Post by Murphy Slaw on May 3, 2006 2:35:47 GMT
Bang!
Even though I was anticipating it the noise was a lot louder than I expected. The silence beforehand hadn’t drained any of the tension from me. No false start. This was it. The big one.
My legs burst into action, accelerating me forward
I’d been building up to this for weeks. It was hard work trying to sneak quietly out of bed at the crack of sparrows without waking the whole house. I needed to fit in the extra training somehow. I pounded my way along streets at a time of day known only to milkmen and extra keen paperboys hoping to save for the latest Nintendo. Sometimes, I’d see an old chap out with his dog. They used to stop every 5 yards, whether for the dog’s comfort or for the old man’s I never found out. Why do old men wear a collar and tie at 5 in the morning?
Breathe you sanguineous fool! I exhale before my lungs burst. I start to breathe deeply and as slowly as I can, the way I’d been coached.
I’d done some weight training at lunchtimes. It helped balance out all the leg work I’d done in the morning. To be honest for the first week I was grateful of the opportunity to lie down and not have to use my legs for 10 glorious minutes. There were some sights in that gym. Lads 15 years younger than me who understood the differing muscle groups, knew the exercises to develop them and thought B.O. would make them attractive. Other lads looked like candidates for having sand kicked in their faces. Then there were the “fairer sex” (oh, how I despise that phrase). I reckon just like the blokes there were two sorts. Type one did a three mile drive, in the “beemer”, to the gym, three mile drive home again all to do 5 miles on a treadmill with a ponytail sticking out of the band of her baseball cap, Type two really, really shouldn’t have dressed like that. I didn’t realise there was that much lycra in the world, and all on one woman. They did spurn me on and give me determination. Mostly to always keep my baggy shirt on and act my age.
The noise of my heart pounding and my straining lungs all but drowns out the shouts of encouragement. I am focused. I can see other running figures on either side of me. Slowly overtaking.
Why I bothered with all the extra training is sometimes a mystery. Running around after 9 year old twins should have been enough to keep me fit.. Half an hour of rough and tumble with them when I got home was quite enough, thank you. After 3 rounds I was done in. Luckily my spouse was understanding and packed them off to bed and left me in peace to collapse on the sofa. The kids were born in Essex. I did tell the mother in law we were going to call them Chardonnay and Wayne. “Look of horror” didn’t even begin to describe her face.
No! You aren’t overtaking me. I find a reserve of strength. I kick, lengthening my stride. I’ll show them who’s a sanguineous “veteran”
Cheeky sods. All those oblique references to my age and alleged inability to keep up with the “youngsters”. I suppose they’d had a point. I’d had to train harder. I could have given in, sat in my office and gone to seed but I wasn’t going to let my age get in the way. I’d have missed the adrenalin rush, missed the excitement. I’d also have missed the early mornings, the dumb bells and the pain.
Yards! Keep going! Last ditch effort! My legs ache. My chest hurts. Sweat pours off me.
YES! DONE IT!
I throw myself forward
Relief.
Elation.
.
I lift my head from the dusty ground. I look around. Around me left ten similar prone figures lie panting. One takes his eye from his gunsight, looks toward me, grins and says
“Welcome to Basra, Ma’am”
Even though I was anticipating it the noise was a lot louder than I expected. The silence beforehand hadn’t drained any of the tension from me. No false start. This was it. The big one.
My legs burst into action, accelerating me forward
I’d been building up to this for weeks. It was hard work trying to sneak quietly out of bed at the crack of sparrows without waking the whole house. I needed to fit in the extra training somehow. I pounded my way along streets at a time of day known only to milkmen and extra keen paperboys hoping to save for the latest Nintendo. Sometimes, I’d see an old chap out with his dog. They used to stop every 5 yards, whether for the dog’s comfort or for the old man’s I never found out. Why do old men wear a collar and tie at 5 in the morning?
Breathe you sanguineous fool! I exhale before my lungs burst. I start to breathe deeply and as slowly as I can, the way I’d been coached.
I’d done some weight training at lunchtimes. It helped balance out all the leg work I’d done in the morning. To be honest for the first week I was grateful of the opportunity to lie down and not have to use my legs for 10 glorious minutes. There were some sights in that gym. Lads 15 years younger than me who understood the differing muscle groups, knew the exercises to develop them and thought B.O. would make them attractive. Other lads looked like candidates for having sand kicked in their faces. Then there were the “fairer sex” (oh, how I despise that phrase). I reckon just like the blokes there were two sorts. Type one did a three mile drive, in the “beemer”, to the gym, three mile drive home again all to do 5 miles on a treadmill with a ponytail sticking out of the band of her baseball cap, Type two really, really shouldn’t have dressed like that. I didn’t realise there was that much lycra in the world, and all on one woman. They did spurn me on and give me determination. Mostly to always keep my baggy shirt on and act my age.
The noise of my heart pounding and my straining lungs all but drowns out the shouts of encouragement. I am focused. I can see other running figures on either side of me. Slowly overtaking.
Why I bothered with all the extra training is sometimes a mystery. Running around after 9 year old twins should have been enough to keep me fit.. Half an hour of rough and tumble with them when I got home was quite enough, thank you. After 3 rounds I was done in. Luckily my spouse was understanding and packed them off to bed and left me in peace to collapse on the sofa. The kids were born in Essex. I did tell the mother in law we were going to call them Chardonnay and Wayne. “Look of horror” didn’t even begin to describe her face.
No! You aren’t overtaking me. I find a reserve of strength. I kick, lengthening my stride. I’ll show them who’s a sanguineous “veteran”
Cheeky sods. All those oblique references to my age and alleged inability to keep up with the “youngsters”. I suppose they’d had a point. I’d had to train harder. I could have given in, sat in my office and gone to seed but I wasn’t going to let my age get in the way. I’d have missed the adrenalin rush, missed the excitement. I’d also have missed the early mornings, the dumb bells and the pain.
Yards! Keep going! Last ditch effort! My legs ache. My chest hurts. Sweat pours off me.
YES! DONE IT!
I throw myself forward
Relief.
Elation.
.
I lift my head from the dusty ground. I look around. Around me left ten similar prone figures lie panting. One takes his eye from his gunsight, looks toward me, grins and says
“Welcome to Basra, Ma’am”