Friday 6th November, 2015

That Strava App I was telling you about the other day, which has got me chasing my demons, nearly landed me in big trouble last Sunday.  There’s a guy called Karl Procter.  I’ve never met him, but he has held the record for a 1.1 mile segment, known by my fellow Strava “athletes” as the Woodland Gallop, for the last four years.  Noone had got near his time in fact.  So I thought I would have a proper crack at it.  I say proper.  Maybe I shouldn’t have had that third bit of toast for breakfast ( smothered with my homemade raspberry jam), but out I went with my only intent being to show Karl, whoever he is, what I was made of. 

It was a bit of a cheat to be honest.  Karl had clocked his stellar time in the course of a 6 mile run.  I however jogged gently to the start of the section and only then put the afterburners on. Just over a mile of undulating, slippery, root-ridden hell ensued, but I made it to the end without breaking an ankle though very much the worse for wear.  The indication that I might have overdone it a bit came when, doubled over and gasping for breath, I was found by three elderly folk.  They had heard, they told me, something akin to a steam engine, puffing and screeching, shattering the otherwise peaceful silence of a Suffolk wood and so concerned were they, they had diverted their walk to check things out.  Nice of them really even if I was a little offended at the time.  

For my part it was all worth it though.  When I got home and synced my watch I found my time of 7 mins 38 seconds had shattered Karl’s record by a full 1 second.  Also that my heart rate had hit 196 in the process.  By all rights I should be deid.  I’ve really got to stop this nonsense and start acting my age. 

Speaking of which I had a rendezvous arranged outside the Scottish Parliament at 6.54am ( dawn up north )  this coming Monday morning with my 21 year old nephew, Angus, who’s reading economics at Edinburgh Uni.  Plan was a quick lap of Holyrood Park and a shimmy up Arthur’s Seat before kippers for breakfast, but he’s chickened out.