Mrs. BB and I ran the 10K last weekend, part of the Oslo Marathon.
I would never consider running a full marathon. I am too slow. I do most things slowly: running, swimming, walking, blogging, love making... Thank goodness I am a marathon partier and a quick thinker.
The 10K is well suited for bon viveurs, alcoholics, drugs users and smokers, so I was amongst friends.
Mrs. BB ran with some work colleagues. She is very sporty and pretty much sprinted the distance. She wore a new running belt with six small water flasks attached around it. She looked like a suicide blond jogger. Whoa!
Inspired by Lance Armstrong’s meticulous preparations for the Tour De France, I prepared a glutinous carbohydrate meal the night before to ensure we had massive reserves of energy on tap for the run.
A creamy Smoked Arctic Char Risotto aside a 96 Fume Blanc (acquired from Le Petite Ferm in Franschhoek on a past visit), followed by Spaghetti Carbonara with crisply seared smoked pancetta, sautéed caramelised garden onions and shaved Reggiano companioned with a 98 Sassicaia (Tuscany last year), and completed with a crunchy Mela Torta with fresh berries and cream assisted by a 99 D’Yquem (tour of the Chateau in 04).
A restless sleep ensued. I awoke in the middle of the night with weighty matters on my mind. I poured a glass of wine and lit a Marly Light to contemplate issues further. Shall I wear my blue running top or red?... hmmm... Don’t forget to get the winter tires on car changed next week!... uhhhm... I really hope the US government sorts this bank bailout stuff... mhhhm.
The sun shone brilliantly from rise. After 2 double espressos, it felt great to be alive. Well good anyway. We made our way to the Start Line. I was well prepared. I had my game face on, I would run my own race, play my own game, aim high and draw the bowstring hard, take all of the chances offered.
At 5K, my belly was grumbling, loudly. The glutinous carbohydrates were seeking an exit strategy. The espressos were threatening a fecal evacuation.
I caught sight of a small forest in the distance... grumble, grumble. Panic set in and my mind was racing wildly for solutions to the impending problem... forest, run... forest... grumble... I can make it... grumble... evacuate, evacuate... grumble, grumble...
I recalled that champion athletes use visualisation to overcome pain. I visualised a wine cork stuck in my bum. Not a screw cork or one of those Australian synthetic jobs, a proper cork, possibly from an 82 Margaux, or even better, a champagne cork from a bottle of vintage Veuve.
Everything went quiet. The sun warmed my face. I dug deep, deeper, and deeper. I felt better almost immediately. I was going to be alright. The terror of the moment had passed. I was in the zone again.
I sprinted the last 200 metres of the race. Everything was in slow motion. Chariots of Fire played in my head. Gorgeous blond women were smiling at me, cheering me on. Mrs BB was waving her arms in the air and shouting encouragement.
I crossed the Finish Line and kept running, directly to the ‘Portaloo’, my official finish line.
It was a medal winning finish.