The Blonde, The Brunette and Their Blisters
Part 3
RUNAWAY RICHMOND
It had been an eventful 24 hours. The week ended with One of Those Fridays. Starting, as normal, with a brisk 6 mile trot around Hampstead Heath, I was feeling on top of life, looking forward to a productive day and the weekend ahead. From 8.30am things started to go wrong. The promotion I have been working on hit major legal opposition, and after severals tressed phone calls between London and Italy, the situation was not looking promising. What snowballed was a 14 hour marathon (good stamina training?) of corporate fire fighting. By 8pm, emails were still flying from my keyboard and I was nearing the point of utter collapse.
Until … the opportunity arose to meet a young man I had been idly fantasising about for the last 6 months. What happened next was something that no amount of adrenaline, no experience of ‘Runner’s high’ could prepare me for. With 2 (medicinal) glasses of red wine soothing my insides, he kissed me.
The day’s events disappeared into a forgotten haze. The world spun (effects of red wine?) and my body levitated away from the Camberwell surroundings. What an event. What a start to the weekend.
The next morning was spent lying in Hyde Park recounting the developments to my elder siblings. By the time I met the brunette at Victoria, the story had taken on headline proportions. I managed to keep her guessing for the first 4.2 miles. We set out from Victoria and chatted aimlessly through the streets of Pimlico, right along the river and through Chelsea Harbour. The brunette, despite her protestations about not drinking, had got drunk the night before. Led astray by less marathon-minded friends, she had danced into the small hours at Infernos, the notorious Clapham post-uni retreat. Whilst I smiled (smugly) to myself, she recounted dance floor bust-ups, drunken brawls and taxi traumas. It wasn’t until we reach Putney Bridge that she looked across at me and said, “right, what on earth aren’t you telling me???”
My report (second by second) made the next few miles fly by.
Across the river, past the boat clubs, where hoards of merry beer drinkers were welcoming crews out of the water.
Past the Fulham FC ground when the end of the match was signalled by a roar from the crowd.
Past Wandsworth Common, up the track towards Richmond, and almost past Barnes Station.
By this point we had found our rhythm.
It was an incredible afternoon. The sun was just losing heat and picnic makers were snaking away from the park gates. We had earmarked today to try and achieve the 18 mile target and, fuelled by our collective frolics the night before, we were both moving well. Our speed was briefly interrupted by a call from the ‘kisser’, but it seemed no time at all before we had passed Sheen Gate, Ham Gate and were circling the bottom half of the park. Not cutting any short corners, we were pushing the limits of our endurance. The brunette came well equipped with pink grapefruit squash, our energy source of choice, and we managed to ration sips up until the final corner of the park, where civilisation returns within reach.
With dehydration kicking in, we stopped at the hot dog van to see if we could refill our bottles and take a quick time check. It was 6.20pm. As per normal protocol, we had left our gear at the gym at Victoria. The gym closed at 7pm. After our debacle the week before, trying to reach London Bridge, I couldn’t believe we had made the same mistake again. We were over 40 minutes from home, stranded in Richmond Park, with a race against the clock. We turned on the burners … how fast could we get there? Ideas were churned through …
An up tempo sprint to Putney and short trip on the district line? District Line not working this weekend …
A bus to Victoria? All routes stopping at every location along the Thames and ETA not before 1 hour 20 mins …
What to do? We had no money, a phone now out of battery after post-kiss discussions in the park, a radio (not much use apart from telling us the District line wasn’t working) and … a TAXI! We hailed the passing black cab and sweatily explained our predicament. Laughing, he agreed to help us beat the clock and swept us on a whistle-stop tour of back street cut-throughs, pulling up at the doors of Fitness First at 6.56pm.
15.5 miles, 2hours 16 minutes, 1328 calories.
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