Let’s say that your last encounter with nature, a collision, in all honesty, was during a rave that was more like the “XXXV Annual Meeting of Jim Carrey’s impersonators” that had received the only command of defying the laws of coordination.
The rhythm of your heart set in “F1 hummingbird” mode warned you that, maybe, your place is nearer to a bingo night in a retirement house, surrounded by generously breasted old ladies trying to fight the sultriness with XL fans and accidentally causing little hurricanes and toothless old men playing the game like it were the last thing they do in their lives.
But since it’s not recommendable changing from 0 to 100 and vice versa, in one of your inner conversations you tell yourself that, being a 35 year old, your poly-pathetic life deserves another opportunity.
It’s human to go against nature. Suddenly, maybe due to the little electrocution you got while you were trying to force that toast that got stuck in your toaster out with a fork, which is as extreme as extreme sport can get, you realize you could do just that: that being some sport.
You haven’t had a proper walk in 35 years. You are the inventor of the broomstick’s remote control use and you’ve always taken the lift even though you live at the ground floor. But it’s ok; everyone can do it, everyone can be Bolt or Gebreselassie, and even Jamaicans can ride a bobsleigh. I saw it in a film. Yes we can.
My legs are like sad sausage rolls and I’ve got a body that is more like a gathering of rubbish. But in the same way that racing stickers can give horsepower to a Morris Mini, the adequate equipment can turn me into an authentic Iron Man. It’s pure logic.
And so, you inevitably find yourself in front of the doors at “Decathlon”, more commonly known as “Declaton”, star of the dyslexic pack. Why? What’s the reason that makes you perpetrate such a crime against the dictionary, that could be immediately booked with a red card? It’s DECA, DECA! Tri, penta… DECA. Declaton… How nice would it be if you got mistaken and called it “Decatron.” “Decatron, your shop for cheap heavy metal clothes”. This would be fantastic. Moreover, tights could be the link between vigorexic sportsmen and beer-drinking Vikings.
I had never thought that doing sports would make me take so difficult decisions. Am I a pronator or a supinator? Is my weight more balanced towards my heels or my toes? These are questions that are not so clear. Do you bite pillows or do you blow on the neck of your bed partner? These questions are easy to answer. “You need a windbreaker,” they told me. Really? Do I need it? I can’t understand it completely. It would only be logical that, if I have to sweat, I would need a sweatshirt, but a windbreaker?
Maybe where I usually go running now what I would really need is an old-man-breaker! Since with my pronator trainers, my anti-circulation tights and my windbreaker I look more like an evolved Pokémon or a forgotten character from Mad Max, an old-man-breaker would just be wonderful. Minimum speed in running areas, please! I’ve had enough with keeping a minimally continuous and acceptable pace, trying not to look like a German Shepherd Dog with his tongue spread out like mad, to care about dodging mommies as this was Ghost n’ Goblins.
Minimum speed for mommies or another track, a conveyor belt for old men to avoid this unnerving slalom. Is it cruel? Yes. Is it effective? Yes.
After a month, I haven’t come to understand yet completely the change in my lifestyle; it’s still too similar to old time raves because, when I start doing some exercise, my eyes are still popping out, my coordination after the second kilometre is still as infamous as before, the hummingbird sets the rhythm that my heart is following. Even though I’ve stopped mixing it with whiskey, Red Bull still is my reason for a living, and I’m not free from drugs, even though I now call them doping.
Hi, I’m Jon, and I’m vigorexic.