Thirty-five minutes

This is the mark my housemate Dennis, has set for me. If I beat 35 minutes, I will get an all expense paid meal at my home away from home.. The Village Belle/Doulton. Affectionately known as the dirty D.. or the Dolo. The happiest place in the world.

A few years ago I got into running. Not exactly because I’m some sort of fitness fanatic. But mainly because I have a tendency to blow out. Growing up, I was what you would say.. pudgy. Actually no. Fat is the term I was looking for. My nickname in primary school was sumo. Yep. True story. Children are horribly mean. And this was a name that was actually given to me by my mates.

Being single, the main aim to working out, is not to become “fit”. But to look fit. Fit enough to be attractive to the opposite sex. Or more to the point, not become fat, as to detract the opposite sex. This is the goal. So I started working out, and more to the point, started running. But then I started to enjoy it. Even getting to the point where I started participating in fun runs. Which I must admit is extremely rewarding. Not only the finishing, the resulting medal and the feeling that youve achieved something. But mainly because of the amount of fit girls that you are able to see.. In lycra. The concentration of fit young females in one place is unmatched. If you’re male. Fairly fit. And single (or not single.. whatevs). Do yourself a favour. Sign up to a fun run. Do it. Trust me. You will not be disappointed.  When you’re out there running, you’ll almost think its illegal how much quality tail you’re looking at.

I started off small. With a 5km fun run. Then decided, that was a little too easy. So I did a couple of 10k runs. After finishing those fairly decently, and having quite a good perve along the way, I wanted to do more. Irrationally, I had it set in my head, that in the next 12 months, I would build up to a half marathon (21km) and eventually, complete a full marathon (42km). Boy.. was I fucking wrong.

Somehow, I completely forgot that my lifestyle does not allow me to accomplish such physical feats. Basically, 2.0 loves a party. Fuck, 1.0 loved a party. This is what turned him into 2.0.  (In your life, did you ever think you’d ever be witness to someone refer to themselves in the 4th person? Well.. tick that box. Because it just happened).  Being single, champagning and campaigning is just what you do. You do it to meet girls. And you work out just enough to meet em. Then you champagne and campaign, and reverse all the good work you have done. I drink. I smoke. I party. I get pissed. Then I eat KFC. I love it. This kind of lifestyle doesn’t let you run a marathon. The thought shouldn’t even conceive in your head.

But alas. With irrational confidence, and the excitement of  running with bunnies, I signed up to a 14km run. Big mistake. I jumped up to 14km thinking I would  eventually ramp up to the half marathon mark. I even trained a little for it. But then the lifestyle got in the way. I had just moved out with a couple of mates, and lets just say those first few weeks were… loose. And it was coming into summer and the weather was starting to warm up. The heat. The partying. The lack of training. Anything after 10kms was a struggle. Struggle is an understatement. Struggle denotes that it was just hard. No. It fucking hurt. Not even the thousands of bunnies helped. The last 4km was painful.. Mentally, more than anything else. Now I understand how Jesus felt when he was tempted for 40 days and 40 nights in the desert. In my head, all I kept trying to fight was the demons saying “Just quit ya dickhead. Who gives a fuck? Just stop fucking running. walk off the fucking course. Grab yourself a beer and light up a dart”. But somehow, I managed to finish.

And that was that. Lesson was learnt. My ill-conceived notion of completing a marathon were dashed. Hell.. the half-marathon was out the window. Well for now anyways. Whilst I’m single. There is a fine balance between being single, loving to party.. and trying to look fit. I have come to the conclusion, that balance is 10km. Being somewhat fit enough to run 10km is the perfect mix, of somewhat looking fit, but still being able to drink, smoke darts, party, eat shit food – basically enjoy the luxuries of single life.

My brother in law recently started running  as well. But he actually dedicated himself, and became good at it.  And is about to run the Melbourne Marathon (the full 42km. the crazy fuck). His journey into the world of running is completely different to mine. Im pretty sure he  actually wanted to become fit. Not just look fit. He is married to my sister after all. (You can read about his running journey at  And thats the difference. If I could just party and enjoy the liberty and freedom thats associated with single life, and not have to work out. Then I would do it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, this is not the case. So I have to tow the line and run where possible.

And this is where the 35 minutes comes in. I recently moved home, to where now, I am able to run home from work. It’s approximately 6 and a half km. The perfect distance to look fit, but actually be a fat fuck. It takes me about the same time to go home by public transport. And the way I see it, no matter what, I need to get home. So I may as well run home and get stupid exercising out of the way. And Yes. I am that douchebag running with a backpack. I started out, running home in about 45min. Then got it down to sub 40min. Depending on how hectic my weekend has been, the time varies from 38.43 (best) to 52.23 (worst. It was summer. and I’m pretty sure I was coming off a bender).

So my housemate Dennis has been kind enough to set me a challenge. He understands my love for food and my love of the drink. He also understands my love for the Village Belle/Doulton. Or more to the point, my love for the girls that work at the Village Belle/Doulton. So 35 minutes is the mark. Forget about half marathons or marathons. 35 minutes is my new running goal. If I run home in sub 35 minutes. I will be shouted an all expense paid meal at my beloved Dirty D. With my beloved wives behind the bar. And thats the point. My goal for running was never to become fit. But just do enough running to  perhaps, attract the girls behind the bar. And then reward myself by smashing a shit load of food and a copious amount of alcohol.

3 thoughts on “Thirty-five minutes

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