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Overview
Harold Watkins gets a wake-up call after his annual physical. He is out of shape, inactive and almost needs to go shopping for a coffin. The grim reaper is out looking for him. He could try and hide.
Instead, he decides that drastic changes are needed in his life and so he enlists the help of two friends and sets out on a long journey to fitness through the unlikely (for him) sport of running. He soon discovers that there is a lot more to life than sitting in front of a television set and chomping down on burgers and fries.
Throughout the journey Harold experiences every emotion possible from the pain and low esteem of the early beginnings, to the sheer joy and satisfaction of achieving long term goals he had not thought previously possible.
Harold’s helpers turn out to be his best friends as well as two very good coaches and have many hilarious runs and training incidents on the way. Harold pushes the word friendship to the limit. At the end of the journey he emerges a completely transformed and totally different person with a whole new outlook on life.
Anyone who runs, or is thinking of taking up running, needs to read this book and use Harold’s motivation and perseverance to help with their own personal journeys. If Harold can do it, so can you.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781481763769 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 06/18/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 357 KB |
Read an Excerpt
Harold Goes Running
By Paul Kilvington
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2013 Paul KilvingtonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4817-6374-5
CHAPTER 1
Harold takes a really big bite into a reality sandwich.
Harold Watkins woke up and slowly opened his eyes. This wasn't exactly a particularly earth-shattering event in itself. After all, Harold had been doing this every morning since he was born almost forty-five years ago. What was earth-shattering, especially to Harold, was that on this particular morning, when he happened to open his eyes, it was still very dark.
It was so very dark, in fact, that for a brief moment he was afraid that he might have been struck blind sometime in the middle of the night by some dreadful disease or stroke, until he turned his head to the right and saw the reassuring neon-red glow of the modern alarm clock on the antique bedside table. As his eyes slowly focused on the clock, he could begin to make out that the glowing red numbers were registering four twenty-six in the morning. However, it happened to take until four twenty-seven showed for Harold's brain to finally register this unusual fact, and then come to the inevitable conclusion that this was not going to be the customary start to his day.
Why on earth am I awake at this time in the morning? he asked himself, and turned his head to stare upward at where he hoped the ceiling was still located.
One highly probable reason for this extremely rare occurrence was that Harold had gone to bed earlier the night before with a deeply troubled mind. He had climbed wearily into bed a few minutes before midnight, feeling both physically tired and mentally drained after having had a particularly long and busy day at work, and therefore he just couldn't understand why he was now virtually wide awake at this unearthly time in the morning, having had only just over four hours sleep, and it being almost two and a half hours before his usual waking up time. Then his troubled mind slowly began to wake up as well, and suddenly he remembered what exactly it was that had happened to trouble his mind in the first place.
A little over twenty hours earlier, he had been to see Dr. McMurray, his regular family physician, for his annual physical examination and checkup, and it had not gone at all as well as he had hoped or expected it would. Several unseen and completely unexpected health concerns had managed to raise their ugly heads over the past year since his last visit, and these were to be the fundamental reasons for some upcoming major changes in Harold's usually static and comfortable status quo. In other words, there were going to be some major modifications in his life, and Harold wasn't used to change.
It wasn't just that he had managed to put considerable weight on that was troubling him, although he had in fact put on quite a lot of extra weight and now found himself weighing some forty to fifty pounds more than he did at about the same time the year before. This startling revelation even took into account that he had been fully clothed and carrying a heavy book when he was quickly and efficiently ushered onto the weighing scales when his name was called while sitting in the crowded waiting room. The busy and flustered nurse who had weighed him was obviously unconcerned at Harold's protestations about his still carrying a two-pound book, which he had brought to read and pass the time in what was usually a lengthy ordeal..
"It won't make that much difference," she had said without even blinking an eyelid and then continued to record the incorrect weight on her clipboard. Harold just shrugged his shoulders and meekly followed the nurse into an examination room. He knew he was overweight anyway, so a couple of surplus pounds wouldn't bother him.
Nor was it that his blood pressure had been found to be considerably elevated that was troubling him; he now had to begin taking some mild prescription medication every day in order to help lower it to more acceptable and safer levels. He wasn't in any impending danger of having a stroke, but he would have been at considerable risk if he had left his blood pressure unchecked.
It wasn't even that Dr. McMurray had informed him, while putting on some latex gloves, that Harold had now reached the age where men are best advised to have their prostate examined annually, and to do this Harold had had to drop his pants and adopt a very undignified position, bending over an examination table to allow his doctor to insert one finger up his rectum and wiggle it about as if he were determined to try to find something buried up there. At one point Harold felt as though the doctor had inserted his whole hand. The experience almost brought tears to his eyes.
During this totally unexpected and extremely uncomfortable procedure, Harold made a mental note that by next year he would have to change doctors, at least for this particular procedure, and find one with much smaller hands and therefore smaller fingers. Dr. McMurray happened to be built like a lumberjack on steroids and had fingers as thick and rigid as factory broom handles. After the procedure, Harold felt almost violated and just knew that he would probably be walking a little funny for a few days afterward. If anybody happened to notice, he would have to say that he had pulled a muscle or come up with some other excuse. He certainly wasn't going to say that somebody had stuck his finger up his backside. Tongues would wag unnecessarily, and he didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.
Obviously, all of these factors combined had contributed significantly to his troubles, but the main and most worrying factor for him was that the results of the blood tests from a few days earlier showed quite a few unwelcome irregularities. Harold guessed that there might have been a problem when he saw Dr. McMurray scratching his head and sighing a lot while he sat directly in front of him pondering over the test results, searching for the right words to relate the situation to his obviously ailing patient. However, Dr. McMurray was not particularly well-known for his tact or his sympathetic bedside manner.
"Quite simply, Harold, we have a problem," said Dr. McMurray, for some strange reason known only to him, lapsing into the first person plural and emphasizing the word we.
Lying in the early morning darkness, Harold could remember what his doctor said almost word for word, but he was still left wondering how the "we" that Dr. McMurray had mentioned were going to solve the problem. Dr. McMurray's words still echoed loudly in his mind.
"Your good cholesterol is low ... and the bad cholesterol seems to be very high ... and that definitely needs to change," Dr. McMurray continued, scrutinizing the sheet of results in front of him. He was trying to scan quickly for the more relevant facts.
"It looks as though your triglycerides are almost in orbit." He looked at Harold while shaking his head slowly in disgust. "You've clearly become overweight, you're extremely unfit, and you seem to be heading full steam ahead for a stroke or heart attack. Some drastic changes need to be made in your life, and they need to be made quickly. Otherwise, it will be too late to do anything about it. I think that just about summarizes your condition. Do you have any questions?" he asked. There followed a moment's silence during which a pin could have been heard to drop if Harold had had one to drop.
Dr. McMurray lowered the results sheet and gave him another disapproving look. Harold thought the doctor could not have been more direct if he had tried, but he did appreciate him being succinct and to the point. There was no point in beating about the bush if there was a problem with his health. At least now he was left in no doubt about the sheer gravity of the situation that he now found himself in. He thought for a moment, couldn't think of anything to ask, and just looked at his doctor with a blank expression on his face.
Dr. McMurray was usually a man of few words and not one for casual and idle chitchat, but the few words he had used had left Harold almost in a state of shock. For several more minutes the doctor continued to explain the significance and importance of the various medications he was about to prescribe for Harold and why it was all so necessary for him to take them. He went on to add some useful details about how Harold should start to adopt a healthy lifestyle, avoid fast food altogether, and change to a more sensible diet with plenty of vegetables and fiber.
Along with all of these changes, the doctor strongly suggested that Harold should give some serious thought to taking some sort of physical exercise on a regular basis—preferably incorporating fresh air. He also passed on some general advice about avoiding as much stress and tension as possible.
Harold was about to make a comment, but Dr. McMurray was still on a roll and hadn't quite finished yet. He quickly raised his finger to his lips as a sign for Harold to simply sit there, listen, and not interrupt.
"The bottom line, Harold, is that you need to make some pretty major changes with your lifestyle, and you need to make them as quickly as possible. If you choose to ignore my advice then please ensure your bill is paid quickly, preferably as you leave today!"
Harold looked at his doctor and thought he could detect the faintest of smiles. The doctor was also well known for his dry sense of humor, but this was probably not the time for him to be using it.
Dr. McMurray had also gone on to mention the immediate need for stopping the dangerous buildup of something called plaque that was probably occurring in Harold's arteries as he spoke, but by this time Harold's brain was in maximum overload, and only about every other word was now registering and making any kind of sense to him.
According to the doctor, the only really positive points about Harold's current lifestyle, if that was what it could be called, were that he seemed to be getting regular sleep, even if it was a little too much; that he admitted to the occasional attempts at flossing; and that he was somehow miraculously still breathing and had a steady, beating heart—at least for the time being.
As he continued to lay in the dark, churning the doctor's solemn words over and over in his mind, Harold knew that he would simply have to do something rather drastic about the situation concerning his health and that he would have to do that something rather drastic very soon. After all, he was a physical therapist and a rehabilitation manager, and as such worked in the medical profession, and therefore was aware that he should be setting a much better example to both his patients and his colleagues. There really was no excuse for him to have gotten into this condition.
Harold's lifestyle should have been considerably better than it was. His figure should have been a lot better than it was. He found it difficult to believe that he had somehow allowed himself to get into this condition in the first place. The situation hadn't happened overnight, but had developed steadily over many years, and for some reason, especially over this last year. But he would have to begin and to try to fix it in considerably less time than that. His biological clock was running a little fast and needed to be put right ticking.
It was true that he didn't work in the fitness-oriented environment of a busy sports injuries clinic or work out with highly motivated athletes or sports teams. Instead, Harold worked while travelling a lot between a varied array of nursing homes, outpatient clinics, a hospital, and patients' homes.
Accordingly, he spent a great deal of his working day sitting in a car, sitting behind a desk, or sitting and watching other people walk and exercise, all for long periods of time. In addition, a lot of his clients happened to be geriatrics. Therefore, any physical movement they did was usually associated with their bowels rather than with strenuous physical activity.
Harold's philosophy about exercise and enjoying a healthy lifestyle was simple because he didn't have one. He greatly envied his friends and many of his colleagues who managed to maintain good levels of fitness and generally looked after themselves. He would sit and listen to his colleagues tell him about races they had been in or rivers they had paddled down. Yet somehow Harold had dropped the ball in this particular area of his life. Slowly the gradual and inexorable deterioration was beginning to show itself, and now he hoped it wasn't too late to do something about it. While his friends were rowing hard with a paddle, Harold was up Shit Creek without one.
Harold wasn't necessarily lazy. In fact, he was something of a workaholic who often worked six long days a week. And in the evenings, after a usually long and hard day at work, Harold would simply complain or whine if anything remotely involving exercise or physical activity was suggested by his colleagues or friends. He would then easily give the same old excuse that he was just too tired or didn't have the time to do anything active. He always had something else to do or somewhere else he needed to be.
Instead, his weak resolve easily gave in to the temptation to sit in his comfortable recliner, watch his forty-two-inch high- definition television, and get himself hooked on a whole series of weekly half-hour comedies and repeat police dramas. The only part of his body getting any kind of a workout was his right thumb, as it worked the universal remote control to surf the channels when he could find nothing worth watching, a difficult feat in itself when he had nearly 350 channels to choose from.
Harold didn't happen to be much of a wizard in the kitchen either, and the microwave was probably the most-used object in it. Even soft boiling an egg or making toast without burning it was something of a challenge to him, so he usually either ate out most evenings and weekends or brought home some carry-out food, which he would eat, of course, in front of the television. He therefore knew that a lot of what he ate could never be considered even remotely to be healthy, but again, he had never taken the trouble to do anything about it. Cooking food was a lot of trouble. Buying it already prepared was easy and just so convenient. He had got himself stuck in a rut, and a deep one at that.
While he was lying and thinking about all of this in the dark, it soon became crystal clear to Harold that he could come to only one conclusion. In short, he just couldn't find the time in the past to take care of himself, and now he would have to, whether he liked it or not. Harold did not want to think too much about the alternative to taking no positive action, but at least Dr. McMurray had given him a little hope, as well as an extremely large bill.
Harold slowly raised himself up onto one elbow, leaned over toward the bedside table, fumbled for the light switch, and turned it on. The bulb was quite bright, and it took a few seconds for his bleary eyes to focus again in the light and become accustomed to seeing more clearly. He threw back the sheets and sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes and yawning long and loud. Having regained relatively normal vision, he slowly stood up and stumbled toward the bathroom, walking on clothing that had been liberally scattered across the bedroom floor. He had been too lazy to put it into the laundry basket.
While not yet concentrating properly on the task at hand, he managed to accidentally stub the toes of his left foot hard on the leg of the bed, and after a few muffled expletives and a bit of hopping on his right foot , he finally reached the bathroom in one piece. He turned on the bathroom light and stood looking at himself in the large mirror while resting his hands on the rim of the washbasin. For a couple of minutes he examined the pathetic and pitiful sight he now saw in front of him.
It had been quite a while since he had taken the time to take a close and critical look at himself in a mirror, and now he could definitely see why he hadn't. From the front he thought he didn't look that bad, but this was the view he was used to. He could hardly call himself a male model for a Leonardo oil painting, but there again, neither would he send members of the feminine sex screaming with horror in the opposite direction.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Harold Goes Running by Paul Kilvington. Copyright © 2013 Paul Kilvington. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse.
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