0. Sowing the seed

    True stories are dull. Especially the recent ones. For the old ones, time has played Chinese whispers with them and they've become more spectacular but, in essence, they were once commonplace. But as tedious as they are, they are real, so you can feel them. And somehow, live them.

    Anyway, as the poet invites us: to begin at the beginning ...

    It started about a year ago. The thought had been there longer, but it was the last December that finally pulled the trigger. It bears now little relevance how I came tot that point, but the sugar coated version of it is that I'd been eating like a pig for a decade and a half. When I discovered that the pin of my belt found another hole to call home, and to the wrong end, I decided solemnly to take action. 

    Enough was enough!

    I got scared at the thought of having to buy my belts per metre next time and I would need a tailor even for a t-shirt. And so I began "to be careful" with my food. Challenges - I had plenty. To start with, Christmas. No need to mention how eastern Europeans celebrate at the end of the year. If you can move after the dinner, it was definitely a poor one.

    January comes with the resolutions. Gym is full, everyone's dedicated, new faces, tennis courts unavailable, etc. No need to panic: by the middle of the month you see the first signs already. After February, we're back on track. Dry January? I had it. Not fully dry but, since the ginger tea replaced the beer after tennis, it counts :).

    The ski holiday in February is normally a neutral one. Whatever you sweat off on a slope you recover it in the evening. Being there with friends didn't help either, on the very contrary! We even had pizza for dessert, I swear to God we did! Next to the kaiserschmarrn!!

    By March the buckle pin moved back to an older hole. One small step, nothing to write home about - in the end it was its duty to come back - but the feeling was good.

    Then the pandemic struck. Shy in the beginning, but it gained speed rapidly. In a few weeks everything changed. No one knew what would follow. Lockdown. Working from home. Quarantines. Sport halls closed. No tennis at our club. Then at any club. Stay home, stay safe. New norms, new rules, new everything. And no one could see the what, the how, the when.

    No one, that is, except for social media. The internet was teeming with hypotheses, theories, (un)certainties. And, of course, flooding us with images of what we'd all look like after the lockdown: fat and stiff, a bunch of slobs wearing oversized t-shirts, nibbling constantly in greasy bags of crisps. And rustier than a French car older than two years.

    Then it hit me. To avoid going back, I saw one getaway: diet! And not the "let's be careful a bit and let the tennis do the rest", no. A serious one, to make up for the missing gym activities. All fine, one would say, only that I hate diets. I find them restrictive, punishing, intrusive, you name it. A diet could be everything, but certainly not living. Now, once I found a solution, I had to find a way to work around it.

    For a while I would take small football breaks with my son, treading the grass and giving hydrangeas (hortensias) a hard time. First to 5 to win, the real prize being the number of nutmegs we'd give to each other (panna, craci, cano, caneta, petit pont - if you prefer other languages). Still, no matter how wonderful these swallows were, they would not bring any spring.

    Something else was badly needed. Something to keep myself healthy and fit and to bring me there without making me feel miserable. Something that I would have to look forward to every morning, not to run away from. Something attainable to me. What if … In the end, my daughter had been doing that for a while and, truth be told, I found it impressive and inspiring.

    “You know what I’ve been thinking about?”, I asked my wife on one of those sunny early spring days while enjoying a coffee on the terrace.

    “You want a Porsche”, came the reply with a big smile. “For me, you may go for it”

    "I think I'll start running", I went on, passing on the Porsche idea.

    “Coooool! You did that some time ago as well, didn’t you? Don’t remember exactly”

    “Well, once, 5 years ago. I ran for about 4-5 km. I recall that I spat my lungs out and eventually walked a great deal of the distance. Still, I came back home battered and crushed, worse than someone who fought at the Don’s bend. And, worth mentioning, never tried that again outside”

    “You need to take it easy. There are plenty of programmes on the internet to help you build the distance: run and walk. Start with 1 minute running, 1 walking, for instance”

    “I’ll see to it”, I concluded in my own manner of putting things off hoping that they will somehow get solved. Just like those invoices that I get and don’t pay them, despite the several warnings, until they come with a fine on top!

    For some reason, though, I was not prepared to pay any fine on this one. So, on March 26, round 6 pm, on a brisk but sunny day, I stepped out.

    I came back about 45 minutes later after a bit more than 7 km. I crashed on a chair outside, gasping for air and water, sweat pouring down my body, feeling down, helpless, miserable. From the house came a big grin:

    “How did it go?”

    “I haaaaate running! Just hate it! I won’t go again”

    Still, little did I know then. Very little.

    I do remember the whole race, the route, the struggle, even some of the runners I met who seemed to be all fit and experienced and having figured everything out while I was trying so hard not to drown. I will share that later, but now, looking back at that Thursday afternoon, with me not even able to speak, I realise what I did: I took the first step!