And so the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon is over and done with. We did a bit of awareness raising, but thats not dope for thirtysixandcounting, so head over to India Helps to read more about that.
What this post is about is my firm resolve, yes, as firm as the jelly that masquerades as my thighs these days, to get into ship shape to at least do the dream run next year. Yes, I have a banner to hold up now. And I will buy industrial strength sunblock or one of those caps with an umbrella attached to deal with my sun paranoia and undoubted skin turned to coal phenomenon which has my child jump back and yelp in fear when he sees me after a day out bareheaded in the sun.
Therefore, I asked the husband, a little cautiously, whether he thought I could do it. You must understand the husband is a national swimming champ. He is used to gruelling schedules and when four pegs down is guaranteed to bore wet paint into drying double quick by detailing his training schedules, the races he won, his records and such like. I on the other hand was a kachcha limbu (remember that term) in the compound of kids gang until I was in my teens. I was only tolerated in teams because I was a very generous child and would hand out chocolates to all and sundry in the team regardless of whether we won or lost, and regardless of the mater’s futile efforts to hide said chocolates in unfindable spots within the fridge including the vegetable and frozen meats compartments. I retain the same skills at sniffing out sweet and fattening foods, age has not diminished the ability. Therefore, twas with great trepidation that I asked the husband if I would be able to get into decent shape to run the dream run. He snorted dismissively. This is a man who goes for a ten km jog before a spot of breakfast on random days when he feels like and then comes home all refreshed and raring to get to work, while I splash water on my face after fainting hearing the distance he covers. “What is the dream run?” he snorts even more dismissively. “Its a cakewalk. Anyone who wants can do it. Just stop calling the car to the entrance of the lobby and walk your way every where. You will get in shape.”
I nodded wisely with furrowed brow and resolved to walk everywhere. And save some petrol in the process. In theory the idea seemed good. So there I was wanting to get to the supermarket down on the main road from where we live. The walk is a five minute distance away. And so I set out. Cap on head. Sneakers on foot. Water bottle in bag in case of acute dehydration. Two minutes into the uneven path that links the two buildings, I realised I had forgotten to slather on sunscreen. Convinced I would emerge from my trip as baked as a beach hippie I tried to siddle against the sidelines of the path where miniscule shrubbery gave one some modicum of cover. An errant branch lay out waiting for the prime opportunity to trip me up. And so, like an alcoholic to a wine shop, I went straight into its crooked arm and toppled right over. Picked myself up, nothing bruised but the ego and perhaps the earth mourning with the sheer force of the impact. I hobbled to the supermarket, realising that the twinge of pain in the ankle is Not A Good Sign At All. Looking down, I noticed the ankle had ballooned to twice the normal size, which is milk bottles on growth hormones. Therefore, the driver was summoned on the speed dial, as I sat on the stoop of the supermarket, garnering ice and sympathy and such like from concerned folk around. The next time I think I should do my walking on paved paths. And learn that it is essential to look down at said path before advancing forth on it. And also carry ice buckets with me. Just in case.