Last week, I bought some new running kit. I like my new running kit. I look good in it. I feel like Usain Bolt when wearing it. Only British. And Female. I enjoy standing in front of the mirror looking excessively fitter than I actually am, striking athletic poses and pretending that I’ve won an Olympic gold medal.
However, when I’m out jogging in my new running kit, I tend to feel an almost unbearable pressure to live up to my own athletic image. This means running at top speed when confronted with other members of the human race. I can’t possibly let them know that I’m not an athlete and am secretly only a jogger!
Unfortunately, this affliction has meant that I have found myself in some unfortunate situations this week, the worst of which involved a hill.
Picture this scenario:
You are at the bottom of the hill. The hill is far too big for your measly legs and unprepared cardiac system to scale. You decide that you will run half way up the hill and then stop, primarily, of course, to take in the view, and also to regain your breath. You are a quarter of the way up the hill when, to your horror, you spot another human being walking down the hill. You realise that this man is moving at a slower pace than you and therefore it is imperative that you will have scale a good three quarters of said hill in order to pass the man and retain an image of athletic perfection.
You start having the following series of thoughts:
Yeah, yeah, you watch me run up this hill, random stranger.
Actually, you can watch me sprint up this hill.
No, you know what? You watch me practically gallop up this hill.
‘Aint no horse gonna keep up with me!
I’ve totally been running at this pace for the entire length of my run.
I am fit.
I am healthy.
I am rearing to go.
My thighs are twinging.
My thighs are aching.
Wow, my thighs are BURNING.
Are they, like, actually on fire or something?
Ok, I’m going to have to stop soon or else my thighs are likely to spontaneously combust.
Jesus, my chest feels tight.
I can barely breathe.
Oh god, I think I’m having a cardiac arrest.
I am in so much pain.
I just need to get past your inconvenient presence, sir, and then I can collapse and DIE.
You may be close enough to me now to see the tears streaming down my face but, if I could speak, I would assure you that these are tears of pride. Pure, undiluted pride. I mean, look at me! Look how fast I’m running!
I’m going to hold my breath as a run past you in order to convince you of my undeniable levels of fitness.
Yeah, that’s right! You saw! I’m not even out of breath. I am so, so comfortable right now.
I know you just said ‘hello’ to me, and it was very nice of you, but I’m not going to respond – not, of course, because talking is currently a physical impossibility, merely because I am an athlete and athletes do not have time to converse with the public.
When, you finally pass the man reach the top of the hill, you adopt the following position:
You find yourself praying that no more members of the public will walk past your fallen figure. You would, of course, explain that this is a special position which only the top athletes use to recharge their muscles after an intensive work out. But you’re so tired that speaking is out of the question. Instead, you just lie there in self-induced agony, wandering why on earth you took up running in the first place.
But at least you look good, right?
All of the Interesting Things I See When Running 