I’ve seen things man. Bad bad things. I went 6 months underground. But I came back up. It’s dark down there. They demanded I stayed…but I pushed my way back. I broke through.
I wont lie, it stank:
So. Here we are. I am as surprised as you are. I was done with the site. Life moved on. Then about 2 weeks ago I got an itch. A familiar good itch…but not one I had felt for a very long time. It wasn’t an anal itch. That can stay away forever regardless of the satisfaction of that perfect scratch. Too far on the first post back? Are we there yet? Too soon? Meh. We are old friends.
But here we are nonetheless. Will it last? Dunno. Have I got loads of posts lined up? Nope. Do I have the urge to write again? Yup. Shall we begin? Sure. Why the hell not. Lets be honest, after the anal itch comment, I am not sure we need to worry about first name terms. But lets anyway. Hi. I am Sy. I will be your writer for however long this little foray lasts.
In have alluded to previously the weird races I enter. In the last 2 years, I have gradually managed to find more and more extreme races to run. By more and more extreme, I mean the names have gradually started sounding worse to the point where people I work with are likely assuming I have red hot pokers inserted in to my behind while I carry logs up a hill.
I used to do “The Brighton 10K” and “The London Marathon” and “The Brighton Marathon”. Names that pretty much said “it is this distance in this place”.
And then it went a little wrong.
I found a race called The Hurt. And then The Brutal10. And over time it went on and on. The kamikaze run. The Nuts Challenge. The Warrior Run. The Knacker Cracker. Back 2 The Trenches. The Zombie Evacuation. And my marathons got harder. The Beauty and the Beast marathon. This was not a play on a popular Disney film. The beast was the sodding painful hills I had to drag my sorry behind up continuously. Belle was not there. She did not mop my sweaty brow. There was no singing teacups. It was as un-Disney as…well…I was going to say bestiality, but that film is about a young girl getting it on with a…whatever he is. Geez…worst comparison ever.
These races have two things in common. The first is that I get mud so far up my colon I spend a few days wondering what the hell I ate. On one race my face didn’t get covered at all but I could taste it. Yeah, THAT deep up. My toenails are the colour of bog. My running clothes smell like an albatross and a poo-loving dinosaur got it on, and the end result was a sodding great bird that took a dump on me from a great height which knocks me out. And then down comes the albasaur and it vigorously inserts more in to every single orifice in my tired weary body. I wade through deep water. Through bogs. Up hills. I crawl face down through what can only be described as “Come on…where is the Great Dane? I know he has been here, I can smell it. And I think he had the chicken.” And yet, I go back for more.
The second thing they have in common is that they remind me of how meek a man I am from the waist up. Sure, I have a 6 pack. I have well defined biceps and triceps. But they are hidden from site by the sheer quantity of fat I have on my upper body. The Michelin Man looks at me and thinks “He has more tyres than me, but at least he is uglier”. This doesn’t bode well for obstacle races. After a marathon, I walk a little funny for a few days. My general demeanour is “That dude is walking like he has shat himself”. I moan a little that my thighs feel like madame whiplash has been stamping on me repeatedly even though I only asked for a light massage. That is fine though. Stairs are an issue but I can walk. But after one obstacle race where I used my upper body for the first time in 38 years, the next morning I couldn’t push a door open. I may have looked normal on the outside but on the inside I had the strength of a 2 week old kitten who just got put in a cage with a fully grown horny lion. The lion didn’t have any lubricant. He wasn’t hungry.
I honestly think that I would consider the pink fluffy run. There would be no hills. No water. No mud. We would just sit about and talk to other people and have a jolly good tea party. At the end we would get a medal for good behaviour. The finishers t-shirt wouldn’t be emblazoned with a skull on fire, it would have Barbie holding up a teacup and would read “I went to the pink fluffy run”.
But until then, I will continue to do the ridiculous races and continue to hurt myself. Because for me…I am man.
Who at 39 years of age should know better by now. But at 10 marathons, 10 half marathons and 67 various other length races in the last 4 years…I am going to be creating a clay shape of my colon for many years to come.
wheelturninghamsterdead.com 