The 500 Mile Challenge

'You should do that.'

As a sentence, it's the kind of thing from which great endeavours of cataclysmic foolishness are built.

This time, the line was delivered to me on Facebook, by a pal named Denise.
And she was talking about a song.

I'm fairly sure you all know the song, but maybe you're young or have been living in a particularly impenetrable cave, so here you go. If you don't know the song, it's called 'I would Walk (500 Miles)' and it's sung by gloriously Caledonian tune-lovers, The Proclaimers. Very catchy songwriters, The Proclaimers, and 500 Miles is one of a handful for which they're known outside their hardcore fan-base. It's a song that extends round the world, for both its joyous marchability, and its seeming note of lyrical, personal dedication. Good song. Great song.

Ahem...Here's a geeky-visualed version of the song. Hey, whaddaya want from me, I'm a geek, alright?

The reason the song suddenly appeared back in my life yesterday is simple to explain. Having started doing two walks a day in order to reduce my ridiculous and unsustainable girth, I ended up walking the equivalent of 8.9 miles yesterday.  Not by any means miraculous,

'And I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more...' quipped Denise, before adding the fatal words. 'You should do that.'

You don't TELL me things like that. You really just don't. Those are seeding words. Those are words that sprout.

It took but the work of moments and a trusty calculator to work out that 500 miles, at 8.9 miles a day, worked out to be 56 days of walking. Say 60 days to deal with what should probably be known as the radical bloody-minded inclemency of British weather, the occasional bursts of life-having and suchlike.

60 days is two months.

Which is where the beginnings of a ridiculous plan started to form.

As a sub-challenge of The Disappearing Man, why not actually try to do that? Walk 500 miles. All the figures seemed to claim it should be doable, if not by any means easy. Lose weight, but give it some sort of definition, some challenge, some scope...

And then I started to ponder. If you're going to do something like that, if you're going to actually walk 500 miles - which is the equivalent of 25 marathons, by the way, in terms of pure distance - it would surely be a crying shame for it to go to...waste, so to speak. Why not do it for something? A sponsored walk of Proclaimers' proportions.

But who to do it for. There are plenty of deserving causes in the world. My first thought was Diabetes UK, given that a) I'm a UK diabetic, and b) the Disappearing Man weightloss effort was first inspired by the real, paralysing fear of the potential consequences of that disease.

And then it hit me. An organization that does astounding, much-needed work, but which is under actual threat. An organization that supports work I believe in, and which typifies the freedoms on behalf of which a whooooole lot of people recently did a good, effective bit of walking.

Planned Parenthood.

I recently did the Sister Walk in Cardiff. I'm a member of the UK Women's Equality Party. Could well be time to put my feet where my convictions are. I would walk 500 miles for Planned Parenthood, if you'd donate to them. I would do it in 60 days, because there has to be a structure to these challenges. I'd set up a separate 500 Mile Walk blog to chart progress, separate from The Disappearing Man, which has a history of getting rather sweary and scatalogical. Progress would be marked on my Samsung smartphone's S Health step-counter (unless some delightful techie-firm wanted to donate a properly hardcore pedomenter), and progress would be logged daily, so supporters could see how far I'd walked by that point.

What do you think? Would you support a walk like that, Disappearers?

Now, I should say, this is all top-of-the-head thinking at the moment. I haven't even found out whether Planned Parenthood accepts donations from sponsored events like this. But if they did, would you sponsor me to get my Proclaimers on and walk 500 miles to support them?

I've never done this in a Disappearing Man blog entry before, but if you'd be willing to sponsor such a madness, drop me a line, either through Facebook, Twitter (@FylerWrites) or via Fylerwrites@gmail.com (annnnd for all I know, cue the anti-PP hate mail...)

The 'official' walk won't begin till I've set up blogs and got sponsors and so on. For now, they're all just 'practice walks.' Speaking of which, I have to dash - Walk #1 for today is way overdue. But before I go, if you want to cut to the chase and simply support vital healthcare that's under threat from political dogmatism, they do take donations direct - go here and help them out right now.

The Disappearing Protestor - 21/1/17

Today was the Womens' March. Around the world, they came. They stood, they spoke and shared their stories, their commitment to resist a declaration of war against their lives, their choices, and their human rights.

And d and I went too. And marched up and down the length of Cardiff Queen Street, not in hatred of the President, but in despair, and empowerment and solidarity.
There was the usual chanting, and some of that was focused against the single man who's been elevated to the Presidency, which is perhaps understandable, given his singularly astonishing record of sexism and mysogyny. But really, the extraordinary thing about the Womens' March is that by putting a face to a whole vein of opinion about what women should and shouldn't do, should and shouldn't be, Trump has galvanised women all over the world who normally wouldn't count themselves as 'political,' wouldn't classify themselves as 'feminists,' and galvanised allies across the board, painting in stark lines the battle of ideas and realities in houses and towns and cities across the US when it comes to the simple question of the freedoms and equalities that women have and should have.

It's miraculous, in a depressing sense, that in 2017, we're having to have these discussions again and again and again. I've been asking people since the March, why people would not support what I think of as women's rights to their own bodily autonomy. The results seem to be depressing, but also to represent a dichotomy between an older America, an America 'as was,' where religion had a stronger hold on many people than it does in a lot of the country today, and a newer America of gay rights, trans rights and all the social evolution of the last eight years.

We walked in support of the new America, the new hope, and the new understanding of validity and equality and what women are 'allowed' to be and do.

That felt important, even though it was mostly walking up and down Cardiff Queen Street.

From a Disappearing point of view, I have little information - my phone was off most of the day, and nestled in d's bag for even more of it. I did suggest, on the train home, that I should probably go on my now-traditional walk.
'No,' said d. 'You've been walking about all day. You don't need to walk more.'
I thought about arguing the point. Then I thought about walking an additional twelve thousand steps.

Annnd then I decided she was right.
So yay the Sisterhood. And onward with the Disappearing.

The Time Crunch

There's a truism in human life that says that if you don't make time to do something, it can't get done, because it doesn't have the time to happen in.

That's true of everything, from finding the love of your life to baking the perfect souffle to writing the next great novel to changing the socio-political landscape of your nation, to Disappearing. In order for things to happen, they have to have time to happen in.

Which is why I feel like I owe my Disappearing effort an apology today - I was all set to make the time to walk 8 km or so, as I did yesterday, but frankly the tension of deadlines got to me. There's a great expression the Scots have - 'Nippin' at ma head' - for when things or people feel like birds pecking at your skull, at your brain, and won't let you focus on any damn thing else at all.

It's been a 'nippin' at ma head' kind of day. Day-job deadlines, editing deadlines, geeky writing commitments, they've all felt like blackbirds pecking at my head all day long, which means I cancelled my plans to walk tonight, and have spent the time up till now (8pm) focussing on the day-jobbery, because that's my most pressing deadline.

In fact, I was due to be out tonight, canvassing with my pal Ruth, who's standing as one of four brilliant Welsh candidates for Britain's newest, coolest and fastest-growing political party - the Women's Equality Party (May 5th. Get to your polling station and vote WEP!). She texted last night to say she was going to have a hell of a day today, so we'd have to postpone it. As it happened of course, I had one of those days myself, so the good people of Aberdare were spared the appearance on their doorsteps of a baldy, beardy grumpy bloke, growling 'Can we have your vote or what?'

The good people of Aberdare had a lucky escape.

Oddly enough, was just getting this blog entry done and then preparing to go down for dinner and together-time with d.

'Erm...were you gonna do some biking?' she called up the stairs as I was typing line one.

'Errr...' I wasn't, in all honesty, because I didn't think I had time.

'S'gonna be a while before dinner shows up,' she added, 'so you've got time if you want to.'

Serendipity's a fabulous thing, but every now and again, I want to smash it in the face with a chair.
So this is me, going to take advantage of the time I have, to get some biking done.

Good, good...

The Perception Flicker

Unff. Couple of days blogless. Couple of days exerciseless too. Couple of days including big pizzas, greasy spoon lunches, fairly large cereal breakfasts.

And fear, of course. Fear of rocketing numbers, the exhaustion of having to go a fuck of a long way back to healthy. Fear of having more time behind me than ahead. Fear of books not written, things not done, and a life cut horribly short by my own hand - putting food in my mouth that's the equivalent of pouring acid in my eyes, slashing holes in my liver, cutting off my own feet, and ultimately shooting myself in the head. Diabetic fear, in other words.

Finally got back off my ass again tonight, walked five miles, nearly 12,000 steps. Done now. Feel every one of the 12,000. Tonight though, a form of fear to which I'm not normally prone. Went walking down the Trail, but to get there from our flat, you have to go past a couple of areas where people congregate - a skate park, a cinema, a handful of cheap restaurants and a leisure centre. Tonight, in the evening sunshine, the pathway to the Trail was thronged with people, and - I froze.
I have the distinction of both having a brother and yet being raised as an only child. As an only child, I've always had a 'fuck you' attitude to peer pressure. I walk where I want, I do what I want, and if the world doesn't like it, it can go right to hell.

But tonight, I froze. Suddenly very much aware of my body and the numbers of people through whom I had to walk.

That was a new and unwelcome sense of fear. Naturally of course, I shook myself down, turned up some Guns N Roses in my ears and marched on through the buggers, because of course I refuse to be bullied by my own imagination. But still - that was odd. Walked on my way, but it was just a little moment of weirdness in the day. Occurred to me with my involvement in the Women's Equality Party that to some extent, you can make a comparison between that tiny twinge and the much more pervasive, permanent sensation of what it's like to be a woman in the world - that potential fear of eyes, of judgement in which the world is actively schooled. I'm not about to make too big a thing of that, because I know plenty of women who don't feel that way, any more than I ever have done. Still - a weird moment of self-consciousness in an otherwise self-congratulatory day.

The Dotty Dress and the Short-Sleeved Shirts

Apologies, been insanely busy for a few days.

Still am, actually, but figured I'd take a moment to blog - if nothing else, my freind Sian tells me she reads them on her lunch hour at work, and people tell me tomorrow's Monday, so it sort of feels like a commission.

A very odd week, and no mistake. Am continuing to drive myself nuts with morning and evening unofficial weigh-ins. Have noticed swings of up to five pounds between an evening and the following morning, so who the hell knows what's going on any more? All I can do is keep on keeping on and trust that something good will happen.

It's really helpful, in trusting something good will happen, to have a couple of examples like those that have popped up today.

We've been doing a bit of a spring clean recently - my Tardis wardrobe is dismantled and bagged, ready to go to any Whovian who a) wants it, b) can collect it, and c) in the absence of instructions, can figure out how to put it together. As part of this process, we've been deciding which clothes to keep, and which to ditch.

Partly, I think, as a way of getting 'trying on clothes to see if we can throw them out' into my insano-schedule, d has been suggesting to me for a couple of days that, as it's been nice and Summery, I should wear some short sleeved shirts from the wardrobe. And I have, almost without thinking about it. And they've worked, and fitted, and looked, people tell me, pretty good. The point of which is that if I'd tried to do them up when I re-started this, they'd have looked absolutely hideous and I wouldn't have voted to keep them.

Keeping them now, that's for sure.

Again, have been more than inspired in this by d. As part of the spring clean, d tried on her wedding dress. Ten and a half years ago, she looked amazing in it, though (and I'm faiiiirly sure she's OK with me telling you this), she wore a 'sausage' underneath it to make it work as well as it did - a sausage, I'm also fairly sure I don't need to explain, being a kind of control garment.

When she tried it on this week - sans sausage - the wedding dress...well, to use her phrase, it hung off her like a sack. Big handfuls of golden material were pinchable either side before it fit anywhere near her. That's my Disappearing Woman.

It was a revelation underlined today, when, as we went out for lunch, she put on a black and white polka dot dress she'd already given away more than ten years ago, to a friend. Annie, the friend, has sadly since passed away, and the dress came back to d as a memento. d was sure she'd never wear it again - it was too small for her a decade ago when she gave it away.

Fits her beautifully now. Was hardly able to take my eyes off her all day.

Annnnd so we go to exercise biking, to sweat, manfully - and then probably to at least a reasonably cool shower, but the point is this: Disappearing, ultimately, works. Clothes begin to fit again. I have three Winter coats that I have yet to try on, but they'll be within my wardrobe-range by the time Winter actually gets here, so that, in the immortal lines of Epona, one of my goddaughters, I can once again 'look like a Watcher' - big Buffy fan, her mother having done her job well.

As I recall, the coats start to fit me somewhere in the high 17 stones. So - here's hoping for sooner rather than later.

The Silent Disappearers

Well, then - here we are again.

Apologies one and all for the break in service on this blog - most of you will know d and I were away for the week by the sea. An environment of great food, fish and chips, ice cream and a bakery on the floor below us.

Most of the time, I'll be honest, I was fine with it, entirely without the desire to kick children and shove their faces in the sand for their ice cream. I went for quite a few long walks, and deliciously, d came with me on quite a few of them too.

I've actually been less strenuously exercised since we came home on the weekend, but at least managed to get on the bike last night, and hope to again tonight before I go to sleep.

What will the Nazi Scales show tomorrow? I honestly don't know. I know what they said this morning and that was almost pleasing (give me a break, I'm an obsessive and I've been away for a week, of course I was going to check!) but whether that will translate into the official weigh-in, I really don't know.

What I do know is that if the week at the seaside didn't break me, nothing that thinks of itself as a big challenge will. If and when I break, it will be for something pathetic and mundane. But that event is nowhere currently near me, and there's a certain reassuring inevitability to the process now. I keep it up, I Disappear. Slowly, surely, but I disappear.

Another thing I know is I talk a lot about what amounts to a very little. There are Disappearers everywhere who just get on with it without needing to post their every thought on the internet. Most of them, of course, for one reason or another, are women. Fantastically strong, utterly amazing women.

I was reminded of that this whole week, just by watching d move. While I've been gorging and growing, and then while I've been whining and posting and oh-woe-is-me'ing, my wife has been the avatar of those silent Disappearers. From her heaviest point to where she is now, d's lost a fantastic five stone. Quietly. Without fanfare, and without particularly asking for or getting support from every random human being in the world, or even from the likes of self-revolving me. I'm in awe.

So here's the salute they never ask for, all those silent Disappearers, from the histrionic bloke in the middle, showing off and wailing as the Nazi Scales dictate. You're amazing, every one of you.

And you're noticed.