Blogging for freedom

Day 4. People from all over the world have contacted me in solidarity with my decision to
exercise my right to free speech and blog the shit out of this marathon. Nelson Mandela, Nay Phone Latt, the Dalai Lama. . .I got a particularly poignant message from a Chinese prostitute called Miang Jian Lee. She had been blogging her life in China for the past 3 years, but she was flung in Jail by the Chinese authorities for expressing herself in blog (or blatantly soliciting sex in public, like, whatever). Myself and Miang have a lot in common: we're trendsetters who are fighting for peoples rights in the face of facist control and blatant naysaying.

Theres always dissenters. There is always those who say "don't do that, thats too risky". "Marathons are for those in Life who can achieve nothing else" they say. Thats probably what they told Alexander Fleming just before he invented penicillin. Feck, that reminds me that the boss told me to pick her up some Super Ted Vitamin C tables while i was out. The small, plastic, bear-shaped bottle will have to slip into my breaffies on the jog home. They're tight enough to hold it. Hell i reckon i could do a full shop, stuff it down there and not loose as much as a frozen chicken kiev on the jog home.

Day 3. Woke up this morning to the sight of my own breath in the cold December air. My girlfriend insists the temperature needs to dip below -2 degrees Celcius to warrant putting on the super sear on in the mornings. I dare not argue. I broke myself away from the icy bed sheets and slid into my Breaffy GAA shorts which I've had since I've had since the u-12 final against Crossmolina in the early 90's.. They don't leave much to the imagination but by Jaysus do they keep my nads warm...
I set off down Taylor's Hill both hamstrings plucking like a well tuned guitar, when I spot a fellow 'athlete' coming in my direction. Her attention is drawn to me by my incredibly hairy chest pertruding around my gold chains. This sets my mind wandering... of another cold winters day in Trim, Co. Meath. This of course is where my love for running began. But this certain incident deserves a post all of it's own. . . .. My day dream is broken by my pager going off in my water tight shorts. "My breakfast is not going to cook itself". I turn on my heal to avoid another tongue-lashing.....

"Right, no more shit talk" she said "get the fuck up", and kicked me out of bed to update my blog at 6.42am. I was given three raw eggs, a bottle of fink brau and a cereal bar for breakfast, and promptly thrown out of the nest to run 9.5km. Where did she get that figure from? I darent ask. I jog down to the taxi rank (felt a twinge in the left hammer) and taxi it to the gym, where i sit in the sauna for an hour and then fall asleep on a nice comfy mat. After that its off to work, if only i could find my P60, those bloody post men are going to pay.....