I always eat a yoghurt at lunchtime. Today, in Tesco, I spotted a caramel yoghurt that said it contained 18g of protein. While training for races, I thought it would be good to add some additional protein to my diet and the easiest way to do that would be to try this new pot. It was a nice idea but when “protein” is in bigger letter than “caramel” on the cover of the pot, it should have been a hint about how strongly the manufacturer was concerned about flavour.

“Athletes don’t need flavour – they need results!”

Not this athlete. The yoghurt was a shiny brown colour that can only be described as  “shiny shite” and a taste that can also be described as “shiny shite”. As for the texture, well, you know where this joke is going…

Back to Muller Light!

It is a truth rarely acknowledged that if you fall off your bike the first thing you will say is “It’s okay, I’m alright!”.

When the Tour De France crashes in a cross wind and forty riders lie in a crumpled heap in the middle of a daffodil field they will all leap back up and try and get back on their bike, even the ones with a broken leg, a missing arm and no head. 

What is it about bike injuries that makes us ignore the fountain of blood arcing from our bloodied stumps?

I’ve fallen off my bike several times. I’ve had one passer-by force me to go to hospital yet the only thing I said to the casualty nurse was “I feel fine now!”.

I think it’s the shame factor. Falling off a bike is embarrassing so, when it happens, we try and cover up the shame by pretending everything is okay and there’s nothing to see. Please move on. Don’t call 999. I can stick my foot back on with a couple of plasters. 

I say this as last night, when walking the dog, a cyclist tried to cycle around us on a path, slid on a bit of mud, and then fell face first on the pavement in front of us. 

“Are you okay?” We asked. 

Which is also a stupid question. Of course they’re not okay. They’ve just face planted concrete paving. That’s going to hurt even as they say: “It’s okay, I’m alright.”

They said this as blood dripped down their face from their bloodied nose. 

“Are you sure?” 

Again, a stupid question. No one dripping blood is okay. Especially if it’s your own, and even more so if it’s someone else’s.

“Yes, I’m fine,” they said as they got back on the bike. 

“Would you like a tissue?” I asked, as I had a tissue in my pocket, albeit it was one that had been there for some time and had seen two colds worth of bogeys. 

“No,” they said, quite wisely. Who accepts a hankie from a stranger? It would be cleaner to lick the back seat of a bus.

“Okay,” I said, not sure of what else to do. In the Tour De France someone would give the injured rider a push as they start again but I thought this was not the time or the place or the moment to put my hand on their bum and give it a shove. 

“I’m fine,” they insisted before riding off, leaving a bloody blood breadcrumb trail behind them.

As they rode away, I looked at the spot they fell. We were on a path with a wall on one side and a fence on the other. The side of the path were covered in mud and, looking at it again, I could have left more room for them to pass. 

“Do you think we cause them to fall?” asked my wife.

“It’s okay, we’re alright.” I said. 

At the end of the Alloa Half Marathon, as I watched the finish line for Iain TwinBikeRun to arrive, a male runner in a black t-shirt, fell to the ground. He tried to get back up but as he struggled onto his knees the strength left his legs and he fell again. He looked exhausted, dazed and ready to give up. Two men jumped the barriers and grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up. They tried to walk him along the final 20m to the finish line but his feet wouldn’t move, his legs gage way and he fell back to the ground. A medic then jumped the barrier and ran over to help and all I could think was:

“If I collapse, I want everyone to know that I don’t want to get to the finish line, I want a medically trained professional to check me out fist. CPR first, medal second. That’s my philosophy.”

There should be a box to tick on medial forms for races that tells organisers that you don’t want to be a hero or a star of an inspirational TikTok video. You just want a check-up and the all clear. Times don’t matter, you can finish later. Just give me a couple of aspirin, enough water to frighten Noah and a banana for sustenance. 

I appreciate the spectators were doing the guy a favour. They must have thought he needed help to complete the race. But if you need help to complete a race, you also need help to see a doctor and, you know, priorities suggest medic first, podium second. 

I suspect he was just running to fast as he wanted to be first to get to the toilet. There’s over 1500 runners but as far as we could see there were only 10 Portaloos for everyone, which is not nearly enough. That’s why I think he was running to try and avoid the queue at the end. 

The race was well organised and well supported with many people offering jelly babies and sweets around the course. There’s also plenty of water stations including one with just half a mile to go. I only saw one person use it, and then to just pour the water over themselves rather than drink it. I could only think there was a queue for showers too and he was just getting a head start.

If the name Bikram means anything to you then it probably means either yoga or Netflix or both. Birkam was and is a famous yoga teacher who developed a form of yoga that uses a hot studio to help with practices. Vikram is also an infamous yoga teacher who may have abused his position and power to attack and denigrate woman and others. The Netflix documentary ‘Bikram: Yogi, Guru, Predator’ covers all the accusations.

For me, he reminds me of one thing and one thing only. Dirty underpants. 

I went to one of his hot yoga studios in Manchester. Everyone there had a designated spot to practice in the studio with each mat carefully set out to get as many people as possible into the room. As the room is set to forty degrees, condensation drips off the wall and, for men, most are just wearing a pair of shorts. Except one man. The man in front of me. He just had a pair of off-white y-fronts. For 90 minutes every time he would bend or stretch I could see his buttocks through the translucent sweaty pants. 

And what was worse, there was no escape. The teacher had locked the door. 

“So no one thinks of leaving.” He said, “if you’re too hot, just have a drink of water. Don’t leave. Leaving is cheating!”

Which was of no help to me as the posterior in front of me crested into my vision again. 

I would have said that was my worse experience of hot yoga but this at least was in a proper studio. When hot yoga started in Glasgow it was started by a man who ran it in his flat. He placed towels around the doors and windows. Cranked up some gas fires and turned his living room into the Sahara desert. Though after 90 minutes of sweating, perhaps the Amazon river would be a better description as the sweat pooled and flowed through a first floor tenement flat. 

It was unofficial. Unregulated. And completely bonkers as the man who ran it would often stop the class and say:

“Does anyone fancy a Greggs sausage roll? Or is that just me?”

We’d be standing on one leg, breathing in out and stretching arms out wide, he’d be thinking of his tea.

And, all the while, we were creating the biggest fire risk since the Human Torch decided to visit a firework factory. 

Anyway, today I went to a sauna in the Westend and thought about how the studio is no longer there. Or, I should say, the flat is still there, but the studio has long gone. It moved into a dedicated studio in the Westend of Glasgow, just off Byres Road. Sadly, it shut down, a victim of lockdown, I think. I passed it today and smiled as it’s now next to a Greggs The Bakers. And before it shut, I hoped the teacher had the opportunity to pop in for a chicken lattice during classes.

At what point does a race become a Ryanair Race? A race that calls itself one thing but actually takes place somewhere else? Like the Edinburgh Marathon, where most of the miles are in Musselborough. Or this year’s Kirkintilloch 12k which starts at the end of Kirkintilloch and takes a detour through Moodiesburn?

Not that it should have been in Moodiesburn. This year, due to building work on the route, the course had to be altered to avoid a closed section of road. This wasn’t a surprise to me as I’d run the race route a few weeks before and had thought then that the race might even be cancelled. Instead, the route was changed so that the race could go ahead.

While it was disappointing not to run the same route and compare my time against previous attempts, it did mean that whatever time I ran was a new personal best. Result.

The change of route also meant that the two steepest climbs were omitted. The race is known for being a hilly race, with 7 climbs in 12 KM. But although the organisers promised the new route would match the climbs, the new section was much flatter and easier.

As always the race was well organised and there was a good selection of treats at the finishing line. And, unlike Ryanair, the treats were free.