I like running and every so often I'll enter a marathon or a cross-country run. I have to admit I don't win these events, but I do finish, which gives me a sense of achievement. I'd probably have an even greater sense of achievement if I won one, but to do that I'd have to train a lot harder, and that would turn a fun recreation into hard work. I guess I'm not your most competitive person but training hard just to show you can run twenty-five miles a few seconds faster than someone else just seems to me to be rather futile. I mean, who really cares? Staying fit enough to do the distance is enough for me. (And yes, I know a marathon isn't twenty-five miles but a bit longer but again, who cares?)
There was a long weekend and one of the nearby resort towns was holding a marathon as part of their festivities. I'd gone along and taken part and finished towards the front. (I'm competitive enough to not want to be the last guy home.) After that I'd returned to the motel where I'd booked for a good night's sleep. I defy anyone to not sleep well after running a marathon.
I had nothing planned at home for the next day and decided to stay in the resort town for the day, catching a bus home late in the afternoon. I was bussing because my car was currently laid up with mechanical troubles. Would you believe the gear box seized and ripped the engine off its mounts? Damn, but that was an exciting few moments. I wasn't bothering to have the old bomb repaired. Cheaper to find another old bomb and drive that until it died. The scrapyard was welcome to the old one.
I checked out of the motel and started bumming around the town, not doing anything much and enjoying it. I was carrying what few things I had in a small knapsack and I could depart at a moment's notice (assuming a bus was available at that moment).
I was strolling along the road next to the beach, admiring the talent on the beach, considering going for a swim. Ahead of me was a lovely young thing pushing a cart full of groceries. Now I could have overtaken her quite easily as she was moving slowly, but she was between me and the sun and the sun had this way of shining through her dress, silhouetting a very nice figure. I stayed behind and admired the show.
When the road took a curve and the sun was no longer so advantageously placed I picked up my pace a little and was soon walking next to her. While I described her as a lovely young thing I have to admit that she was older than me, in her early to mid-twenties was my guess. She was also walking very carefully, reminiscent of a little old lady with fragile bones.
Curious, I asked her if she was all right.
"I can't help but notice that you're walking very carefully," I added.
"No," she said, giving me an irritated look. "I am not all right. My husband made me run in that frigging marathon yesterday. He runs like a rabbit on 'roids. I run like a tortoise with lumbago. He chivvied me along for the whole damn distance, making sure I finished. Now he's gone out on a charter hire, taking tourists fishing for the day, while I'm buying the groceries when I can barely walk. I ache all over so, no, I'm not all right."
I couldn't help but laugh. I knew what it was like to run unprepared and how you ached the next day. I decided to volunteer my good deed for the day.
"I'll tell you what," I said. "For the cost of a cup of coffee I'll wheel your groceries home and help you unpack them. After that I'll take the trolley back to the super-market, saving you a trip."
She didn't hesitate for a moment. She just stepped back from the trolley, saying, "Deal."
I found out why pretty promptly. The trolley appeared to have three square wheels with the fourth wheel locked in place. Not the easiest thing to push. I manfully persevered and escorted her home. Once we reached her place she went to pick up some of the grocery bags but I stopped her.
"I've got it," I told her. "You just hold the door open."
With that I picked up the groceries, making sure I had all the bags, so only a single trip was needed. She looked at me, festooned with bags, and I shrugged as best I could.
"What can I say?" I asked her. "It's a man thing. We have to take all the bags in a single trip or hand in our man card."
She smirked and led the way through to the kitchen where I was quite happy to dump all the bags on the table. She switched on the kettle and very efficiently put the groceries away.
We settled down to some coffee and I brought up the subject of the marathon again.
"You know if you're feeling stiff and sore from the marathon you should do something about it instead of just suffering. Possibly a little aromatherapy. I always do some after each race. I find it helps me relax, eases aching muscles, and helps clear my mind."
"I've heard of that. Isn't it just another quack, feel-good, gimmick?"
"Please," I said with a grin. "The correct term is alternative medicine, although it's not really a medicine. What I do is more of a self-massage using certain oils. I wouldn't recommend it to someone who is genuinely ill but for stiff and sore muscles it's fine. The combination of natural oils, the massage, and the delicate aroma does wonders."
"It would also cost a bomb to have some aromatherapist treat you," Dianne pointed out. (We had got to the point of exchanging names.)
"Only if you use one. I don't. The various oils don't cost much and a little goes a long way. For you, the way you're feeling right now, I'd use some violet oil and rub it in."
"Uh-huh, but it means I'd have to traipse back to the shopping centre and find if anyone sells it. I'd just as soon stay at home today."
"Actually, I can probably help you out right now. My sister, bless her sweet heart, bought me a bottle of violet oil. It's in my knapsack with the oils I normally use. For some reason I just can't see myself going around smelling of violets. There are other scents that I find more to my taste."
I reached down for my knapsack and found the violet oil, placing it on the table.
"You might as well have it," I told Dianne. "That way I can tell my sister I used it."
She picked up the bottle and looked at it and read the instructions but seemed slightly dubious.
"I don't know. I'm not sure I'd be massaging it in properly," she muttered.
