Dating a poet

The problem when you’re an AS sufferer is that training schedules are almost impossible to stick with. It’s not so much you staying disciplined as it is just hoping that your joints will allow you the luxury of running on this particular day, at this particular time. I’ve had days when I wake up without any aches whatsoever and then, within moments of stepping out of the house, find that there are razor blades in my hip. And when you’ve got a running schedule to stick to, that just makes things so damn hard.

I like to think of it as dating a beautiful poet. One moment she’s composing gay limericks that have to do with bunnies and then, all of a sudden, she’s only interested in words that rhyme with “death”. Like “breath” and “meth” and, umm, yeah.

Fortunately, my poet has been in a good mood of late and as a result, I’ve been able to improve my distances markedly (though there was one night when my hip did give way). It’s still some way off from the half marathon that my colleagues so graciously signed me up for, but I’m getting there. Now I just need to find a way to keep that blasted woman happy.

By the way, it turns out that Jay Chou is a fellow AS sufferer.

I don’t hate him so much now.

I have been saved from myself

Some of you might remember that, a few months ago, I was a regular jogger. I might even have described the act of running as being merely “unbearable” as opposed to being “only preferable to having nails pushed through my eyes”. By golly, I might even have harboured thoughts of completing a marathon. Clearly then, I was deluded and in need of severe medical attention which duly arrived because, after one particularly long plodding session, my back gave way.

Now, before all of you start pulling out your tissues for a good cry, I must say that that was a few months ago. I’m all better now. So much better in fact that, last night, I imagined myself once again pounding the asphalt, cleaving the night air in twain with my svelte runner’s physique. And all while stuffing my face with some fried chicken. Hell, just ten minutes ago, as I popped some nuggets into my maws, the thought of running was running around in my head.

It is with considerable gratitude, then, that I sniffle pathetically into this handkerchief as I have been doing for days now. Thank God for this divine flu or who knows what madness I might have committed.

Once again, unhealthiness of body has proven the remedy for unhealthiness of mind.

Marathon

I ran last night. And it doesn’t matter that I was overtaken by a snail or that I have now lost the use of my legs. The fact is that I finished 8km. Now, that may seem like a meagre distance to some of you but to me, the most sedentary human being in all of Asia, it is an achievement not unlike trekking to the North Pole solely on a pogo stick.

I might have intimated before that I’m running because I’m a vain pot. This is not strictly true anymore because I am now supposed to take part in a marathon along with three (or is it two?) other lunatics. There are, of course, certain obstacles in the way. Like my heart, for instance, which will almost certainly explode after 10km. And then there’s that steely determination of mine which is made up completely of feathers.

But the worries don’t end there. You see, with every running step, your body is forced to absorb up to three times your body weight in pressure. Over 42km, that works out to about the weight of a small continent. Which is fine if you’re Atlas, but you’re not. The result is that the average runner loses two centimetres in height over the course of a marathon. This is due mainly to a compression of the spinal column which means that my torso will be shorter while my limbs will still be the same length which means that I’ll cross the finish line looking like Gollum. Clearly, that is unacceptable. The whole point of doing a marathon is so that you can pay an obscene amount of money for a picture of yourself looking heroic at the end. And that’s ruled completely impossible if you turn up looking like you’ve just taken a few steps down the evolutionary ladder.

So then, a marathon is tiring, pointless and you’ll come back a midget. And yet here I am training for it. Maybe I really am mad.

Vain Pot

I have just returned from a light jog around my estate and I’ve gotta tell you, the pounding of your lungs, the sound of your feet hitting the asphalt, the wind in your face; God, does jogging suck. Some people tell me that jogging is addictive and that I’ll soon grow to like it. Plainly, they must be mad. Jogging, to me, is the single most boring activity on earth. Honestly, I’d have more fun contemplating my own navel – a pursuit which, I have been reliably informed, is known as omphaloskepsis. If I wasn’t such a vain pot, jogging would be about as high on my list of priorities as getting murdered. Unfortunately, I am just such a vain pot. And in my pursuit of abdominals, I have resorted to plodding around twice a week in ugly shoes in the vague hope that, after a couple of hundred kilometres, I will have a midriff that you could crack your skull on. It’ll happen. Eventually. Still, don’t put your helmets on just yet.

Joe has jogged.

And other than sweating like a cow, panting like a pansy and generally feeling like a soggy sock, Joe thinks he has come out of it pretty well.

Ah heck, I can’t write in third person. Is this third person? First? Never mind. English majors are not as well-known for their English as they are for their propensity to avoid any sort of productive work.

I am sure that I will regret this excursion in fitness tomorrow morning when I attempt to remove myself from my bed but instead manage only to propel myself directly onto the floor and, having gotten there, thus proceed to lament (face down) the loss of my legs.

Still, kudos to Chow, Ann and Eunice for somehow motivating me to jog. Chow for providing the transport. Ann for actually jogging. And Eunice for coming up with that targeted ad headlined “No More Excuses” that plopped itself comfortably in my inbox.

On another running related note, I finally tendered my resignation today. After a week and a half, my boss made her long awaited return from Hong Kong. (The first thing she did was yabber on the phone in what I am convinced is tongues which led to Dave, Tanty and Krazy Karen IM-ing me within seconds with the collective message “SHE’S BAAAAAAACK!!!” The assholes.) And so we had the usual “why are you leaving”, “where are you going” talk in the conference room (they always go to the conference room) the contents of which I will not reproduce here.

So I’ll be off in a month to what is hopefully a more exciting job. It’s a little premature for goodbyes so I’ll save them for a few more weeks. Besides, I have been slated as the copywriter for a truckload of mailings so my brain will probably be filled with formats, material keys and personalisations once again. Ah, the joys of work.

Joe will jog

“Exercise” I told myself and launched into a session of pushups and crunches. After the first set, I was pink. By the second, blue. After the third, I was green. Carine was urging me on in her own distinct way, namely by chanting “useless!!!” and drawing tortoises labeled Joel on MSN. This despite the fact that she couldn’t walk for days after one jogging session. How quickly the frog forgets.

Since my trip to Hong Kong, I’ve been overwhelmed by this unbearable feeling of flabbiness. My recent brush with the heavyweight champion of coughs hasn’t helped either. The constant hacking forced me to miss one football session and I was thus obliged to lessen my misery by munching on chicken wings. I shudder to think what will happen now should I, or anyone else, poke my middle. Fingers may be lost, along with a large chunk of my self-esteem.

That explains the torture session and chameleon practice.

What I really need to do, though, is jog. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to do so for more than six months because either the weather’s been too hot or too cold or it’s been raining or the moonlight was too glaring or I didn’t like the particular constellation that displayed itself on any given night. Bummer. To think I used to be a decent runner in NS. Being stuck in an infantry unit meant that when you weren’t walking ridiculous distances, you were running ridiculous distances. And so I was reasonably fit in those days. 2.4km runs were walks in the park. Timings of below 8m 45s were commonplace though I was only third fastest in my section. I don’t know what the other horses were on.

How things have changed. Now, I am a slob. My last 2.4KM run was 3 years ago and it was a whopping 11 minutes. I suspect it is in the high thirteens now which isn’t exactly like the wind. More like a fart. But no point discouraging myself. I have Carine for that.

It is time I started jogging again and I might as well publish my resolution to do so here so all of you, my loyal six readers, can push me to unfatten myself. Let it be known that next week I will be heard puffing around Yishun Park at least twice. Yes. Joe will jog. And the next morning, he will cuss vehemently. But that’s only fair now, isn’t it?