Monday, 4 April 2022
Manchester Marathon 2022
Tuesday, 23 November 2021
Conwy Half Marathon 2021
Thursday, 27 May 2021
Marathon Day… Brathay Windermere Marathon, 23.5.21
The idea of running a marathon randomly popped into my head during the January lockdown after a long run round the Meltham Way with Rach. It seemed a pretty safe bet on several counts, as the race I fancied doing looked unlikely to go ahead even if my body managed to last through the training schedule. So it felt like a safe bit of purposeful winter training with just a vague aspiration towards a race at the end of it.
I had a look online for training plans, having previously failed with a diy attempt in 2015, and settled on a Runner’s World ‘intermediate’ plan. Although I hadn’t run further than 17 miles in a race before, the ‘beginners’ schedule, aimed at novices trying to get round the course, seemed a bit easy. The ‘intermediate’ was a step up in seriousness, with hill and sprint training mixed in amongst ever lengthening mileage. The first triumph, therefore, was completing the training plan without too many hitches. Rach gradually came on board, initially coming out for the weekend ‘long runs’ then eventually entering the race as she was training for it. In total, I covered 621 miles between the end of January and race day, which equals a year’s worth of ‘normal’ running and racing, covering an ‘eventful’ little spell in life and giving me a nice sense of structure and purpose. And completing the final training run on schedule the day before race day felt pretty brilliant. Mission accomplished!
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| Training... done! |
Everything seemed to fall into place with the race, as changes in Government rules meant that the proposed date of 23 May began to look more viable, and by mid-April, the Brathay Trust nailed their colours to the mast and the race was on. Their optimistic date turned out to be the first Sunday it could go ahead. The stars had lined up.
No one told the weather about this, and Cumbria duly produced one of those gruesome late spring days that usually leaves you sheltering in a pub in sopping walking gear. As we drove down to the start at Brathay, the heavens opened with that bouncing rain, and more was forecast throughout the day. Our first 12 miles included a start in a monsoon wearing coats, which slacked away to drizzle (coats removed on the hoof), an intense hail storm and several short and sharp downpours, which seemed to last about as long as it took to think ‘I’m going to have to get my coat back out of the bag’. I had been looking forward to finally enjoying a long run without my little rucksack, but the weather scuppered that. The extra layer seemed a sensible precaution against possible hypothermia. The first half was grim, weather wise.
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| Coats off |
The marathon started in a socially distanced way, with groups of 40 heading off at 5 minute time intervals over the course of 2 hours. I booked the same start time with Rach, and we headed off with the intention of running the first 15 miles together at a steady pace and then seeing how the latter part of the race went. It was a nice social chatty pace, talking to other runners as we went, and the staggered start meant the road was nice and empty, either overtaking slower runners (including a bloke dressed as a rhino) or being burned off by gangly youths. We settled down into a strung out group with a lady in bright leggings, another from Clowne RC and a couple of blokes who we kept swapping positions with.
Just after the turn at Newby Bridge, I took advantage of an open field gate and stepped out for a wee, returning to find Rach almost out of sight up the road. It took a good mile to reel her back in, and as I caught her, she told me to keep going, so I left her behind. The course at this point was seriously ‘undulating’, with lots of steep hills heading up towards Bowness. It was hard going, plodding and noting the mile markers as they came up. 16… 17… Soon, we spat out into Bowness through a large crowd of cheering people, at which point Rach reappeared alongside. As we snaked through the back streets in town, I seemed to lose her again. Ah well. I was beginning to think we’d make it round together.
All the way round the course, the support from folks in hi-viz vests and members of the public was fantastic. I haven’t raced since early 2020, and had rather forgotten what it was like to be randomly cheered, applauded, encouraged and ribbed by members of the public. It was almost overwhelming at points and I felt a bit choked up by it all.
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| Pretending to run up the massive hill at 20 miles |
On the second part of the course, the quicker runners began to pile past. The organisers had encouraged them to start later, so with some regularity a tall angular youth would come steaming past, typically sporting a pair of those hyper-expensive cheaty Nike shoes. It was my first sight of these being used in anger, and they seemed the default shoe for the speedy lads. They looked terrible though, producing a strange rocking gait with the ankles turning in. Yep mate, your form is shit, I thought as another 6 foot 4 bloke hurtled past in his £250 shoes. They also produced a slight odd ‘flapping’ noise, as if the runner was wearing flippers. I think I’m probably not quick enough over this distance for there to by any point in getting some, but if I start to push my 10k time again, then… maybe. Marginal gains and whatnot.
The route turned out onto the main road to Ambleside and was mainly downhill now, so it was just a case of digging in, emptying the head of extraneous thoughts and running. Every time another ‘it’s only 4 more miles and that’s the same as…’ thought cropped up, it was parked again. Run. Focus. Form. Pick your sodding legs up. I managed to do the whole thing with a pretty empty head, which made it rather easier, I guess. I’m not running another one with a busy mind as an experiment, though.
I was looking forward to turning into Ambleside, as Kath was marshalling at the 25 mile marker. As I approached her spot, glory be, Rach came alongside and then overtook as I stopped to give Kath a kiss. It then seemed that I couldn’t reel her back in over the final mile, but once turning onto Brathay, there was a very steep climb up to the finish, just over the brow of a hill, and she was reduced to a walk, so I managed to haul myself back on terms and we crossed the line together, holding hands. This was pretty much by accident, but as our training was so similar, I guess we were likely to finish near each other. But it was fitting to cross the line together.
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| Finishing together... the happiest of accidents |
The time was rapidly texted to our phones, revealing that we had run an identical 4 hours 14 minutes and 9 seconds. This is of course above the desirable ‘4 hour’ mark and therefore counts as slow on paper, but given the course and the continual undulations and brutal hills at mile 7 and mile 20, it’s not as bad as it first looks. In total, there is 1,900 foot of ascent on the course, so it was never going to be a quick blast. A subsequent study of the seasoned marathon runners who finished around us on ‘RunBritain’ (I know, what a saddo!) showed them to be all running around the 3:45 mark and it felt like we would have gone about half an hour faster on the flat. I’m in no particular hurry to test the hypothesis, though. And Rach incidentally bested her marathon pb by some 20 minutes compared to the flat of Chester. All that training!
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| Rather brutal, but beautiful |
Non-runners often ask about how my knees are, as ‘running knackers your knees’ seems to be a popular (but erroneous) myth. The knees are indeed fine, but the ankle I twisted playing football in the 1980’s grumbles once a run goes into double figures, while a sore shin on the opposite leg began to bother me in the last week or so before the race. Both will settle down with a bit of a rest.
Moving forward, the ‘never again’ feeling is already fading and being replaced with a ‘what would my flat time be’? I really enjoyed the training, so maybe next winter, I’ll be back on the TPT… or maybe not.
Finally, thanks to my sponsors who raised over £500 which will provide urgently needed medical treatment in Nepal. Cheers everyone!
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
Lichfield Half Marathon race report
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| Everyone had to stop running again 20 yards later! |
I decided to enter this race at the back end of 2013, as my
running was going pretty well and I wanted an achievable target to work
towards. In addition, my mother-in-law lives in Lichfield and we have a few
friends down that neck of the woods. Also the course seemed fairly flat to me,
though described as ‘undulating’, mainly because they are all softies down
there! Undulating in Staffordshire is otherwise known as ‘flat’ in the West
Riding…
Anyway, the training went well over the winter, and the week
of the race arrived in typical pre-run fashion with a host of imaginary
ailments taking hold. My throat is sore, have I got a cold? No. My knees are
aching, maybe my legs are shot, etc etc. The run up was also my first real
experience of proper ‘tapering’, when you dramatically scale back the intensity
and length of training runs. So dropping from running 12 miles, to 9, then a mere 3, left me
feeling rather twitchy and irritable. Sorry, everyone!
On the day before the race, we headed to Lichfield via my
sister’s in Derby & ended up laying on a grass bank clutching plastic beer
glasses under a blue sky, watching cricket at Darley Abbey. It is hard to
describe how idyllically magical this was, and it was rather a shame to head
off to Lichfield, rather than spending the rest of the day (and night) at the
Abbey.
Race day dawned with the customary early rise and into the
meticulously laid out race kit, before strolling across the city (a miniature
city, incidentally, but with an absolutely massive Cathedral) with Kath &
Marcus to the start. First priority was to join the massive queue for the
portaloos, and as runners are a terribly friendly bunch, I had a good chat with
the fella in front of me, who was a Wolves fan. I think it is safe to say that
Roger Johnson & Jamie O’Hara aren’t the most popular footballers in the
Black Country at the moment.
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| Nipple plasters applied... |
As we milled around waiting for the start time, looking at
the many splendoured wonders of club running vests (Birchfield Harriers a
personal favourite), a chap wandered past & gave Marcus a leaflet, which
turned out to be raising awareness about testicular cancer. In view of my
previous history in this area (scroll down if you fancy a long read) I chased
after him, compared ailments and told him to keep up the good work. Subsequently,
I was chuffed to find this on Twitter;
So, be nice to people and encourage them, please! The odd
pleasant word can go a long way.
Anyway, race time arrived, I managed to avoid having to
participate in the ghastly dance warm up thing where someone shouts “BEND!
STRETCH!...” whilst you do embarrassed, shuffling Dad-dancing, and headed
towards the start line, which was down a narrow school driveway. More chatter
& “good lucks” with assorted people (largely of the middle aged variety), a
word about some races – the Barcelona Marathon is “hot” apparently, and then it
was time to go….
We slowly shuffled under the starting arch, briefly started
running then jammed to an immediate half as the drive kinked around and narrowed, causing a bit of bumping
into each other and many ‘sorrys’. The whole field seemed to then settle into a
bizarre, exaggerated running on the spot motion, rocking from side to side as
we shuffled for the gateway. Of course, once out on the road, it was nice to
finally open up and run properly, through a closed major junction and off down
an ‘A’ road. There is something deeply satisfying about seeing traffic stopped
for hundreds of people in the road, and it was good to get the legs spinning to
banish all those imaginary ailments. After about half a mile, I had a quick
look at my GPS watch to see how my pace was coming along. The aim was to run at
8 minute mile pace, which is the threshold speed for ‘proper’ running, and was
hoping to get round the 13.1 mile route in somewhere around 1 hour 45 minutes.
So it was something of a shock to glance at my watch and see my pace coming up
as ‘6 minute .. mile’. Starting too fast is a really common pitfall in a distance
running, so I tried to slow down a bit and settle into a steadier pace.
Shortly, we reached the only major ‘hill’ (in a
Staffordshire sense) up the road to Whittington, which settled the field down
nicely, with some keener starters plummeting back through the field, and the
rest of us settling into little groups. I had my first nice chat with a bloke
here, and he remained narrowly ahead of me until around the 8 mile mark. It is
nice to have someone to follow, and in an ideal world, it is a shapely female
(sorry, but it just is), but white t-shirt bloke made a good pace marker. Soon
we passed the barracks for the Staffordshire Regiment (“Kingsmen? Troopers?”
Not sure…) before turning downhill and heading into the Staffordshire
countryside. My pace seemed to be consistently below 8 minute mile speed, but I
decided to just flow with it, see what happened and follow the white t-shirt
man.
As we approached the village of Whittington, a couple of blokes in front
made a bit of a play to get out an energy gel each, which reminded me to do the
same. Energy gels are a revolting flavoured paste that have rather
transformed the experience of distance running, or any other endurance sport,
for that matter, as they almost instantly deliver a cargo of 300 calories or
more in an easily digestible form, which heads directly to your muscles.
The effect is miraculous, and reminds me of this clip from Pulp Fiction;
The only problem with them is that they taste nasty, rather
like kids toothpaste, so I had a little laugh with the two blokes about what
flavours they had. Apparently, whilst I had gone for ‘disgusting’, they had
gone for ‘revolting’ and ‘vile’. We then passed a water station & collected
squeezy bottles of water, had a quick sip, a quick splosh on the head (the sun
was well and truly out by now), then chucked them into a vast pile of
semi-drunk bottles mixed with discarded energy gel sachets. I suppose that it is just as well that they taste horrible, otherwise humanity could stop eating food altogether & just have the occasional gel...
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| "Alas, vomit flavoured..." |
There isn’t really much more to say about the run; I
maintained my pace, the organisation, stewarding and support on the course was
good (special mention to the children who put out a trestle table with cups of
water), I chatted to assorted other people around me – it seems impolite not to
ask when someone is wearing a ‘Running in Memory of…’ t-shirt, as well as
midlife crises and carbon fibre bikes with one of the gel blokes (the other one
appearing to have blown a gasket). I also resisted various offers to join
athletics clubs in the Midlands or go triathlon training in Birmingham. Runners
really are a sociable bunch with a shared set of common values, and it was
lovely to be out in such company. The miles kept disappearing, my pace kept up
and soon we arrived back in Lichfield. I tried to work out what my likely
finishing time was going to be throughout the race, and began to suspect that a
really fast last mile at ‘Parkrun speed’ would take me under 1 hour 40, but my
legs seemed rather reluctant to pick up the pace as we approached the last
mile.
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| Ron Hill tribute running past Marcus on the final stretch. |
As I wrote earlier, it is a very small city indeed, suddenly
you turn out of a country land into a housing estate and over the railway line.
A couple of stewards were giving out sponges here, so I mopped myself down and
then tried to pick up the pace. This was slightly impeded by a subway, with the
up, down then up again knocking me off my stride a bit. Then down Brownsfield
Road, pat Kath & the boys at the ginnel, past Glyn in his garden, round the
roundabout and over a bumpy grass field to the finish, stopping my watch in
1.40.48 (the official timing took 3 seconds off that). This was a far better
time than I imagined I could do, and would translate into a 3 hour 30 minute
marathon, which does beg an obvious question… to which the answer is no, I have
no intention of giving that a go. It is just too much training.
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| A scenic place to end a race |
Overall, it was a great day out, capped off by several hours
in the Kings Head drinking Pedigree, which was probably a sub-optimal thing to
do, but was great fun. Thanks to all who sponsored me, anyone still wishing to
do so can visit;
And here are my remarkably even, and even more remarkably boring, splits:
Thursday, 6 February 2014
Running in the 80’s
Thinking about the Almondbury 10k in 1989 got me taking a
nostalgic trip through my memories of running in the 1980’s… I used to run ‘on
and off’ from around the age of 18, in a fairly haphazard fashion, but as the
decade wore on, I started to do it more consistently, and by 1989 I must have
been running about 80 miles a week. Some things have really changed since then,
and other haven’t….
- Shoes fit properly now…
Thinking back, the equipment was absolutely rubbish – my
first pair of ‘proper’ running shoes were grey ‘Hi Tech’ ones acquired in 1984
for the massive sum of 34 quid. As well
as running in them, they would also go to the pub, in the sea, get slopped in
beer and worse... Not terribly clever in retrospect!
These were succeeded by some Reeboks,
…these
absolutely sucked, they looked quite nice but just didn’t suit my running
style.
Then I acquired my all time favourites, Nike Air Windrunners
that I wore out in less than a year, and instantly upped my speed by some 30
seconds per mile, then followed by another pair of the same that weren't as
good. The design seemed to have changed in subtly annoying way. I kept hoping that they would reintroduce the old version and I could buy 15 pairs.
I suppose the point is that I just went to a sports shop,
asked for a size 8 pair of running shoes and coughed up the money. Sometimes they
fitted brilliantly and suited your running style, sometimes they didn’t. But it
was all a bit random…
Obviously, it is a
more involved task these days, with a trip to the shop featuring a run on the
treadmill whilst having your lower leg filmed to assess how your foot is
striking and accordingly if you need stability, neutral or barefoot type shoes.
It is quite interesting to watch your lower leg running in slow motion – it
looks terribly painful, as though your foot is about to fall off and your leg
snap. The strain that your legs seem to be under in slow motion is just plain bizarre to look at.
The implausibly skinny and athletic chap who works in every running shop
then disappears off into the back room and reappears with a huge assortment of
the ‘right’ sort of shoes (currently neutral, trying to strike nice & flat
since reading ‘Running with the Kenyans’) which you try on for about 20
minutes, before settling on your current make, because they feel the same… so another pair of Sauconys, another hundred odd quid!
Monday, 3 February 2014
Dewsbury 10k 2/02/2014
I felt as bad as I looked!
I decided to enter this immediately after running in the
Abbey Dash in November, as it was described as ‘flat’ and ‘having PB potential’.
While the former is undoubtedly true, the latter is rather more open to
question – my PB is resolutely stuck at 42.30 from the 1989 Almondbury 10, when
I was running 6 times a week and had recently returned from a holiday at
altitude in Nepal. Even with that kind
of preparation, I still managed to make a complete hash of it, missing the
start with mate Mark ‘because the bus was late’ and setting off in pursuit of
the field without a warm up at a blistering pace – I remember going through the
first mile marker (old fashioned 10k in Imperial!) in 5.15 minutes, then
slowing slightly to just below 6 for the next mile, at which point the route
slanted uphill I we caught up with the first two runners from the official
start, who were dressed as a pantomime horse… The effort got to me and I had to
stop by the side of the road, and the pantomime horse overtook me. I did manage
to get it back together and finish in what I regarded as a slightly embarrassing
time to 42.30, which I guess is destined to remain my PB for evermore, unless my
48 year old self suddenly becomes rocket powered.
Anyway, I digress (as per usual…). I ran the Abbey Dash in
46 minutes odd, and was entertaining vague hopes of pushing my time just under 45 minutes this time out.
The run up to a race seems to be one where I start to feel slightly ill (the
Abbey Dash was the same…) & listless, with endless scrutiny of the weather
forecast, imagined colds starting and poor sleep. Saturday night was blowing a
gale to the extent that I was woken up in the middle of the night, but Sunday
dawned bright, sunny and not too blowy, with a chill in the air and the
overnight rain glistening on the road. So about as good as you could ask for on
the first Sunday in February…
So the usual routine – synthetic clothing on, race number
affixed, variety of energy potions consumed (probably for psychological reasons
as much as for needing the fuel) and upbeat music in the car en route to
Dewsbury.
Parking turned out to be dead easy, with a giant car park (complete
with the grottiest Portaloo in the civilised world) adjacent to the start.
There was the usual milling around & stretching, mixed with chatting to
random other runners. It was a really friendly crowd, and I chatted to a bunch
of venerable ladies from Wetherby, where I was born, who encouraged me to run
their 10k in August… It seemed a much more ‘runner’ crowd than the Abbey Dash, which
is a giant charity jamboree with more than 10,000 runners – inspiring to see
the road totally filled in both directions with so many runners, but also a
hazard as you are constantly impeded by slow-coaches starting too far forward
in the field.
Anyway, the event director did a fabulous tribute to the
late, great Norman Collier with his malfunctioning loud hailer, then we were
off, on a flat out and back course, rather like the Abbey Dash, but with
Poundland in Batley as the turning point, instead of Kirkstall Abbey. Hey ho.
It isn’t the most scenic run, but it is very well organised , with good
marshalls & a smattering of locals, notably one house blaring the Village
People out of their window & encouraging the runners to do ‘YMCA’!
As for the run, the less said the better. I had changed my
Garmin watch onto metric and was looking to run each km in around 4.30, and got
off to a faster start than this, before dropping off a little approaching the
half way turn. As per usual, the dilemma between being too cold at the start or
too warm in the race worked out wrongly, as I overheated in a thermal top and
gloves… I could at least take off the gloves & unzip the top fully.
Anyway, the turn for home took us into a slight headwind and
the sun shining off the road surface, so I was squinting too much to appreciate
the scenery, though I doubt there is any to see! I recited a rather pathetic
mantra to myself (‘pain is temporary, disappointment is permanent’ – WTF? It’s
the sort of think Gareth Cheeseman would say. Subconscious, you are a complete
arse sometimes) & kept running as hard as I could. A quick look at the watch at the 8k marker seemed
to show that I was on course, then it was just a case of running as hard as I
could. Keep the knees up. Strike feet properly. Forefoot not heel. ‘Pain is
temp… You’re a TIGER! GRR!’
Round the sharp corner, run hard for the finish and stop the
watch… 44 YES!... 17 J
Unbelievable.
Filter through the finish funnel, collect water & a
rather nice orange t-shirt, then time for an emergency sit down, followed by a
light stretch.
I was chuffed as anything to get under 45 minutes, which was
a target I was kind of aspiring to, rather than thinking I would actively push
through, and now I’m thinking… hmmm… maybe I can really get my act together and
have a good crack at beating my 23 year old self. That would be something…
Meanwhile, one of the lady veterans I talked to from
Wetherby went round in 38 minutes… Respect.
And just to prove I did it, here's the GPS track....
Sunday, 3 November 2013
BaldieRobba's Movember Tale
This is a tale from the last Century, recounted to encourage any men reading to be aware of the importance of checking their knackers, and getting down to the Doctors if anything seems wrong....
If you enjoy reading it, please fell free to donate to my Movember page at
http://uk.movember.com/mospace/1330818
The first Saturday of November, 1999…
…was a beautiful morning. I was due to go and play for the
Netterriers at Stockport in the morning, then watch Town in the afternoon, and
the boys were happily occupied watching a video. Meanwhile, me & Kath were
lying in bed having a cup of tea, and I was doing the standard man thing of
readjusting my ahem, nether regions when I felt something funny. I had a
further fumble, and yes, it seemed that my left testicle was, well, actually,…
it was huge. Looking back, I have the memory of thinking that it seemed to fill
up pretty much all of what Russell Brand would describe as my ‘ball bag.’ Hmmm,
how to broach this one? ‘Kath, do you just want to have a feel at…’ Once we’d
got past the predictable bit, she had a quick inspection & agreed that
everything didn’t seem to be right. Better go to the doctors then, but of
course, Stockport first.
My memory of this game is that it was a sunny and blustery
day at a school somewhere in Stockport. They were a top set of lads who were quite
closely matched with us, in terms of ability, but boasted a giant centre
forward called Tony, who was about 7 feet tall. I usually got the job of trying
to mark him a set-pieces. He always seemed to outjump me, for some reason.
Anyway, it was a close game, with the wind playing havoc, especially at
corners. From the left hand side of the pitch, the ball would suddenly stall in
the box when the wind stopped it, and I placed myself, unmarked, in this spot
for the first 2 attacking corners. Both dropped onto my right foot on the
volley and I blasted both at the top left corner. Rather annoyingly,
Stockport’s goalie clawed both out, and my record of not scoring at the right
end since 1978 continued. Eventually, after a tight game with the scores at
1-1, they sneaked a goal, and then added a third as we chased the game. In the
showers afterwards, … oh yeah, my giant bollock, must do something about that.
But first, off to watch Town, who were top of the table and flying towards the
Premier League, destroy Swindon. 4-0, I think.
When I got home that evening, turns out that Kath had
managed to get hold of the Doctor, explained what was what, and made an urgent
appointment for Monday morning. Cheers, dear, nice one, I would’ve got round to
it, honestly. Eventually. Probably.
Monday morning, at the Doctors.
Dr Sharman is a nice bloke, and once I had outlined the
problem, he said something like, oh, don’t worry, testicles come in all shapes
and sizes, there’s probably nothing wrong at all, but I suppose I’d better take
a quick look… Up onto the bed, kecks down doc putting on rubber gloves and then
fumbling around. And then saying, ‘I know I said they come in all sorts of
shapes and sizes, but not that size and not that shape. There’s something wrong
with that.’
Trousers back on, and he tells me to sit down, and says he’s
going to ring the hospital right away, and that I was to sit there until he’d
made an appointment, and hopefully they’d be able see me straight away. And
that I wasn’t to think the worst but it needed seeing to…
I suppose, in the back of your mind, you always play out the
worst case scenario for any problem, and it never turns out so bad, but this
was starting to look a bit worrying.
Once the doctor had got through to the hospital, it turned
out that I had just missed the weekly clinic, and an appointment was made for
the following Monday. Mild panic then ensued…
The following Monday…
Huddersfield Royal Infirmary was built in the late 1950’s
and I presume the architect wanted to make it look all modern and futuristic.
Therefore, he decided to build it out of highly modern concrete, and to a
utilitarian plan, along the lines of stacking up a series of shoe boxes on top
of each other. The intervening years have not been kind to this style of
architecture – the concrete goes a strange mashed-potato gone rotten
appearance, and wandering around dull corridors with no natural lighting never
does much for the mood.
Anyway, I digress, it’s the following Monday, and I’m here
for Dr Upsdell, the urology consultant’s clinic. Into the hospital, turn left,
through the canteen, turn left again, down one of the long corridors, turn
right, and oh, there’s a bog, may as well have a quick wee, don’t know how long
this will take. Then on to the reception to give my name in, at which point the
nurse produces a sample jar and asks me to fill it up. Ho hum, maybe the wee
was a bad idea. And in any case, what do hospitals actually do with all the wee
that they collect? I can’t imagine that there is any testicular tumour in my
piddle, maybe they just pour it all into the back of the tea machine… Anyhow,
the ‘reserve tank’ comes to my rescue, and I am able to provide a fresh draught
for the cafeteria. Then, I’m directed to wait. The rest of the patients are all
at least 70, and seem to be the ilk of Gentlemen who drive very slowly in Mini
Metros whilst wearing flat caps. And the wives, when present appear to be the
type of ladies who wear long sky-blue coats when wheeling shopping trolleys
slowly around town. After a good while, we are all directed to cubicles, four
on each side of the corridor, which are basically curtained enclosures with a
bed and a chair in them. I sit on the chair and wait. Talking then starts in
the cubicle opposite, where a Doctor appears and proceeds to talk to the old
chap. Obviously, I can see nothing, but you can hear everything that is going
on. And what is going on is that the old fella is having his prostate examined.
I shan’t go into the details of how this is done, you may get the idea later in
the tale if you don’t already know. So the Doctor, who is possibly Egyptian
works along the cubicles, checking prostates as he goes (‘Honey, what did you
do at work today?’ ‘Same old, same old Dahling, shoved my finger up lots of old
men’s bumholes.’ ‘Marmite sandwich?’ ‘Ooh, yummy!’)
Eventually, he finally gets to the cubicle next to mine,
where the old chap clearly has dementia, and his wife is trying to keep him
calm. The doctor tells him to drop his trousers and bend over ‘WHY?’ ‘Don’t worry
Harold, just do what the doctor says’ in soothing voice. Followed by a confused
bellow from John Terry’s Granddad of ‘What are you doing? Get your finger out
of there you dirty P*ki b*stard.’ Some conversations, you just do not want to
be ever privy to, I wish I’d taken my Walkman to avoid hearing all of this… But
it was also funny in a slightly horrifying way. Which sort of sums up dementia,
vaguely.
After some while, the doctor, looking a bit flustered,
appears through my curtains, and put on a fresh pair of gloves. Good, at least
he changes his gloves. He wasn’t Dr Upsdell, he was the, err, registrar? House
officer? Underling proctologist? Anyway, it’s the usual routine of dropping
kecks, being fumbled with, err, umm, not sure… He says that it looks OK to him,
but in view of the referral and concern expressed, he needs to refer me for an
ultrasound examination as soon as possible… So not really any nearer finding
out what’s going on.
At the X-Ray department.
Another week passes (urgent treatment, NHS style) before I
am back at the HRI in the x-ray and radiography department, downstairs into the
bowels of the concrete shoe box, turn right then left… It is a familiar haunt
from when Kath was pregnant with the boys. We came here when she was 20 weeks
gone with Marcus, full of excitement, then two weeks later were back again, as
they weren’t happy about something, then back every couple of weeks as they got
increasingly worried about stuff, up to the point when he arrived with 31 weeks
gone. Once pregnant again with Nathan, they took no chances at all – Kath was
back all the time for more and more ultrasound scans, and we even stopped
getting the little polaroids they sell you in the end, we were getting
cupboards full…
So I know where to find the ultrasound corridor, and am
directed to a side room, told to change and put on a hospital robe – the first
time I wore one of these, when I had my wisdom teeth out, I made the faux pas
of putting it on the wrong way round, gaping at the front and just about
covering my bum. So at least I’m sitting on the corridor with my gown on the
right way round, and the November draft
blowing down the long corridor and up between my legs. Various heavily
pregnant women are sitting uncomfortably around with the compulsory full bladders,
no doubt all wondering what I’m doing there.
The corridor stretches off through the hospital for a huge
distance, and I watch the comings and goings. At the very far end of the
corridor, a lady in a white coat appears, slightly younger than me, and looking
quite pretty from a distance. She strolls down the corridor, until about 40
yards away. Yep, very nice. 20 yards and closing. Oh no. Still coming. Must be
aiming for the pregnant ladies. I’m bound to get a man for this. Surely? Past
the pregnant ladies now, and closing in. Nice looking. Marching straight for
me. Oh no. ‘Mr Stewart?’ Think ‘NO!’ but say ‘Yes, hello’ in a happy if
slightly petrified voice, and we head off into a side room.
Up on the bed in the style of a pregnant lady, then I have to
lift my gown up and she produces a giant bottle of gloopy stuff and squeezes
about half a pint onto my balls. It’s cold. Extremely cold. This tends not to
have a flattering effect on the nether regions for men... When I told my
football team mates about this, I remember one of them asking ‘Did you, ha, get
excited, huh! Cos she was like fit, huh…’ Sometimes I feel that the reality of
being potentially quite ill doesn’t get through to your mates… It was certainly
not a turn on. Especially in November.
She then sets up the
ultrasound machine, which is a bit like an old-fashioned computer hand scanner,
and proceeds to scan me whilst studying the live feed on a computer screen. On
the one hand, it’s kind of interesting to see what the inside of your scrotum looks
like, and she zooms in on the large grey mass of my suspect ball, which is
covered in… oh shit. Even I can see that there shouldn’t be those large white
patches on it. The ultrasound lady says ‘There’s something wrong with that,
I’ll need to send images of this to your consultant,’ –pauses to look at notes
‘Dr Upsdell, immediately.’
Images, oh yeah. ‘Can I have a copy of the polaroid?’ I ask.
She laughs, and says that I can if I really want. I decide at the time that I
don’t really want. ‘Hey kids, want to see a photo of that tumour that killed
Dad?’
But now I’m OK, I wish that I had paid up my £3, if only to
use as a Facebook profile pic.
Dr Upsdell rings up.
By now, it was clear that something was definitely up. The
process of lump – doctor – consultant – ultrasound was one that could have just
stopped at any stage if any of them thought that there was nothing the matter,
but clearly something was wrong. The next steps were apparently operation –
chemotherapy – radiotherapy – cure or death. Hopefully I’d get to bail out
before the end of that little lot.
Life had been proceeding reasonably normally up to this
point, with Town top of the Championship, winning every week by large margins
& just having drawn Liverpool at home in the FA Cup. The game was a
sell-out, I had my ticket, and the expectation was that we’d be too good for
them. I also had a ticket for Town’s visit to Manchester City, who had splashed
the cash, were below us in the table, despite their status as pre-season
favourites, and really need to win to reel us in at the top of the league. If
we won, we’d disappear over the horizon at the top of the league, and only a
horrible series of disastrous cock-ups could stop promotion. That game too was
a sell-out & I had to go down early to get my tickets before they all went.
The boys, meanwhile, were still toddlers. Marcus had just
turned 3, and Nathan was approaching his second birthday and about to move out
of his cot and into a ‘proper bed’. But first his room needed repainting, as it
was nursery pink. A series of match pots were up behind the door whilst he
decided which colour he fancied. Turned out he wanted ‘Jade’ mainly because
he’d met a little girl called Jade on holiday in Tresco. Ah!
So I was probably doing toddler type things – playdo, videos
of Thomas, etc etc, when the phone went and an extremely poshly spoken
bloke was on the other end. Dr Upsdell.
Concerned about the ultrasound. Not sure what it was. Fearing the worst.
Operation, then biopsy, then Cookridge hospital for chemo & radiotherapy. If
needs be.
He regretted that this might make my hair fall out. Snigger.
Operation the following Monday. No lifting of any sort for 6
weeks afterwards.
In order to keep a lid on things at home, I used to play a
lot of classical music, it really makes a nice calm atmosphere for little ones.
So once he hung up, the cd player went straight on.
Thomas Tallis, sitting slightly stunned at the kitchen
table. Deep breaths. Shit. Shit.
Vaughan Williams finishes, and toddlers appear. Game back
on, stop feeling sorry for yourself you twat, get on with it…
Chaos, ladies crying in the kitchen, etc etc.
So hospital it was going to be, followed by 6 weeks of
enforced idleness at a minimum, and maybe a lot worse (Cookridge?) waiting over
the horizon. But first, pressing concerns. I needed to paint Nathan’s room by
next Monday, which meant there was less than a week to do it. Which in turn
meant Maine Road was going to get knocked on the head. Beside the critical
matter of football, there was also the need to sort out looking after the lads.
There was going to be no changing of nappies, putting toddlers in baths,
pushing the pram up and down the hill to playgroup in Netherton with Marcus
whilst carrying Nathan in the ‘backpack-carrier’, rough or tumbling or cuddling
until well into the New Year, so Kath – who was of course stunned by the turn
of events, but was keeping a stiff upper lip, in public at least, whilst
clearly very worried – got leave of absence to be at home and a plan of sorts
started to take shape.
In order to clear the decks to let me do the painting, she
took the boys down to her Mum & Dad’s in Lichfield for the weekend, I went
to town to buy some new pyjamas to bleed on in hospital, and a quick email
round the football team produced many takers for the ticket for Man City, with
Gaz relieving me of it rapidly. So I got blasting on
with the decorating, whilst listening to the football, as Town effortlessly
crushed Man City. Oh well, maybe get to Maine Road another year, if they ever
manage to make it into the Premier League with us…
Nowadays, if I was ill, I suppose I would just let people
know by Tweeting something like ‘Having ball chopped off due to tumour, hope
don’t die’ and people may reply by saying things like ‘Hugs’ or ‘Bummer’. But
back in the olden days, news tended to spread by word of mouth, and once the
lovely ladies who ran the playgroup found out what was happening, the word spread
rapidly around the village.
I was now overtaken by a kind of surreal calm, in which
decorating, or buying new pj’s, or getting my match ticket to a deserving home
seemed to take on an overwhelming importance. It wasn’t about being in denial;
it was more a case of accepting that what was going to happen would happen
anyway, and deciding to flow along with it. One step at a time. It was rather
like being in the centre of a hurricane, as pretty much everyone else I knew
seemed to be anything but calm. Every day at home seemed to be punctuated by
visits from people who I sort of knew, but didn’t really consider to be close
friends, who would embarrassedly come into the kitchen for a coffee and usually
burst into tears at some point. ‘Eye of the storm’ is my abiding memory of this
week, along with quite a lot more classical music.
Dad, meanwhile, said ‘Just because it’s a tumour doesn’t
mean it’s malignant, son.’ Fingers crossed on that one, Fatha.
Anyway, Kath and the lads came back on Sunday afternoon, and
Nathan toddled up into his room, looking first behind the door where the match
pot had been, and then looking around as if the paint had magically spread over
the walls by itself, with an amazed expression on his face. A tomorrow was the
next step, hospital, operation, but that’s another story.
Hospital, Monday.
Ah, back to the certainty of hospital, the comedy of illness
in naughty places, and away from all the drama of crying visitors in the
kitchen…
I eventually land in Ward 1 (turn right, right again, down
one floor and straight on) after finally persuading the Admissions Office to
let me in (‘Computer says no…’ for about 15 minutes before they relented and
accepted that I had just turned up to have a bollock chopped off on a whim).
The rest of the ward was full of men aged 70 or more, all having things done to
their prostates. The sight of a new person, and one who was young enough to pay
his own bus fares caused a bit of excitement, and a steady procession of old
chaps wandered over to my bed for a chat.
First up was an Aussie in the next bed, visiting relos in
the UK when his prostate packed up, so his relos got to visit him in hospital
instead. He regaled me with enormous detail about his treatment, having a laser
poked down his jap’s eye, how his tumour was shrinking, and so on. When he
found out what was up with me, he laughed and asked if I played cricket. Nope,
not any more, football. ‘Ah well, won’t matter if anyone kicks you in the nuts
now, will it mate?’ Bless. Old chaps continued to drift over and I got to hear
a great deal more about the many ways in which prostate cancer can be treated.
‘Unpleasantly’ would about sum them up.
The nurses were pretty insistent that I did nothing, so I
just lay on my bed, reading a book for the first time in about 3 years. Every
30 minutes or so, a lady would come round with a tea trolley and insist, in
true Mrs Doyle fashion, that you had a cup of tea. I guess they were trying to
keep all the old fellas waterworks flowing. Blissful and rather relaxing, if
you ignored the impending trip to surgery.
A rather spotty and very young student doctor turned up to
clerk me in, taking blood pressure, pulse and so on, and we had a nice natter.
He wanted to be a doctor because he liked meeting people, and on looking at my
obs, said I clearly played a lot of sport and was very fit. Those were the days
J
In the evening, after Kath had been in to say hello, the
hour passed when I was banned from partaking of the tea trolley, and about 7
o’clock, a porter turned up and wheeled
me off down the corridor to surgery. Being wheeled around on a bed is a bit
odd, as you catch random blasts of telly every time you go past an open door,
and the strip lights on the ceiling rather whizz past in dizzying fashion.
Arriving at theatre, I asked if I was going to get a premed, but no, these had
now been banned as they were seen of no clinical use. So no free drug trip on
the NHS this time, oh well. I was wheeled into the anaesthetist’s room outside
the operating theatre and got chatting to the gas man. I told him that when I
had my wisdom teeth out, the anaesthetist had a nice routine where he pretended
to drop the stretcher just as you passed out. He looked shocked. How
unprofessional. ‘You’ll feel a sharp scratch on your hand and count backwards
from 10.’ Scratch. 10. Don’t drop the trolley. 9, 8, 7, chop the right bit off,
6, 5, i.e. the left one, 4… black, inky sleep.
‘Wake up…’
‘…wake up, err’ – consults clipboard – ‘Robin. Ooh, that’s a
coincidence, my boyfriend was called Robin. Such a cute name.’
Looking upwards, there’s a rather nice looking nurse looming
just above my head. Well done subconscious, what a great dream.
Except, of yeah opera… A quick panic, have they chopped off
the right bit? A quick feel, yes, they got the right bit. And it doesn’t hurt
much, aside from a dull ache. The pain seems to be coming from my stomach. Not
what I expected. Coming to steadily now, John Hurt in alien with something
fastened to my face. Off it goes, that’s better. Now I can talk. The nurse is a
bit worried by my outbreak of thrashing around, and asks if I am OK. I tell her
that I was just making sure the right bit had been chopped off, and she laughs.
A lot. This is all rather good. In fact, in my slightly addled- by-anaesthetic
state, I can suddenly say no wrong. Pretty much every line I come out with
seems to be deeply comical, and the nurse is in stitches. Of course, because I
was so groggy, I can now remember none what we were joshing about.
The nurse is sat at the top of my bed on a chair with wheels
on, and to either side of me are two other blokes, with nurse sat at the top of
their beds. Both are fast asleep. I keep up a steady banter with my nurse, and
she keeps on laughing. Blimey, that anaesthetic is great! After a minute or so,
there is a clatter of chair wheels and the other two nurses wheel over to join
in the banter. Blimey, is this for real? Maybe they’ve got some cans stashed in
the recovery room and someone will put some music on… I begin to feel very
tired. One of the nurses says something like ‘Ooh, his eyes are going…’ and the oxygen mask is plonked back on my
face. My nurse says that I really need my mask on and should be quiet, lie back
and stop telling jokes. The other nurses trundle off as their patients wake up
and the party atmosphere seems to fade away. Good stuff, that anaesthetic…
I am wheeled back to the ward, slowly coming back to my
senses, and am plonked back in bed. I then spend a fitful night’s sleep,
awakened every two hours by the dripping water sound as Aussie fella has his
prostate rinsed with antibiotics.
Once the day dawns, I am sent for a shower, my dressing is
checked (a line of staples in my stomach, who would’ve thought it!) and Kath
comes to take me home. Gingerly I walk upstairs to see the boys, and Nathan, standing
on a window seat, decides on a spot of instant rough and tumble, jumping for me
like Superman. I have to catch him, can’t just let him fall. I favour my good
side. Shades of Hugh Davies at Murrayfield in ’86… Ouch. But home. And still
standing. Sort of… Ouch.
Aftermath
I went to see the Forbidden City in Beijing in the 1980’s,
where the Emperor of China lived with about 10,000 women and no other men.
Except for the eunuchs. They could be trusted to not go messing around with the
concubines. The guide even took us to
see the special chair where eunuchs were made, which was a sort of throne with
a large hole in the middle, through which bits would be dangled and the shears
swiftly applied. About half of the prospective eunuchs died in the process.
I quite reasonable expected the operation to deal with the
tumour in my dangly bit to concentrate on just chopping off the said dangly
bit, so it was a real surprise to find quite a large scar running diagonally
through my waist, and my dangling bits untouched, although now only half full, so
to speak. Apparently, the surgeon cut a hole, fished out the top of some bit of
piping and pulled out the whole appendage through my stomach. It didn’t hurt at
all, though the scar from the operation was terribly uncomfortable, having been
fastened up by a line of metal staples, which tended to get snagged on my
undies. They also insisted that I needed to wear a pair of tights, to reduce
the chance of dvt. For six weeks. You
never really notice how important your ‘core’ is until it falls out of action.
Suddenly I could lift absolutely nothing, and walking up the stairs was a
struggle. Pick up a toddler? No. Light the fire? Nope. Kettle? Hmm, just about.
So I just sat around, whilst Kath beetled around, running the household, me unable
to help. Totally against the grain and very irritating.
I just about felt up to going to the Liverpool match, though
it did take about 15 minutes to get up to my seat. Town were still crushing all
comers, while Liverpool were a mix of a few famous players (Michael Owen), some
local youngsters (Carragher, Matteo, Gerrard, who they?) and some rubbish
Africans with strange haircuts (Song, Kamara…).
An upset was on the cards, and the ground was full. From the off
Liverpool lost the ball and Town poured forwards. Suddenly we were 4 on 1, had
to be a goal, first minute… I jump from my seat and a searing pain spreads.
Missed! Shit. Ouch. Sellars, you should’ve passed. Ouch! A quick check for
blood, the staples have held out, but better not push it. I resolve to stay
nailed to my seat for the rest of the match, not standing up, come what may.
The Town players take pity on me and contrive to miss about 15 clear chances,
just to save me. Cheers Clyde, mate. Twenty thousand other people might have
been cross with you, but I was secretly relieved. Sort of. Though the staples
may have held if you had aimed for the goal rather than Row Z. Liverpool score
soft goals in both halves (Jon Dyson & Kev Gray, sigh) and the match turns
into an anti-climax. At least we’ll be playing them next season. And those
stockings kept my legs lovely and warm.
The following day, Kath’s mum Muriel arrived to help out,
and Kath went back to work. Muriel continued with the beetling, and I continued
with the idling. The District Nurse came to take out my staples, using a staple
remover, no less and brought me a fluffy blue ball bearing the legend ‘I’ve
been very brave’ from all at the doctor’s surgery, who were all apparently
‘worried’ about me. Really kind and thoughtful, and the ‘ball’ bit was quite
good too. It lived in our kitchen for years afterwards…
About lunchtime one day towards the end of the week, the
phone went. I hobbled over to pick it up. Posh voice. ‘Mr Stewart? It’s Mr
Upsdell, we’ve got the results of the biopsy on your tumour…’
Crucifixion? Ah, no, freedom please…
Once I climbed on Gimmer crag in the Lake District with a
1500 foot drop under my legs and a big yellow rescue helicopter flew past about
a thousand feet below me. I made my legs wobble. So did answering the phone to
Mr Upsdell. A quick vision of vomiting into a cardboard tray in Cookridge
Hospital formed in my head. Maybe my eyebrows would fall out during the
treatment he was about to outline.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ said the posh voice. ‘The
biopsy found a tumour and it was non-malignant.’
What? Wasn’t expecting that. Standing slightly stunned by
the phone. He told me it was good news, which was a bit of a f*cking
understatement!
Upsdell went on to explain that the tumour was caused by
something very rare called ‘testicular atrophy’, which was almost unknown in
men my age, being normally only seen in the very elderly. So there you go, I
officially had the body of a 34 year old, but the left testicle of an eighty
year old. Though obviously not anymore, it was in a petri dish somewhere! He
told me that no further treatment was warranted and that he was discharging me
from his list. I could think of nothing to say when he invited questions, so he
hung up. I immediately got hold of Kath to tell her the good news.
Earlier in my blog, I talked about how rapidly bad news
seemed to travel, and within a couple of days of my operation being arranged,
loads of people turned up at the house, quite upset. Which was both nice, as
you never really know if everyone you know really thinks that you are a bit of
a twat, and all rather odd too. In contrast, good news seems to spread more
slowly. At the weekend, it was Nathan’s second birthday party at Skallywags, a
rather dingy local play gym. I usually quite enjoyed these, as it was a chance
to go on a bouncy castle, jump in a ball pool and be otherwise puerile. However,
I had to stay well out of the way due to my scar, so went to sit in the corner.
By myself, out of harm’s way. But it seemed that people were avoiding me.
Eventually Liz wandered over, apologised for asking, and asked how my treatment
was going. Fine. False alarm. Gentle hug, avoiding my scar. And so the good
news started to travel.
Full circle
This story started with a football match, and six weeks after
my operation, it’s going to finish with one. It’s half four on a Saturday
morning in mid-January when Nige comes to collect me in a mini-bus and we head
to Town to collect the rest of the lads. Amazingly, we have a full turn out and
we head off down to sarf London to play against Crystal Palace supporters, and
then watch Town at Selhurst Park. So back to normal, kit bag slung over my
shoulder and heading out with my mates, nice one. We make the M25 a couple of
hours before kick off, and then very slowly make our way round to Croydon,
arriving late. Into the changing rooms, quickly get changed, show the lads my
scar and then the standard team talk from Paul. ‘I want you to keep your shape
lads. Keep your shape. For f*cks sake, just for once, keep your f*cking shape.’
It was the same team talk before every match, and, of course, we never kept our
shape.
Unbelievably exciting to be lining up on a football pitch
again, have a quick check out of the opposition. Hmm, that centre forward looks
familiar, he also plays for Watford, and we had a right barney with them a
couple of years before. And, even worse, he has both a pony tail and coloured
boots, and is warming up by doing keepy uppies. First 50-50 challenge and
you’re getting it, you twat. When he’s limping into work on Monday…
<snigger>. Anyway, we’re off on a foggy morning, flat pitch surrounded by
terraced houses, male shouting and cursing echoing. We get a bright start and
win a corner, which is usually quite a dodgy time, as team mates ignore that stuff
about keeping shape and drift into the box. Soon, there’s just me &
geriatric centre-half Charlie marking My Little Pony, who is trying to be all
keen and make little runs to get a couple of yards of space. I get bored of
following him, and he checks out onto the touchline. ‘You got him Rob?’ ask
Charlie. Yep, I’ve got him covered, perfect angle on him. Of course, the corner
fails to clear the first defender and Palace pour out. There’s only one place
the ball is going to go, in behind me towards Mr Ponytail, and we hold the half
way line to see if he strays offside. He doesn’t and the ball is played
through. I’ve given him about 10 yards space and running diagonally should see
me arrive at the same time as he meets the through ball. Man and ball, My Little
Pony in a crumpled heap on the touchline is the plan. Except. Except I can’t
run fast enough. I don’t really seem to be able to run at all anymore. He’s not
fast, but I get nowhere near him and he’s in on goal. Charlie to the rescue,
splintering tackle, whistle blasts, free kick on the edge. I feel like I’m
about to collapse. The wall forms up, a row of lads nervously linking arms and
covering their bollocks. I don’t cover mine and lend my hand to Matt. The wall
gets the sniggers. The Palace lads look puzzled. ‘You can aim at ‘is bollocks
‘cos there’s nothing left to hit,’ says Matt.
12 minutes. My comeback match lasted 12 minutes and I had to
go off. My chest felt like it was on fire, I couldn’t run, and it hurt when I
tried to put my foot through the ball. The game finished 1-1 and we headed off
to the pub, and then to Selhurst. Since I’d been in hospital, the wheels had
suddenly come off at Town. The super-rich owner had legged it to Barbados, the
players suddenly realised that moving from, for example, Ajax playing in the Champions League to Town
wasn’t actually that clever and had stopped trying. Potato-headed manager Steve
Bruce had decided that talismanic striker Marcus Stewart (hmm, good name, btw) was,
in fact, really rubbish and needed to be flogged. Immediately. To anyone.
Because Viv Anderson thought he was no good. So Bruce was hawking him around,
faxing every club in the top two Divisions to see if there were any takers.
Only Ipswich were interested. But surely, we all thought, no-one could ever be
so stupid as to sell their star player to promotion rivals. All was well for 45
minutes, Stewart scored twice and we sang his name constantly. How could he
ever leave? The second half saw us collapse and ship two soft goals, and at the
final whistle, Stewart waved goodbye. The following week, he scored the winner
for Ipswich. Against Town. And then he scored to seal Ipswich’s promotion, as
Town missed out. He then scored 23 goals in his first season in the Prem,
whilst Town got relegated. Good bit of transfer business there, Mr Bruce,
worked out great. For Ipswich.
It took me about a year before I felt fully fit again, but
life quickly got back into its routine. Thanks for sticking it to the end of
this tale, which is told only to encourage you to check your bollocks regularly
for lumps, or if you a lady, check your significant others… And if something is
wrong, don’t mess about, get straight down to the doctors. The experience may
well be comically embarrassing, but you can keep it to yourself, it isn’t
compulsory to go blabbing about it all over the internet!
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