The god of lying about running

You’re a busy office worker with no time to meet men. You mean to get to the gym once a week but never quite make it. It’s a waste of money but its better than doing nothing. Out of your window on the third floor every day at lunch time you see a hot guy jogging past.

‘He’s French-Canadian.’ Someone says. ‘Un hot guy.’ Day after day, you see him running through the park and eventually he runs into your fantasies. And then one day you meet him. You’re walking, he’s running. He smiles, you smile. He stops. You talk about nothing and then there is an awkward pause and then he says: ‘I like to rern. Do you like to rern?’ He is un hot guy but also un running fanatique.

‘Sure.’ You say. ‘Sure, I run all the time.’

‘Ow far do you rern?’ He is looking at you intently. You have never jogged in your life. You pick a distance from thin air.

‘Ten kilometres.’

‘I will rern with you. Ten kilometres.’ He says. ‘Tomorrow.’And then tomorrow morning at six-thirty you are running. How hard can it be?

At four hundred metres, you stop, gasping for breath.

‘I am asthmatic.’ You lie. ‘And I have forgotten my inhaler.’

‘Use mine.’ He says, producing one from his pocket. You thought he was pleased to see you. He watches with concern written all over his face as you take two puffs of ventolin. You have never tried it before and the taste is not good.

After another four hundred metres, you must stop again. You are nervous, unfit and the ventolin does not agree with you. You vomit. You keep vomiting until your stomach is empty. And then you vomit some more. The hot guy looks at you in surprise.

‘Cancer.’ You blurt. ‘I have cancer.’ As he reaches out to gently touch your shoulder, you mouth a quick plea for help to Arak, Norse god of lying about running.

Arak responds: Leave the country of your father and your mother. Go where the footprints of men are obscured by freshly fallen snow. Grow old and die in that place.

Thanks be to Arak, god of lying about running!