“ARE you in training?” she says to me.
“What are you talking about, Mother?” I ask with a slight concern as to what the answer is going to be, which, as it turns out, was a valid fear.
“The race! Are you in training for the ten-mile race in Cork?” comes the optimistic reply.
Me: “Em … no … what are you talking about? What ten-mile race? I’m not doing a ten-mile race!”
Mother: “Yes, you are – you told your aunt you’d do it with her.”
Me: “I did not! I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mam, I really don’t.”
Mother: “The Ballycotton 10, Mairead! You told your aunt you’d do it with her and your cousins! And Paddy put your name down, too. Sure, you know all about it. You paid your aunt the entry fee when you were with me, remember?”
Me: “No … no, I don’t remember that at all actually, Mother. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I must go now.”
I was lying, of course; I knew exactly what she was talking about; I had just conveniently forgotten. Actually, I hadn’t forgotten; I just hoped that if I didn’t mention it, everyone else would conveniently forget. Now it seems I was playing a fool’s game; they do remember. My plan of avoidance has been foiled! Damn it!
What happened was this: I was tricked, like properly tricked.
Firstly, I talk a lot of crap so when I joined the gym I kept rabbitting on about how running was just the pinnacle of fitness, blahdeblahdeblahdeblah.
Like, obviously, I was talking about how it looked really good when other people ran. I wasn’t bloody talking about myself.
I hate when people take what I say at face value; they should flipping know better.
Anyway, I must have reeled off this spiel to my mother and aunt one day and, as far as I was concerned, that was the end of that, thank you very much. Goodbye.
The next thing I know I’m sitting in the dentist’s being drugged up to the nines when I start to get phone calls from my aunt. Unusual, I think to myself, I’ll call her later.
So when I leave the dentist, obviously not in my full senses after having several needles and drills and whatnot stuck in my gums, my aunt rings again and says: “Do you want to do the Ballycotton 10 with me and Paddy?” So I say, very stupidly, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll do it.”
When I say I stupidly agreed, I really mean it, because I asked no questions. I was too traumatised after the dentist for God’s sake. What did they expect from me?
Anyway, once the anaesthetic wore off, I started to actually think about what I had agreed to. Hmm … what’s the Ballycotton 10, I wondered?
A quick search on Google led to the answer. Sweet divine Jesus, I nearly vomited. It is a ten-mile road race. Ten miles. That’s like … ages away. I can’t run for ten miles! I can’t walk for ten miles! I can’t walk for two miles without getting sweaty, for God’s sake.
And then another thing dawned on me: I’m doing it with my cousin – he flipping competes in Ironmen competitions! Like, hello!
I’m going to be the spanner down the back who probably ends up going the wrong way.
Although, actually, that might not be a bad idea … if I sneak off the wrong way and hide in some bushes, I can just jump out when the pack start to pass. Then I’ll look brilliant. Everyone will suspect I’ve run the entire thing and there won’t even be a bead of sweat on me.
Anyway, you can see why I’ve tried to conveniently forget the entire sorry situation. I was obviously drugged when I agreed to do it; I shouldn’t be responsible for my actions when under the influence of narcotics. That is, if anaesthetic is a narcotic, of course, which I’m sure it is.
Now, of course, the next step is to think up several elaborate plans which will all involve me getting out of taking part in the race. What mad person would race for ten miles, like?! It’s so stupid! Answers on a postcard please.