Kimberley about her new (unexpected) hobby: ‘Giving birth sucks’

Maybe I’m sick. Not myself or never been in all these years. Or – and that explanation seems the most plausible to me – I fell so hard on the back of my head that I can’t remember the whole smack and I’ve been insane ever since. That is almost impossible.

Fit of mental derangement

The first time could have passed off as a mistake. A fit of mental derangement. Perhaps. But when I went again, the very next day, it became a very strong story that I had again tripped in a pair of running shoes to go around the block at an accelerated pace. Such a repetition of moves has something of a habit. Or routine, as Arie Boomsma’s eager brother – who sounds just like ‘the real Arie’ – told in one of those podcasts in which running was once praised.

It’s that on day three my untrained calves thought ‘hello, with that new shitty hobby of yours’, otherwise I would have just gone again. Yes, I, who hated running for thirty years, was suddenly ‘on’. And that didn’t even require someone to put a knife to my throat.

“It’s that my untrained calves on day three thought ‘hello, with that new shitty hobby of yours’, otherwise I would have just gone again”

Running Parish

I was warned. By my friend, a sociable Burgundian who, at the beginning of this year, was already kicked to the back of his head to ‘suddenly’ run the marathon (or the ‘maaraton’, as they say in Rotterdam). That it would really be nice, that it would make me feel better about myself and whatnot. After that performance (because it was) he proclaimed his running parish regularly. And although he talked like Jehovah, he really didn’t get my foot in the door. Proverbial then, since we share the same front door. Until… I suddenly put on those shoes of the week.

Hind

Did I go through the village like a deer? Galantly bouncing on the cushioning of my brand new old (unused in the closet they last ten years in a minute) shoes? Nah. I was already panting like a draft horse at the end of the street, arguing with my phone holder (which didn’t hold my phone) and my pants were falling every meter from my ass. Meanwhile, I waited for hellish stabs in my side, signs that I “really couldn’t go on anymore” to theatrically sink my legs and swear this never never again to do. Didn’t happen. All I could think was: giving birth sucks.

Runner high

So I ran on, finished the circle, only to plop down on the couch in great surprise and a little euphoria. Or manic, because suddenly I also wanted to clean out closets, make a five-year plan for myself and all my housemates, brush bathroom grout with a toothbrush (just kidding, never that) and share with everyone and your mother how nice it had been.

I always thought the latter was one of the worst qualities of runners. That they never ‘just’ walk around in silence, but always have to share this in apps, graphs, stories… or even a column. Bah!