The Perils Of Purchasing Snazzy New Running Kit

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:

http://www.phillyburbs.com

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?

Be Careful What You Eat… Especially If You Plan On Running Afterwards.

This Wednesday, I decided to go out running in the evening after dinner.

Worst mistake ever.

Normally, I run in the morning in order to inspire a positive outlook on the remainder of the day. But I was pretty busy on Wednesday morning so I skipped my run. By 8pm, I was feeling restless. So I decided to go for a nice, relaxed evening jog.

I had eaten a relatively spicy chilli for dinner but that had been two hours ago and I figured (with my limited knowledge of the human digestive system) that I would be okay to run.

Firstly, I was ambushed by a mild stitch. But I blasted through this inconvenience and continued jogging. After a while, the stitch was starting to fade. I thought I was safe. How wrong I was.

It began with a slight burning in my throat. I coughed once or twice, swallowed hard. For a second, the burning faded and I continued to run. Then, the chilli-ridden meal that I had consumed earlier truly began to exact its revenge. It was like the fires from the pits of hell had risen to wreak havoc on my poor, unsuspecting oesophagus. It was digestive trauma like none I had ever known. I was coughing, spluttering, weeping, occasionally retching. I suspect that I started to resemble the chilli itself as my face took on an increasingly vivid shade of red. I had never looked so beautiful…

About three minutes later, a man approached me, looking concerned. I’m an asthmatic. As a result, I always carry my inhaler with me when I run. I think the man must have seen my inhaler and assumed I was in the midst of an extremely violent asthma attack. He asked if I needed someone to call an ambulance. I couldn’t believe that what was supposed to be a chilled jog had evolved into this. I turned to him and tried to say something along the lines of ‘Thank you, kind sir, for your help. It’s truly chivalrous of you but I think I’m beyond medical attention right now.’

Instead, I could only just manage to shake my head and croak the word ‘chilli’ at him, to which he extensively replied, ‘Aw babes, bad times,’ before walking away.

After about five minutes, the chilli attack died down and I was able to make my way home, thinking that I was not going to be cooking anything chilli related for a long time.

So – never, ever, I repeat EVER, eat anything vaguely spicy before going out running. That is the fundamental, mind-blowing moral of this tale.

The Chilli – A Runner’s Nemesis
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