There are two scenarios that require running: rescuing a loved one and escaping a mad man. So what’s going on?
I blame Elaine. I met her the first day of school in Perth, when her sweet daughter took Willa by the hand and showed her around campus. I introduced myself and said, “Your daughter is lovely.” Elaine replied, “I’ll never remember your name.” Elaine is Scottish (she would correct me here to specify Glaswegian) so it sounded more like, “Ar nevah thrirembah yar nem.”
Elaine bears a resemblance to Julianne Moore and her humor is biting. Whatever you’ve been through, Elaine has been through ten times your shit. Her plate’s been full since the day she was born.
Elaine used to run half-marathons and then life happened. She is determined to lose the weight she’s gained over the past few years. Last month over coffee, she told me about this app she’s wanted to try. “It’s called Couch to 5K and it gets you off your fat arse.” She asked if I wanted to join her. I believe it was my magnetic personality and not the shape of my bottom that inspired her invitation. I was over-caffeinated and over-confident, so I said yes.
Three days a week, Elaine and I meet at a local park for a 30-minute session of Couch to 5K. There are many versions of this app, and they all rely on the same strategy: walk/run/walk less/run more. Elaine uses a British version where a voice named Laura gently bosses us around for half an hour. Imagine Julie Andrews as a personal trainer: “After your warm-up walk, you are going to run for 90 seconds. It is going to hurt, but trust me. The pain you will feel is nothing compared to the joy you will experience upon completion.” Laura is our teacher, our mother, and the woman we long to be. Laura is most likely a hedge fund manager with four children who wear tweed and open doors for old ladies. We love her, and we hate her.
Belle and Lexi, Elaine’s two miniature schnauzers, run with us. They bark at Asian people. They used to live in Malaysia so the whole thing makes no sense. Recently we had to pause our workout because Lexi went ape shit on a woman taking the peaceful, scenic route to work.
So there we are, with two tiny racist dogs, walking and running laps around a grassy oval. Elaine and I try to maintain conversation while running, which is like attempting to meditate with your hand down a garbage disposal. We talk about anything we can think of: family, religion, politics, you name it. “Tell me something, Bek. Anything. Keep talking.”
I am Elaine’s first Jewish friend so I consider it my sacred duty to provide her with as much false information as possible. Between gasps for air, I tell her, “Being kosher means you can only eat pork from Eastern Europe.” “Really?” she says, believing me for a second. Then I snort and she growls, “Fuck off.” I tell her that in the Jewish faith, cursing is pretty much a ticket to hell.
Somewhere around the two-minute mark, one of us inevitably wants to quit. It is at this moment, we repeat our mantra, Run Bitch Run. It is inspired by the book Run Fat Bitch Run by Ruth Field who also wrote Get Your Shit Together. She’s British.
Elaine left yesterday to visit family in the UK. For the next two weeks, I am on my own with Couch to 5K. I couldn’t find Laura on the app store, so I downloaded the American version that replaces Mary Poppins with a process efficiency consultant. There’s no voice at all. Just a timer and a graph. I miss Laura. And Elaine, if you’re reading this, I’m not running until you get back.
