I’m rather proud of Big-J just at the moment. And I’ll go further. Just between us here and not to be mentioned to anyone else, I have a sneaking admiration for him.
Having spent most of his life as a dyed-in-the-wool, sitting-on-his-arse couch potato, he regularly preached the gospel of a three-course meal with plenty of wine being far better for the soul than a game of tennis. But blow me down with a feather, last Sunday he competed in a 10k race in sunny Crouch End.
Raining it may have been over most of London but in Crouch End, the sun shone on my man as strutted his stuff around the “fun” run route.
Along with his 30-years-younger son and a just slightly older friend, he completed the course in around 58 minutes – not his best ever speed but as near as damn it. We all know this because each run is meticulously recorded via a GPS watch onto his computer. He can chart his progress, compare his times and inspect his various routes. Marvellous. I love it when he painstakingly explains all that data to me. Not a man who can do anything by halves, I fear he's mentally in training for a marathon at some future, unspecified date.
When he arrived home, he was triumphant. “I could have gone on and on” he said, “it was really easy, I feel fantastic,” he added as he did a few lunges and star jumps before skipping off for a shower.
The reward was a very naughty but nice brunch, prepared by yours truly, for the runners, me and a fellow running widow.
Running is actually quite boring but endless discussion about running takes boring to a whole new level. It’s sort of like train spotting. They talk about their shoes, their kit, the route, the warm-up before, the cool down afterwards, the pace, the sprint at the end – I could go on or we could all just go watch some paint dry.
After a good half an hour of yawning tedium around the table, I had to ban all talk of running just until we finished our meal and I could escape to the kitchen to do the far more interesting clearing up.
A rather sporty friend of ours was dead impressed that Big-J, at his advanced age, is able to run without any apparent ill effects.
“Did he do any sport as a youngster?” asked our friend.
“No”, said I. “He was a couch potato, he just sat on his arse until around three years ago.”
“That’ll be why he can run at his age,” said the friend, “most of us have knackered our knees by now which is why we can’t do it.”
So, along with his many other talents, Big-J has great knees! It’s just such a shame that he's worn out his arse.
