I hadn't realised it had been a week exactly since I wrote that last post and so it was a bit bizarre that today I walked to Daphne's house again.
This time, as the weather was a little bit more summery and the neighbours were having all their windows and doors replaced, I did it for real. They started work at 9am and after several hours of putting up with the banging and the swearing and the loud music, the window fitters asked me to stop them all and give them some peace.
So I decided to go for a walk.
I slipped into my still almost new trainers, put my hoodie over my hard rock (London) t-shirt, and with headphones in place and connected to my £1.50 Tesco radio, I was set for the great outdoors.
Old people crossed the road. Gangs of spotty youths parted to let me pass. The neighourhood bobby whispered for backup into his walkie talkie. Yes, I was strutting with some purpose and was taking no prisoners.
For the first 15 minutes I was on a 3 hr marathon schedule and felt great. Every traffic light was in my favour - although I felt I should really get off the road and pound the pavement. I had passed a Skoda though and enjoyed seeing the driver tap his speedometer to make sure he was actually moving. I was a blur. The embodiment of a clean living, non drug taking athlete.
Well ok I take a few drugs - but purely for medicinal purposes. Nothing recreational at all. Oh no.
So what if my pee is blue ? Was good enough for King George the sequel sequel.
But then I hit the barrier. This came as quite a shock to me as over the years I'd watched several London Marathons from the comfort of my armchair and bloody Stuart Storey and his BBC mob were always telling us this infamous barrier was located just past the Cutty Sark and before The Mall. So how the hell did it get to North Leeds ? Someone must've moved it after the race and placed it for unsuspecting walkers like me to smash into just across Street Lane. You know, near the chippie ? Oh come on, just before the traffic lights at Moortown Corner ? Yesssssssssss that's the place.
Bet it was that Brendan Foster geezer. Geordie bastard. I'm going to boycott Flora from now on.
Anyway it was a bit torturous after that and I was glad I only had another 17 minutes to go. Next time I'm going to be more organised and set up a couple of comfort stations along the route. A cooling wet sponge down would've done me a world of good today and I suspect a full body massage would've helped my aching joints. I'll see if Olga would be up for a bit of extra work on a regular basis. Don't think that'll be a problem actually.
Come to think of it, I need to alter my route a little bit to take me right past the chippie as opposed to close to it. If I ring them before I set off, I'm sure they'd hand over a bag of chips and some fish scraps without me needing to break stride. Excellent.
Ohhhhh even better, forget the fish scraps and try a jumbo sausage !! Brill idea. Then we could use the good old 'pass the baton' technique so beloved of British relay runners. Hmmm given our history, we'd better have a few spares handy as we're bound to need several goes at it. I may have to forgo the pickled onion to make up time. Don't want to overdo things.
But that's all in the future and today I soldiered on with no sponge and no food. I feel your admiration already. Thank you.
Just before Daphne's house there is a huge hill, well more like a mountain really. I've no idea how cars and buses can possibly get up it. Weak with hunger and suffering from dry skin, I was in no fit state to take on this geographic monstrosity and my pace slowed to a mere crawl, nay a poor substitute for a mere crawl.
I heard a car horn and glanced to my right so see a grinning Skoda driver give me a single digit salute as he flashed by. Oh the inhumanity.
But did I let that hill beat me, dear reader ? Hell no. I had my cell phone and 10 minutes later the taxi dropped me at the large wall outside Daphne's house where I jogged on the spot for a few minutes to get out of breath again. And so it was that I presented myself at her doorstep, the very picture of a knackered but successful athlete, who was in need of a good cup of tea and maybe a couple of digestive biscuits, chocolate covered if possible.
So having tried both treadmilling and real walking in recent weeks, I can heartily recommend the treadmill method. There are no hills, no Skoda drivers, no bloody barriers and best of all, you're never more than 10 feet from the fridge.
I suspect I may have found the reason for my lack of weight loss.