Getting older worries me a lot.
When I get up in the morning my Achilles need stretching out. I feel every movement of my knees for the first 10 minutes (especially if I’m heading downstairs) and it takes me about half an hour or so of vertical-ness to de-crunch my back.
How and when this happened I am not sure, but I don’t like it, not one bit.
Long gone are the days of hopping out of bed with sprite-like ease.
So it’s now that I am thinking the time is nigh to do something about this, to arrest the physical decay with a specific plan of action that combines some yoga-like action with something good for my heart.
Let’s face it, walking the dog for an hour a day has done nothing to increase my health capabilities, just kept me plodding along at ‘okay’.
Thus I spent my bank holiday Monday morning looking out the window at the driving rain, curled up on the sofa flicking through the papers, and it’s there that I came across the notion of ultra-marathons.
This seemingly is a sport. Where you run not just for 26 miles, but for days and days, competing across the harshest of landscapes, and distances which all sounds impossibly glamorous.
People who take part in these events are looking for the high which comes from pushing themselves through the pain barrier and out the other side into a state of zen-like euphoria where all problems melt away to miniscule and inconsequential sizes.
It’s apparently addictive, and once you’ve done one you can’t look back (not that you can see that far anyway).
Thus ultra-marathons hold exactly zero appeal to me as the marathon comes first. In fact, all sport fills me with dread, getting sweaty, getting changed, getting cold, getting hot, going uphill, going downhill.
With all the sporting opportunities on offer, all the clubs, gyms, dvds and everything else that’s around, I simply don’t understand why it is so darn hard for me to make a choice and do something.
So it looks like I am stuck, back on my sofa, flicking through the papers looking for inspiration.
IT’S A FUN TAKE ON THE ZOMBIE GENRE - BUT DON’T EAT CLAMS...
One of my secret delights on Netflix has made a return with a cracking second series.
Some of the series Netflix produces are excellent (Stranger Things as an example) as the platform allows creative story-telling boats to be pushed out which don’t focus on crimes against women – the staple of so much TV. The Santa Clarita Diet tells the story of an ordinary American family and what happens when the mother, Drew Barrymore, turns into a member of the flesh-eating undead. It’s a super-fun take on the whole zombie genre and, rather satisfyingly, sees marriage bickering bringing truth to a macabre family situation.
Obviously it’s silly, and gory, but underneath it all there’s an important message.
Don’t eat clams.
OUCH! POOR FISH WILL HAVE TO KIPPER LOOKOUT FOR THE DEBRIS
The Chinese space station, Tiangong-1, crashed last weekend, seemingly into the Pacific.
Finally returning to Earth after two years out of control in space (17 in total), it was never actually meant to come down as it did.
Instead it was to float on forever (or as long as it lasted), a heavenly palace drifting through the universe.
I’m glad it made it back without injuring any human life, or causing untold damage to the land, but I do feel slightly aggrieved for the fish who are already having to negotiate their way around several garbage heaps, and now have the remnants of a space station to add to that too.
Apparently most of it burnt up in the atmosphere, so there’s a small mercy.