A morning run in Hollywood.

I slowly opened my eyes, glanced blearily at the digital clock resting on the night-stand next to my bed, and smiled.

5.07am.
I was pleased with how long I had slept.

You see, I am currently in Los Angeles on business and I have a terrible time coping with jet-lag. There have been trips where I have been away for 5 days and never managed to sleep later than 3am local time. When you start a full business day having been awake for six hours you feel like you are at a disadvantage compared to everyone else you meet that day. It’s just not that much fun. So you can see why I was happy to wake this morning when I did.

I am staying the 100 room Amarano Hotel in Burbank. To my horror I discovered when I arrived that the gym is undergoing a major refurbishment. I was offered free access at a facility nearby, however that turned out to be a 5 minute drive away and given that I have no hire car, it wasn’t an option.

I waited in my room until the sun rose at around 7am and then headed down to the lobby to ask if there was anywhere to run locally, maybe a park or even a local track. I was told by a rather surly concierge to head out of the hotel, turn right and I would find a park straight ahead of me about four blocks away. With that I headed out into the morning sunshine for a quick stretch. It was only when I started running that I realised just how cold it was. The first half mile was particularly tough as the icy wind attacked my extremities and I was forced to ram my hands under my arm-pits in an effort to warm them. Fortunately I had brought a pair of Adidas running trousers with my which kept my legs free from the bite of the morning air. All of this meant that the first five minutes of the run were pretty grim, however I managed to keep the circulation flowing and slowly began to appreciate my surroundings as I jogged down the long, ruler-straight, tree-lined avenue, past an endless number of white, magnolia and pink bungalows. On three separate occasions I leapt into the road to avoid the spray of morning sprinklers that keep the grass so lush in what is essentially a desert. I also counted many homes with American flags proudly rippling in the breeze. The sight of them made me feel a long way from my homeland, where to fly a national flag would be seen in a rather different light. Over here ‘God Bless America’ is a statement delivered sincerely and without irony. We have no equivalent in the UK. ‘God Save The Queen’ sounds like a statement better suited to the baby-boom era of post-war Britain. Either that or the title of a Sex Pistols album. In England we seem to have adopted the World War II slogan – ‘Keep Calm, and Carry On’. You can find it on everything from posters to pillow-cases, from rugs to mugs. It tells you a lot about the British, that. It’s not very inspiring.

After about ten minutes of running I came to the park the concierge told me about. His phrasing was a little generous as he could more accurately have described it as ‘a scrubby strip of land that runs for two miles down the centre of the street.’ I guess that by calling it a park it makes it seem more glamorous. I avoided it altogether and carried on running down the straight pathway.

It was at this point that I realised how quiet it was. There were a few cars, but no real traffic. Given that I was surrounded by major Hollywood movie studios (Warner Bros, Disney and Universal all being within a two mile radius of my current location) I guessed it was just too early in the day. Maybe folks in films start at 10am? If so, they are very sensible, I thought. In fact during my entire 45 minute run I only saw three people on the street. The first was a lady being dragged along by a very wilful, and large, Irish Setter who greeted me with an out-of-breath ‘Good Morning!’ as I ran past. The second was a young Hispanic male walking along with a hood up and his hands thrust deeply into pockets. I said ‘morning’ as I ran past and received a warm looking smile in return. The third was a bag lady, picking rubbish out of a bin and loading it into a Lowes shopping trolley. She slowly looked up as I ran by, but didn’t return my salutation. She looked sad and very tired. Her skin was a light chestnut colour, her deep lines bearing testament to the ravages of the sun and a hard life. I wondered how old she was. Forty-Five? Sixty-Five? It was impossible to tell. Whatever, I secretly wished her well and carried on my run. By this time, I was finally beginning to work up a sweat and despite the frustration at having to stop at cross-walks, the run was proving a decent challenge. I returned to the hotel having covered around 5.5 miles at a decent clip. I’ll try to head in the opposite directly tomorrow. Hopefully it’ll be a little warmer. I’ll let you know.

Joining the Club.

Although I was very tempted to smash the 'stop' button, roll over and go back to sleep when my alarm delivered its chirpy ring at 5.45am this morning, I didn't.

'Never show weakness', I croaked to myself.

15 minutes later, I was pulling out of the driveway, hot thermos of coffee precariously balanced between my knees, on the way to my first early morning swim with the Viceroys.

What's a Viceroy, you say?

Oh yes, I forgot to mention that a couple of weeks ago I joined a local Tri Club (the aforementioned Viceroys) having read about them online and following an extremely friendly and welcoming conversation with Mark, the club chairman. Although there are a number of elite athletes within the club performing at the very highest international level, they are also very happy to accept committed beginners, just like me.

Their (or should I say our) motto is 'Never Show Weakness'. Hence the early morning battle-cry as I rose from my pit.

As I watched the other Viceroys methodically pounding out laps of the pool, all fluid strokes and tumble-turns, I came to the conclusion that if I am going to take my swimming seriously then I need some lessons. They say swimming isn't really about power, it's all about technique. I simply shouldn't get as tired and out of breath as I do, meaning that I am doing something fundamentally wrong. I'm sure it's something that a decent coach could correct, but it's pretty frustrating right now as I am all huff and puff.

Still, every step forward is one less that you have to do, right?

In other, related matters a friend of mine shared this with me the other day. As a guy who enjoys stepping out of the house in sub-zero temperatures dressed only in an ultra-thin compression suit and a smile, I could relate to it. Say it loud and say it proud 'I am a Winter Warrior!'

Never Show Weakness.

If the shoe fits...

Triathlon can be expensive. There’s just so much kit, and while the gadgets, gismos and lycra are all part of the fun, I am trying to economise where I can. Until I decide whether this is for me, Lucy has me on a pretty tight budget – and she is absolutely right to do so.

I have made my biggest purchase however. It’s probably the most obvious one too. I’ve bought my bike.

Thanks to the wonder that is e-bay, I am now the proud owner of a (moderately soiled but still in full working order) road bike from Italian specialist Bianchi. Unfortunately when it was delivered to the house by a very nice couple who looked like they were building a small e-bay empire judging by the gleaming new Range Rover Sport that pulled up in my driveway, I realised that the bike came without pedals. It was at this point that I was introduced to the heady world of road bike shoes and pedals. To be honest, even that seems like a foreign language to me; a veritable minefield of pedal systems and shoes compatibilities. Fortunately I know someone to go to for some friendly advice, so after being told never to set foot within a 400 meter radius of either a Halfords or an Evans Cycles, I went to a local specialist bike store and ordered some pedals and a nice pair of Northwave road shoes. Sleek black with airmesh uppers and fibreglass filled soles. The shoes plus the pedal system ('Look type', bike fans) set me back a cool £100. Well, I may be a total n00b, but I’ve still got to look the part, right?

The shoes arrive on Thursday, so I am hopeful that this weekend me and my Bianchi will attain perfect rhythmic harmony on the roads of fair Surrey.

Either that or I will have a very nice bike and pair of size 10 shoes to sell to anyone looking to lark about in lycra.

Wimbledon isn't all about tennis, you know...

So, Triathlon? What’s that all about then.

Well, it’s a combination of swimming, cycling and running. I guess that much everyone knows. It can be completed at a variety of distances, starting in the leafy foothills of Darned Hardsville and escalating in increments until one reaches the snowy peak Mount Lunacy. There’s Super Sprint distance, Sprint distance, Olympic distance, Half Ironman distance and Ironman distance. Then the whole thing just gets silly and you get into realm of the Double Ironman. And it goes on again from there. If you are a complete masochist that is.

I am dipping my toe into the ice-cold waters of the Triathlon world by competing in a beginner-friendly Sprint distance triathlon. This involves a 420 meter pool swim (most of the swims are in open water. Pools are for n00bs only), a 12K cycle ride (about 8 miles) and 5k run(3.1 miles). The race itself is the wonderfully named Wimbledon Womble. All rather quaint and British. Marvellous. For those of you reading this from overseas you’re probably wondering whether you've just seen a typo and what I meant to write was Wimbledon Wobble. No, you read it right – I meant Womble.

Let me explain.

The Wombles was created in the late 1960’s by children’s author Elizabeth Beresford and was popularized in a pre-school kids TV show back in the ‘70’s. It featured a group of odd-looking talking yellow mole-like creatures (The aforementioned Wombles) who lived in a park in Wimbledon and picked up the garbage that ‘everyday folk left behind’ and put it to good use by turning it into something that people needed. Basically it was part of a government drive at the time to stop people dropping trash! Although I think in reality it probably caused more littering as kids wanted to a.) see if they could spot a Womble in real life and b.) give the Wombles something constructive to do as their existence seemed a little limited without the presence of litter.

The Wombles: SW19's most eco-friendly residents.

I was a huge fan of the Wombles growing up. So much so that I once met one of the stars of the Show ‘Uncle Bulgaria’ at a County Fete.

Uncle Bulgaria, terrifying a small child.

Anyway, I digress. Where were we? Oh yes, The Wimbledon Womble. It’s taking place on April 29th, and I am actually pretty excited to be taking part.  I’m also looking forward to getting some serious training in. Now, if only this damned snow would stop all would be well.

Altogether now: ‘Underground, overground, wombling free. The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are we...’

A New Groove.

Forgive me Reader, for I have sinned. It's been 161 days since my last blog post.

Apart from the occasional comment from a friend or loved one over the past few months casually enquiring, 'Whatever happened to that blog thing you did?' I've not thought much about Man Beats Cheetah. For me, it was all about chronicling my marathon journey. That ended on a cold, grey, May afternoon in Scotland, when I staggered over the finish line and an over-enthusiastic volunteer threw a little rectangular medal around my neck. That was it. No more endurance events. I would take it a bit easier from here on in. The cheetah hadn't been beaten, but I'd given him a run for his money.

But time, as they say, is a great healer.

So here I am, kicking the blog back off again after 161 days of inertia. Why? Because I have a new fix. A new groove, if you will.

Triathlon.

Why settle for being average in one discipline, when you can be thoroghly mediocre in three!!

Plus, it has one huuuuge advantage over running. The gear and gadgets! Oh yes, Triathlon is a geeks dream, and I am nothing if not a total geek. From goggles to wetsuits, to trisuits, to gear ratios, brake pedals, sprockets, SPD's, chain sets. There's so much to understand, and research. Oh boy, I get excited just thing about it.

And I get to strut around from head to toe in tight rubber. In public, no less!

So, there you have it. MBC is back.

Triathlon is the new Marathon.

Let the fun...and the pain...begin.

The Edinburgh Marathon: The Full Story.

Oh shit. Stairs.

When the plane landed at London City Airport, I'd hoped, no, prayed that I would greeted by the comforting site of a walkway being attached to the front door.

What do I get? Bloody stairs.

I cursed the parentage of all BA employees as I shuffled down each metal step. My knees screamed as if bombarded by the spears of a horde of Lilliputians. As I stumbled into the Terminal I asked myself the same question I'd pondered since the end of the race.

'Was it worth it?'

The answer is, 'Yes. Just about'.

Okay, let's take a deep breath and rewind 48 hours. On Saturday morning an excited Rissik clan arrived in Edinburgh and enjoyed a great afternoon in the historic old city. 'Tomorrow will have a real carnival atmosphere', I said to Lucy, with the air of a man who had done it all before. I believed it too. As far as I was aware this was a city centre marathon, in the mold of the London event. There would be an epic start at the Castle, and there would be a historic sight around every corner. I couldn't wait.

'You'll never take our FREEEEDOM!' - Touristing it up in Edinburgh


The excitement and general sense of positivity lasted through a special Marathon runners dinner that our hotel had laid on especially for participants, and we all made sure we got plenty of sleep in anticipation of the big day.

The morning of the race, I woke without an alarm at 6am. Leaving the family to get a little extra sleep, I snuck out of the room and headed down to the unique runner's breakfast comprising porridge, toast, energy drinks, chocolate bars and bowls of jelly beans! When I got back to the room, everyone was awake and Lucy unveiled some incredible T-shirts that she'd had made for herself and the kids. Here are India and Leo modelling theirs:

'Go Daddy!' - Lucy refused to model her 'Go Jon Go! vest.
Take it from me. It's cool.

The race was set to start at 10am, and we made our way to the general area of the start-line by about 9. Unfortunately the weather gods had decreed that it would be rainy and windy in equal measure, so I quickly said goodbye to the family, who headed off in the direction of a shop selling umbrella's. Lucy and I had spent the night before studying the route map and planning where she could take the kids to get the best possible view of the race. Not knowing the city and having only a basic understanding of the local public transport routes we realised that a co-ordinated plan would be difficult to pull off. So, I basically said I'd be on the lookout for the them at around the 13 and 22 mile points, and then we arranged to meet in the appointed 'reunion area' after the race.


Feeling nervy and needing the toilet (6 times!), I say goodbye to Lucy and the kids...

So then I was alone, lost amid a crowd of 15,000. The smell of Deep Heat ointment hung thick in the air, and the voice of the chirpy MC rang out through cheap speakers proclaiming the direction of the toilets and the fact that 'This will be a life changing experience! You're all stars! Yay!'

Yay, indeed.

I then visited the restrooms six times in the space of an hour, and before I knew it the clock finally chimed 10 o'clock - and we were off!

The first part of the race is certainly the easiest, with 3 miles of gently winding descent. I felt very comfortable and quickly settled into a 9 minute mile routine. If I was ever going to break 4 hours I realised that I had to hit an average of 9.05 minute miles. My plan was just to set a steady pace and see how long I could hold out. Not much of a plan in hindsight, but there you go. After 4 miles we made our way out of Edinburgh and hit the coastal road that would take us to Musselburgh (famous for it's racecourse) and beyond. And that was it for the city of Edinburgh. I didn't see it until I got back to the hotel that night! I met a number of runners later that day who would comment that it didn't feel like the Edinburgh Marathon at all. The Lothian Coastal Marathon would probably be a more accurate descriptor. But then I don't think they would get quite so many participants for that, would they?

Anyway, back to the race. The miles racked up, as I steadily made my way past a few hundred runners. I felt good. My dodgy left knee was holding up. My pace was nice and consistent. I was also doing a good job of regulating my liquid intake, alternating between energy drinks and water at every drink station, and taking an energy gel pack every 6 miles. I made it through the half marathon point (13.1 miles) without breathing hard in just under 2 hours. If I could keep this up, I would achieve what I thought was unachievable a week ago. I even had the wind at my back. Everything was going my way.

Until I hit 15 miles. And I felt the first twinge in my knee. My right knee. I'd run over 450 miles training for this thing, without a second of pain in my right knee! It was my left knee that was the problem! How could this happen!?

But it had. And it got worse. I found that I was getting slower. No longer was I hitting the metronomic 9 minute mile pace. I was now clocking up 9.45 minute miles.

And then, just like that, my left knee decided to join the party.

Bugger.

I carried on running, knowing that the 10 miles between me and the finish line would be punishing. Even with the wind at my back I was slowing. The runners I had past miles earlier, now had their revenge as they caught and passed me.

By the time I hit 20 miles my dream of the 4 hour marathon felt like a distant memory. Although I wasn't breathing particularly hard and no other part of me hurt, my knees were screaming.

I began walking at 20.5 miles. It just hurt too much to carry on. What made things worse was that we'd now turned to run into the howling coastal wind. This would last until the end of the race. For the final 5 miles I was reduced to a 'run/walk', or ralk, as I dubbed it through gritted teeth.

Run quarter of a mile, then walk for 20 seconds. That's how I made it home.

And despite looking out for Lucy and the kids from mile 12 onwards, I didn't see them at all. At least they saw me. In the home straight no less! And thankfully I was running when they did. I would have been really disappointed if their one memory of me at the marathon was as I walked past them!

And just like that, it was over. I managed a smile as I crossed the line in 4 hours and 25 minutes. It could have been better, but it had hurt like hell and I had done the best I could. The Wall didn't get me. My general fitness didn't let me down.

My knees just protesteth too much.

After the race the family were faced with the chaos and confusion of meeting up, a two mile walk to a train station, and an hour long wait on a busy platform. I could moan about all of that, but who cares? I'd had incredible support from my wonderful family and I'd completed a marathon. I felt pretty lucky. Had I beaten the cheetah? I don't honestly know. I think the cheetah is always after me. It takes many forms, but it always pushes me on.

We'll call this round a draw, but I'll take you next time Spotty...

The day before the night before...

Two days to go.

This will probably be my last blog entry before I head off to London City Airport in the wee small hours of tomorrow morning, to catch the flight up to Edinburgh. Unfortunately I won't have my laptop with me, so you'll have to wait until I get home on Monday to get all of the detail of the event itself. It's sure to be a rivetting read, full of blood, sweat, tears, a dashing hero on a quest to find a lost relic, a wizened old man who mentors him, and a mustachioed villain dressed all in black on an mission to take over the world!

Or maybe not.

I took my last slow jog on the treadmill yesterday. A leisurely 3-miles in just under 30 minutes. It feels great to have finished the training. Since I decided to run the marathon at the start of the year I have racked up 480 miles. Sounds impressive, but that's actually some way behind the 4-hour marathon training schedule I had hoped to follow. However, it's the best I could do, so I have to be happy with it. I've also run in some varied and beautiful places, like Barcelona Beach, Venice Beach, (US), Tennessee Valley (US), Las Vegas Boulevard, Deal seafront, Surrey Downs and the Welsh hills.

All that's left to do is to thank you for coming back time and again to read these ramblings. Your kind words of encouragement have meant a lot. And to everyone who has helped to raise money for a brilliant cause - I salute you.

http://www.justgiving.com/Jon-Rissik

Until Monday then.