15. Epilogue: guest post

Again a guest post, from the one who normally has the last word!

     The race is done, but I feel bound to leave a few words here, for two reasons: Primo, I can tell how it really went behind the scenes. Objectively, that is. Secondo, I have to clear my name: Flo never mentioned the trophy he got from me for finishing the race, despite my humble sole request for his blog to include it in his story. One task alone he had!

    So, how did it go? 

A few weeks before the race...

        I was able to relate to his training until he started with those many kilometres. After a while, he moved from counting kilometres to counting hours.

        “You need to be able to stay afoot for about four hours”, he told me, but I bet the real reason was only to confuse the sh*t out of me. But, to be fully sincere: do you remember when you were a child and people of 30 or 50 looked the same to you? Just plain old, I mean. The same for me with these distances: they were all infinite, so counting them in kilometres, hours, Watts, Joules, didn’t matter too much. Still, from his moans and groans after a long distance, I realised that they were becoming heavier and heavier. Also, I would imagine that he’d do them after minimum 7 hours of sleep and maximum 2 glasses of wine - and not the other way around, but let’s not elaborate on this any further. 

        The help I offered him, with all my heart, was to come and rescue him, should he be stranded somewhere out of breath and too tired to move. 

        “If it’s getting hard, don’t be a hero, just call me and I’ll hop in the car to pick you up”. Needless to say, he never called and I knew he wouldn’t do it. He did call me once, though, when he was going for the 32 kilometres (that milestone made him nervous, I’m telling you). Actually, he called me twice. The first time was to tell me he’d stop by home in about 25 min and if I would be so kind as to prepare a new t-shirt for him and the sports earbuds, the wired ones. And he’d continue running. He sounded happy and in control so who was I to question that request? (he left home with a t-shirt on and earbuds in, has he worn them out already?)

        I was out shopping (pandemic shopping - sports clothes and slacks, of course) and I headed home immediately, driving through red lights, skipping queues, dodging police bullets, calculating that I’d arrive just in time to have the items prepared. At the last curve before home, the phone rang again. Flo multiplied by 180 degrees (it’s still his blog, I need to insert something nerdy, sorry for that!), as joyful as a hearse driver. 

        “No need for you to go home, I’ll stop there, I won’t go any further”

        When he arrived home, a few minutes later, he was down. I mean eyes-bereft down, I had never seen him so battered after a run. I truly felt sorry for him, as I knew how important it was for him to beat all those milestones. I let him sink for for a while, then I dared ask:

        “So, how many did you run?”

        “32”

        “But… that was the target, wasn’t it? You made it”

        “True, but I thought I’d go for the full one today”

        (Please don’t get me started! Flo, there’s a reason you need to build things up gradually) “Oh, I’ll run you a bath, with some essential oils, you’ll be as new soon”. 

        In my defence, I never promised to keep quiet about the essential oils!


One week before the race. Noose getting tighter… 

        We all know the jokes with God sharing gifts for men and women, both in pleasure and pain. That’s how men got to pee standing up and we, allegedly, got the multiple … times, so to speak (Contrary to the mainstream belief, I still think that men got the better deal here, but this is a separate subject, for a smaller audience). When it comes to suffering, God took pity on our poor souls during labour pains and he tried to balance that by making men understand our predicament. What could make men feel the same excruciating experience? No, it’s not the kick in the balls, as some would adventure to answer, it’s the 38 degrees body temperature. Now, you know what they say: all men are the same, except for your husband. I am not saying that Flo is a wimp or a hypochondriac, far from it, he’s never been bothered too much about his health anyway. 

        However...

        Before any race, “things happen”. All months long I kept suggesting to him (ok, telling him) to slow down and let his body recover (after all, he’s not forty-five anymore!) and I got back mumbles and jokes, both equally low, about how fine he was. The Tuesday before the race? I woke up in the middle of the night as he was crying, I mean literally crying. I woke up in an instant; I was sure he was dreaming that he was mugged or something, so I told him that he was fine and he should go back to sleep. And he shouldn’t worry, I’d give him the lost money in the morning. 

        It turned out that he was having pain in his legs, not sure if it was one or both. Like those in childhood - growing pains they call them. My first thought was that I officially got two kids in the house. I had known that in my heart, but then I got the confirmation as well (A girl would have been nice, though…) Anyway… I truly felt for him and his pain. Still, come on, if you look at him from toes to head, he never ends. Growing pains? Now? Is he really planning to grow more? Plans or no plans, he was quiet for the week (I know, a totally new experience for everyone!). I felt sorry for him, seriously, but I do believe that that was a divine plan to keep him calm. Through the threads of our wills, a much greater will is woven, as he would quote in one of his poetical moments. 

   

No weeks after the race...

        The pain was gone by Thursday - or at least he claimed that - and he went out on a Saturday morning, a day before Sinter Klaas. How the race was going, he told already. What he didn’t tell, was what happened right after it. 

        He walked in with a huge grin and I knew he did it (never doubted a moment, honestly, my only worries were only for any injuries). He looked exhausted, but far better than a week before. He crashed on a chair and I was preparing his prize while a big bottle of water ran dry immediately.  

        While he was out running, I was thinking of a useful way for me to be part of the race as well. Pacesetter (aka the rabbit) hadn’t made it to the final, so I had to cook something else. Speaking of cooking, my grandma’s advice came to my mind: “If you want to have a happy life, feed your man”. Lovely piece of wisdom. She could have added “and laugh at his jokes'', but that part I figured out all by myself. The hard way, of course.       

   

 So, while he was busy replenishing his body water, I put on the oven mittens and took out a cocktail of proteins and fat, indispensable for muscle recovery after such effort: a beautiful quiche with extra eggs and bacon - protein plus plus. Quiche Lorraine, if you want to use expensive words. It would make your liver recoil in fear in normal circumstances, but welcome after one million kilometres. I set the hot crown on the table in front of him, his eyes glittering (grandma was right, like grandmas usually are). He was looking at it, eating it with his eyes, with a big smile on his face. He burst into a chuckle. 

        “I can't even open my mouth, I could not eat anything right now. I will first take a shower and I'll have it afterwards. Yummy, don't let it go anywhere”.

        He managed to stand up, same circular smile on, but that was all his walking. Like in those moments when you spend too much time on the john tapping on your phone and your legs get numb, if you know what I mean. Then he did something that looked hilarious and scary at the same time: he grabbed his legs one by one with his hands so he could have them moving, until he reached the banister and could use his hands to climb up.

        There was only one thing left for me: prepare the essential oils.


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