When the rain finally stopped in early 2016, the sportsters emerged with gusto like they had just been released from their cage.
Their pace had quickened, their arms were swaying at wider angles, they were leaning more forward on their bikes (even the self assembling ones I recognised from Aldi), there seemed to be less talk (if that’s possible), less smiles, more lycra and their eyes were more focused on the end point.
Obviously, they had made the old New Year resolution: get fit and lose weight. There was definitely a seriousness in the air verging on desperation that morning. Their minds were recounting the Christmas treats they had devoured with such joy, which ironically seemed to be creating so much guilt now.
The Christmas pudding soaked in brandy and smothered in custard – sprint for five minutes, the several bottles of verve – do another lap, the slabs of almost nightly creamy brie on crackers washed down with a smooth cab sav – fifty push ups at the exercise station – and the restful respite from the Bay Run resulting in indulgent sleep-ins ending with frothy cappuccinos – run with five kilo ankle weights for the complete circuit. They had been truly happy, but now had to pay.
Yes, all those obsessive sportsters have been really bad and their extreme behaviour is a dead give away. So if you’re just managing to drag yourself around the Bay in a slothful sort of way, don’t feel pathetic because you don’t suffer from the type of guilt pushing the sportsters’ self-inflicted punishment rituals. Perhaps you are actually happy, like me, despite what you did or didn’t do over the hols or maybe you prefer the ten rosaries doled out by your parish priest instead! Hey life is short and happiness is paramount. Happy New Year!
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