No one seems to have the time to train.
"I just can't see myself fitting in a session this week, Freddie", they'll tell me, like they're some sort of new age, middle-class martyr.
"Oh, God. I completely understand. Absolutely no problem at all. Maybe see you next week?" I reply, in my most assuasive of tones .
"Sure thing. I just need to check my diary and shuffle a few things around. Never stops, eh?" She or he then laughs. It's always followed by a self-affirming chuckle.
It might seem like I'm being cast away, denied the second date. 'No, I'll call you'. Unfortunately not and now I have to deal with someone who has convinced themselves that they're as busy as the leader of the free world.
"Are you really, really telling me you don't have one hour in your whole week in which you could exercise? Please. Just set aside your growing concerns about Russia and stop trying to work out where the actual fuck The Isle of Man is and walk, run, jump, lift...even do some Zumba. Actually, don't do Zumba. Don't ever do Zumba. We all have an obligation to move, not even your Twitter account should get in the way of that." They nod merrily like one of those dogs from Churchill insurance. They've stopped listening.
I hate returning to myself. I guess it's the 'go-to' for the emotionally stunted, unable to empathise convincingly.
"Gosh, that's awful! And so young! I don't know what to say... ."
"That's very sweet of you Fre... ."
"...except that when I lost Chanel, as in Coco, my goldfish, it took hours to get over her. Grief is unquantifiable like that." I wisely reel off. They didn't really know what they wanted to say anyway.
So, I'm still running one hundred kilometres and as you can imagine, it requires plenty of what we (soon to be 'we') ultra-marathon runners call 'time on foot' or 'time on feet', which one escapes me. Regardless, if you're running for twelve hours, you need to get use to being on your feet. The training is not about distance covered or speed raced.
Now, let's not get bogged down in the minutiae of training techniques because all I'm really trying to drill home is that, whether you split your training up into digestible chunks or close your eyes and swallow it whole, like a good boy should, I don't really care. I'm not your fucking mother and shouldn't have to sit you down and micromanage your calendar.
I will finish with this though: if Tony Blair could take time out from bombing countries with weapons of mass seduction, to have a jog around Chequers while Cherie tied squirrels up by their ankles just because she "didn't trust the unpredictable movement of their tails", so can you.
Train. Find the time... .
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