Thursday, April 08, 2004

The Stars Of Track and Field 

One of the benefits of working for an ex-army health and fitness fanatic is that my workplace has a gym and shower facilities. So now that the weather is getting a bit warmer, I’ve dug out my training shoes, skimpy running vest and Lynford Christie style Lycra shorts, and have pledged myself to GETTING FIT. And this time, I won’t quit until I AM fit, honest.
It’s surprising how you only need to run for about seven minutes (7 minutes 56 seconds actually) away from the grime of the industrial estate, and you’re suddenly in open country. I’m flying past cosy cottages with daffodils waving gaily as I zip by. I glide past a bucolic farmhouse where a farmer sits on his doorstep polishing his 12-bore, his dogs barking menacingly on the end of rusty chains. His wife hangs rabbit skins out to dry on the washing line. The sun on my face, the wind at my back. It’s heavenly.
But April being what it is, it’s not long before the skies darken and I’m drenched in gallons of Lancashire’s finest. It completely precipitates on me.
I eventually wobble back into the office (43 minutes 15 seconds) gasping desperately, bright red, soaked to the skin, and lightly splattered with cow pat.
Diana, Love Goddess of Marketing passes me in the foyer. She smiles and says “You look like a really bad advert for jogging.”
“You should see me when I’ve just had sex.”
She stops in her tracks.
“I’m really sorry. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m really very sorry,” I gasp. She laughs and I thinks it’s OK.
“You’re that guy aren’t you? Mr. Love Pants?” She’s a good looking girl. I look at my feet, shyly. Wearing Lycra shorts now seems to have been a bad idea.
“Yeah, I suppose I am.”

I learned today that if you spray Deep Heat on your shoulders, you can set off the smoke alarms in the changing rooms.

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