Carol’s Column

Help! help! I’m a prisoner in a body

SUPERMUM Mona Hornby caught my eye this week.

A slender, sprig-like figure who hails from Durban, she will be taking on 500 of the world’s toughest men and women in an international triathlon in Hawaii.

A mother of great stamina, in the past few months she has covered over 700km in training for the 17-hour triathlon which includes a four-kilometre ocean swim, a 180-km cycling marathon and a 30-km run.

Wow, I thought to myself as I surveyed a picture of this remarkable woman. She radiated health. She glowed.

I then took a long, hard look at myself.

A depressing sight.

Where was that slim, healthy sportsgirl of years ago?

Where was that swimmer? That tennis and hockey player?

I’ll tell you where she was. Lost in a body.

There, hidden away under cellulite, Cooper’s droop, knock knees and fat, was a John McEnroe just itching to get out.

I looked again, OK. Perhaps not a John McEnroe — maybe a Sonya Laxton. Even when I held my breath, stood straight and pulled my tummy in — it was a distressing sight.

What you need, my girl, I said to myself, is a keep-fit schedule, a rigorous exercise programme. After all, if Mona can do it — so can you.

I nodded my head and smiled back at me.

I could already visualise the headlines flashing across the world. ‘South African supermother of four stuns everyone in the triathlon!’

Yes, if Mona Hornby could do it — so could I.

I introduced my plan to my family at breakfast. Which is strategic planning as they’re all still shell-shocked from sleep.

“Say goodbye to me,” I said. “You’re getting a new mother.”

“Oh,” said Ralph, “Dad’s coming to his senses at last. He’s trading you in for two younger models.”

The others just said “Bye,” which goes to show no mother is indispensable.

Diet for athletes is very important. I tucked into a four-course breakfast. Fruit juice, fresh fruit, cereal, steak and eggs, sweetcorn on toast, plus three extra pieces of toast for energy.

The children, accustomed to me gulping a cup of black coffee in between making sandwiches, were astonished.

“Kids, I’m trying for next year’s triathlon,” I said matter-of-factly as I adjusted my false teeth in order to chew the steak well for quick digestion.

They all sniggered.

“Listen you rotten lot,” I said angrily, “inside this body is a super athlete trying to break out. I’m not happy with my image. I’m tired of being a drudge. I want to achieve.”

I explained about Mona Hornby and showed them the article which had inspired me.

“You see, I’m determined. All I need is encouragement,” I added.

“You’re crazy,” said Jamie with a sigh, “if daddy finds out, he’ll stay in America for two years not two months.”

I didn’t deign to answer. Anyhow, I couldn’t. The dratted steak had ensnarled my teeth and I felt as if I had lock jaw.

“Right, Ma,” said Barry, the swimmer of the family, “I’ll set up a training schedule for you.”

“I’ll do the riding,” offered Ralph, trying not to laugh into his cornflakes.

“Nicky and I’ll supervise the running,” said Jamie.

I was on my way. Watch it Mona, here I come.

You know, it’s not easy being a triathlon athlete.

Woken at 5am by Barry, I played dead under the duvet.

He yanked me out of bed.

“Come on, Ma. You want to be a Mark Spitz, then make like Mark Spitz,” he said ruthlessly.

I put on a wetsuit, three jerseys, a balaclava, a pair of rugby socks and stumbled to the pool.

“OK, Michelin Man,” bellowed my son, “dive in and let’s have 10 lengths breaststroke. Pull, stretch, glide.”

The water was icy. After 10 lengths, I knew my last minute had come.

“I’m drowning,” I gasped to Barry.

“So OK, hurry up about it,” he replied, “because you’ve still got to do 10 crawl, 10 backstroke and 10 fly to get warmed up.”

An hour later, he fished me out of the pool. I wasn’t exhausted, I was dead.

“Not bad, Ma,” he said as he carried me up to the house to pop me in the oven to warm me up. “A few more months of this and you’ll give Mona a go!”

Bike riding was easy once I got the hang of it. “See, I’m keeping up,” I panted to Ralph as we set off to Sandton.

“Ma, so you should, we’re going downhill and you haven’t even started peddling yet.”

Well, you can’t have everything.

“How far is 120km?” I asked Ralph.

“Roughly to Pretoria and back and there again,” he answered nonchalantly.

My calves and thighs ached, my knock-knees were bruised and my derrière was most cruelly bruised.

I looked heavenwards. “Help me,” I muttered under my breath. Just then, my bike hit a stone causing me to fall and the front wheel to buckle. “Thank you, God,” I murmured softly. Every girl needs a friend.

But jogging proved the most difficult sport to master. For, if you run seriously, you cannot talk at the same time — a severe drawback indeed. Breath can only go so far. And in my lungs there simply wasn’t enough for running and speech.

Nicky and Jamie timed me as I raced around the Zoo Lake over and over again.

But, after a week I was triumphant. I felt I’d really progressed when I managed to keep up with an octogenarian stringbean, who, bones rattling as she ran, had shaved her head to cut down wind resistance.

I’m feeling great. So fit, so energetic. I’m riding, swimming or running everywhere.

There are a few problems.

Only the other day, while shopping, I received a ticket for parking my wheelbarrow in a loading zone.

The traffic officer wasn’t interested in my explanation. “Madam,” he said, “I don’t care if you’re the new Mona Hornby. I don’t care if you need a wheelbarrow for your shopping. This is a loading zone, that’s your wheelbarrow and here’s a ticket.”

I’ve pinned Mona Hornby’s picture above my bed for inspiration.

This morning I looked in the mirror. There’s no doubt my image is changing.

I no longer look like a lapsed pear. I now resemble an English cucumber. Straight and shapeless everywhere.

Like Telly Savalas and the octogenarian, I’ve shaved my head to counter wind resistance.

So, I still get cramp when I ride my bike. I get a stitch when I run more than two kilometres and I’ve taken to wearing a life jacket while swimming in case I should sink like a stone and never rise again.

I mean, who would make the children’s sandwiches then?

I’m getting there Mona. Next year in Hawaii.

Well, maybe the year after.

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