it since the run?
Thank you so much. It was great to be say ‘OK, I’ve set myself an incredibly tough target, I might not make it but I’ll be doing my damnedest’, and take people with me on that journey. Sadly, since the run I just haven’t had the time to update it, what with juggling a full time job with bringing up three kids. And of course, my Twitter won’t update itself (those who missed my recent ‘songs that you didn’t know were covers’ five tweet series can click here for a recap.)

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun was a cover. My head still can’t get itself around that fact.
I know, right!

You ran a great race, your blog was amazing - and yet you did so well with the fundraising as well.
I know - quite the hat trick! Being able to do something for people less fortunate made me feel very humble - and yet, at the same time, quite special. In fact, discovering that you can do not one, not two, but three different things so well is, in itself, very very humbling.     

How come you didn’t thank me for sponsoring you?
Of course, I really appreciated every donation, but unfortunately I just don’t have the time to thank everyone directly. I'm a lot busier than you are and every bit of spare energy had to go into focusing on the big day. I’m sure you’d all prefer I focused my efforts where they were most needed, rather than wasting my time stroking your egos. And in any case you should have received an automated acknowledgement.

What was your biggest challenge?
Undoubtedly it was being away from my family for long periods while I was training for the run. The marathon claims a big part of us I’m afraid, and that’s something that isn’t easy to deal with. My partner, Kate, likes to joke that I only did it to get away from her and the kids!

Do you have any tips for other people?
Let’s be honest here - not everyone can do what I did. In fact, statistics show less than 1% of the population have the will and sheer ability to run a marathon. You can still achieve a lot though, albeit on a much, much smaller scale. That sponsored walk - that’s your marathon. Helping that old lady across the road - that’s your marathon.

Can we see any pictures of you during the run online?
I’ve been asked this question a lot. I’m afraid the short answer is no. I realise that people want to see me in a tight pair of shorts and a vest top, soaking wet from the rain, clothes clinging to my honed body. Unfortunately I just can’t risk being recognised on the street - I do need to be able to continue with my life with some sort of freedom. So I had to have the photos taken down.

Well reem time in the marathon mate stop much reemer than mine stop oh and your blog was reem as well stop thanks for the mentions stop REEM! stop love Arg from Towie stop
Thanks Arg!

So there we have it...oh hold on, a few more texts and emails are just coming in now...

Hi, didn’t you just use this marathon as an excuse to get out of the house, leaving your partner to struggle with the kids?
Hello, I recognise that number - hi Kate! Yes, this issue of running-life balance is certainly a vexed one. The thing is, what makes we runners tick is impossible for ordinary people to understand, so there’s little point trying to explain.
Hi Daddy, I'd just like to remind you that I exist.
Only 21 months old and already texting, eh! Look, I’m sorry if I haven’t been around as much over the past months. Sadly, an undertaking like this does inevitably mean making some sacrifices. And it breaks my heart, it really does, it rips me in two. But of course, you can always contact me by leaving a comment on my blog, and I’ll do my best to get back to you.

Hi, I make a point of always looking through your emails. I can’t find any from someone called Arg.
Hi again Kate. It’s well known that Arg always communicates by telegram. It’s just the way he rolls.

And those letters are in your own writing.
Ha ha!

If you were training so hard how come your ‘office’ is full of empty beer cans and pizza boxes?
Ha, thanks Kate, it’s always good to bring a bit of humour into what is essentially a very serious topic! Training for a marathon uses thousands of calories a week and sometimes it’s a struggle to take in enough to replace them. There are a lot of schools of thought about the best way to do it - and don’t forget even athletes need to wind down now and again.

Ah, that must why you’ve been visiting those online poker sites. And if you’ve done all this training, how come you’ve actually put on weight?
Hi again Kate. Well, it’s all about distribution, about toning. Muscle is actually much denser than fat. It’s not just about weight - that’s a very crude way of looking at it. I thought I’d explained that to you.

But you don’t look very toned.
Appearances can be deceptive!

How can they?
I’m sorry?

You said appearances can be deceptive, but that makes no sense in this context
Thanks for your messages Kate! Unfortunately we do need to keep things moving on.

We do not appear to have received any sponsorship money from you to date. We should point out that obtaining sponsorship by deception is a very serious offence.
Hi, it’s been fantastic to be a part of such a great cause. I can assure you that you will receive every penny, and more. I just need a few good hands to come my way...        

We’re so sorry you couldn’t take up your place this year. If you would like to register for next year’s...         
OK, we going to have to wrap this up now. Thanks for all your messages, and see you next year!

Arg, Ed Balls and me

On 29 April I will be running the Greater Manchester Marathon to raise money for Sue Ryder. Sponsor me now

Training for a marathon is a solitary, sometimes lonely pursuit: out on the road for up to four hours, only the radio and the occasional heckler for company. Still, that’s the half the reason some of us do it. But as such it’s such a personal, self-centred affair, it’s only interesting to other people for about two seconds. So you want to run the marathon in la-di-da-di-such-a-time? Nobody cares. They might be too polite to tell you so, but they really don’t. If you have a shot at the world record, sure, go ahead, maybe talk about it for a minute or two.

But when it’s taking up so much of our lives, we naturally want to tell people about it. Oh sure, you know that banging on about injuries and times is incredibly dull to anyone who isn’t running - in fact you know it so much that you promise in blogs to never do it, for goodness sake - but in the end you just can’t help yourself. And sometimes, the people that we tell - like, to pick someone out of the air, my girlfriend - make it abundantly clear they have no interest whatsoever in hearing about the latest minor variation in the way you have managed to put one leg in front of the other and could you please shut up so they can watch yet another Scandinavian crime drama that isn’t as good as the last one.

So we have to find another outlet. Luckily, in 2012, much more important than raising money for a good cause is emptying the vacuous, splenetic contents of our minds all over an unwilling internet. Some people haunt the runners’ forums, where members compare times and injuries while barely acknowledging the existence of a world outside running. Others start up blogs, and don’t care if anyone reads them. I did that. And I also felt compelled to closely followed the fortunes of the celebrities running marathons this year - and in particular I began to develop a strange fascination with Ed Balls.

Before taking up with Ed I’d briefly flirted with following someone called ‘Arg From Towie’, who appeared to be greatly exercising the Daily Mail and its online readership. The Mail website is not for those of faint heart, but I did go there readers, and I did go below the line, and now my eyes have seen sights that can never been unseen. There I discovered that Mr Arg had enraged the Mail’s readers by entering the London Marathon with just six weeks to go, while not looking in obviously great shape.

Who does he think he is! Was the cry from those twisted souls who haunt the bottom half of the internet. I wondered that too, but in a different way - I genuinely didn’t know who he was. But still I took a keen interest when Mr Arg took up residence at somewhere called the Number One Marbella Boot Camp, from which he entertained his Twitter followers - yes, now including me - with insightful comments while presumably acting out whimsical detective dramas.

Ed, though. For some reason it was the famously combative shadow chancellor whose progress I was most drawn to following. And because I’d started paying far too much attention, I immediately noticed when that Ed was warned by David Miliband on Twitter not to go ‘too far or too fast’ when running the marathon. This was of course a reference to Mr Balls’s belief in adopting a more measured, less brutal approach to reducing the deficit, and in the world of politics qualifies as quite the zinger. 

It’s a shame, then, that Cameron, Osborne and Clegg weren’t running, because a political analogy would have worked just as well for them. ‘Guys, don’t forget to take over the marathon despite a lack of popular support, implement severe cuts to the marathon on the grounds of ideology rather than efficacy, and leave a stripped down shambles of a marathon run only for the benefit of the most privileged runners!’. Brilliantly done, I’m sure you’ll agree.

As time went on I faithfully read Ed’s marathon diary on the Guardian website. I wryly smiled as Ed claimed to be the first ever top politician to have run the London Marathon, apparently unaware that Thatcher ran in 1983 in a Boy George costume. And more and more I found Ed’s experiences chiming with mine: ‘Don't expect to lose weight. Muscle is heavier than fat – although a little bit of redistribution is no bad thing’, reported Ed, squeezing in yet another tortured political reference. Ed, tell me about it. And come race day he records incurring a nasty knee injury half way around, and pondering pulling out, until ‘thankfully, a lovely guy stopped with some ibuprofen’. This precisely echoes what happened to me in my first attempt at running a marathon last year, ibuprofen and all. Perhaps it was even the same lovely guy. 

On the day, Ed finished in around five and a half hours, narrowly beaten on the line by a rhinoceros and a man carrying a full-size cello who had stopped along the route to serenade spectators. Apparently, though, Ed was so excited to even finish the run that he celebrated by flipping three times. Still, it’s only fair to mention that Ed was running for two charities: Whizz-Kidz and Action for Stammering Children – both of course brilliant causes. Much better than Whizz for Stammering Children, which is an appalling organisation.

All being well, I’ll beat Ed’s time on Sunday - and if things don’t go to plan, perhaps our mysterious painkiller angel will be on hand to save the day once more. I won’t better Ed’s fundraising efforts, not by a long chalk, but if you want to help me squeeze over the £300 mark you can still sponsor me here: And as for our friend Mr Arg: six hours and one minute, which isn’t too bad for someone who hadn’t ever run in his life six weeks ago. Now that is something worth telling people about.

When good exercise goes bad: the surprising hazards of jogging

On 29 April I will be running the Greater Manchester Marathon to raise money for Sue Ryder. Sponsor me now


For a supposedly healthy pastime, running can be a surprisingly hazardous affair. I don’t have the stats to hand, but my experience suggests that if you want to live a long and healthy life, you’d be much better off sticking to the great indoors. Here’s why.

Crippling injuries
For anyone of a certain age undertaking a big run, an injury or two along the way is almost inevitable. Hour upon hour of subjecting your body to the unforgiving impact of hard tarmac is bound to take its toll on knees, ankles and heels; it’s the body’s way of saying ‘stop this right now and sit down and watch that Community box set’. I’m much more prone to injuries these days - probably because I’m too lazy to do any of the right things, like stretches and warm downs. In fact, when I have a long run planned I just swallow a few painkillers to make sure I can go the distance, then spend the next day hobbling around, moaning. I don’t think this is strictly advisable, but it’s for charity, and I’m a hero, so what can I do.

Gruesome accidents
I recently read about something called the ‘pose’ method, which apparently takes all the effort and pain out of running. The idea, as far as I could tell, is that you lean forward, kick your feet up and let gravity do the rest. It sounded easy enough and so, thinking I might have found a short cut to getting fit, I thought I’d give it a go. A little knowledge turned out to be a dangerous thing. The first time passed without incident, and no difference whatsoever to my time. The second time, desperate to see some effect, I leaned over too far. Gravity did indeed do the rest, and I went sprawling onto the pavement in the manner of a kid tumbling in the playground. Among many cuts and scrapes, every layer of skin on on the palm of my hand had rolled up, exposing the chicken fillet flesh of my hand. I wouldn’t say I made a fuss, but little else was spoken of at home for some weeks. Incidentally I was curious to see whether the little lines on my hand would ever come back, especially as I had truncated what palm readers call the ‘life line’ and by rights should have dropped dead there and then. But even if I had, the pose method wouldn’t really have been to blame; without doubt I was doing it wrong. (They did come back.)

Getting abuse from strangers
You’d think in the year 2012 the sight of someone jogging might be commonplace enough not to arouse much interest in the general public. But no, clearly it is not. Because, at least once every two or three weeks, I’m interrupted by some local wit eager to comment, in the coarsest possible terms, on my failings in appearance and character. Over the years I’ve had my sexuality debated in Levenshulme, my athletic prowess questioned in Hyde, and, most recently called an ugly (the worst word) in oh so bohemian Chorlton (though in her defence - and I’d like to apologise for this joke in advance - my mum has promised to tone it down a bit in future). I rarely respond to the insults. My abusers are invariably much harder than I am - that could describe anyone really - and I’m generally too exhausted to run away. Also, there’s also often a carload of them, and just one Guardian readin’, man bag totin’ me. So I do what any real man would do: I pretend I haven’t heard, or I reply so quietly that they can’t actually hear me. Either way, my abusers go away delighted with their work. As for me, I spend the rest of my run fantasising about cutting them down with some well delivered bon mot, only to become frustrated that it was never to be. I arrive home in a terrible sulk, provoke an argument with my girlfriend, get thrown out, lose my job, become homeless, turn to drink and start haranguing idiots in running shorts.

Physical attacks (human and otherwise)
Verbal abuse is one thing, but on occasion running around the streets of Manchester can mean taking your life into your hands. Over the years I’ve had stones thrown at me, litter chucked in my face, and more than once been almost flattened by a car door opening in my path. And then just the other day, running down a canal path that I favour for its usual lack of danger, I was actually attacked by a dog. Much like jeering lads in cars, dogs sense weakness in me, and I seem to unwittingly provoke them into hostility. Normally I make my excuses and get away in good time, but on this occasion the canine in question bounded up and decided to take a nice chunk out of my leg. Fortunately, I was wearing a thick support bandage around my knee, and it was into this that the beast sunk its jaws, meaning my injuries were relatively minor. My girlfriend, who comes from a long line of dog lovers, informed me that the animal had been playful rather than aggressive; I still suspect that she was secretly taking the dog’s side. She also said that since I know nothing about dogs and had no idea what make it was (um, a brown one?), I should have taken a photo so it could be identified in a doggy line-up. Funny, but the last thing on my mind was to run down the path and try to pap the damned thing. After all, the personal intrusion might have pushed it over the edge. Even as it is I could swear it called me an ugly (expletive deleted) as it was running away.

Dangerous weather
If, like me, you live in Manchester, there’s simply no point trying to wait for good weather to go out running, because you’d be waiting forever. This means that I often find myself out on the streets despite every instinct telling me to stay inside. In the worst of winter biting winds cut through layers of clothes to chill you to your bones; joggers stumble on icy streets like deer stranded on a frozen lake. And when the winter finally ends, some time towards the end of May, spring (the rainy season) merges seamlessly into autumn (the other rainy season). Running in the rain can be a desperately dispiriting business, not least because it often leads to a particularly unpleasant form of discomfort. And for those who couldn’t be bothered clicking on that link, I’m talking about BLEEDING NIPPLES.

Given this litany of misfortune, I think you’ll agree it will be an even more astonishing achievement if I make it around the marathon course on the 29 April. I won’t blame you at all if you feel compelled to sponsor me, or if you already have, sponsor me again.

Getting my excuses in early

On 29 April I will be running the Greater Manchester Marathon to raise money for Sue Ryder. Sponsor me now

OK. So. The good news is I’m still running. That four hour target, though, still seems hopelessly optimistic. Here are some reasons why.

1. As I pointed out before, I’m really not much of a runner. It’s not entirely a fault of character. My asthma means that if I attempt anything more strenuous than a pensioner’s jog, I tend to start wheezing and coughing, and if I go any faster than five miles an hour I risk self-destruction, very much like that milk float in Father Ted. And this, my friends, cruelly limits my potential to set world records. 

2. Plus doesn’t everything hurt when you get to our age? Just lately the mere act of standing up causes creaks and aches and weird popping noises. It hurts when I get up in the morning and it hurts when I bend down to tie my shoelaces. But when I go for a  run, when I shake that body, work it, stretch it  and move it...then damn, it really hurts. In fact, I worry that I might be doing myself a right mischief.

3. And I thought all this running about would mean I could eat what I like and still lose weight. Yep, that totes causes what nutritionists call being ‘fat on the inside’. But who cares, right - because it’s on the inside! It’s like I always tell my girlfriend, it’s not mess any more if I pile it up in a drawer where nobody can see it. Anyway, it’s not working - so far I’ve put on two pounds. Perhaps I’m getting too old for all this. Maybe I should just face up to it, and go and lie down with a whisky and the crossword. In an ideal world you could get sponsored for that.

4. Another excuse (you’ll notice I’m cramming in as many as I can) is that our typically hectic family life means opportunities to train can be quite limited. What with all these children running around screaming, the house teetering on the verge of anarchy - we lost a couple of rooms there for a while - and, um, messy drawers that need sorting out, absences have to be very carefully negotiated or issues will arise. In fact just the other day I got back from a run, exhausted, to be handed a screaming infant and a resentful look. I’m sure Steve Ovett used to get flowers. 

5. And if you're going to suggest that I get up before everyone else to go running: no. Just no.

Fail better

On 29 April I will be running the Greater Manchester Marathon to raise money for Sue Ryder. Sponsor me now!


Sometimes you wonder exactly how it was you came to be somewhere. So it was one Sunday morning last July, when I found myself halfway up a hill in the Lake District, sprawled on the ground in agony, watching the legs of hundreds of super fit, lycra-clad marathon runners go by. In theory we were part of the same event. But under-prepared, under-hydrated and now under their feet, I realised I had no place among these people.

I can’t remember why a Lake District marathon ever seemed a good idea in the first place. I think I had this idea that the magnificence of the scenery would somehow offset the unpleasantness of running up mountains. Well, it didn’t. The first few miles weren’t so bad, but as the climbs began to get fiercer, my nervous system starting asking my knees some pointed questions. My knees - never ones to take criticism lying down - argued back. A couple of miles later, there was a major falling out. From that point on I couldn’t walk, let alone run.

I finally limped home around two hours outside my target time. The crowds of cheering supporters were long gone, the last of the catering vans slowly driving off into the distance. I think perhaps one or two curious sheep were there to watch me stagger over the fading mark in the ground where the finishing line had been. Still, I learned a lot about myself that day. For one, I learned I that I am not a very good runner.

So why, a year later, am I doing it all again? It’s not like I’m going to set the world of athletics on fire - shuffling along wheezily in my baggy old tracksuit, hobnob crumbling in my pocket, Radio 4 babbling away benignly in my battered old earphones. In fact, when I see bright young things striding down the street in their shiny tight gear, guzzling energy drinks and listening to Skrillex, I don’t see kindred spirits, I see an alien species. And when I see people like this guy I feel deeply impressed, and envious, but mainly I just feel exhausted.

No, the best I can hope for is to fail better. But the cold fact is, somehow I need to get fit enough to run 26 miles by 29 April. Madness - particularly as the only way to do it is to go outside, where it’s freezing. At the moment I can just about manage eight or nine miles before collapsing on my doorstep in a dishevelled heap. This makes my target time of four hours – unremarkable to most marathon runners – rather ambitious. Improbable, even. In just two months I have to somehow run three times further than I can manage now, at a much faster pace. I think my best hope may be to bring in a stunt double. Cheat. Cheat better.

I’ve tried to give myself a chance this time, so I’ve entered the Greater Manchester Marathon. In stark contrast to the Lake District, it takes place across the borough of Trafford, which makes Holland look like Nepal. In fact it promises to be quite the dullest, most featureless route imaginable. All I can say is that it better live up to that promise. What’s more it starts and finishes in my local park, so there’s at least a chance of making it in for work on time the next day. If it was a couple of streets further away I may not have bothered, to be honest.

So what’s it all for? I’m really not sure. The health benefits are highly questionable, at least the way I do it. And my girlfriend certainly can’t see much good in my disappearing for hours on end, leaving her to cope with our young family. Some good has to come of it all, though, so I’m asking people to sponsor me for the charity I work for, Sue Ryder. I’m not going to set a financial target for myself. My role in the organisation is to raise money for our projects, so I have quite enough of fundraising targets with the day job, thank you very much. But to make it interesting I’m willing to undergo a forfeit if I don’t achieve my target time. I’m open to suggestions about what it should be. Perhaps I should pay back all my sponsors from my own money. Maybe I could get a tattoo of Lady Sue Ryder. Any ideas, let me know.

I’ll be talking a bit about Sue Ryder in each post – about some of ways we help people and why you should support this great charity. Mostly, though, I’ll be using this as an excuse to bang on about myself and anything inconsequential that enters my mind. So perhaps I’ll talk about what it’s like working from home, things I think about when I’m running, the joys of running around South Manchester, or about how marathons can tear a happy family apart. I’ll try to stay vaguely on topic. But the one thing I’m not going to bore you with is the ins and outs of my training plan - partly because it’s boring but mostly because I don’t have one. Yep, still. Hmm, I think maybe I should check out those running websites...

Fitness: 3
Confidence: 4
Fundraising: 0
Days to go: 68
Chance of hitting target: 24%

While I was running I listened to: Django Django by Django Django. The insistent, urgent rhythms of these insidious songs seemed to almost physically propel me forward, making this album an ideal jogging soundtrack (though I suggest anyone who wants to write about it should copy and paste the word Django to save themselves time).