The Blonde, The Brunette and Their Blisters
Part 4
Porsche Pickup.
Sometimes, even the most style conscious runner has trouble co-ordinating a decent work-out outfit at the weekends.
And so I found myself one Saturday afternoon, pulling on my ‘back-up’ gear … most notably my oldest dri-fit leggings, somewhat suffering after my well-meaning flatmate tried to attack them with an iron! As I greeted the brunette at Victoria, she tut-tutted over my shambolic appearance, the hole in my leg stretching with each step, and we set off up Buckingham Palace Road . It was a really hot afternoon… half of London seemed to be languishing over every spot of available grass, all exposing acres of pink flesh, slowly roasting in the British sunshine.
We powered along, following the wrought-iron palace railings, along the Mall and through the flower gardens at the end of St. James’s Park. ‘ Inn the Park’, the new venture from restaurateur Oliver Paignton had just opened, and the tantalising wafts of grilled vegetables and freshly baked tea cakes were filling the air. We took the path alongside the lake and I was reminded about the ‘adopt a duck’ scheme that someone had signed me up to two months ago. After much debate about which duck could be the lucky bird receiving my gift of support (odds on favourite was the fattest!) we started working through our standard list of hot topics. The subject rotation normally starts with food, and then works through clothes (this season’s capsule wardrobe), forthcoming social events, the marathon… and predictably culminates with either people at work (pros and cons) or boys!
By the time we had designed the ultimate fantasy dinner party, featuring the Queen, Bob Geldof, Kylie, William the Conqueror and the Brunette’s grandparents on the guest list and developed an award-winning idea for ‘creative things to do with filo pastry’, we had circled the lake and were heading back up through Green Park.
My least favourite, Green Park always feels like the ‘space in between’ its more glamorous neighbours. There’s the modernist sculpture in the middle, and the imposing government buildings up one side, but apart from that, it’s fairly bland. Too many cross-looking commuters using it as a rat-run and empty Starbucks cups spilling out of the bins. Hyde Park, on the other hand, was packed. We could almost feel the perspiration of activity as we emerged from the subway. There were teams playing football, couples in deckchairs, picnic-makers, families … almost hazardous with traffic!
We were just rounding the bend for the final strait, leading away from Kensington Park Gardens, back towards Hyde Park Corner when a car pulled up beside us. A silver Porsche. At this point in the route we are often stopped by confused-looking tourists, desperately trying to navigate their way towards Harrods or Harvey Nicks, and someone trying to catch our attention was nothing unusual. However, this passer-by was not quite the norm. Mediterranean looking – tall, dark and handsome in a ‘used to be a tennis player’ sort of way – the top of his sports car was down and he smiled as he pulled his car up by the side of the pavement and beckoned us over.
‘Hi Girls’ he said, slightly awkwardly. ‘Listen, I don’t normally do this (alarm bells ringing with suspicion) but I have seen you running here a few times and was wondering if I might be able to take you for a drink sometime?’
Giggles all-round. Looking down at my torn leggings and sweaty assembly I gave him an incredulous look. He meant me!
The brunette was digging her elbow into my ribs and pushing me forward.
The ‘mystery man’ was called Andre. The car was sparkling with newness and attention-seeking personality. The situation was like something from a film … a comedy. The laughter intensified when he tried to write his number on my arm. An unsuccessful attempt due to the ink not stickingto my sweaty skin – not very seductive! In the end (following fairly lengthy interrogation about his intentions) I relented and gave him my phone number and he sped off into the distance.
The laughter erupted as soon as we turned the corner. ‘That kind of thing NEVER happens!’ said the brunette. ‘Blimey, I think its time to invest in new running kit … who knows what we might achieve!’ I replied.
9 miles. 1 hour 15 minutes. 845 calories.
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