Celebrity-bashing

It was an odd morning. I was wide awake at least 15 minutes before the alarm went off, and so I jumped out of bed quicker than usual and, one set of daily ablutions later returned to the bedroom to find a dozy Julie holding her phone; clear evidence that she'd switched her alarm off. For the first time in my memory I turned on the radio early enough to hear the full cheesy song that kicks off the Radio One breakfast show. A unusually somber Chris Moyles bought me (and presumably millions of other early risers) the news that news that Michael Jackson had died. Moyles and his team dispensed with their usual daily 20 minute fun and games to essay how each had heard the news, as if somehow this news compared to JFK's assassination, or our generation's real equivalent: 9/11.

Michael Jackson led a peculiar, quite sad life that will undoubtedly make an interesting film at some point in the near future (pencil in Robert Downey Jnr to reprise his pan-racial tour de force in Tropic Thunder). But was he really that important to either music or the world? Personally, I feel that Elvis, Kurt Cobain and John Lennon had a bigger influence musically, but in the Motown and Pop sense Jacko was legendary. But, his life was always a triviality and he made clumsy attempts to use his influence to raise serious issues such as race and the importance of childhood. Let's face it, he was a laughing stock when he tried to claim his attempts to whiten himself were aimed at racial harmony, and the less said about children the better.

We live in the Age of the Celebrity. At least Jacko had some talent that justified his fame and in 10 years time I hope he's remembered for Thriller and the Jackson Five, rather than his surgery and those abuse allegations. But, every time you turn on the TV, read a newspaper or trawl the internet, you find your brain-space invaded by someone who has inexplicably gained the media's attention. The Football WAGs are prime examples, as are 99% of the contestants on most "celebrity" shows. Clearly, Phil Tufnell represents the 1% who deserve the term celebrity (pure genius, that man). And, even though they were definitely B-list, those who took part on the BBC One show on homelessness this week are genuine heroes. But, ignoring those exceptions, what have these people done to deserve my attention?

I wonder if Jade Goody will represent the non-celebrity Zenith. Another tragic life lived in the media. She appeared as the village idiot in the third Big Brother house (2002), entering the public consciousness with a BJ for PJ, and followed that eruption with moments of outrageous stupidity. Here are just a few of my favourites (thanks to www.allgreatquotes.com for these):

"Do they speak Portuganese in Portugal? I thought Portugal was in Spain."

"Rio de Janeiro, ain't that a person?"

"Where is East Angular [Anglia], is it abroad?"

"I knew Lynne was from Aberdeen, but I didn't realise Aberdeen was in Scotland."

Over the next 6 years, Jade somehow maintained a presence in the media. Perhaps she was a lot brighter than we all gave her credit for. For somehow, despite allegations of racism during Celebrity Big Brother (backed-up by some pretty solid evidence, it must be said), she became a celebrity magazine favourite and managed to create a career out of her profile. But why? What did she give the entertainment industry or the wider public? She had no talents that enabled her to act, sing, dance or educate. The only talent she had was a very basic ability to make people feel better about themselves by witnessing second-hand the misdeeds of a true idiot. Her losing battle with cancer turned it around. You can't laugh at that. The media sobered up, took her under their wing and decided to pay her back for years of ridicule.

Hopefully, this sobering up will lead to a period of contemplation from the media as to the relative importance of the "Celeb" and our news will be less about The Who and more about The What (What's happening? What's going to happen?) and The Why (Why did that happen? Why is that important?). I blame Pete Townshend, but I'm sure opinion - in years to come - will be equally divided between him and that Daltrey fellow.

Anyway, I'm sat here tapping away with the BBC Two coverage of Glastonbury on in the background. It's time I started paying attention and deciding whether sitting at home watching it on TV is a sure sign of getting old. Under normal circumstances I'd probably concede that time had passed a little too far to merit attendance at the festival for anyone my age (except for the real Hippies, of course), but it turns out that Blur are the youngest act on the Pyramid Stage on Sunday.

In the car home this afternoon, I heard a Radio 4 article on the reaction of Glastobury to the news of Jacko's demise. Irreverent sums it up quite well. I chuckled as I thought that this year's camp-site shout (a phrase that echoes from tent to tent, across the hills of Somerset at any night-time hour), won't be "Bollocks", "Nicole? Papa" or "Wear Sunscreen". No, last night it was "Michael Jackson is dead". And, according to Jeremy Hardy, after a few minutes reflection each the on-site comedians already had jokes sharpened. If I hadn't heard that I'd probably think the world had gone as mad as it did when Diana died.

Yet, no: BBC Two now leave Glasto and cut-over to a Newsnight Special on.... Michael Jackson. Ridiculous! Please, just play some of his songs, and let him lie.

Another little run report...

Within a few days of the London Marathon, the pain in my legs subsided and it wasn't long before I was running again. I felt faster than at any point since the shin splints 12 months before and decided to put my back-up plan into action. Since moving to Haslemere all my long runs have been out in the hills either over the Devil's Punchbowl to the North, or south towards Midhurst. Indeed, less than a mile south of our pokey little flat is the northern boundary of the proposed South Downs National Park. I used to love running around Richmond Park and along the Thames towpath, but it just doesn't compare to the countryside out of the city. The scale of the hills, too, present a challenge unlike anything the city can provide.

My back-up plan was the South Downs Marathon. It sounded perfect: a scenic run along the South Downs Way from Slindon College outside Chichester to Queen Elizabeth Country Park outside Petersfield. I wanted to avenge the running demons who had ruined the London Marathon. In particular, I wasn't going to get dehydrated. But equally, my goal for the day was just to enjoy it, finish and take in the scenery. I had no idea how much the hills would slow me down. In the back of my mind I thought I might set a new marathon PB, but I really wasn't sure.

So, after a particularly good run 2 weeks after the London Marathon I submitted my entry. I figured running 26.2 miles was excellent training for running 26.2 miles, so with the marathon in the bank I decided to focus on a 20 mile run each weekend, and 2 shorter faster ones midweek. That plan went out of the window the day after the entry was posted, as I came down with a critical case of man-flu, which forced me to not train for over a week. With a fairly small window between recovering from one marathon to tapering for the next, being ill was a disaster. I suppose I started training hard to soon after the marathon. My runs had been fast and I had also started cycling quite a bit, but I felt so strong at first that I thought it wasn't a problem.

All colds end up in my chest, and it was nearly two weeks before the cough subsided enough to risk running again. With the clock ticking I managed a few mid-week runs with Phil and on the second Bank Holiday in May, I at last managed to get out for a long run of nearly 3.5 hours. That run was particularly pleasing as I was in a dark mood before setting out, and I forced myself to run away from home so I couldn't quit early. But after about 2 hours I was in the groove and feeling strong again. I had also reasserted superiority in the midweek runs with Phil, so things were looking up!

A short taper followed. With two days to go I was bouncing off the walls with excess energy. Not nervous energy, just excess. It never really occurred to me that the marathon might be difficult or painful. I just wanted to get out there.

Mercifully the marathon was on Saturday morning, which meant my body clock was already adjusted to the 6am start. A large bowl of porridge later and Julie and I headed down to the start. Julie was a star again. The point-to-point nature of the run meant that most competitors had to leave their cars at the finish and get a coach back to the start. Being dropped off gave me an extra hour in bed.

It was a lovely morning. Not too hot, a little overcast, but no threat of rain. Julie headed off to Chichester before the start, so I chatted to a fellow who'd done the run twice before. He had a long wait, as there were 3 waves of racers. The first was supposedly the slow wave, starting at 9am for runners expecting times over 4 hours 30 mins. Then the relay teams headed off at 9:30am before the quick individuals started at 10am. I was expecting a little under 4:30, but with a BBQ in Woking in the afternoon I decided to run in the first wave, thus disqualifying myself from the prizes. I wasn't worried about this: I was never going to win a prize anyway!

Of course, that meant that I was fairly near the front of the slower wave, and as the run set off for a lap of the Slindon College 400m track before heading for the hills I slotted into about 20th place.

The first 5 miles were a mixture of farm tracks and countryside paths uphill towards a ridge where we'd join the South Downs Way. I ran with a water bottle held in a little pouch strapped around my waist. At each mile marker I religiously took a swig, careful to avoid any dehydration issues, and refilled the bottle at each aid station.

It wasn't long before we settled into a pace and I ran alongside the same 4 or 5 people for miles. I chatted away to a few of them. Really nice guys, all doing it for the first time and each one with one (London) marathon under his belt. Eerie. There were a couple of others who ignored us, unable to chat due to the little white headphones they wore. I felt a great camaraderie with those I spoke to, but the iPod runners felt like the enemy.

Talking away the first half marathon flew by. My legs were a little tired, but I was getting enough energy and liquid and felt strong and confident. The half-way point was marked by a steep mile descent into Cocking (hee hee) before a drinks station, a road crossing and then a steep mile climb back up to the ridge. The group of 5 was led by an iPod runner. They tend to change direction unpredictably and without reference to the position of anyone around them. I wanted a clear run, unimpeded, so I opened up a little bit and dropped like a stone to Cocking. It didn't feel fast or reckless, but I had a good 30 second gap on the rest of the group as I refuelled and chatted to Julie and my sister Susan at the aid stop.

Then the run got a little more difficult. All the advice had been to prepare to walk up the steepest climbs and we all knew that the third quarter had a lot of those as we ran to Harting Down. I walked up much of the first climb back to the ridge, taking on more liquid and bantering with a few braver souls who decided to run up. As the gradient shallowed out I got running again and felt strong for another 3 or 4 miles as we ran though a forest trail.

Fatigue and the first relay runners caught up at about the same point, around the 17 mile mark. Suddenly the hills reared up in front of me and the lack of consistent miles in training seemed to add to the gradient. It wasn't long before I was getting over-taken a lot.

Harting Down has a spectacular view - probably the best of the route - but, my-oh-my, you really had to earn it. Some of the hills were over 20% for long periods, and for the first time the route was exposed to the sun. Saturday was a lovely day, but a little too warm to run a marathon, and my mouth felt parched as I clambered up the climbs, at times wondering if scrambling was more efficient than walking.

As I walked up the last long steep hill to the aid station at Harting Down, I looked up and saw Susan and Julie shouting at me. I turned to the guys walking next to me (no one was running this one): "Why did they have to stand at the top of the hill?" So, I started running up the climb to great applause from the other spectators and sadistic laughs from the other runners. Of course, at the top I then had to start walking to talk to Julie and Sue, and so watched all the runners I'd just overtaken (the first for some time), pass me again. I complained, so the two of them started running alongside for a few hundred metres to the general amusement of all around.

After the Harting road crossing the wheels really started coming off. The problem was triggered by a big stone in my right shoe. I had to stop to get it out, but with 20 miles in my legs, the strange movement upset my calves and as soon as I stood up my right calf cramped. Very painfully, I jogged on, but had to stop to stretch a few times. I focused on drinking the electrolyte I collected at the aid station, and looking back I think this helped, as the cramping subsided by about mile 22.

But progress was slow. I went through half-way in 3 minutes under 2 hours, but any hope of getting close to 4 hours was long gone. I was plodding along at about 11 minute miles; slower than my bog-standard pace at London, but don't forget I was still walking up hills. Even my Ironman 4 hours 18 minute split was safe.

At 24 miles we hit another long climb and entered the Country Park. This was it; once at the top of the hill it was flat to the finish. I got running as soon as the gradient flattened out and plodded on knowing that in 15 minutes or so it'd all be over.

Amazingly I started overtaking some runners again. I didn't feel fast, but there were some desperate runners. As I passed the 26 mile mark I looked at my watch. I had about a minute to get in under 4 hours 30. Amazingly, I went past a couple of relay runners but as I looked at the finish 100 metres away my watch ticked over 4:30, and that milestone was gone. I jogged in with sore legs and a grimace, completing ruining my finish line picture.

4 hours 30 minutes 27 seconds put me in exactly 200th place (out of about 500), and by 27 seconds I'd started in the right wave, which pleased me in a strange way. I'd achieved my objective, suffering no dehyration. At halfway I felt strong and I just got more and more tired, which is exactly how it should be. The cramp was unfortunate, so I should be a little more careful about taking on electrolyte. But crucially I just didn't have the training miles in the bank meaning the basic endurance to run more than 20 miles was missing.

But I loved it. The scenery was wonderful, the friendliness of the (non-iPod wearing) runners was unusual and the event is really well organised. I'd highly recommend it and am already itching to do it again. Regrettably, it's a little close to Ironman France so I won't be able to enter next year, but roll on 2011!

Big thanks to Sue and Julie, who have excelled themselves as marathon fans again. For their troubles they got a plastic clapper each, which apparently saves the hands from a hard time.

So what next? How about the Beachy Head Marathon in October?