My friends Hamish and Norma are in town from New Zealand. This trip back is their honeymoon. They arrived on Friday, which was my birthday. My day started with a nutty existential dream. I was at Gatwick with my friend James, I hushed him because I suspected one of my exes would be making the trip back from London. This shushing – so my actions – drew everyone’s attention to us, including the girl I was trying to avoid. Thing is, she was really happy to see me and, therefore, must have forgiven me and herself, what is more commonly called ‘getting over’ someone. The next thing I knew a plane was crashing, and I had to get my camera, this time I was with a different ex and we were like team mates, like Face and Murdock, and, as before, we were pally, the double forgiveness complete. The day before I had seen a third ex in the park, when I was running. Taken together, it was like that movie, The Ghosts of Girlfriends Past.
What I put it down to, then, was that your birthday’s a significant memory anchor. I can remember the yellow doughnut my mum bought me to float in the sea at Bridlington. I remember the curb at the front of the Anne Frank house where I spewed on my thirtieth. I remember not getting sung ‘happy birthday’ at assembly at Endsleigh primary school because my birthday was always in the holidays.
The dream woke me up with a start at 5:30 and I thought, fucking hell, I am thirty four. A few hours later, we were at a spa near Amsterdam’s ‘bos’ (forrest). The central pool, which was half inside and half outside, was surrounded by saunas, deck chairs, whirlpools, and mother and daughter combos. That seems to be a thing Dutch women like to do, hang out with their mums at the spa. Seeing mother and daughter combos in the nude is like a real life before and after experiment. Some men had fully shaven private parts, others were like giant bears. All the young women were properly preened, the over fourties seemed to care less. Which, is interesting, because I cared much less about my own appearance – the appearance of my willy, at least – around them but became a gibbering idiot when any girls in my age bracket were around. I remember seeing a documentary about Oliver Reed. In Women In Love he had to wrestle, in the nude, Alan Bates. Apparently, before the camera was on, they both pulled their penises to bring a bit of life to them. I felt like that at the spa, felt the need to nudge my tadger into life. The good thing about penis-self-consciousness is that it takes your mind off your fat-belly-self-consciousness, which can only be a good thing.
The spa worked, though, because we were fully relaxed by the time the evening came around. Andrea had arranged a surprise drink on a posh boat for me. Hamish and Norma and some my other dearest friends made it. We got through a load of Marlboros and Coronas and Tequila and Havana, our drinks having a South American feel. The next day, we went to the park and did it all again. I was rough today. But, rules is rules, and I had to run. After Sunday lunch I stuck my backpack on, put my wallet, keys, phone and Shipler’s The Working Poor: Invisible in America in, and off I went. The first 30 minutes were uncomfortable. My belly ached, I needed to be sick. My lower back was not in pain, but it throbbed like a decaying tooth might. As I got closer to the library, the promise of getting The Last Boy Scout keeping me going, I picked up the pace a little, running with a bit more confidence. I rounded some road works, some tourists, I zig-zagged the lights at the top of the Damrak. Up the Prins Hendrikkade and stop. Bag off. Stop on stop watch. 35 minutes. I was gutted. I have to run for at least an hour. I went in, had to settle for the Last of the Mohicans, and turned the fuck around and reluctantly got cracking. Coming home, I went behind the canals and through the Westerpark, running in parallel with the train lines that bring so many grateful tourists from Schiphol into town. The park surrounding the track narrowed, leaving me with reeds and wetlands and Tampon wearing roller-bladers. I tried to be mindful, but my back was heaving and keeping my head up was tiring. I came out of the track into an office complex, crossed the car park, and hit the Bos en Lomerweg. This was my final stretch. I should have had the runner’s high. Should have had a spring in my step. But, all I was left with was aching legs and a sick stomach, the Havana swishing like water on the deck of a rowing boat. Up, and down, and swish, and swoosh, and grumble.
I ran for 1:16. I covered just over 12 kms, about 7 and a half miles. According to the internet, that’s 1000 calories. Which is 6 beers, or 10 rums. To burn a kilogram of fat, that’s about two pounds, I’d need to not drink at all and do the same distance run as today 7 times. To get to a healthy running weight I need to lose about 6 kilos. In other words, if I don’t change my diet, don’t drink, and do this run 42 more times, I will hit my target weight. This is no good, I need a montage.
