IN a moment that almost turned me into a teetotaller for life, I agreed to participate in a 10km nature trail run – on a Sunday morning starting at 5am.
The memory of my – clearly drunken – overenthusiastic commitment to this absolute insanity came crashing down on me one Tuesday morning when my ADHD fitness friend messaged to say she’d entered me into the race.
I could pay her back the entrance fee at a later stage.
Hold up. Not only do I have to wobble my way over rocks and twigs – staring death in the face at every turn – but I have to actually pay money to do it?
What fresh hell is this? If I’m going to be running with hundreds of sweaty nut jobs, there should be lines of adoring fans just throwing money and jewels at me as I stumble along.
And if, by some complete inversion of nature, I actually complete the race alive, the president should be waiting at the finish line, ready to knight me.
Well, fudge that. If I have to pay 100 big ones, then I’m going to get my money’s worth.
Time to start training.
So, I dive into my cupboard looking for something I can run in. Ninety per cent of the race, is finding the right kit.
Bruce Fordyce taught me that. So I squeezed myself into a pair of shorts from the 80s that showed just the right amount of cellulite, a tank top that was last used at a 90s rave and – finding no sports bra – my three-year-old’s sleeping shirt as a bra.
Of course, a head band is essential – where else do you keep your smokes? So I cut my dressing gown belt in half, and off I went.
Ever supportive, if somewhat skeptical of my chances, my family enthusiastically waved me out the door, wishing me luck on my voyage.
The first two metres were ok. Having consumed a large curry the night before I was able to use substantial fart energy to get me up the first hill.
The cramp kicked in around metre 5. And, despite its fashionable appearance, my headband was not absorbent as I’d initially anticipated, leaving me with curry-fumed sweat blinding me.
But I’m nothing if not cheap, and there’s no way that R100 was going to go to waste. So I soldiered on, limping my way to glory.
Ten minutes later, after what must now be a record in human physical achievement, I figure I must be at least halfway. So I turn around to get some perspective on how far I’ve come, only to to see my family still standing at the door, waving.
With spots appearing before my eyes and my prayers to the gods of chaffing going unheard, I collapsed in a heap, watching sideways as my husband and kids came to drag my lifeless body back to the house.
It’s not all bad though, my husband set up a betting site on my chances of completing the race. He bet against me.
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