Last night was my last game of football.

I’ve said this before. You can read how successful my previous retirements were in this blog post. But, last night, was definitely my last game. (Maybe).

This time it helps that our five-a-side booking had finished. We had a block booking until the end of March and, as previous years have shown, once the clocks change we lose players to light nights and golf courses. March is a good time to end the booking.

Even if I wanted to play next week, I couldn’t. Well, I could, but it would involve me hanging round pitches pretending to be 14 and begging people to “gonnae gie us a game, mista!”. I think I may be too old to do that. At 14 it shows that you’re keen to play. At 38 it shows you want to hang around with 14 year olds. It’s a bit of a different look…

My last game was meant to be an Old Guys vs Young Guys match. Old guys being anyone over 30. Unfortunately, five of the seven ‘Old Guys’ pulled out due to various injuries including “my feet are buggered after wearing high heels all day*”, which is not an excuse you often get before a game of football. Well, mens football anyway. I imagine female football players are more prone to this than Wayne Rooney.

*A stag do was involved.

Instead, the game became a normal game of fives, and an anti-climatic end to my football career. I thought I was finishing on a ‘cup final’, instead it was just a cold Wednesday night in Falkirk in an industrial shed with a leaky roof. My last game. Definitely. (Probably).

This Sunday is the Balloch to Clydebank half-marathon, one of my favourite races. It starts beside a shopping centre, dodges through the grimier parts of Alexandria, weaves through the back of Dumbarton train station before finishing with the bookies, chippies, an industrial estate and a car park in Clydebank. It must be the only race that starts with one of Scotland’s most beautiful spots – Loch Lomond – and immediately turns its back on it and runs as far away from it as it can.

I love this race though for one reason – for almost all of the 13 miles it feels like you’re running downhill. You can’t ask for a better start to the year, even if you couldn’t find a less welcoming finish.

What you also can’t ask for is dry weather. I don’t think I’ve ever run this race without it raining. Once it was even snowing (the race was cancelled). This year however it looks like we’ll finally have a dry day, at least if the weather reports are accurate. So far I’ve checked BBC Weather, the Weather App, The Met Office and checked them again an hour later in case its changed.

Even though there’s nothing we can do about the weather I think runners and cyclists like to check it constantly anyway just in case it might rain. I think its so that when we get to the start line we can say “I told you it would rain” and look smugly at those who’ve just turned up in singlets and goosebumps. We, on the other hand, are dressed in the latest Gore-tex bin bag. We have waterproof socks. Some of us even have caps (though not anyone who has any dignity or self-respect). We’re prepared. And then we overheat and wish we hadn’t brought all this kit…. but at least we were right! It did rain.

But not this year. This year the Balloch to Clydebank half-marathon will be dry. Unless the weather’s changed in the last hour. I’d better check.

“If I was five years younger,” I said, “I’d still be 10 years older than everyone else here”.

I’ve always been one of the older players at our weekly five a side football game. We had one player in his forties, another few in their thirties (including me at 38), and most in their twenties. Tonight though I was the only one in my thirties, there was no one in their forties, and the opposition was straight out of university.

I don’t mind playing people who are younger than me. I’m not a great footballer but I do know how to run so I make up for my lack of skills by always moving around the pitch. This gives the impression I’m actually doing something even if all I’m doing is mimicking a headless chicken. I don’t see myself as better or worse than anyone else because I’m older than them. Yet, when it comes to triathlon, we’re always divided by age. The fastest under 30, under 40, under 100 etc. Yet, it’s a sport where age is less important than technique and where technology can make more of a difference than how many candles you blew out on your birthday.

So, instead I propose a new classification, one borrowed from Iain who suggested it during a race last year, instead of fastest man under 30 or fastest woman under 40, we should have:

• Fastest man with a mountain bike;
• Fastest woman without a trisuit;
• Fastest man with a £10k time trial bike he only rides twice a year because he’s frightened to take it out.

You get the picture.

What would you have?

Some days you can run, swim or cycle forever. Yesterday was one of those days. I swam at lunchtime and felt as strong on the final stroke as I did on the first. I cycled 15 miles in the evening on the turbo and I felt like I’d only just got started. Yesterday was a good day. Why can’t every day be like yesterday?

Today, on the other hand, is muthaf…

UPDATE
The good thing about a training plan is that some days you just have to follow it. It doesn’t accept arguments. It doesn’t accept excuses. It just tell you what to do and doesn’t take no for an answer. It’s less a training plan more of a training mum.

Another week without a bike ride outside. I should look at the relentless rain and frosty mornings as ideal preparation for Norseman but, call me a wimp, but I’d much rather sit on the turbo trainer in a warm room and watch telly than spend 90 minutes shivering and looking out for ice patches to break my neck on.

“You’re a wimp!“

“A wimp with an intact neck and fully functioning arms and legs.“

“Fair point.“

So, instead of cycling round Glasgow, I’ve been watching:

• Uncanny Kimmy Schmitt
• Brooklyn 99
• The Wolf of Wall Street
• Soccer Saturday
• Smashie & Nicie’s End of an Era (available on YouTube)
• And, the best of the lot this week, The Legend of Old Gregg episode of the Mighty Boosh.

While I know I should be watching a Sufferfest video and making myself “SUFFER!”,  I’d rather make myself laugh. And, with most sitcoms being 22 minutes, I can pick a variety of programmes to watch while on the Turbo to keep myself entertained while I try and keep a constant speed. In a few weeks, I’ll move to a more structured training but, for the moment, long steady sessions are helping me adjust to time on the bike and keeping a constant effort, at least that’s what I tell myself.

A fall, a twist, a sudden dark thought: “Have I just knackered my knee?”

I’m playing football on Wednesday. Five-a-side. 10 minutes in and I’m trying to shoot when, to avoid a tackle, I jump, land awkwardly on my right leg and feel it buckle. I’m on my back, staring up at the steel roof and I can start to feel a dull ache around my knee. “Are you alright?” I’m asked.

I think so. It’s not the sharp pain that I remember from tearing a ligament a few years ago, and, after standing up, I don’t feel any reaction when I put my weight on it. “I think so,” I say, but I go into goals for 10 minutes to let it settle and see how it reacts to movement. It seems okay.

I come back out and, as soon as I try and pass the ball, my right leg buckles again. No pain. No reaction. I’m up again straight away but I play the rest of the game wondering if I’ve damaged it more than I first realised – and I wonder whether the adrenaline of playing is stopping me from feeling the pain that would tell me to stop.

I go to sleep later bracing myself for a reaction in the morning.

I wake up and try and bend my knee to see how it reacts. Nothing. Then a twinge. Then nothing. I’m lucky, but I don’t push it. I take Thursday off from training and use it as a rest day instead. Today, I’ll have a short BRIC session to test it on the bike and road. Next week, I think I’ll give football a miss.

If you gave me a choice between money or power I’d choose cake every time. I love cake – and chocolate and sugar and sweets.

I know that part of training involves eating healthily but the thought of a sliced cucumber after 90 minutes on a turbo is as enticing as, well, a sliced cucumber. I want a Mars Bars, a Twix, a Battenberg cake or, better yet, a ring donut with extra sugar sprinkled on top. Rewards should be rewarding.

But one of the dangers of training is the idea that just because you’ve sat on a bike for a bit means that you can then eat whatever you want, and how much you want. Going out for a run is not a licence to eat an entire packets of Custard Creams.

That’s why I start keeping track of my weight when I start training. I’m not someone who thinks about their weight; I don’t overeat; I have proper cooked from scratch meals most nights; I rarely drink and I don’t smoke. But give me a Mars Bar after running and I’ll eat it – and the Rocky biscuits in the cupboard and the pudding in the fridge.

So, as part of my training for Norseman I’ll keep track of my weight to make sure that I’m not losing everything I’m gaining by gaining more than I’m losing. It’ll be a piece of cake. Or not cake. A piece of cucumber (covered in cake).

Current weight: 12 stone 4 pounds.