A pain in the arse

Darren Anderton - a man not unfamiliar with the misery of injury

Six months in and this running thing had been going well. I'd exceeded all my expectations when it came to speed, distance, stamina and how I performed in races. I was enjoying iy more than I thought I would, I wasn't useless and I was going fine at the club.

With a fortnight off from work coming up in July I sorted out my plans. I contacted a running club in Paisley to ask if it was OK to come along when I was in the area, which it was. I was planning to spend a few days in Edinburgh so looked at possible running routes in the capital. Parkruns - organised three-mile runs every Saturday morning - weren't available in Dumfries for adults, but there was one in Linwood I'd be able to do. Everything seemed fine.

And then it was all ruined by a massive pain in the arse.

This may have indirectly caused my pain

The weekend before my last working week ahead of the holidays I went for a run, then watched Andy Murray win Wimbledon for a second time. The following day I felt a weird pain in my backside I hadn't felt before. It wasn't that sore, just there, niggling away. I put it down to the way I'd been sitting watching the TV, which isn't the most sensible position, and didn't let it affect my plans.

I'd decided that week to go to the Tuesday running club session, rather than the Monday. I can't remember why - maybe the forecast was better, maybe it was more challenging - but, aside from a run in Ae Forest a few weeks earlier, it was due to be my first time at the more advanced night. Unfortunately, amidst reassurances it would be on despite there being a race in Moffat the same night, only two other folk turned up. After waiting for 10 minutes we all agreed to go home.

I should have taken this as a sign that I wasn't meant to run that week and I should go home and rest. But I didn't. And so, as I sat chortling away at Celtic's inability to beat Lincoln Red Imps, I brought forward my plans to meet someone for a pre-morning run the following day rather than Thursday as originally planned.

Imagine losing to a motorbike display team

The first few miles weren't too bad, but as we continued I could feel the pain getting worse. And worse. And worse. I could barely walk, let alone run, the last mile or so back to my flat. Standing talking to my neighbour for 10 minutes before I could get in for a shower didn't really help.

Work was a nightmare. Every time I tried to walk around the office I was in agony. I'd had the problem with my knees a few months earlier, but this was a whole new ballgame. The following day - the last before my holiday - it seemed the pain was easing. Whatever the problem was, it seemed to be loosening. I wasn't going to be running any time soon, but I foolishly thought this was a problem that would clear up in a week or so.

Wrong. Instead of my holiday being parkruns and lovely jogs along Edinburgh's canals, I was reduced to limping around, wolfing down ibuprofen and sitting on hot water bottles and ice packs in a bid to cure the problem. At the end of each day the pain would almost have vanished but come the morning it quickly returned. I'd go for a walk and think it was getting better but five minutes later the pain would be as bad as ever. The first day wandering around Edinburgh left me feeling raw - although saying I had a raw backside might get me some different blog visitors than usual...

A haggis supper. Perfect nutritional intake if you're an injured sportsperson

One of the main benefits of running was it meant I could eat what I want and not have to worry too much about putting on weight. That became a problem when I was injured - especially when I was on holiday and had more opportunities to eat than normal. The Edinburgh weekend was the biggest problem. A Chinese was followed by a haggis supper which was followed by a massive pizza. All on different days, I'm not that bad! With me eating more than normal and doing sod all exercise, I could feel the pounds piling on by the hour.

By the end of my fortnight off I hadn't run a single mile, although I'd done a fair bit of walking (which was probably why my injury wasn't healing). I was also getting pains elsewhere, leading my brother to compare me to injury-prone footballer Darren Anderton, who has the nickname Sicknote. I was dreading the return to work, not just for the usual reasons but because the first week in August always involves covering a farming show. For some reason, it's probably the job I hate most all year.

In the build-up to it, I'd felt my injury getting better - to the extent I almost thought about going back to running club before getting roped into a pub quiz team. In a bid to get to farmers and their animals, the show can involve a bit of running and climbing over the odd fence. The first time I did that I felt the pain in my backside come flooding back, and not because I'd been attacked by a cow.

Fortunately this did not happen to me

I was devastated. That evening, as I tried to sleep, I was close to tears as I came to the realisation I was possibly back to square one. I'd hoped to ease myself back running again that weekend with a parkrun but there was no chance now. I decided to seek professional help, something some people would say was long overdue.

I looked into going to a physio, then discovered it cost a small fortune. So I came up with a plan, which was either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid. I would go to running club, do the warm-up and if I felt bad I'd stop and arrange an appointment. If it felt OK I'd continue. If I was going to have to pay for treatment, I was going to get value for money by properly wrecking whatever muscle was causing me problems. Somewhere in my tiny brain, this made sense.

How my brain works

The time came. The warm-up arrived. I felt the pain get slightly worse, but decided I'd give it a go anyway and went for the four mile group to, ahem, ease myself back in. The pain didn't get too bad - always present but never unpleasantly so - and the physio could wait.

Over the week I tried to go back to my old routes and distances, gradually building it up rather than flying back in with long runs. Was the injury gone? No. Was it bearable? Yes. If I wasn't stupid, I could go running and I could manage the pain without any problems. To be honest, nearly six months on, the pain still isn't completely away - it just comes and goes and as long as I'm not stupid I can get away with it. I probably do still need to get some help but I'll wait until I properly wreck it again.

I was annoyed I'd had to sit out a month without running, especially as it was the summer and the weather was (in theory) better than in winter, when I'd started. However, there was no point looking back, it was time to look forward, to get back to proper running, to shift some of the weight I'd put on with all that haggis and ice cream and start targeting some races.

How Peter Beardsley got me through my first half-marathon

What a handsome man

With my first race under my belt, it was time to decide what to do about Kirkcudbright at the end of May. With two races on offer and me still a pretty inexperienced runner, it made sense to do the shorter one. So obviously I wanted to do the longer one.

There's a fair difference between 11.2k and 13.1 miles. I'd never run as far as that before, the most I'd done probably being around the nine miles I'd managed in Paisley a few months earlier. I remember hearing when I was younger that folk training for a marathon never do the full 26 miles in a training run before the race itself. So obviously I ignored this advice and decided to see whether I could do the half-marathon distance before committing myself.

I worked out a course in Dumfries and set off. I was absolutely done in by the end but managed slightly more than half-marathon distance and within two hours as well. Do that in Kirkcudbright and I'd be delighted. I left it as long as I could before committing to ensure my injuries didn't spring up again and signed up. No going back now - although at least I wouldn't have to cover the event for work. Hopefully I wouldn't end up as a story by collapsing just before the finish line, not that that's happened to anyone I know. Ahem.

A fun-sized (possibly a half) marathon

After signing up, I thought I better do some research about what to eat, how to tackle a half marathon and other helpful advice. This seemed like a good idea but instead had me terrified. The Kirkcudbright course was very hilly. There were a variety of different things you should have for breakfast with no two articles the same and many mentioning things I hate to eat. I went with the one that said you shouldn't change anything before the race and just had my usual Cocoa-Pops with some toast and a banana (which I hate) chucked in for good measure.

If doing some research turned out to be the worst idea since David Cameron thought a referendum on EU membership sounded like a giggle, choosing to car share with other people from the running club turned out to be a great move. As I binge-drinked/dranked/drunk Lucozade Sport I was given some helpful advice from folk who'd done it before, including that if I felt there were times I had to walk instead of run then do it at the water stops and it would be easier to drink. This was ridiculously obvious and yet something I hadn't thought of before. Although they kept saying it was hilly, which was not so helpful.

Jelly Babies - fuel of champions.

Once we got to Kirkcudbright I continued to force as much Lucozade into me as possible and ate another banana while cramming my pocket with Jelly Babies. Even though there was more than an hour until the race started, the time seemed to pass quite quickly. I made several trips to the loo and tied my laces numerous times to make sure they wouldn't come untied during the race. Finally, 1pm arrived and off we all went.

It was warm. It was very warm, to the extent that an extra drinks station was added along the route. The half-marathon course differed to the 11k in that it went round the town's old High Street to start with, which was great with folk cheering you on. Across the bridge out of town, there was a sign encouraging us to wave to race founder Harry Marland who was in the old folks' home (and sadly passed away a few days after the race). And then we were out into the country and on our own.

The High Street - minus the runners and crowds.

I'd started off fairly steadily and for the first few miles it was flat. I regularly found myself thinking I must have missed a mile marker but sadly not. A few miles in we turned away from the coast to head over the hills to Twynholm, childhood home of former F1 driver David Coulthard. Rather than being lots of up and downs it just seemed to be a steady incline, which I seemed to cope with fine.

I was able to pass a few folk including some military types, which gave me great pleasure. Being beaten by some Dutch guys who kept stopping to take pictures did not. The run to Twynholm was also notable for being the only place outwith cartoons where I have seen a pile of dung on a farm with steam coming off it, just what you need when you're gasping for breath.

Sadly I wasn't quite as fast as him...

Runners had to do a lap of the village and it was a bit demoralising getting there, looking across and seeing a host of folk who had already done that and were on their way back to Kirkcudbright. I'd been warned that the hill in Twynholm was the last of them and after that it was downhill and on to a flat run to the finish. It was over in a few minutes and I didn't see what the fuss was about. I opened my Jelly Babies, deciding that managing more than half the race before doing that was a huge moral victory.

What was helping me - in terms of fighting off boredom and ensuring I couldn't hear my breathing - was my podcast choice. I'd found Graham Hunter's "The Big Interview" series handy for running as they were quite lengthy and had chosen one with Peter Beardsley for the race. At an hour and 40 minutes it would take up most of the run, although I did burst out laughing at his tale that Kevin Keegan was thinking of playing new signing Tino Asprilla as he'd only had a couple of glasses of wine.

And not a glass of wine in sight.

My aim was to try to be past the 11 mile marker before the podcast finished. If I could do that, I knew I'd be on course to finish inside two hours. Whenever anyone asked me what my target was, I replied I didn't really have a time in mind and I just wanted to finish. This was a blatant lie. I'd done under two hours on my training run and wanted to do that in the proper race. It was with a mixture of delight and relief I passed the 11 mile mark just as the podcast was winding up.

I'd been warned not to think I was nearly finished just because I was getting back into Kirkcudbright. The finish line was on the other side of the town, a good two miles away, so there was no point in putting the foot down too early. I made my move once I got past 12 miles, putting my foot down as Greenday and The View (who, coincidentally, I was to see a few days later) spurred me on, passing folk all over the place as I closed in on the finish. I was surprised to discover that there were still quite a few folk there and they hadn't all gone home.

So tired I had no idea which way to look.

An even better surprise was in store. I already knew I was under two hours, I just didn't know how much. I managed it in one hour 51.46, which I was delighted with (although soon found myself thinking I could have sneaked under the 50 minutes) and came in 93rd. Making it into the top 100 was fantastic and as there were more than 200 runners I'd sneaked into the top half of the field. I had another hated banana to celebrate.

Some of the other members of the club congratulated me, which was nice considering I was much slower than them to the point they were showered and changed by the time I finished. Me and a few other folk who had completed their first half marathon were also singled out for praise at the Monday session, which I found embarrassing - although not as frustrating as being bursting for the loo all the way back to Dumfries as I'd drunk loads of water and hadn't.. well, work out the rest for yourselves.

The prospect of this is what kept me going!

My motivation was waiting for me at home. Not some loving relative or the knowledge that I was helping out a worthy cause, rather a lot of food for my tea. And I mean a lot, which probably more than cancelled out the calories I'd burned off. After completing such a lengthy race, I thought the following day was the ideal time to finally tell my parents about my new hobby - well, I had to explain the sunburn somehow...

And runnin', son, is racin'

When I decided to go to the jogScotland sessions at the start of 2016, taking part in any sort of competitive running was far from my mind. I felt running a mile in one go would be a struggle, let alone several of them. Against other people. And against the clock. It wasn't happening.

When I realised I wasn't totally useless, my tentative aim was to run the 10k race that is held at the same time as Kirkcudbright Academy Half Marathon - in 2017. I usually have to cover the race for work so this would be a handy way of getting out of doing that and surely, 18 months or so after starting running, I'd have a chance of completing what seemed a ridiculously long distance.

I soon realised I was being rather unambitious. I could run 10k without stopping no problem, although with my times I wasn't going to be troubling anyone at the front any time soon. Suddenly I was considering running the half marathon itself - in 2016 to boot. Then came the knee injuries I'd mentioned in my last blog. It seemed that goal was going to have to wait.

A rather shorter race was being held a few weeks before half marathon day - the Holywood Stroll. A-list movie stars wandering about were in short supply here, instead this was a five-mile race organised by Dumfries Running Club that went out to the nearby village of Holywood. It was described as an ideal first race for folk who had taken the jogScotland race so seemed perfect for me.

Not the Hollywood Stroll in question

Even better was the week before the Monday night session involved covering the route. After a couple of minutes I reckoned it was time for me to step up to the more advanced Tuesday night sessions. Five minutes later I realised this was a ridiculous notion as I just about killed myself trying to keep up with the lead group! For the most part I managed it and discovered the course was pretty flat, making it ideal to give racing a go.

However, there was a slight problem. Unless I'm running with someone else I hate running without my headphones. As mentioned last time, I like listening to podcasts while I'm running. It stops me getting bored and it means I don't hear my breathing, which seems incredibly loud. However, I was told headphones weren't allowed on the Holywood Stroll. UK Athletics rule ban people from wearing headphones if you're racing on open roads. It's for safety, which is fair enough, but I'd like to think any motorist would notice a big group of runners and be able to avoid them, regardless of whether or not the runner was paying attention.

One way round the no headphones rule I suppose

There was another, rather different problem. It was hot - ridiculously hot, something you can't legislate for in Scotland in the middle of May. For people, such as myself, taking part in their first race, it wasn't ideal. I loaded up on water, necessitating a couple of pre-race toilet trips behind some bushes.

I'd arrived for the race about an hour ahead of the start. I thought this would be far too early but the time seemed to fly past, maybe through nerves. I wasn't in the pre-race team photo as I didn't have a team shirt but I wasn't too fussed. To be honest, I was somewhat nervous about signing up as a Dumfries Running Club member in the first place for fear I'd be a bit of an embarrassment due to my slow pace.

I was given some good advice just before the start, namely don't get over-excited at the start and fly past loads of folk because you'll almost certainly pay for it later in the race. This was handy to know and I'd like to think I executed perfectly. Once the race had settled down after the first mile or so I don't think anyone passed me - something I've managed to carry into my other races. Either I'm doing something right or other people are doing something very wrong.

The bacon sandwich equivalent of me trying to drink while running

The heat and lack of headphones made things hard. Having never tried to take on fluid during a race, the welcome water stop wasn't particularly useful. I tried to down the cup while running - about a quarter went in my mouth, a quarter went over me and the rest was wasted. It was of no use thanks to my own incompetence.

As the final mile approached, I managed to pass a few folk who'd been just in front of me the whole way. I passed someone else but felt I'd started my final sprint for the line too soon, upping my pace almost as soon as I'd passed the four-mile marker. I kept expecting the person I'd pass to come back passed me but he didn't and, as the line approached, I edged away from him. Must have been the incentive of some post-race custard creams.

Never underestimate the motivating power of biscuits

I'd been hoping to finish in under 45 minutes, which would have been an average of less than nine minutes a mile. The dream scenario would have been under 40 minutes, taking me to under eight minutes a mile. I don't wear a watch while running and, with no headphones thus no phone thus no tracker, I had no idea how fast I was. I asked the guy I'd been racing with who finished just behind me and his watch said 39.19. Wow!

Even better news was to come. My time was 39.13, so that was one target smashed. I'd also hoped to maybe sneak into the top 100 and, if possible, finish in the top half of competitors. I was 71st (tick) and there were 155 runners (tick). All three aims met. OK, there weren't exactly many men in my age group behind me, but I wasn't last in my class. Another goal met.

Pretty much all my targets met. Job done!

All in all, a productive start to racing. I wasn't setting any world records and the folk in charge of handing out the trophies weren't going to be rushing to find me (hence why I went home rather than hang around for the prize giving). If you didn't know me and weren't looking for my name in the results you wouldn't have noticed my performance. However, on a personal level I'd done better than I'd hoped and hadn't disgraced myself. I couldn't have asked for any more.

Next stop... Kirkcudbright.

Take me out to the ballgame

I don't really do American sport. I watch IndyCar, have a passing interest in the MLS and take part in fantasy NFL despite knowing nothing about it.

A couple of years ago I went to watch the Washington Capitals ice hockey team while in DC and enjoyed it. I've been to a few Braehead Clan games back in Scotland since and have had fun, but wouldn't want to go every week. I know nothing about basketball aside from the names of a few star teams and players and it's a similar situation in baseball.

Last season I arrived in Chicago the night the Cubs made it through to the equivalent of the semi-finals of baseball's World Series for the first time in years. I was amazed as to how crazy the city was going for them, even though they have another baseball team and had a hell of a lot of games to negotiate to get to the next stage and the chance to win it all. Sure enough, they bombed against the New York Mets and the Curse of the Billy Goat lived on.

"Them Cubs, they ain't gonna win no more!"

This year's trip to North America took me and my brother to Toronto, home of the Blue Jays. The problem we've always had when it comes to seeing sport in our holidays is the teams have either finished for the season, haven't started or are in the play-offs and thus the tickets, if available, cost a fortune.

As holiday time approached, the Blue Jays were trying their best to miss out on the play-offs but stumbled into the wildcard game. If they made it through that, the third of their five game series with the Texas Rangers would be at home in the Rogers Centre during our stay. We decided to gamble and buy some pricey tickets (although we'd get our money back if they didn't make the play-offs). The first thing I did the morning we were due to fly out was to check if they'd won - they did. Even better was they went on to win their first two games against the Rangers (as a St Mirren fan news of a Rangers defeat always goes down well), meaning if they won at the game we were at they'd win the series.

We were aaaaaaaaaaaaall the way up there.

Our tickets were up high in the nosebleed 500 section, so high they have barriers in front of the seats to stop you falling. The Friday before the game on the Sunday we went on a tour of the stadium and were able to work out where we'd be watching from. We reckoned we'd have a good view - which we did - and were just to the right of home plate. Unfortunately for me, my brother had done some Googling and fancied himself as quite the expert on baseball - which isn't exactly the hardest game to understand.

As fans of a team that sees 5,000 as a big crowd, it was unusual to be in a stadium with around 10 times that number all rooting for the home team. I was delighted to be given a free towel as I went in, which it seems I was expected to wave at appropriate moments. The roof was shut - something confirmed in a rather amusing, if unnecessary, video involving someone who turned out to be quite important later on.

Just incase you were wondering why you couldn't see the sky.

As this was a sporting event in North America, we had to stand for the national anthem - in fact, we had both the US and Canadian ones due to being in Canada (obviously). This was at least a chance to see some Mounties for the only time all holiday. Thankfully, neither of us were rumbled as tourists despite not joining in the anthems or being the only people in the Rogers Centre (formerly known as the Skydome) not wearing any Blue Jays stuff.

The teams were introduced - well, the Texas Rangers team was. When it came to the Blue Jays it was the players and just about everyone else they employed, from physios to deputy second base coach. One of the Rangers players was given dogs' abuse by the fans when he came out. We assumed this was because he used to play for the Blue Jays but a quick check revealed that wasn't the case. I asked a friend back home who was still awake if he knew to be told: "He punched a Blue Jays player this year." Ah. That'll do it.

As mentioned, baseball is simple to grasp. Each team has nine innings, which end when three batters are out. The team with most runs at the end of the nine wins. If it's tied, extra innings are played until someone finishes up ahead. Having noticed a game the night before provided the grand total of one run, we were hopeful of something a little more exciting. We needn't have worried.

Texas went first and scored a run in their innings. Then came the Blue Jays. We'd noted with amusement in the programme that while fans were allowed to keep balls hit into the crowd, any bats that somehow made it to the fans were to be returned. Incredibly, this happened with one of the first round of Toronto batters. Unperturbed, he smashed the next delivery (or pitch seeing as this isn't cricket) into the stands and duly set off for a home run. In the same innings another Blue Jay just managed to sneak the ball over the fences for a second home run. The place was going absolutely wild, the divisional title as good as in the bag after one innings. Er, maybe not as it turned out that was Toronto's last home run of the night.

The second innings saw no runs before Texas pegged one back in the third - only for Toronto to add another two. This was easy and things were going so badly for Texas that the changed their pitcher. This was a surprise to us as it meant that was his night done, however it soon emerged changing pitchers is a relatively regular - and tedious - occurrence in baseball. Slightly more amusing was folk trying to sneak between bases, which rather annoyed the pitchers who tried - and failed - to get them out.

We weren't quite as close to the action on the Sunday...

So things were going well. The fans were in good spirits with songs and chants for every Blue Jays player - most fairly similar to what we sing back home at football just with different names with the noise echoing off the roof - and the abuse continued to reign down on our punching pal. However, he was about to turn the tables as he promptly smacked a home run to bring the Rangers to within one of tying the game.

On we went, the changes between innings and pitchers somewhat frustrating for fans of a sport used to one 15 minute break rather than several three minute ones. Various forms of entertainment were provided, including a 50/50 draw that had a prize of more than $100,000 on offer! A slight change from the £100 you usually stand to win in Scotland.

Things took a turn for the worse in the sixth innings when Texas scored two runs to move into the lead for the first time. In response, Toronto managed to get guys on two or three bases and you knew they had to take advantage if they were to stand any chance. They managed one run - not great but better than nothing.

Sadly we couldn't see the CN Tower from the stadium due to the aforementioned roof closure.

That was your lot in terms of normal time with no more runs. The pitching changes continued to bemuse - the most baffling coming when a new guy came in for the Blue Jays, got rid of two folk without conceding a run and was promptly hooked. Even the fans who knew what was going on seemed confused and the replacement wasn't exactly popular, one regular near me encouragingly calling out "Come on you little bitch". By this time Texas had moved on to a pitcher who'd spent time in jail, confirming their status as the Livingston of MLB.

By the time of the ninth innings we were effectively into sudden death. Texas couldn't take advantage but, despite the noise levels increasing further, neither could the Blue Jays. On we went to the 10th innings and again Texas were eventually dispatched. One guy seemed to survive a rather dubious call from the umpire only to be dismissed next ball anyway, my rather Scottish cry of "Aye, now ye can get tae f**k" amusing my neighbour.

Jose and the bat. Apparently this is a thing.

The anticipation was building. Surely this time the Blue Jays would make it count? They managed to get runners to first and second base before Jose Bautista (victim of the punch) stepped forward. He seemed to be pretty popular in these parts, not least because of the way he'd flung his bat after smashing a home run against the Rangers a year earlier. It felt like being at the Ryder Cup with chants of "Jose" ringing around the stadium. Unfortunately, he could not oblige - not surprising, considering he'd twice managed to run out two of his team-mates earlier in the night.

You worried that if the Blue Jays couldn't make it count this time whether they'd have missed their chance. Next batter in hit a half decent shot that set the runners on their way. The guy heading to second base was out first, but bad fielding from the punching Ranger meant the batter made it to first. By this point Josh Donaldson - the guy from the roof report because he is apparently the "bringer of rain" - had decided he might as well try to run from second to third to home, dived and made it. Cue bedlam. Cue pandemonium. Cue absolute scenes. The Blue Jays had won the game and the division series!

Except... In amongst the chaos, the big screen cut to footage of the umpires discussing things. Seemingly they weren't happy with something. At first we thought they were debating whether Donaldson had made it home in time but it turned out the Rangers' coach had challenged whether there had been interference (ooh, er) on the fielder at second base. Thankfully, the officials decided there had been no problems, the run stood and there was no need to worry about a riot as the pandemonium resumed. There were also banners talking about "sweeping up Texas" - the sort of fate tempting that is only funny if your team ends up winning.

Scenes!

For the most part, when I've been to a sporting event in Scotland you celebrate in the stadium if you win (a rare occurrence for St Mirren fans lately) then go home. And while the Blue Jays fans may have been heading back home, they weren't going about it quietly. There was cheering and singing as soon as you got out the stadium, someone was hawking "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" T-shirts, the streets were packed and car horns were being used with the sort of gay abandon only found in the Middle East when a dictator is overthrown. This continued almost the whole way back to our hotel, which was a good few miles away.

It was an incredible night, easily one of the best I've had at a sporting event not involving St Mirren or Scotland. The atmosphere was amazing and the ending was unbelievable. It kind of spoiled the following day's trip to see the Canadian football (NFL equivalent, not what they call soccer) team the Toronto Argonauts in action. They struggled to fill half their stadium, got gubbed and the most excited their fans got was when a squirrel appeared on the field.

The Argonauts' star player.

So was one night at the Rogers Centre enough to get me hooked on baseball? Probably not. Like the trips to the ice hockey, it was great as a one off - especially as it was such a big game - but I don't think I could watch it regularly, especially as each team has almost 200 games just to get to the play-offs!

I will be keeping tabs on the play-offs to see if the Blue Jays win it, although it looks like there could be the nightmare scenario of them facing the Cubs for the World Series. However, as the Blue Jays have lost their first two games against Cleveland that looks unlikely and them Cubs are more than welcome to finally rediscover their winning ways.

Run, Forrest, run!

So I'd tried running. Surprisingly, I'd enjoyed it. Even more surprisingly, I wasn't crap at it. My confidence was boosted by being one of the quicker folk at the jogscotland sessions, although to be honest I probably shouldn't have been there to begin with. I felt a bit like Homer Simpson winning the children's competition to design a nuclear power plant. The holiday was over - literally and figuratively - and it was back to the running club.

This was a concern. From working at the local paper, I was aware the club had a number of folk who flew half way across the world to run marathons in less time than it would take me to drive a similar distance. Thankfully, the club also has a beginner and improvers class, which also helped folk who were moving across from jogscotland. It seemed ideal but I feared it would be like increasing the difficulty on a computer game from easy to hart.

Distances from two to five miles were offered and while I was fairly comfortable doing four, I thought I'd start off with three just to find out what the standard was. It's not a race, just running the distance around Dumfries at whatever pace you're comfortable with. For the first half I was able to keep up with the quicker folk, then dropped back a bit.

This created problems. One was that the person I ended up beside, who was a fair bit older than myself, remarked "Aye, we'll let the young ones go ahead" - at 31 I still liked to consider myself a "young one". The other was that we ended up getting lost as we weren't sure where we were going, so may or may not have ended up doing more than three miles. That aside, all went well and the following week I ended up doing four miles.

Not the Young Ones in question

When I moved up to five miles, which I just about coped with, I got talked into speed play. This was different. This wasn't just going for a run for a few miles, pacing yourself and stopping once you'd finished and were getting tired. Oh no. This was aimed at getting you faster by making you running two miles, split up into four or eight sections, as fast as you possibly good. You were paired up with someone, you each estimated your time, then came up with your total. It's a staggered start with the idea being everyone finishes at the same time. That's the theory anyway but usually it doesn't work out like that, mainly because people are faster than they think - and weirdly I was one of them.

While this was good fun, and did help you get a bit quicker, it also meant a lot of hanging around to both start your session and in between runs. And it was cold, very cold. While I'm no doctor or fitness expert, I fear this potent combination led to me discovering not only that I have muscles in my arse but that it's possible to hurt them. The third time I went I pulled something in my backside and could barely walk, let alone run. Icing it didn't lead to a speedy recovery and my plans for a weekend run or two were ruined.

You have muscles in your backside - who knew?

Like the weather problems mentioned last time, this left me gutted - a quite bizarre scenario considering I'd never even considered running a few months earlier. Rather foolishly, I decided five days later to give it a go on my own to see if I could get back running. The pain seemed to have subsided - but quickly returned after I'd left my house and ran round a corner. Inexplicably I decided to carry on, ran five or six miles and decided this pain would be bearable.

With my continual running I could feel myself getting fitter - aside from my arse - quicker and lighter. I therefore decided it was time to try the Paisley to Johnstone run again, the one that left me gasping like a 40-a-day smoker on my last attempt. It was a glorious morning and not only did it pose no problem, I kept running and running, covering nine miles instead of six - the furthest I'd ever run. I felt - and probably looked - like Forrest Gump.

This was also the morning I discovered the joy of podcasts while running. Before, I'd always preferred to listen to music while I was running but as I had a backlog of podcasts I thought this would be a chance to clear some of them. The time seemed to pass much more quickly, which is maybe why I felt I could go on for ever, and unless I'm running with someone I never go running without at least one podcast to keep me company.

As a St Mirren fan, I'm fully aware that when things are going well something will usually come along and kick you on the backside - and that's exactly what was about to happen to me. I'd had some pain in one of my knees for a wee while. I don't know when it started, it just cropped up one day at work, certainly not straight after a run. I was able to run through it as the pain would increase slightly at the start of my run and then not get any worse. When I began to struggle towards the end of a run I'd just start screaming at a volume that would put Maria Sharapova to shame.

Her on-court screaming is nowhere near as loud as me mid-run

The pain gradually began to subside - and then cropped up in the other knee. This was far, far worse. I tried to run through it a few times but eventually had to admit defeat. Not that I really had any choice as the day after I called it quits I couldn't walk around the office. This wasn't going away in a few days, it wasn't even going away in a week. Rather worried at the lack of improvement, I went to see the doctor - who advised I keep up my self treatment of ice and ibuprofen. Thanks for that.

I was pretty depressed as I walked/hobbled about and saw other folk running. I wanted to do it but couldn't. It was so frustrating that after running through the cold, dark winter months that I was screwed when the weather was improving. In fairness, the doctor's advice seemed to work and by the end of week three the pain was gradually easing. On my birthday the pain seemed to have gone - the sort of birthday treat you'd expect for a 72-year-old, not a 32-year-old.

I gave it another week to make sure the pain was fully away and went back to the club. The night before I was ridiculously excited, like a kid before Christmas. Initially I planned just to do four miles on my return but got talked into five. There were a few twinges but everything seemed fine. The problem was every time I went running and felt the slightest pain, I was convinced my knees or muscles were about to fall apart. It was like when I had to replace my car's exhaust - every slight rattle had me imagining a hefty repair bill.

I feel I've had more injuries than Darren "Sicknote" Anderton

But gradually I got round that and I didn't seem to be having any after effects. Having coming through the step up to running with other folk and coped easily with it - aside from when some people took great delight in sprinting away over the last half mile when I was shattered - it was time to step up another level. It was time to go racing.