9. Intermezzo: guest post

 

This is a guest post, from the one who’s seen me everyday in my endeavour. It took me a while to convince her to write, but in the end… 

Hello blog, I am indeed the person mentioned before. Next to the civil slash marital titles that I possess, I go by different names, two being constantly mentioned by the owner of this site (aka the hubby): one is “his reader” (not sure if now I’ll be promoted to his writer as well, I shall see that later). The other one is “the scourge of reason”. I have to admit that that’s a complicated word for me, I always look it up. It appears that it’s synonymous with logic, or sense. Hope to remember it! 

Now, this was supposed to be about my running, for I have also managed to get myself hooked and go out shuffling my legs, even on cold and rainy days, almost with religious regularity. Well, to set the stage clearly: I didn’t run because of Flo’s encouragement, I ran in spite of it, as he never seemed to take me seriously. Maybe because he’s walking faster than I can run (after all, he’s 3.5 m tall, he should) or maybe he doesn’t consider “proper running” if you’re not coming back home like escaping from Siberia, moaning and whining that you can’t move anymore. 

A nice and cosy cocktail of stretching, walking, walking briskly, stretching, walking vigorously, almost running, stretching to compensate a few missed stretches, running lightly, running-like-the-wind-for-ten-seconds-but-enough-to-spit-your-lungs-out, stretching, never occurred to him as being sport, let alone running. 

But, you know, I forgive him, because he’s cute and he’s got big ears, obviously from listening to me with them. Heavily. Anyway, to be honest, I didn’t want to write here, especially about my running, so I will not insist on that at all. Instead, since I’ve been revved, I’ll tell something else: how is all this running and biking seen from my side. 

Before I elaborate, a few objective words about Flo:

First of all, he’s a nice guy and for most of the time, a decent one, too. He thinks he’s funny and that keeps him happy, so one less thing in life for me to worry about.

Still, there are two things he should be forbidden to do:

The first one is parallel parking, or any parking of whatever sort. This has absolutely nothing to do with the subject, but it gives me an OCD attack and a profound feeling of shame whenever I make any eye contact with my neighbours in the presence of our “parked” car on the driveway. Flo, if you read this… 

 

The second one is talking about the 1986 World Cup. Please don’t take the task too easily, in the first place. Just because you don’t like football and, even if you do, 1986 was an age ago, it doesn’t mean you’re safe. Say, for instance, that you are at a party and ask him, out of politeness, what he’s doing for a living, he will not be able to explain it coherently (as if he were a spy or so), but he’ll somehow tell you that no matter what you do, you need to do it with pleasure and joy. Then your career will follow a beautiful trajectory (he likes nerdy words as well), “comparable, if you prefer” - now you should run! -  to the magnificent strike of Josimar in Brazil vs N. Ireland. What? You don’t know Josimar? Never heard of him and you were perfectly fine with that? Now you understand how I feel sometimes.

It turns out, actually, that he should never be allowed to talk about any sports. Never! He remembers details and players, sometimes even referees, as if they were playing together as kids, while you, as a woman, only know Cannavaro and Maldini. To name two, totally randomly, ahem! Now, this is about the sport on TV. When it comes to his own performances, it’s getting worse…

It started with tennis, coming home “still playing” and explaining to the half asleep me how the point was won or lost -  he claims it’s not important (my ass, pardon my French!). His passion, energy, and the megaphone in his throat could definitely be put to work for a better cause instead of chasing my sleep away. 

When tennis was suspended and he took up biking, I encouraged him big time (I felt safe: what on earth can you talk about after 50km on a bike when you come home?). Well, let’s not underestimate him. He started the battle with the clock, so I knew every single record or a (nearly) missed one. I was happy that the gps only recorded up to 2 decimals! Sample of an after-bike conversation:

“Twenty five point seventy one kilometres per hour! Pffffeeeeew, zero point zero three from my record. So close! I should have tried to keep the pace against the wind. Or is it better to keep my energy against the wind and release it when it’s calmer? Unless, of course, there’s no change in the route and, subsequently, in the wind’s direction, in which case mustering the energy it is. What do you think? Hey, you sleeping?”

At a certain point, running started to gain momentum. It was just after the summer holiday when he bought his first pair of running shoes. Until then, he was running for pleasure, once a week (good ol’ times!). From the “talking about it” perspective, it was the calmest period (very good ol’ times, indeed). Biking was reaching a plateau and running had just started. However, after the holiday, he decided, I quote, “to go for it”. I’ll let him tell you later what he meant about that, but the gist of it was that he thought of following a programme. He wasn’t that far yet, but he read a lot about how to train. Truth be told, I got interested as well, as I strongly believe in doing it professionally - by the book - rather than “run until I die and let’s see later”. And, while reading about it, I noticed something that made him even cuter and his ears even longer: he became restless. A little at first, but from the continuous verbal runs I knew that something got to him.

I would find out soon, on one of those perfect days when you come home briefly from a week holiday only to prepare for the second week. The weather is just perfect, the temperature being in that cosy interval of not too hot and not too chilly (between 24 and 24.3 degrees, if you know what I mean). Sun shining warmly on my terrace, kid’s gone out, cold lemonade at hand, legs stretched on the chaise-longue, preparing for a well deserved beauty-nap at midday. Counting my blessings. Then I heard shuffling steps and then immediately the muffled sound of tying shoelaces. Now, have you ever encountered a moment in your life when you’d like to turn back time? And I am not talking about being twenty again, I am talking about half a second. For me, that one was such a moment. I was less than a minute away from silence and serenity, but, instead of shutting up, I made noise and asked him what his running plan was. 

“You know what I’m thinking? (shit, we’re buying a new car!) I’ve read about this. They say you should not just run continuously but alternate the long distances with a relaxed pace with shorter but faster ones… taking different approaches… breaking patterns …building resistance….bzzzzzz….hrrrggggg…wzzzzzz...waaaaahhh...ooooogah-ooooogah...

Five kilometres, that’s it, but fast. I’ll be back before you know it. Kiss, I’m gone!”

At last, silence. My nap took over instantly and I relished the solitude. It must have been my seventh sense that made me open my eyes and check the time. It had been a bit over an hour since he’d left. I called Flo, but he was nowhere. Did he not say he’d go for a short distance AND fast? That would be 25 min, 30 top,  if when he gets lost. I began to worry, for in my loving heart I knew what happened: they kidnapped him. My soul was aching at the mere thought that my dear husband was abducted in plain daylight. And then the phone rang… His phone..I mean my phone, his phone calling… For sure it was the kidnapper asking for the ransom. I’d pay anything only to see him back and I need to hurry before they would cut his tongue off (I see no other way, and, yes, they would have a point). With a trembling hand I slid the phone bar and answered, waiting for the distorted voice to claim my family jewels. 

“Hhheey, Haah... Uugh.. Aaah... ”

(it’s him, he’s alive!) “Hey, where are you? You said you’d be back soon, it’s been more than an hour. Still running?”

“Yes. How am I talking?”

(He must be fucking kidding me. There’s no way he’s calling me, potentially waking me up, to ask me how he’s talking. That’s his concern? An awful lot, if you ask me. Wait a minute, don’t tell me it was too late) “Oh my god, they did it, didn’t they? Did they cut your tongue?”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind, what was the question?”

“How am I talking? They say you need to run in a way that you can have a conversation at the same time. Adjust the pace so that people should be able to understand you”

(Flo, that ship has sailed, believe me) “Oh, that’s good then! But, weren’t you going for a short and fast one? 5 km, right?”

“Well … yes… but it has changed”

(just love it when he uses the “it” construction for something he’s done) “So, how much do you still have?”

“Not sure, about 6-7 more”

Rested my case. You might argue that when someone goes out for 5 km, runs about 10 and still has 6 more to go, some question marks could pop up but, if you don’t want to end up knowing that Denmark thrashed Uruguay back in 1986, you’d better be patient and wait for him to come home. 

With a smile, a hug, and a kiss ready!