Control your arousal

I’m sitting at my desk eating brown bread and cheese sandwiches, all washed down with some supermarket energy drink (I’ll only name it when they sponsor me!).

This is the glamorous part of running long distances for a medal.

The other glamorous part is the pre-race ritual of taping your nipples and emptying the bomb bay (airborne metaphor there for having a bowl blocker) but that should be on monday morning.

Before my first marathon I had the usual problem of not being able to control my arousal (not the early morning horse’s hand brake / diamond cutter type of arousal that most of the school boys masquerading as dads are currently sniggering about).

I was all adrenaline and thumping heart rates but as time has passed and the number of marathons has accumulated the arousal issue has eased off. Like the waning sex drive of a 40 year old man ;-). It has gotten to the point where I am so nonchalant about the marathon I go through massive periods of anxiety that I’m not doing enough eating/sleeping/other good thing you’re supposed to do.

 

For example, before your first marathon you’ve probably been off the beer for the bones of 2 months. This makes you an insufferable bore as most of your friends realise that you are only funny because you drink.  Today, 3 days out from the marathon, I am wondering if I should have beer (carb loading) or wine (tastes nice) tonight.

The only real sign of the impending marathon is the inevitable crankiness that appears because the mileage has dropped. Those nearest and dearest to me now realise that my constant exhaustion is a benefit to them as it stops me nagging like a spinster all the time.

The only other sign that the marathon is less than 3 days away is my pregnancy like forgetfulness. I have forgotten the nice beach scene photo from last sunday to take your minds off my ramblings, I rand down the stairs (4 stories) at work to put a parking disc on my car only to realise that the discs were on my desk.

 

So, whether you use a cold spoon, thoughts of Margaret Thatcher having sex or the voice of the man who reads out the football scores on the radio –  until later – control your arousal.