Back to the howling old owl in the woods, hunting the hornyback toad

Well thats what happens when you haven't exercised in a while

My reaction to that comment was much like Peter Griffin's when he'd heard that Lois gave up the opportunity of a million dollars as not to complicate their love (stunned silence whilst imagining a graphic death by gunshot, constructing a bonfire, covering the body in petrol, and burning it). It came as a reaction to my gait appearing a little ginger as I walked to get the milk from the kitchen at work. 'Oh what's wrong with you' came the idle chit-chat from the anonymous back-office staff member, 'Oh I've had a big weekend training, very stiff and sore today' came the I'm-faking-joviality-to-avoid-the-coffee-making-induced-awkwardness-of-me-not-caring-who-you-are reply. And that's what lead to the above comment. I twitched a little, imagined her painful and fiery death, and responded 'y--ye---- yeah, yeah that sounds, that sounds about right... yeah'..

I resisted telling her, that, actually... you f*cking little busy-body, this is what my f*cking week involved. On Monday, I ran the 3km Lap around Chelsea and Albert Bridge. Not only that, I did it three f*cking times. And that's not all, I also did the 4 x 400m sprints. And to top it off, there was 5 laps of the 3 sets of stairs on the Pagoda. And the only people to keep me company were Kiwi, Charlie Campbell, Glen, and JC. And those guys can f*cking RUN. Chuck in another 5km on Tuesday, you b*tch, and then an hour long nets session straight after. Thursday, I threw myself at the mercy of The Sharlands at the Trim Trail at a cold and wet Battersea Park... but you'd have no f*cking clue what that even begins to entail.... as you stir your frankly ridiculous cup of herbal tea... would you??? And then there was the weekend in Oxford... well.........

In all fairness to her, to look at me you wouldn't automatically think 'World Record Attemptee' (not to be confused with world record amputee) for anything other than 'most people simultaneously annoyed at ANZ Stadium during a Bronco's match'... and especially not for a sporting record... at altitude. It was with this in mind that Team Tenzing headed to Vice-Captain G-Units country pad in Sunningwell for a weekend of the fitness freak holding the whip hand. On the trip up I was mentioning I desperately needed a nap, the same direct side-effect of nervousness that affected me on the way to the Brecon's a couple of weeks back. The village was everything I expected it to be, and I could quite easily see G retiring there in his fifties as the sole policeman, solving baffling crimes on a weekly basis whilst nursing an ale, smoking a cigar, and wearing almost head-to-toe tweed, pausing long enough only for a fleeting love interest back-story. I watch too many TV programmes aimed at my parents demographic.

The best weather of the year (clear blue skies, temperatures in double figures.... all these things are relative) kindly greeted us upon our arrival. The 6-mile run, however, didn't greet us as so much punch us right in the face. Or more to the point, repeatedly dig me in the lower back. Hills, Marshes, Muddy Patches, Fence Jumping... all confirming my theory that fitness fanatics are not in tune with evolution. We have moved forward through horses, carts, automobiles, and now planes to negotiate this sort of cr*p. So why THE F*CK am I doing this? Oh, the Everest trip. Ok fair enough, but why the fricken bejeeesus would somebody want to do this off their own back? Do people really think this makes them feel good? What is this type of person's problem? Running is ridiculous. Get a freakin Mini-Cab. The 6 miler was interspersed around some dips and press-ups in Dogging-Central, a wheelbarrow race that I couldn't take part in as my partner for the day was coming from London via Dorset, and also several breaks. Several breaks for the others, that is, as they waited for Mark and I to pant our respective ways back up with the group. I must thank She-Unit (Laura) for keeping my spirits high on this run with her encouraging shouts, random high-fives, clicking of heels, and general cocker-spaniel-like enthusiasm. It seems allot easier with a smile on your face. To finish off, we partook in some hill sprints. 4 of them for me personally but more for some of the other idiots. These were about 100metres long up a deceptively steep hill, with around half of it at full pace. Follow this link here for a video of G making it look pretty easy back before 3-peaks.

I'd like to talk about what happened in the afternoon, however Wes has put a suppression order on us, lest Hillary find out. What I will say, is that the afternoon gave us probably the best insight as to what we'll go through during the actual match. We were constantly moving, feeling a little claustrophobic, having to make decisions whilst exhausted, and learning to keep our cool. During the course of the afternoon, we covered at least 10km in shuttle sprints, however the sprinting was mere 'moving forward' towards the end. This was also the scene of my first loss of sense of humour for the trip. Thankfully it wasn't over something as petty as say, a score in an inconsequential game we were playing. I'll relay the actual words said, and the thought process in italics afterwards. To set the scene, we were all completely dog-tired...

Kinsey - Tooves you're on 8 (I think he's on 8, man I'm tired)
Me - How the f*ck can I be on 8, I was on that 4 f*cking ----- ago (this pr1ck is trying to do me over so he can win. man I'm real tired)
Kinsey - Sorry, I think you're on 9 then (bit of an over-reaction... I could use a rest)
Me - Are you even f*cking counting? (get back to your f*cking apples.... wow I'm really REALLY tired)
Kinsey - Tooves I'm doing my best to run and count, give me a break (what was he actually on... I need to catch my breath)
Me - Well if you think about it, I'm on at least f*cking 12 (is he serious, is he f*cking serious??? deeep breath deeeeeep breaths)
Kinsey - Shall we call it 10 (He's got a bat in his hands)
Me - Oh F*ck me, alright then

At the end of non-stop afternoon, interrupted only by a completely village performance from the reporter at BBC Oxford, it emerged that we'd burnt 2200 calories in that session alone, NOT including the 6 mile cross country and hill sprints that preceded our Area-51 shrouded in mystique I-Think-The-Cop-Is-Actually-The-Murderer mystery of an afternoon's activities.

By this stage, my back was a mess. I could barely move but was happy with the days activities and the joyous shower that awaited. Dinner followed at Fawlty Towers. More mature conversation ensued, just prior to my pilau-rice flavoured ice cream dessert. I ordered Mango. She bought out Pistachio and Saffron flavour. I shit you not, that is an actual flavour. The waitress’s advice.... 'either eat it or flick it'.... 'no chance of my money back then??'

Butler and I safely secured ourselves in our individual sleeping bags, before sleeping next to each other on the worlds smallest double bed. No touching took place. I was awoken at one stage to Butler offering me like-for-like replacements on the CV's he'd sent me earlier in the week. Dreams about work are always the best.

Sunday dawned to a horrible limp and a very grumpy Toovey as I lumped Maple Syrup on my porridge, the garlic draw, the bench, the bowl, and the floor of G's kitchen. Even some puns about being hungry for sausage did nothing for me as I packed my bag and dealt with the agony in my back in preparation for a 6 hour hike through the Chilterns. Wes mentioned he could tell I was struggling because I wasn't talking. In fact, it wasn't nearly as caring as that... more along the lines of... 'Maaaaate, I can't wait for about the 5th day on this trek when you're knackered... at least you'll be quiet' - The trek was tougher than I gave it credit for, up and down several hills and we covered nigh on 25-30km... With G perhaps not taking too kindly to our ribbing about him leading us to 2 pubs for lunch, both of which were closed. As fate would have it, we stumbled across an Indian buffet at around the 17km mark. The glorious Balti, Massala, and Sag Aloo dishes piling the calories back on. Again, Rambling proved to be truly a great form of bonding. The spare time, clear environment, and problem solving lend themselves to great team-work, particularly when everybody bands together against the map holder who has just got you lost.

4 and a half hours later and the estimated 45 minute journey home was complete. Completely seized up, I am now planning on spending my 3rd night in a row sleeping on the floor. Because that's what I get for not exercising and then pushing it too hard.....

Rambling is the new Trainspotting

Rambling, not just for OAP's anymore.

It was looking likely that the massive amounts of effort that Dave Kirtley had put into the weekend of hiking in the Brecon Breacons was going to go to waste. The UK's freak weather last week bought the country to a standstill (I can't bring myself to say 'frozen'...) on Monday. Snow fell again on Friday, and with news that Wales wasn't letting anybody in, I had planned on a rare weekend at home. Some of the group pulled out due to the weather, but inspired by Glen's Clark-Griswald style determination to get to Wales, Butler and I agreed on a testosterone-fuelled verdict of 'f*ck it, lets do it'.

After several fishtails in Butler's impractical BMW along the M4 followed by a startled cry of 'whoooaaaaa put THAT in your blog' as the backend kicked about, we embarked upon childish arguments over the choice of radio station (I categorically will not listen to football talk-back), and mother-jokes before the Severn Bridge hit our eyeline. Carrying on the National Lampoons theme to the day, Butler and I then proceeded to do 3 loops of the same diversion, wasting half an hour as we managed to miss the same turnoff due to a combination of poor signage, obstruction from a lorry, and Butler distracting himself with a loving retelling of an amusing scene from Max and Paddy. 30 minutes later, after re-entering England from Wales for the 3rd time, we pulled up at a set of lights next to a van marked 'motorway association'. I must admit, I was surprised to see Butler's head leaning across me, but not nearly as surprised as to hear him abuse the startled motorways assistant with choice language. The poor fella was no doubt just on his way home, possibly to pick up a takeaway and some Brains whilst Tom Jones warbled in the background.

Saturday dawned in the home dressing rooms of Cardiff Cricket Club to 4 guys shivering and myself probably a bit too warm, if anything, in my awesome sleeping bag. £200 well spent. I'd clearly gone all out on this though as everybody else seemed to outdo me for trekking kit. So much so that I resorted to borrowing Jamo's waterproof trousers. Not such a bad thing normally, however Jamo is 6"8. My lack of prep flustered me and I began to get nervous as I contemplated the 16km long, 886-metre snow-covered ascent of Pen Y Fan. Never one to keep thoughts to myself, I was called all of the following on the car trip to Brecon after mentioning that I was nervous: fag, poof, gay, wanker, girl, fag, homo, and finally, fag. My fear was genuine and something that I can't describe. I put it down to a lack of mental preparation. I hadn't actually thought about what I was about to embark upon until minutes before the hike, and having recently developed my mothers love of military precision in planning, my lack of thought irked me, so much so that I thought at one stage my massive fry-up breakfast might test Cuzza's waterproofs next to me.

I have a strange reaction to nervousness. I fall asleep. Mark Waugh would often have the same reaction and be spotted nodding off just before going into bat. I've been told that it means I must be cool under pressure. I'd argue that it's escapism in it's purist form. It was a godsend on Saturday either way, as the overwhelming tiredness calmed me down and I grabbed about 3 or 4 minutes nap as B*witched blared out of BJ's speakers.

5 minutes into the trek and I realised that it was going to be tough. A combo of a lack of sleep the night before and the harsh cold air had left my chest a little tight. I was puffing and beading a little sweat. It's never entirely difficult to tell whenever I'm doing anything tough. I'm quiet. And there was a distinct lack of chat for the first 5 minutes. I then took solace in the fact that Blinky and Butler both had a puff on. It was only 15 minutes in that we realised we were all drastically overdressed. Sure we were walking through snow, but the reflection of the sun at ground level, combined with trudging the legs through snow meant the beanies, gloves and overcoats had to come off. After this we all relaxed into walk and it actually became quite good fun. We encountered a challenging steep cliff-face to begin with, the calf-deep snow exacerbating the angle, however it's clear we have all been doing the appropriate leg-work as it was taken on with gusto. 6 months ago, this would've been energy-sapping. Now, it merely whetted our appetite. Everybody seemed to get stronger and enthusiasm grew. Not even the freezing cold winds could dampen our spirits as we made mince-meat of the snow-laden track. Unfortunately the weather on the summit closed in like the sandstorm from The Mummy, preventing a final attack on the summit.

Coming down the mountain is close to the best fun I've had since I was a kid. Everybody was in great spirits, and to prove it we all carried on like dogs that had just been let off the lead in parklands. Kirt and Butler bounded downhill like cocker spaniels, BJ tumbled down the slope purely for our amusement, Glen slid down on his stomach like a toboggan, and the snowball fights reached The Guns of Navarone proportions. At one stage I slipped over on the ice, normally something to send me into a rage. However I slid 50-odd metres downhill, akin to a massive waterslide, reducing me to fits of laughter and completely juxtaposing my irrational fear of a few hours beforehand.

After punching Butler in the face 3 times for a 'banter incident', we headed off to watch three 40 minute halves of the best organised social-networking occasion on earth, prior to an injection of health food. It's fair to say that when you put a group of guys into proximity of alcohol and curry, the conversation flirts between serious political discussions, foreign trade, world famine, and the current economic crisis. I can categorically say that, at no stage whatsoever, did the conversation touch upon controversial and puerile jokes, bodily functions, immature banter regarding sexuality and sexual prowess, and/or genitalia. It just didn't happen. And we would never swear. Particularly at volumes that would make us glad we didn't have any identifiable Everest Test branding.

Back at the Rugby Club, we entertained the thought of talking to some of the awkward looking girls who were attending a 21st birthday party. However after one particular potato-fed brick-outhouse gentleman approached us and said something (of which I had no chance of understanding), we decided our safety should be paramount. This seemed smart as this particular fellow looked like he had been in at least 6-8 fights in the preceding 48 hours, with BJ mentioning that, somehow, he managed to have 4 black eyes.

Sunday dawned to a hangover and a smell in the room that only 5 curry and beer laden gents can produce. Another fry-up (I must give feedback over questionable choice of the 3 meals) was consumed before we embarked on a relatively pedestrian 11km stroll through the lowlands of the Brecon's. A highlight occurring in the way of stuffing Dave Kirtley's bag full of rocks, followed by several puns for the next 30 minutes as he struggled with his strangely awkward pack. By this stage he hadn't clicked, even though we'd managed to convince him that his favourite Oasis song should be Rock n Roll Star instead of his original choice of She's Electric. Dave managed to get us back though, and he delivered in spades. Our 11km walk turned a little awry after some impromptu wrong turns. After crossing a river that filled all of our shoes with water no warmer than 2 degrees, we tramped around for a further 8km. Expressions were fraught, senses of humour were put away, and patience was lost as we searched for the way out. Luckily we found our way out at about 4pm, around an hour before it got dark, which would have sent everything really haywire. Curry was particularly furious, as he didn't have waterproofs. It didn't take long, however, before his moniker of 'Map-c*nts' to describe BJ and Dave K caught on.

All in all it was another excellent weekend. Kinsey pointed out this was yet another chapter in my 'things I never would have done' list. Snow in London to me normally means staying indoors and watching repeats of Top Gear. Nowadays I see it as a chance to get some valuable climbing experience. This was probably my favourite of the weekends so far as it was the most similar to what we might experience up the hill, with Glen and Blinks displaying how well they are doing by hauling 12kg of sand on their backs all the way up Pan Y Fan. The banter on the trip was superb, and we have several very funny guys. BJ in particular stopped me in my tracks several times with well-delivered gags. The camaraderie in the group is growing at an exponential rate, with butler summing it up perfectly with his comment 'you know what, there isn't a person in that entire crew that I'd want to avoid'. And we both almost stayed in London.

Super Breathable Fibre....

... read a section on the specs of my brand new Asics that I picked up in the Jan sales. To be honest it wasn't something I really paid attention too at the time, I was more interested in correcting the quite horrifying overpronator running style that was played back to me after the shop assistant had recorded me on the treadmill.... that and obtaining the promised 20% discount. 'At £85 these'd wanna be able to blow me' I said to the advisor who barely stopped during his loving retelling of the sales spiel of his above-average priced shoes. Which is probably why I missed the part about 'keeping your feet cool'.

Fast forward 3 weeks to yesterday (Sunday!?!) morning at 7:45am and I was cleaning enough English mud from my trainers to send an Australian customs official into hyperventilation in anticipation of probably only my 3rd ever solo run. However I wasn't particularly dreading this one, as previously mentioned, this whole 'training regularly' thing has done wonders for my confidence, that coupled with knowing that the motivation of getting to my mates place (a 4 mile trot to Canary Wharf) in time for the cricket should be enough to see me through.

My major injury concern at the moment - and this will come as a surprise to those who I went to uni with who have an obsession with my right knee - is my left calf. It cramps up despite being well hydrated, twitches and tenses annoyingly whilst Im trying to get to sleep, strains when I'm charging up the stairs at the tube, and felt like somebody had drilled a whole in the bottom of it after Kinsey's Its a Knockout/Pikey Gladiators/Mudman Herefordshire Hot Pot Weekend. And sure, this was a little niggle as I set out, but it was a mere mosquito bite compared to the searing pain in my feet.

Barely over a mile in I was waiting to cross Homerton High street, and I'm sure I saw a smirk on the face of the driver of one the passing cars as he assessed the agony on my face. However taking into account that I thought I was just a pussy, throw in a keenness to never to see a repeat of my horror bleep-test result last weekend, and a healthy dollop of fear of stopping on the backstreets of Hackney, I forged on. As I navigated the few lingering crack addicts, it felt like each step was a fire-walking exercise gone wrong. My ipod packed in 3 minutes through the first song, so I could almost hear my feet screaming at me 'What the f*ck is happening here?!?!? What happened to all the f*cking lie-ins?!?!?'

Approaching Victoria Park about 2 miles in, I couldn't take it any longer and had to stop. A couple of well-placed swear-words (mostly starting with 'c') and I set off again. Each step producing grunts in the following formation 'nothing, very quiet, quiet, mid-level, loud, loud, loud, louder, louder, louder still, chewbacca, chewbacca extreme, mid-level, quiet...' - My grunts diminishing along with the feeling in my feet.

The oddness of my feet going numb and the possible dangers attached to this were quickly dismissed as all I could think of was the painless bliss I was in. Another mile down the road, with the HSBC building in sight, I'd regained my composure and hit a nice groove, allowing me to take in my surroundings and also ponder why I couldn't feel my feet. Drawing a blank, I forged on and seconds later the answer literally fell onto my nose. A solitary snow flake. Followed by a few more of its dandruffy friends. Had I checked the weather forecast? Nope. Turns out it was minus 1 and the super breathable fibre of my shoes were showing a major downside.

Another chapter to add to the 'things I would never have done' list. Up before the sun of a Sunday, of my own accord, and running in the snow.