M T McGuire
The published works of M T McGuire
The difference between intention and delivery. How not to prepare for a charity walk. #girlsnightout
You may remember, a while back, I posted about a charity walk I decided to join in with for our local hospice. It’s a 6 mile walk through and around the centre of Bury St Edmunds, wearing flashing bunny ears and my pyjamas. Obviously I’m a middle aged lardette with completely fucked knees so this, for me, is … a suitable challenge. Indeed, my knees were so shite I cannot actually run, not even, literally, to save my life (well … it was my son’s but that’s another story). Although I can walk quite briskly, and I can ride a bike. However, even so, what I’m saying is, I had clocked that if I wanted to walk 6 miles I should probably do some training but at the same time, I was thinking, it’s only six miles, what can go wrong? Quite a lot of things it turns out.
Time, like gravity, has not been my friend on this one and I suddenly realise that the walk is tonight – as ever is. Waterproofs optional but probably required. Note to self, don’t forget the light up stars umbrella.
And guess how much training I’ve done.
In my defence, it was the summer holidays and I did go for a fair few walks, even if I couldn’t get to the gym, but then I got hit by a galloping dog which is surprisingly painful: similar results to a medium/hard cart horse kick although a friend of a friend ended up with a broken leg so I probably got off lightly. It resulted in an impressive 8″x4″ oblong bruise and some pain. While avoiding full impact with the dog I, unfortunately, did something to my hip. So when I went on holidays, where we were going to do a fair bit of walking, the hip based ‘something’ manifested itself, loudly, through the medium of pain. I grimly gritted my teeth and carried on and the pain got worse. Obviously, because I’m a hypo, I convinced myself that the dog bruise had resulted in dvt. I went to the Doctor when I got home.
Actually, I’ve just pulled a muscle in my hip. So obviously I wasn’t being a drama queen about that or anything.
Never mind, my legs hurt all the time and there aren’t many hills, I thought. Surely I can limp round. So I have rested it all week.
As the crowning glory of my ‘preparation’. Last night, I went to bed early so that at least, if I wasn’t ready, I was fresh.
But unfortunately, I woke up almost immediately and then, in tag team with my son, spent the rest of the night enjoying some vile sweatathon chuck up bug which involved much enthusiastic driving of the porcelain bus. McOther blissfully slept through it all. Indeed at one point, I woke up on the bathmat in the bathroom – because I’d felt too sick to move back to the bed – bathed in sweat, face stuck to said mat with a pool of my own drool, to hear my son calling me. I called out to McOther, but all that did was bring McMini to our bedroom and from there to the ensuite, where he was treated to the joyous sight of his mother shouting ‘Europe!’ down the big white telephone while trying to hold her hair out of the way of the technicolour torrent, while at the same time, avoid getting any on her pyjamas or the lavatory seat.
On the upside, when I’d finished, I felt so much better and at least I could leave the bathroom long enough to take him upstairs and tuck him in, after which, everyone in the house went to sleep in their own beds until morning.
As McMini started his chuckathon a bit earlier than me he was, as he put it, ‘full of beans’ when he woke up while I definitely felt a bit ropey. However, after a very pleasant hour spent with him, sitting in my bed together reading and … well … he’s 8 so I’m afraid he was also comparing the intensity of our farts – his were smellier so he thinks he’s been iller than me … he’s gone to football club. Meanwhile I, I have gone to ground. Even the cat has let me sit here unmolested so I must look grim although I am feeling a little better.
If the walk had been this morning, I confess, I would have been in trouble. As it is, I’m sure I’ll be fine by tonight although I might give the bacon buttie and the pub at the end a miss. Most of these things only last a day or so. But with the Olympics just finished, and the Paralympics in full swing, it did make me realise how hard it must be for real sportsmen and women when they prepare for their events. All those hours spent training, the special diets, the sleep regimen, trying to time it so they achieve peak fitness on that one specific day and then the big event comes and they have a cold, or a period or a sick bug and suddenly their performance is 10 or 20 percent down or they can’t even compete and it’s all been for nothing. It just makes me admire their dedication and discipline even more than I did before because even after that, despite preparing for every eventuality, they are still at the mercy of random factors.
If you want to donate anything to the hospice for my undertaking this moronic exercise, you’re welcome to do so. I have raised £150 so far, most of it off internet, so at least I’ve reached the minimum target. You can find my just giving page here:
My cat has just typed this \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ which is clearly what he thinks of the whole thing and I feel like a gentle snooze with something warm on my stomach so I’m going to follow his example and get some serious rest in.
Posted September 10, 2016 and visited 586 times, 3 so far today