Boro’s night of glory

Posted on January 28, 2011 by Andy

I couldn’t let the events of Saturday 8th January pass without a blog on one of the greatest shocks in recent history…

I’m actually here. The Lamex Stadium, Broadhall Way, Stevenage. I fully admit I’m hardly the most loyal Stevenage Boro – sorry, FC – fan around, but it’s fair to say that I’ve followed the results of my home club every week for as long as I can remember. A few visits here over the years plus three FA Trophy finals, but I’ve always regretted the big one in ’98 – when we almost shook the footballing world as a non-league team by getting a draw against Premiership Newcastle. For some reason, I didn’t get a ticket and just watched it on TV instead. So when the Magpies got drawn against us again, I was determined to come down and take part in a bit of history.

My ticket to watch history

“It’s gonna be 3-2 to us” I confidently predict. Well, when I say confidently, I mean optimistically. Odds are, they’ll beat us comfortably. Yes, we’ve moved up in with the big boys in the Football League since our last encounter, but we’re hardly setting League 2 alight. They have a few players out, most notably Andy Carroll, but I still expect them to win. I’ll settle for a draw tonight, though.

The East Terrace is filling up and making a lot of noise. That’s what surprised me at Wembley last year – the fans are a noisy and persistent lot! Silly tunes without words strangely create a great, catchy atmosphere. The “Wooooooah!” song is a particular favourite of mine. At the far side, the black and white shirts are gradually populating the stand like a sea of barcodes. Shell is making her debut on the Broadhall Way stands as we make our way onto the north terrace. It’s a cold evening, and we’re both wrapped up in gloves, scarves and hats. Where to stand? Right behind the goal would see some great action and maybe get us on the ESPN cameras, but the view might be a little pants, so we go just to the right of it, on the back row. The dark blue skies gradually turn black as I take a few photos, read the programme, and send a few texts, excitedly telling people where I am.

The teams come out and line up, swapping ends. Stevenage to attack the goal in front of us first, so I’ll expect most of the action nearest to us will be in the second half. I strain to recognise the Newcastle players – not exactly their best team. Ahhh, Joey Barton and Alan Smith – two charming blokes who wouldn’t look out of place in a Friday night brawl in Stevenage Old Town. It’s a shame there’s not the names of the 1-1 draw in 1998 -where the likes of Shearer, Barnes and Pearce played – but then that’s surely a bonus for us.

The game kicks off and then almost immediately is halted due to Nolan getting a ball in the face, sending him down to the grass for a minute or so. Shame. The scoreboard opposite us slowly counts up the minutes on its low-tech display; just enjoy every minute when we’re still in the game, I think. We seem to have started well, not looking too overawed. I get handed a poster to hold up from the Comet saying “Borough Barmy Army” and wave it in the air a little. Ummm, now what? Failing to make it stick itself to the stand behind me, I put it on the floor. I’ll settle for some gentle verbal encouragement. The crowd has a chuckle when their goalie, Krul, does his first kick and lands on his arse for his efforts. Premier League? You’re having a laugh…

I’m itching to see a shot, and after some encouraging play and even the odd corner, I get impatient as Stevenage players get near the box. “Shoot!!!” I yell, hoping for a screamer to be unleashed right before me. I watch as Bostwick drifts forward directly in front of us…he’s hit it…it’s going towards goal…it’s low and accurate…it’s going in!! Damn! Krul makes a great save to his right and pushes it away. Wow, that was close. Time ticks on, and despite the odd scary moment when we can’t quite see how good the Newcastle breaks are from down here, Stevenage hold their own and make it to half-time level.

Shell hasn’t turned blue just yet, and has quite enjoyed it, it seems. Blokes around me chomp into burgers, looking content at the night’s action so far. The Geordies strip off their shirts and sing “Cheer up, Stevie Bruce!” in reference to their greatest rivals going out of the cup today. Calm down, you’re not exactly setting the cup on fire based on that performance. The second half kicks off. “C’mon Boro!” Can we do it? Five minutes in, and I watch as Stevenage surge forward. Looks like there’s a bit of space. Have a dig…there goes a shot…deflection! It’s…it’s…it’s gone in!!! The East stand erupts and half a second later we do too, as we comprehend what’s happened. I almost can’t believe I’m clapping and cheering Boro taking the lead over Premier League opposition. Get in!! Wow – game on!

Newcastle attack, and Day tips one over the bar from Nolan. Don’t count our chickens. Five minutes later and we go forward again. Why not? Attack ‘em, I say. They’ll be rocked and more than a little nervous. It’s hard to see from this end but we’ve got it on the right and there might be something on as the ball angles its way towards the goal..hang on…did that just… a split second later the noise tells me what my eyes thought they’d seen. It’s 2-0!! 2 flipping 0!!!! “Get in!!! C’mon!!!!!!!” I bounce wildly, almost falling forward as the guy in front gets a hand on his back. Arms raised in the air, fists clenched. This is no longer a nice lead that is probable to get wiped out, this is looking like a match-winning lead! I take some video of the celebrations, photos of the scoreboard, update Facebook. This could be some story unfolding…

“Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio!” Tiote’s just been shown the way to the dressing room! Newcastle are down to 10 men and are two goals in arrears away from home in the second half. If we’re gonna do it, this is the best opportunity ever.

As the minutes slowly increase, I begin to get worried. They say 2-0 is a dangerous scoreline, and Newcastle start to get a bit of the ball. A few shots come towards us, but nothing to worry about. 79 minutes, and a free kick to Newcastle. Keep it going, Boro. The ball comes in towards our keeper Day…but it breaks loose to two Newcastle players on the line! Just a few feet away I watch in slow motion as they turn and swing their legs towards the ball and sweep it in to the net. 2-1. Damn. Only…only…they didn’t. Somehow, the laws of physics were defied and the ball stayed out! Either that or the complete numpties missed an absolute sitter by failing to even make contact with it! Blimey. Let off. No time for reflection, however as Winn is now charging up the pitch…go on!! Surely? Nooooooo! Quite unbelievably, it’s still 2-0.

90 minutes are up. The black and white contingent are not happy, their hopes descending like the bright crescent moon watching above. “We can see you sneaking out!” Four injury-time minutes left. The crowd is nervous now, but I’m still confident. No way can they get back into this. No wa- oh. Barton lashes an unstoppable shot and the net bulges in front of us. 2-1 and still nearly four minutes left. Oh crap. Please don’t say we’re that close to history and gonna blow it. I so want to say I was here to see a victory. I can’t believe we might throw it away. I glance at Shell who is hiding behind her gloves…

We’re still attacking, and rightly so. Can we finish them off? WE CAN!!!! It’s 3-1!!! Definitely game over now!! Goodbye Geordies!!! We’ve done it!!! Finished off a Premier League side like they were schoolboys. The final whistle pierces the cold air and as I cheer, clap and look at the incredulous and happy faces of those around me I know I’ve witnessed something special here. A few teenagers start to run onto the pitch, followed by others. Despite warnings, the stewards let a few kids on, too. Shall I go? Invade the pitch? I know it’s wrong, but I’d like to. Hmmm… maybe if I was actually right at the front. I decide just to record the moment and soak in the atmosphere from the stands for a while.

Eventually, with music ringing out telling the whole town of our mighty victory, I pick up the Comet poster as a memento and head for the exit. I may have missed the sensation that was 1998, but today I was part of FA Cup history.

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10 to 11

Posted on January 1, 2011 by Andy

2010 was some year for me. How would I describe it in one word? A Journey. Ok, technically that’s two words but it’s my blog and I can cheat a little.

Journey is certainly apt in the traditional sense – I have been lucky enough to have been able to see a number of new places in the world and even a familiar, well trodden (or run) route.

It has also been a journey for me professionally, having spent almost an entire year doing a role I never thought I’d ever end up doing. Ok, I’m not talking about something exotic such as a porn star or a motorcycle stunt driver, but a Project Manager seemed just as unlikely to me a year ago. (I imagine that it’s less fun than the other two, though). I took it to challenge me, to give me new skills, to provide a change, and it’s certainly done all those.

Finally, I shared a journey for virtually the whole of 2010 with a girl whom I was lucky enough to find when trying something new. It’s been exciting, fun and a trip that’s going to take us to pastures new this year, too, I’m sure.

So, what were my highlights and low points of 2010?

Well, football sucked. Being an England and Liverpool fan last year wasn’t exactly fun. More like…shit. Watching England play terrible in a World Cup they actually had a decent chance of winning was bad enough. Witnessing Germany take us apart was worse. Add to that the December decision which meant I may never see us host the World Cup in my lifetime (even if I live to 110) was enough to make me wish I was I’d been born in Barcelona. If I had been, of course, I would have probably celebrated a trophy or two recently; instead, I watched Liverpool fall to 7th last season and then the ignominy of watching us flirt with relegation. 2011 had better be an improved year on the pitch.

On the flip side, going to the World Cup in South Africa was a great experience. A second World Cup for me and another continent to tick off on my list. The footy was great, the country an eye-opener and the holiday with my friends a delight. 

I also got to see Sacramento and the amazing Pompeii, Brussels and its Atomium, and revel in the blue tranquility of the Maldives.

I had a high in New York in finishing my third marathon, but was bitterly disappointed in not having the strength to reach my target time. I took with me, however, unforgettable memories of the best support I’d ever seen.
During that time I also had the lowest point of the year, when I had to put my cat, Geri, down. I don’t know when I was last that upset, and it was as devastating as it was fast. Twelve great years and then she was gone.
In terms of births, my cousin Claire started on perhaps the scariest of journeys – becoming a mum for the first time and giving our family a new edition for the first time in years.

Plenty of good nights out were had with the lads, including several Cambridge trips ending in a long taxi drive back or sleeping under a table in a Travelodge room of six people.

2010 was also a landmark for me – I made my debut as a published author! Two of my short stories I’d previously written got printed in two separate anthologies. Two books you can buy on Amazon have fiction in them that I came up with! You just can’t put a price on that feeling.

Overall, I really enjoyed 2010. Maybe it’s the getting older thing but I do feel what I experienced this year grew me as a person in different ways to my travelling of ’09. I’m also finishing the year as happy as I can remember being. In fact, I’ve just looked at last year’s entry and realised what a crap time that was. Amazing what a difference a year makes. Just don’t mention the footy…

So what now? 2011 will be hard work, but hopefully of the good kind. It’s the year I finally do up the house and drag it into this decade. Ok, ok… this century. I also need to get my writing back on track – 2010 was a barren year with barely a key hit in anger. I’ve decided to write something every day this year – even if just this blog, a few personal thoughts or a proper story. So far, so good.
I want to continue my running, get stronger and faster and have more achievements in it. Also, succeed at work, see more of my family and visit new places.

Well, I’ll check back to this list next year and see if I achieved all that or whether it ended up as the proverbial New Year’s resolution crap that nearly everyone does. 

Have a good year folks – fight those challenges, complete those journeys and have a few laughs on the way.

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New York Marathon 2010: The Whole Story

Posted on November 19, 2010 by Andy

It’s marathon blogging time again! Just as in 2008 (see http://andrewmales.com/2008/11/) I want to record everything about my marathon – from decision, to training, preparation, the race itself and the suffering afterwards.

Why? Well, for one I have the memory of one of those orange things that swim around in a bowl, so I want to record everything so I can look back at it some day. Secondly, it allows anyone who cares to visit the site to see just how much goes into doing a marathon.

So, this is an introduction to a series of posts that’ll give you the 2010 New York marathon experience through my own eyes. You’ll hear about and literally see blood, sweat and read about the tears that was my journey. Feel the pain, the hope, despair, elation and hopefully you’ll work out just why the heck we runners put ourselves through this…

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New York Marathon 2010: The Whole Story – Training Days

Posted on November 19, 2010 by Andy

The Decision  

January 2010: My friend, Steve, has said he’s running NY again this year. Last time was fantastic, but do I want to do it again? Hmmm…  

Reasons For  

  • It’s a great experience
  • I know I can do it
  • I want to better my last time
  • It’ll be cool to share and chat about it for years to come
  • I’m one marathon ahead of Steve, so I can’t let him equalise!

Reasons Against  

  • Been there, done that
  • It’s not cheap
  • I’ve a few holidays planned this year, which might get in the way
  • It’s damn hard work and needs commitment to do the training
  • Last time, I beat Steve by 48 seconds (I’ve milked it ever since). I’d almost like to retire on that note! What if he beats me this time?

I look at the options and think about it. No reason to pull the trigger just yet.  

April: I decide to go for it. What the hell. I could do with another challenge and to get fit again.  

Training Begins  

April: A few, short, ad-hoc runs, but nothing serious. Got plenty of months to do it properly.  

May: Hardly anything. Ongoing groin problems are starting to worry me. Have to constantly tell people that it is an old footy injury and has absolutely nothing to do with my girlfriend…  

June: The World Cup dominates the month, especially my trip to South Africa. Spend more time on the golf course than on the road. Slip into a mini-depression at England’s performance.  

Muscles and Brussels  

July: OK, now it’s time to start properly. I dig out my old schedule. I research lots of schedules, different methods of training. Go long? Go fast? Go often? I faff around for a few weeks deciding, before realising that it might be a good idea if I went out and actually start running. I start my schedule and take it easy. Thigh, knee and groin all complain a little, but I’m starting to get used to running regularly again. Even a long weekend trip to Brussels doesn’t stop my training as I am disciplined enough to put in a stint on the treadmill there (once I’d translated the buttons).  

Got to Get it Off My Chest  

August: Damn common colds! Why haven’t we cured them yet? They’re pointless and annoying, and now that it’s gone down to my chest I cannot run. Still, I’ve put in a good cycle of runs early part of the month, so I’ll just rest like a good boy and wait until I can go back out.  

I’m Welywn There – Give me Moor!  

September: A few runs  – including my first race in nearly 2 years in Welwyn – make it to a separate post: http://andrewmales.com/2010/10/02/not-so-cool-runnings/.  

I finish the month with two significant runs: first, the Moor Park 10K…  

This is great training as I want to get faster and it’s a chance to beat my 10K record and maybe get under 50 minutes. Prospects don’t look too good, though, as the rain starts to come down. Still, if my girl’s gonna make an effort to stand here in the wet to watch, then maybe I better turn it on. I start strong from the back, gaining confidence overtaking many people as we do a couple of laps around the field. I want to keep a good pace, so I constantly keep an eye my watch. It’s going well until…what the hell’s this? A golf course? And a long slope? My legs go all heavy and suddenly I can see the records drifting away from me. Must continue. The downhill is a welcome relief, and I’ve survived the possibility of a rogue hook from the 7th hole. I run past the place where Steve got married and where I delivered the best man speech of legends. Pride drives me on. After recent longer runs, 10K seems quite short, and I start to push it. I laugh in the rain and almost sprint past a few people as we enter the field again. Come on Andy – go a bit faster but don’t go too early. Wait for it…Wait for it…Now give it all you’ve got!!! I go for the line like there’s no tomorrow. Strong and oozing the last remaining bit of energy I turn the corner to see the clock still in the 49th minute! I take the glory, the records and a wet hug. If I can run like this for longer, under 4 hours will be mine…  

Character Test  

My schedule says run 16 miles today. It’s grey, wet and uninviting out there. Bugger. Still, what’s the point in training for something if you don’t prepare in all sorts of different weather? It could rain on the day in New York so I need to be sure I can go long even when soaked. Oh well, here goes my longest run since ’08…  

I’m glad I invested a lot of quality Vaseline time before I went out. It’s only been a few miles but I’m soaked through, trudging round my home town on a Friday afternoon. Everyone has vanished – if it weren’t for the cars spraying slowly down the road I’d have sworn aliens had come down and zapped everyone else. Perhaps they thought I was done for anyway. I have no idea what is sweat and what is rain, but everything from my running top to my socks are weighed down with liquid.  

I celebrate getting into double figures, telling myself that 6 miles to go is just 10K, and I can do that in my sleep. A few more laps round the lake…13.1 miles…a half marathon! Just keep going…  

I think I’m going mad. I’m clearly laughing in the rain now, loving it. My legs are just on auto pilot and I’m ploughing on, smiling. The ducks look at me strangely.  

15 miles and gravity is not my friend. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d swear I was going backwards. A small slope, but to a sodden mess with screaming muscles it feels like Everest. Regroup, Andy. Get over it, start again then speed up. Keep up the pace. Reach your goal. I turn towards home.  

I’m nearly there. Home is almost within sight and the watch says 15.90. Ha! Think you can beat me, world? Think the rain will make me quit? You never heard of Andy Males? Pah! You stick your 16 miles as I’m gonna do it. Just let me get to my warm shower…  

Life’s a Beach  

October: You would think that the best time to book a 2-week holiday to a paradise island where you can relax on white beaches, laze in pools and generally do nothing all day is ideal for after a marathon, right? Well, I’ve decided to do it in reverse and go to the Maldives one month before the big race. This is partly due to the timing of my girlfriend’s (Shell)  birthday, but I can’t say I’m annoyed at the prospect of missing two weeks of the cold and wet of home to do my training. We’ve picked one of the bigger islands which has a gym, and enough dirt track to actually do some of the smaller runs outside. Time for the first stint in the gym…  

This is not what I planned. Some silly rule over no sand in the gym means I can’t run there in my trainers I’ve just arrived in. Oh well, I’ll try a few laps of the island. It can’t be that hot in the morning, surely? A couple of miles later, I stop and ring out my vest. I’ve never sweated so much in my life. What’s more, I’m sun-burnt, with clear white lines from my vest. In terms of fashion, it’s an epic fail.  

Time for the big one: 18 miles. This is the peak of my training, the furthest I’m gonna go. I can’t possibly do that sort of mileage outside here – I’d either be reduced to a prune, burnt to a crisp or get dizzy running that many times round the island. So, the air-conditioned gym and the treadmill it is. Can it be done? I have Shell on hand ready to supply me with towels, water, gels, Lucozade, and I have cheesy MTV hits and a mirror to study my form. Let’s do it…  

60 minutes in and I’m finding it tough. Air conditioned? Right now I feel like I’m in a sauna. Towels are running out and I look a mess. The treadmill display defies all logic, warping time. Counting up, I feel like I’ve got a lifetime left. It cuts out at 60, whereby I have to reset, giving me a few seconds of vital respite. Here we go again from zero…  

1 hr 58 and I’m praying for the next reset. My upper right leg is very stiff and I’m not sure how much further I can go on for. Mentally, I’m being drained. I’ve done over 12 miles and keeping a good pace, but how can I go on to 18?  

2hrs 10 and I’m all but gone. The stop button taunts me. It wants me to press its red, shiny loveliness. My brain wants me to press it. My legs are sending telegrams to my brain saying “STOP!” No, don’t do it, Andy. Do it! Press it! NO! YES! STOP! Continue!! STOP! Arrghhh! My arm raises high and goes to hit it. NO! Resist! I somehow drop my arm again. I’m in total turmoil, as my legs pound on and on, various counters proudly displaying my misery. STOP! NO! STOP! NOOOOOO! NOOOOO!!!!!!! Hello? This is Andy’s Emergency Breakdown Service. We have evidence to believe the reasoning side of his brain has shut down and is not taking the necessary action. We will now take control. The message to press the button is made by the part of my brain I did not know existed until now. SLAM! My hand slaps against its square face. I’m done, spent. Willpower is zero. 14 miles and I’ve quit for the first time. Gutted. So gutted. Brain melted and I feel so disappointed.  

Too Little, Too Late?  

November: Training’s all but complete- but have I done enough? A steady increase in mileage and pace has led me to be confident, but have I done sufficient long runs? With a 16 mile maximum, and only 6 runs in double figures, it looks like once again I’m gonna be at that start line not knowing whether I can achieve my goals.  

Comparison of miles from NY 2008 and 2010

Comparison of miles trained for NY 2008 and 2010

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Ready or not

Posted on November 7, 2010 by Andy

It’s 9:15pm in a hotel room in Garden City, Long Island, New York. As soon as this post is done, I’m off to bed. At 4am I’m getting up and starting a day that I’ll never forget.

I’d like to say the preparation has been great, but it hasn’t. My legs aren’t in as good as shape as I’d hoped, and quite frankly I do not know how long certain muscles will last out. Will it just be a case of battling through the pain, or will I just lose all power?

The flight over was one to forget. The first half of it was spent mostly in the confines of a small room where my body tried its best to get rid of anything and everything inside me, including, it felt at times, my organs. I even had to take oxygen just to get me through it!

Next up: I caught a cold. Perhaps I got it just before I left, but it’s not gone yet. How much will it affect my breathing? Can I run as fast as I want?

The worst out of everything was the extremely upsetting news of my cat, Geri. I won’t detail it all here, but it gutted me.

So why put all this here, now? To give me excuses in case I run bad? No, it’s to give you an insight into how even months of good preparation can be affected by unforeseen circumstances. But it’s more than that – I’m writing this to tell myself that I’m gonna get up tomorrow and DESPITE all this, I’m going to nail New York. Whether I get under the golden four hours or not, I’m not quitting. I’m still fighting. It’s not going to beat me. Life can suck sometimes, but you have to continue to reach for your goals. I shall run alongside people who have gone through so much more…and probably with those who will go through worse.

Am  I ready?

Just watch me go…

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Not-so-cool runnings

Posted on October 2, 2010 by Andy

Want an insight into the pain, the glory, sore nipples, buckets of sweat and killer bushes that is my marathon training? No? Oh well, go away then. But if you are interested in my latest efforts, then please read on…

Welywn Garden City 10 Miles

I feel like I’m 12 years old, waiting for a PE lesson to start. This is probably something to do with it being 10:30am, standing on a school field in a pair of short shorts. I’m at the start of a 10 mile race, with nearly 400 other runners ready to tackle the streets of WGC…right after we do a lap of this school field.

It’s my first race since the ’08 marathon. I look around me – everyone seems to be a proper runner: lean, kitted out appropriately, many in running club colours. There is casual chat around me regarding running, families and the like. I’m just here for the training, to log my first double figures of this campaign and hopefully get in under an hour and a half. It’s also payback time: I had entered this very race in ’08 but had to pull out due to injury, instead watching Steve and T “8-head” go round it without me. Today, I have my girlfriend, Michelle (aka “Shell” to me), along for support, and perhaps Si and his family, no doubt ready to take a photo of me looking in some bad way that he’ll post to Facebook within two seconds of taking it. For now, Shell snaps away as I warm up minutes before the start.

The air is cool, and the sun is threatening to break through and make it uncomfortable for a run. The local MP does some inspirational speech that few people will remember seconds later, as the horn goes and we stream through the starting gates. “Beep!” goes the shoe chip to start my own personal clock. I tuck in midway through the field of runners as we trample a route through the grass. Taking the inside and passing a couple of others as our legs threaten to tangle, I feel like I’m in a proper race. Don’t get boxed in! Use your shoulders! Get in a medal position! Ok, I better calm down, I’m nowhere near the front and it’s not the Olympic 1500m final. This is illustrated quite clearly when we go to get out of the field and come to a small exit that seems to be constructed to only fit about three spotty kids across, not a hoard of athletes who have no wish to slow down and break stride. Great planning. Soon though, I’m out on the streets.

Somehow, I’ve isolated myself. There’s a woman running in blue shorts some way ahead of me that I’m focussing on (not her bottom you see, just, err, as a marker, you know) but there’s not much directly behind me. Suddenly I panic – I’m not last, am I? I glance over my shoulder and see a steady line of people some way back. Phew. I wave to my fan club (Shell has now been joined by her friend) and appear to get a few photos taken of me. On I go.

The drink stops are well-received, although I struggle to handle the small plastic cup. Running with it is fine, it’s just when I try and take a sip I feel like Ted Striker in “Airplane!” There are not too many hills over the two-loop circuit, but my thighs certainly are telling me when I’m going up them. More conditioning is needed if I am to tackle NY, methinks. I pass Shell again, trying my best to look strong and fast. As soon as she’s out of sight, I revert back to a slower, more slump-like posture. It’s beginning to hurt now.

Si appears out of nowhere and cheers me on, iPhone at the ready. The kids are instructed to wave, but seem to be a little bemused at who it is they’re exactly cheering on. Nevertheless, it’s great to see familiar faces and spurs me on. We go through residential areas, on pavements, passing kids going about their Sunday hanging around. Marshals lurk around every corner, pointing in the direction to take, dressed in fluorescent green vests. With my sense of direction, this is probably best, otherwise no doubt I’d end up in St. Albans.

I’m at my lowest now. I’ve just seen the 7 mile sign. 7? 6 was ages ago – it surely must be 8 by now. “Not long left!” said the marshal a while ago. That’s just cruel. All very well her sitting there doing next to nothing, but don’t give us false hope, say it how it is. “Go on! You’re knackered and have about half an hour of running ahead, but keep going!” would been preferable, and more honest. My legs are heavy, my vest is awash with sweat and I feel I’m slowing down. C’mon Andy. A runner in front of me stops, walks for a bit, then continues before I catch up with him. That’s not gonna be me – I don’t stop. Left foot follows right follows left…

More photos, and then I get the sense of being on the back straight. The 9 mile marker has suddenly appeared, sooner than I expected, and this gives me a boost. Either that, or it’s the energy gel I took 15 minutes ago. I pass one of the club runners and feel proud. ’ave it, Harlow Runners. I run round the school – I must be nearly there! Then I see one of the most hated sights in races: people who’ve already finished, walking back to their cars with their white finishers’ bags. Damn you! I still have work to do and you’re basking in the glory already. I continue. When’s it going to end? Down a long stretch, I see a crowd gathering. Time to up the pace, bring on a strong finish. Men in front of me suddenly are left in my wake as my burst surprises even me. Just before the school entrance I see Shell…and we enter our very own race as she dashes to try to capture me crossing the line. Ah, let’s give her the shot she wants, slow down a little, relax. I come towards the line and in sight of the announcer who sees me: “AND HERE COMES NUMBER 350 <quick check of the list>……..ANDY MALES! GIVE US A SPRINT FINISH!” My brain switches to show-0ff mode – I run harder. I sprint. I go for the line like I’m running for Great Britain. The crowd (to me) go wild as I approach. And look at the time! 1:27! I’m under 1.5 hours! I smile as I cross the line and celebrate, not that Shell captures it. Ooops. I think she didn’t keep up with my sprint. That’ll teach me to showboat! I collect another medal for my meagre collection, my goody bag and slowly walk back to the car, smiling smugly at the runners still coming in.

 

Sorrento Treadmill

Going away anywhere for more than two days means working out where I can run. Here, in Sorrento, Italy, I don’t have many options. Mount Vesuvius looks at me across the bay, challenging me. Hmmm…I might walk up part of you tomorrow, but I don’t think even Steve meant that kind of hill running as part of my training. Trouble is, my hotel is a) on a bit of a hill anyway, and b) in Italy, with Italian drivers close to narrow pavements. I happen to like my limbs in one piece, so I decide to tackle the treadmill.

The hotel is full of people over 50, so I rate my chances on taking the only treadmill; I was right – not a soul around. Twelve miles here I come. Except…twelve miles is a long time – both to run, and to stare at my face in the mirror for what will be two hours. It’s damn hot in here, too. Oh well, gotta be done. Shell decides to jump on the cycle machine to keep me company.

The digits on the treadmill cheerfully display 2 hours to go. I get into my stride. 1 hour 50. Just over ten minutes later, it switches to a delightful 99 minutes left. Oh wonderful. I continue, wiping sweat from my brow, arms, neck, armpits. It’s a hopeless task – I obviously have a leak somewhere. 89 minutes. Just think of the achievement. Keep going. Shell’s jumped to the stepper. I start to play a game with my mind – 79 minutes doesn’t mean 79 minutes – it just means I’m in the 70s. Soon, I’ll be in the 60s, and then that just an hour left. I even ramp up the speed a little – the quicker I go, the faster I get to 12, right?

I’m somewhere in the 40s now, and having to resort to music to keep me going. Not real music, of course – I have no iPod with me – it’s the jukebox in my head. It’s been playing Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” for a while now, something to do with “Ohhhhhh, we’re halfway there!” that jumped out at me when 6 miles were clocked up. Various other fragments of tunes float around, repeating lines as rhythms that I run to.

I’m nearly there. There’s enough sweat around me to fill the swimming pool and my left groin is complaining but I’m still going. Shell has long finished exercising and is relaxing with her puzzle book nearby, giving me encouraging shouts every now and again. She also supplied me with an energy gel and became the saviour of my nipples by going and getting two plasters. You have no idea the difference that makes!

Down to the 20s…teens…then it’s single figures! C’mon on! Nearly there…almost beaten you, treadmill. Think you’d win? Ha! C’mon! 5 minutes …4…3…2…1 minute…30 seconds…two full hours and we’re done. I stop my watch, slow down to walking pace and smile as 12.11 miles is displayed. As I limp off to my room, Vesuvius seems to taunt my calves, whispering, “tomorrow…tomorrow…”

 

 Cycle Track Half Marathon

From the glory of WGC, the beauty of Sorrento…to the cycle tracks of Stevenage. After a few days’ rest and carb-loading, I’m ready to attempt another milestone in my training: a half marathon of 13.1 miles. Unfortunately my legs are not the only thing that is ready to run today, and I don’t mean my nose. Something I ate? Not sure, but things aren’t looking good as I contemplate two hours away from a toilet. Ahhhh, the joys of long-distance running…

I leave it to later in the day to recover, which is good, aside from the fact it’s got quite warm out there. For the first time, I’ll have ongoing support, in the form of Shell riding next to me. No megaphone, but at least she can carry the gels and water bottle and keep me company. We set out for what is a daunting run to me as I begin to realise it really is getting serious.

The first flaw in this plan is that I start off more concerned that Shell is ok on the bike; she’s more used to the static kind found in gyms, and it’s been many a year, it seems, since she rode one that actually went somewhere. I remind her that it’s like…well, you know the rest. It feels a bit weird at first, having someone right next to you. I’m not sure if I prefer her in front or behind, but it does take my mind off my running. A couple of miles in and I hear an awful noise behind me – yep, that’s the chain come off. Great. I realise it’s not good for either of us for me to complain at this stage, so I just pause the clock and quickly fix it to get her back and cycling. Let’s hope that’s the last hiccup.

I’m hurting now and strength is being sapped out my thighs by the invisible gods of the hills. This is bad. How am I going to cope in New York with its bridges? Any incline is proving difficult for me. I have a stitch, my right knee is sore, my ear is making me dizzy and once again sweat is cascading down my face. I start to dig deep. “COME ON!” Various outbursts and mantras fall from my lips as I strive to keep rhythm and my legs going. I must not quit.

I’m in Fairlands Lakes now, doing a few circuits. Home is not far away. I raise my arms and spread my fingers to indicate the passing of the ten mile stage. Think of the rest. Think of the milkshake that awaits. The achievement. Think of the…suddenly a bush jumps out me, scratching my arm and hand with its thorns. Stupid bush! Stupid council! Why don’t they trim these things? I’m bleeding, sweating and hurting all over. Great.

Shell has been great, keeping me going, giving me water, encouragement and most importantly not falling off or damaging my bike. I reach the home straight, less than a mile to go. “Time to bring it home!” I say, and start to sprint. Twenty seconds later, I’m barely running. My energy bar is critically low. No showboating this time, Andy, let’s just get home. Soon, I’m running out of cycle track as I finally get near home. 13 miles…13.1 and stop. I’m absolutely knackered. My legs are shot. I’m a mess. And just think – in not so many weeks’ time I’ll have to do that again…twice.

Oh crap…

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Start spreading the news…

Posted on August 26, 2010 by Andy

Start spreading the news
I’m leaving today (well, November)
I want to be a part of it (and I will)
New York, New York

These vagabond (err, running) shoes
Are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it (and all 5 boroughs)
New York, New York

Apologies to the great Frank Sinatra there – I’m sure my version isn’t quite as snappy, but it’s a trashy way to start this blog and catch your attention. Shameless but relevant: it’s to inform you all that on November 7th 2010 I’m running the 26.2 miles of the New York City marathon…and to let you know of all the charity sponsorship details.

Re-rewind

I admit that I haven’t updated this blog much recently. It started off detailing my 2008 training and race, then went on to my amazing sabbatical, then various random things, mostly footy. I had intended to put lots of World Cup stuff here, but then all the enthusiasm kinda drained from me when England actually took to the field.

So, what am I doing about it now? Well, I enjoyed writing about the training last time, so I’m going to do it again with my training now. I’ll throw in some footy posts, as well as at least one update about my South Africa experience (which is nearly finished anyway and is quite a story!) but generally it’s for you to know how I’m doing.

Money, money, money

With a quick swerve of tunes, we reach the important bit: I’m running for charity. Two charities, exactly. One is for seriously and terminally ill children, Dreams Come True, and the other is for a local hospice, Garden House.

You can read all about them on my Just Giving pages – what they are, what they do, why I’m running for them. The links are below and you should also see a donate section on this very website.

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010DreamsComeTrue

http://www.justgiving.com/AndyMalesNYC2010GardenHouse

 

Every breath you take

So what do I give you back in return? Updated blog entries on my training struggles. There’s always tales of injury pain, illnesses, getting soaked, dogs trying to savage my ankles and general kill-me-now moments that I’m sure you’ll have a sadistic interest in as I prepare over the next two and a bit months.

You’ll also get to see some embarrassing photos of me. For every £200 I raise, I’ve pledged to put up on my JustGiving sites funny (but clean!) photos I have of me from over the years.

And of course, you’ll get the warm, fuzzy feeling of helping to make a difference to someone who really needs it.

So what are you waiting for? Check out my sites, read my blog, spread the news and join in.

It’s up to you…

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World Cup Memories: The land of the setting sun

Posted on May 12, 2010 by Andy

21st June 2002. It was early morning, before work, yet I was in a Codicote pub jumping up and down in sheer delight. England were playing Brazil, and just for a short while I thought that we were destined to win the World Cup.

Despite the usual hype back home surrounding any World Cup involving England, I didn’t have great expectations on us winning in Japan. Few teams win outside their continent, and Japan was not somewhere I thought we’d be particularly successful. I was more looking to Germany 2006 and beyond, and despite Beckham’s redemption day against the Argies in the group stages, there hadn’t been much to be hopeful about Sven’s army. Sure, we’d just breezed past Denmark 3-0, but now we were playing the mighty Brazil – runners up in ’98 and on a mission to put right their failure. I say “mighty” – they may not have been the all-conquering team of tournaments in years gone by, but for me, Brazil meant the World Cup. We always seemed to fail when we met one of the big teams in the knockout stages, so it was with much dread that I watched the quarter final kick off.

In the pub, I was surrounded by people who’d have to be off to work soon after, each thinking how extra time might go down with their boss. The lucky ones had taken the day off – whatever the result, spreadsheets, meetings and customers all would get second billing in the tide of emotions that were sure to follow. I was nervous about a couple of colleagues who’d joined me, as they’d no doubt be seeing me in a new light after this match, what with the inevitable shouting, possible swearing and even the prospect of tears. A new environment…and in the 23rd minute it looked to be a lucky one…

When it happened, it was like being given a key to a magical wonderland. Sure, you had to get to the door and unlock it, but everything you ever wanted was now possible. Michael Owen – Liverpool’s hero predator and a man who could do no wrong in my eyes – had just hunted down the slightest mistake in the Brazilian defence and slotted in to take the lead for England. We were 1-0 up against Brazil. WE WERE 1-0 UP AGAINST BRAZIL!!!!! I remember shouting, screaming, drink going everywhere. I hugged Matt, despite a split second moment of awkwardness. At that moment, we weren’t colleagues or friends – just joyful England supporters. Suddenly, my mind went into overdrive. We would beat Brazil. We’d go into the semis and nothing would stop us! Sven is a God! We’d put 1990 behind us and go all the way to the final where of course Owen would emulate Hurst, get a hat-trick and win the cup for England! I honestly had a moment of clarity when the unthinkable was unfolding before my very eyes. I was sure that if we just got to half time we’ll do it. Just get to half time. Just get… oh you son of a £$%^”!!!!

If Rivaldo’s equaliser knocked me sideways, what happened in the second half couldn’t have drained me more of life if I’d just fallen into a vampire’s convention at midnight with the buffet having just run out. When Ronaldinho floated a free kick towards Seaman’s goal, I watched the ball’s arc, safe in the knowledge that it was no threat. Big Dave would get it, being only a yard or two off his line. He may be getting on a bit, but he’ll save it. I didn’t expect a shuffle of feet that my grandad would be ashamed of as the ball peaked then dipped towards the top corner, before hitting the net half a second before England’s lumbering number one did. My dreams crashed through the floor.

I have no recollection of the rest of the match. It took another Google just now to remember Ronaldinho got sent off soon after. I do know, however - as clichéd as it sounds – a part of me died that day. Aside from being a zombie throughout the horror of the working day that started minutes after we trudged out of the pub, I wasn’t the same after. Yeah, I know, footy is in many ways pointless and irrelevant and is certainly not life and death, but the part of me that felt unbounded joy and belief that we could do it went forever that day. Even the most important of goals I’ve witnessed since have never been greeted with such belief as I felt at the moment Owen’s goal went it. Part of me will always hold back. Until the day – if it ever comes – that the final whistle blows in the final to signal the right for England to earn their second star, I’ll always fear the worst.

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44 years, 44 days

Posted on April 29, 2010 by Andy

In 44 days, the England team start their World Cup campaign to end 44 years of “hurt”. No – make that “failure” – squads of 22 players have failed; most of the entire population have been the ones who’ve hurt. Still, in the seven World Cups I’ve experienced there’s been plenty of memories, and I have decided to resurrect this blog to take you through some of my most memorable – both the ecstatically good and world-ending bad.

Let’s start with my very first memory of the best tournament in the world…

1982 – Viva Espana! My first ever World Cup, and I was hooked from the start. I’d only been into football for about a year, and after the successes of Liverpool in the European Cup in 1981 and the league in 1982, I was getting used to winning. 1966 was an earlier generation, and coming from a non-football family I didn’t appreciate at first how much international football meant to the country. I quickly learned, though.

I made two fine World Cup related purchases: Firstly, the Panini Espana 82 World Cup sticker album (which I’vejust dug out tonight) and secondly, the official England World Cup record: This Time (We’ll Get It Right) (B side: England, We’ll Fly The Flag) (my very first record purchase) “We’re on our way, We are Ron’s twenty-two…”

There were plenty of memories of 1982, and I’m sure I’ll blog about others later, but this one is for the first England match I watched: England v France.

You couldn’t get much of a better start than scoring within 26 seconds – Bryan Robson coming in and hooking the ball into the French net. What an introduction to my World Cup adventure!

Injury prone Utd git

(Bryan suffered a slight injury as this photo was taken)

I probably didn’t realise at the time, but that was a good French team with Platini, Giresse, Battison et al who were destined to get to the semi finals, and then two years later win Euro ’84. For me at the time, we were just beating some foreign team who I knew were close neighbours to us. I don’t remember their equaliser, and even the YouTube replay I’ve currently got open does nothing to bring back the memory. Who cares, anyway. What I do vividly remember is Robson’s second goal – stealing in with a powerful header to make it 2-1. Funnily enough, I’ve always had the image of his bent arm celebration and the stripy sweatband.

As for the third goal, I’m delighted my memory of Paul Mariner’s celebration didn’t let me down. One of the coolest acknowledgements of a goal you’ll ever likely to see in a World Cup match. Ball comes to him…he shoots…he scores…he raises his arms to the crowd with barely a smile…he slowly walks away, mullet trailing behind. Classic.

Plymouth awaits...

So we beat the French 3-1. Easy. I may as well continue with my memories of England in the tournament, as they are very brief. I don’t recall the Czechoslovakia and Kuwait wins in the first round, and very vaguely the 0-0 v West Germany in the second round group stages, but I do recall the Spain match in which we had to win. It was a tense affair, in which I watched hoping someone would score for us. Surely we’d do it? We couldn’t go out of the World Cup even though we’d not lost? Alas, it ended 0-0, and we went out, leaving me with my first taste of England disappointment.

Strange thing is, until now, I’ve always had a chip on my shoulder about the match, as I remember West Germany and Austria conspiring to knock us out by fixing their match, but after research today, to my surprise this scandal – although real – actually applied to poor old Algeria in the first round group stage. I can’t blame the Germans for our failure this time! Funny how the memory fools you. Still, I do correctly remember two English heroes named Brooking and Keegancoming on to the save the day for us, to no avail. It was their last appearances in an England shirt. Don’t worry Kev – you’ll be back in seventeen years for more disappointment as manager.

That match got me started. 1982 got me hooked. Stay tuned for tears, ecstasy, despair, drugged-up Argentinians, some of the most blatant hacks ever and those damn-awful penalties…

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Dude, where’s my hoverboard?

Posted on January 14, 2010 by Andy

Great Scott!!

Did you know it’s just five years until we reach the timelines of Back to the Future II? I remember watching it being amazed at all the cool things we were likely to have in the future. At the time, it was over a quarter of a century away, so of course some of it would come true, wouldn’t it? I’d be flying in cars, wearing auto-fitting Nike trainers, having accurate weather predictions and of course travelling around on hoverboards (despite the fact that I’d obviously be in my early forties by then). It wasn’t some space adventure where we were living on the moon (damn you, Space 1999), it was on Earth, in America and released during a decade of ever-increasing progress. So what big thing that graced BTTFII are we now most likely to see? 3-bloody-D

Yeah, I know 3D isn’t actually new. It’s over sixty years old, actually. But after its heyday in the 50s, a brief comeback in the 80s, now it looks to be THE thing for 2010.
Personally, I’m not convinced. Here’s my some of my experiences of 3D to date:

Sometime in the 80s…Wow! Look at this computer magazine! Some of its pages are in 3D! Let’s put on the flimsy, stupid specs and see…Oh. It looks…different. Some parts of the page stand out slightly. Great. Maybe I’ll put these specs away for another twenty years…

Early 90s…You mean to say I just stare at this book with a silly pattern and I’ll see a jet fighter suddenly appear before my eyes. Yeah right. Is this Magic Eye simply a con? You paid how much for this crap?..Squint, you say? Can’t see it…can’t see it…I think I’m about to go blind…Wow! Where the heck did that come from? Cool. Ok, next page…can’t see it…can’t see it…Ok, I’m bored now.

A little later, Trocadero, Picadilly Circus. I care not that I look a complete dork with a huge headset on, waving my arms in the air at nothing. VR is the future, man. Wow! It moves when I move! It’s a little slow, though…actually, what’s happening? How do you play this game? What do you mean I’m dead?

1995, Honey I Shrunk the Audience, Universal Studios, Florida. At least the specs are better. Cool effects – I’m shrunk. The floor’s actually moving! I can feel the dog’s sneeze on my face! Here come the legions of mice running towards us…why are people screaming in front of me? How the heck did they make us feel their tails against our legs?! Wow.

1997, Terminator ride, Universal Studios, Florida. Hey this 3D effect is slick. And there are real actors on stage. What’s that box opening beside me? Oh shit! That’s a real, full-size, mean-looking endoskelton with a gun just inches away from me! I can feel the heat from its fire! And he has 5 other mates! SkyNet really IS taking over the world! We’re doomed! Where’s the door? I won’t be back, Arnie!

2010, Avatar film, cinema. Ok, the glasses have got a little sillier. Everyone looks like they’ve just been to an NHS optician in 1983. Here comes the animation. Oh wow. Are they computer graphics? It’s so smooth. Done brilliantly. Oh, there’s the 3D effects. The film looks…different. Here come some grenades flying at the screen…ok, why did I just duck?!!

Maybe we’re getting a little closer to that shark that comes out of the Jaws 19 advert and scares poor 1985 Marty shitless for a few seconds. But the way forward for 3D has to be more than just visual effects. The experiences of my Universal Studio films led me to believe you need to tackle the other senses as well. The Terminator endoskeletons weren’t in 3D – they were real robotics – but throw in the mini-movie, 3D, actors and suddenly your brain says this is all real. Cheap but fun effects of 3D objects poking at you work well the first few times, but after that they’re just a gimmick.

So what about the future? Apparently some of the World Cup this year is going to be in 3D. Ok…and what will that bring? Will Maradona be leaping towards us celebrating his team’s late equaliser? Will we be ducking as the German penalty hits the back of our net? Or do we get to explore Beckham’s latest hairstyle from all angles?

If a certain company with half of Skynet’s name has their way, I’m sure in a few years everyone will think 2D is about as modern as the 14″ analogue TV your Gran still refuses to give up. Maybe I’ll even ditch the carbon-hungry plasma for one, though maybe only if ITV4 show repeats of Baywatch in 3D.

For now, though, I’ll settle for the development of a mode of transport that doesn’t turn into the most dangerous, unpredictable vehicle just because a few flakes of the white stuff land on our shores.

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