Banned on the run

I made three resolutions at the beginning of the year.
They were:

1. Never go to the company Christmas party again as it was so dire and the fighting every year was getting boring.
2. Be able to run 3 miles by year end.
3. Get my weight down by 4 kilos by year end.
   

On the basis that you should be careful what you ask for (I've never forgotten the story of "The Monkey's paw") I seem to have achieved the first one though not in the way I was expecting. And there were fights every year at the party, such a tasteful organisation with charming cultured people though clearly none of them ever made the mistake of going to the Christmas party like I did or even turning up for work now I come to think about it.

Run 3 miles. Well I used to claim that at 50 I was as fit as I was at 30 which was technically correct even if in practice this meant that walking to the car park and back was the limit of my fitness programme. Every time I went to see the doctor with some malady he would glower at me and mutter such words as "you're a bit porky Mr EoTP so why don't you get some exercise and save me a lot of NHS paperwork when you are in your 60's and wonder why you need a fork lift truck to move you around?"

Hence resolution 3. See it all fits together like a wellington boot.
So, as we all now know I achieved resolution 1 unaided. Resolution 2 started like this. After coming home from work (what a strangely outmoded concept that now seems) I started going on a determined walk of several miles each evening. This led to thoughts of "I wonder if I could run to the next lamp post?" I couldn't. Well not without a significant loss of face as I gasped for oxygen, then went very red in the face and had to hang on to the lamp post so as not to collapse. Good job this was in January and during the hours of darkness so no one could see how pathetic I was. However I kept on with the regime and by the end of March could run the three miles. No one was more surprised than me and now I felt I could come out of the shadows and run in the daylight. So this is not "Chariots of fire" with the theme tune by Vangelis playing as I run around but it ain't too bad.

Of course this is where it starts to become a consumer buying opportunity. I start seeing other runners and they have watches with timers , blood pressure and heart beat monitors so that you can optimise your exercise heart rate and stay in the "zone" wherever that is - no where near where I live that's for sure. I've still to find it. They wear tight spandex shorts and lycra tops so that their air resistance is minimised and they have the most amazing running shoes so they glide over the road and pavements. In the newsagents you can find specialised running magazines that can sell you even more wonderful performance enhancing equipment. I want these accoutrements. They are necessary for serious running. Of course with limited funds but lots of time I have a dilemma. How can I look like a serious runner and not dress like a footballer from the 1940's with shorts that you could hide several people in each leg and football boots that look like deep sea divers boots. The answer is Tesco (again). For £9 I bought a running shirt, shorts and jog pants that may not be at the cutting edge of fashion, or even in the same country, but they will do. The local sports shop had a sale and I bought cheap running shoes so job done. As for the watch timer thing well I discovered that if I look at the clock as I leave and then again when I return I can work out the time - amazing. If I can't see the clock because of a film of sweat then I must have had a good run. If I'd have been working I would have bought the "correct" equipment and would I have run any better or faster? Of course Mrs EoTP snorted with derision when I declared my need for the serious running equipment - she must get tired with being right all the time.

As for the weight loss, 3 kilos achieved so far with 3 months still to go to the end of the year. By then I will have reached the weight that I said I would never exceed and which became known as the "horror weight". I can't work out how therefore I managed to exceed it by 4 kilos. Must be a gland thing.

There is a sort of camaraderie amongst runners, a nod of recognition, even a cheery "hallo" from most though from me, unless it's about 5 metres from where I've started the run it is more of a croak and exhalation than a word, like a teenager's response to any question. But there is one running item that, when I am declared King of the World, I will instantly ban. And that is the silly little water bottle that women runners for some reason like to have with them. You know they can't be real runners equipment because Tesco don't sell them.