The art of not running

So, my mum is taking up rope jumping. Ha-ha. She won’t last a week. Mum thinks her weight is getting out of hand, maybe it could be due to our talk constantly revolving around girth, but naaah. I doubt it. I’m quick to laugh off mums’ new ‘resolution because there is no chance my mother can break a sweat in the name of exercise. A few years back my dad came home with some weird contraption in the name of a roller and my mum was quick to test her rolling skills. She was good, I have to admit but it was early days. I last saw the roller a few minutes before I went to bed and legend has it mum sold it to some merchants who frequent our home town the next day with other variations claiming she carried it with her to some chamaa meeting and used its wooden handle as firewood. Nobody will ever know what happened to the poor thing. I have to come out clear on one thing, my mum is many things but fat. I even weigh more than she does and I’ve always faced constant ridicule about how thin I am. Psssh. That’s just haters envious of my awesome, lean muscles. Anyway, mum hopes the skipping nudges her weight down to something close to fifty, ha-ha I’m dying, and I must say I’ve never seen a more determined soul.

By now my apathy and lack of alacrity towards physical fitness is quite apparent. Do not blame me! I have atrocious tales linked to running – it falls under keeping fit right? Take Gabriel Obertan’s nightmare debut at Manchester United. The lad ran faster than the ball three times walking out of the pitch to jeers afterwards. Myself, I’ve had forays into the whole working out thing too and it did not end quite well. Like most guys, I have this one friend who is just obsessed with working out. Day-no does everything. From the sublime to the downright ridiculous! He’ll run a mile in seven minutes, run around the basketball court; the guy runs in a swimming pool! Who runs in a swimming pool? It’s called ‘Swimming pool’ for a reason! Sheesh! Anyway, Day-no runs. So I was crying myself to death over lost love earlier in the year, and Day-no just wouldn’t stop asking me to run with him.

“It makes you feel better – and you’re kinda fat!”

I finally pandered to his whims and agreed to go running with him. Oh, and he said I was fat too. The plan was simple. Set out just before dawn, run to the underpass just before Juja, run along Thika highway back to campus. Roughly two and a half miles. Aaah! That was simple. I’ve run further before by the way.  This one time in high school, this boring Swahili teacher catches me snoozing during his lesson. The guy just came out of nowhere and started teaching during our morning preps! Come to think of it, that was not even legal! I could sue him!  My punishment involved running around the field thrice, bare feet. Seriously, are teachers allowed to do that to students? I made it through the three laps but had numbed feet for the better part of the day. It was not two and a half miles the distance I ran that day but what difference is there right? Well, there is. Guys, running alongside Day-no is the most difficult thing one can do. Second only to trying to get anything other than Ghetto FM on your radio in Githurai. It is a mirthless experience to say the least.

The night before the big run, I made my stuff ready – meaning I looked for a pair of worn out shoes and got my track suit from under my mattress. Everything was set! I went to bed a little past midnight, to be woken up by this guy in awesome sneakers and state-of-the-art running gear. The guy had a water bottle! Well, I wasn’t letting all that faze me. Nope, not me. I was eager to show him what I was made of – and that you do not need a water bottle at six in the morning while running. The running set off on a rather good note though my head was still a little light and my eyes heavy obviously from lack of sleep. It all ended terribly. The guys pace was enough to kill me and the freezing cold added to my misery (and brought back bad memories). Suffice to say, my muscles cramped up and I could not walk for a week.

That you now have a good idea how my brief stint as a runner turned out, and where my hatred towards working out hails from, you may say I’m evil to think my mum can’t do any better.  I won’t argue. I’ll just wait and prove you wrong.