simple pleasure

Four weeks ago, I retired from running. This is not exactly newsworthy; I've mentioned it plenty of times and you are justified in flinching in exasperation at the repetition. But I find it necessary to remind myself every now and then because in spite of my natural predisposition for laziness, sitting on a sofa doing nothing doesn't come easy to me.

Maybe I'm still traumatized by my most realistically frightening Halloween experience, which shook me to the core a good ten years ago. I had dressed up as some sort of Mexican fat bastard with 48"-waist corduroys and a XXXL flannel shirt stuffed to bursting with pillows from assorted sofas. I had a shapely but gigantic belly and a straw hat, and I was incapacitated.

I found it hard to squeeze behind the wheel of my little Passat to go to the party and couldn't bend down to tie my own shoe laces. Worse, I couldn't even see my shoes. I resolved, there and then, that I would never allow myself to become debilitatingly fat. With that in mind, my retirement from running might indeed look shaky.

However, I also retired, a good year ago now, from football. This was not caused by being sick of the sport. On the contrary, I loved every second and played with a passion, but I had sprained my ankle one too many times. The London Marathon was looming up ahead and I knew I wouldn't be able to achieve a decent time without training uninterrupted by ankle injuries. Football needed to go.

Now I don't have to train anymore. I'm retired from running, after all. Announcing a comeback of Jordanesque proportions, I booked a spot on the pitch this afternoon. I had only running shorts and a cycling vest, but what does clothing matter with feet enshrouded in a pair of Nike Ronaldinho trainers, one of the best shoe purchases I've ever made (and they weren't even on sale)?

Never mind the dry sunny spring, we're playing indoors and every game is a cardiac chase of red-zone intervals. After three minutes, I was dead exhausted, out of breath and black stars dancing in my eyes, and had to take goalie for a while to recover. Then I scored a few goals and it was like always, exploding back and forth and left and right, trying to keep up with the other players and the ball.

I can hardly believe that I gave this divine pleasure up for running. What was I thinking? Apart from bombing down the Wasatch Crest Trail to Big Water on a fully, there's nothing that can compete in hilarious fun with an insanely frantic hour on the hardwood floor of a gym chasing a bouncy ball like a 16-year-old.

That's all it takes.