Running for life

“I am going to run five miles tomorrow.”

There is always someone running in Oxford. Any time of the day, any month in the year, there is always some lunatic on the road huffing and puffing his way to fitness, making you feel immensely flabby and lazy. In a place where six-packs and flat tummies are dime-a-dozen, it is not surprising then to find people making such bold promises, especially after getting outside another of Irena’s sumptuous dinners.

This most unoriginal of promises was uttered by good old Arabella, as she shovelled in another spoonful of chocolate mousse. Arabella had a simple fitness philosophy. She believed that good intentions and promises of running were sufficient to keep fit. At every dinner, she makes these promises of going for a run the following day, but nobody has ever seen her actually run. A lot of politicians would do well to follow her example.

“I’ll join you”, said James. Arabella eyed him suspiciously. James was a monstrously fit specimen, who bulged with muscle.

“Where do you normally go for your runs?”, he said, biting into an apple as if he had a personal grudge against Steve Jobs.

“The toilet, I would think”, I said, and regretted it almost immediately, for Arabella had flashed a searing look at me, that seemed to burn through my skin. I hastily picked up my glass of red and tried to hide behind it. Irena, who was sitting opposite me, gave me a benign smile. The evening might yet be a success.

“I don’t know”, said Arabella, “I just run wherever I feel like it. University Parks, Christ Church Meadows…”

“What you should do is to get a proper running plan that allows you to improve your fitness in an organized manner”, said James, proceeding to eliminate another specimen from the apple family. He always gave me the impression of someone single-handedly attempting to make apples extinct.

“Ha!” said Tony, derisively, packing into that one syllable a wealth of sarcasm. Tony was someone who loved his food. I strongly suspect that his name was the short form of one of the seven deadly sins.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?”, said Arabella, sharply. Her temper was so short that it could go through a pygmy’s legs.

“Just that I don’t think you have never run a mile in your entire life”, said Tony, a thing I wouldn’t have said to please a dying grand-mother

“And just what gives you the fucking right to say that, you fat slob?”, screamed Arabella, with admirable restraint. “And when have you ever run a mile in your life?”

“At least I don’t go around making tall statements”, riposted Tony, taking a bite out his cheesecake.

“Given your height, a tall statement would be out of your bounds, I suppose”, said Arabella, a rather smart riposte to Tony’s riposte, I thought. A re-riposte, in a manner of speaking. If Tony did manage to come with a riposte to that, it would have become a nice triposte. However, that was not to be.

“I am not short!”, said Tony, drawing himself up to as much as his tiny frame would allow him to.

“That’s true”, said Arabella maliciously, “You need to grow by another inch or so before you can qualify for shortness, you little squirt”

“Now, now, folks”, said Irena, soothingly, “Ease up. Let us listen to what our resident Mr Muscles was saying about a proper running plan.”

As always, when Irena spoke, there was a general murmur of assent. Arabella and Tony retreated to their seats. James, who was busy devouring another apple, looked up.

“Well”, said Mr Muscles, “I was thinking that maybe you could start off with running in half-mile spurts and slowly building up your stamina”

“And you will help me draw up the plan?” said Arabella, hopefully. She secretly harboured hopes about James, who was the male equivalent of the quintessential dumb blonde. Over the years, he had managed to convert every single ounce of brain he had into muscle, so much so that to call him a bird-brain would be considered an insult to the feathered community.

“Of course”, said James, enthusiastically. “Tomorrow we’ll start with a kind of a test run to see how much you can run, and based on that we can work out a schedule for you”

“That sounds fantastic”, said Arabella, “So where should we meet up tomorrow?”

“Better carry your NHS details with you”, said Tony

“Shut up, Tony”, said Arabella, refusing to rise to the bait.

“The Christ Church Meadows, of course”, said James, “Seven in the morning.”

“And maybe we can go for breakfast afterwards?” said Arabella. She was almost cooing now.

Tony rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.

“Oh yes”, said James, enthusiastically. “We normally head to the college for brunch after the morning run. We have a deal with Christ Church.”

“We?” said Arabella, warily. “When you say we…”

“The Running for Life Club”, said James, evenly.

Tony almost choked on his cheesecake.

“Enlighten us, James”, he said, barely hiding a smirk, “Tell us more about the Running for Life Club”

“It is an initiative by the diabetes society. It is an attempt to get people to fight diabetes through physical exercise rather than medicines. Every Saturday morning, I train about 20 such people to run. It is great fun”, said James.

“Fun is exactly how I would describe it”, said Tony, maliciously. “And how old are these club members of yours?”

“Various age groups. Some of them are pretty young. In fact, there is a woman who joined last week who is barely 40.”

“Just the right bunch for you, Bella”, said Tony, grinning like an ape. Irena looked like she was trying hard not to laugh out loud.

Arabella, on the other hand, looked like she had been kicked in the gut. She addressed James in a voice so icy that I actually shivered as she uttered the following words.

“So you were proposing that I start running with a bunch of old diabetics?”

James, strangely, didn’t seem to realise that the temperature in the house had gone down by a few degrees.

“Yes, that is a good way to start running. People in the club are very encouraging “, he said.

“Do I look like an aged diabetic to you, you stupid jerk?”, she lashed out at him, sending the mercury soaring up. “Do I look like I am obese and unfit and I need a walking stick to get along?”

Tony was beside himself with joy, but he wisely refrained from saying anything. Irena and I could hardly look at each other, for fear of bursting out laughing.

“Well, they are really nice people. I am sure you would like them. And running with someone is a great way to get to know them”, said James, seemingly impervious to sudden rise in temperature.

That was too much for us. Tony and I burst out with laughter. Irena laughed so much she had to wipe the tears from her eyes.

“Shut up, James. Just fucking shut up”, said Arabella, giving him the kind of look that could have shrivelled up a cactus. But before she could say anything more, Irena stepped in.

“Would like some more chocolate mousse, Bella?”, she asked smoothly getting between Arabella and James. “And maybe James would like some more apples.”

She busied herself getting another plate of chocolate mousse for Arabella and another bowl of apples for Mr Muscles, who promptly continued his mission of exterminating the apple species.

Arabella hyperventilated a bit and waded into her chocolate mousse. Peace prevailed for a while. After a few quiet minutes had passed, Arabella let out a contented sigh and said,

“I AM going to run five miles. On Sunday.”

“On Sunday mornings, I normally take the students from Christ Church Cathedral School for a run. Maybe you would like to join us for that?” said James, invitingly.

Irena looked at me with a twinkle in her eye. I quietly poured myself another glass of red.

My DCF is bigger than yours

“My DCF is bigger than yours!”

Profound observations like these were commonplace at Irena’s dinner parties. Irena was a fellow student, who had a happy habit of making friends very easily. This, combined with an easy amiability and great culinary skills, meant that her house played host to many dinner parties, where crowds of students gathered to partake of a delicious meal and generous quantities of wine. The former contributed to a general feeling of goodwill among an otherwise neurotic bunch, while the latter inevitably led to profound observations on life, like the one mentioned above.

This particular profundity was uttered by Francis, who was a mix of Eastern European belligerence and North American smugness. I was carefully contemplating the virtues of another glass of the excellent red, when he made this remark. Moments later, I wasn’t the only one seeing red.

“No fucking way”, said Ashok, a second generation Indian from the USA, who managed to squeeze the worst out of both his lineages.

Irena looked at me with her usual sweet smile. She knew that dinner was on its way to being a success.

“I am telling you”, said Francis, with characteristic smugness.

“You are lying”, replied Ashok.

Francis immediately gave lie to this statement by springing up from the half-reclining posture which he had assumed on one of Irena’s comfortable sofas.

“Are you calling me a liar, you mid-ranker”?, bellowed Francis, for whom making a distinction in the previous term was probably the high-point of his life.

“He wouldn’t be the first one”, said Arabella. She was a rather hot-headed girl, who made devoted friends and sworn enemies with equal ease, thanks to remarks like these.

“How dare you?”, piped Francis, his face taking on the hue of the fine red that he had been helping himself to.

Arabella’s, on the other hand, carried the tranquillity of the white that she had been sipping.

“Calm down, Francis. Honesty and humility have never been your vices. If your DCF is really higher than Ashok’s, go ahead and prove it”, she said.

“Exactly”, said Ashok, who was pleasantly surprised by this unexpected support from someone who he had always felt had scant respect for him.

“I am damned if I am going to share the results of my analysis to you”, said Francis.

Ashok was notorious for provoking other people into showing their papers to him before submission and using them for his own papers. He was, however, never hauled up for plagiarism because he scrupulously followed the cardinal rule of research – if you copied from one person, it is plagiarism; if you copied from many, it becomes research.

“In which case, how do you know your DCF is bigger than his?”, queried Irena, innocently. It was very difficult to get angry with Irena. A combination of blonde hair, soft voice and pleasant manners meant that she could ask the most provocative of questions without eliciting any violent reactions.

I, on the other hand, not possessing any of the said advantages, usually managed to provoke a violent response, even to simple statements. Which is just what I did now, with the following remark:

“He must have peeked into Ashok’s report while he was checking mail on his laptop”

Both Francis and Ashok leapt out of their seats in a beautifully choreographed manner.

“You did what?”, Ashok screamed at Francis.

“I did nothing of the sort”, bellowed Francis at the same time.

They stared at each other. Two strong men eyeing each other, separated only by the dinner table. The rest of us looked on with hope. A good punch-up would be the ideal Oxford way to end a Saturday night dinner party.

Arabella, however, played spoil-sport.

“Pipe down, kids”, she said, in her usual authoritative voice, “We all know that is how you got your distinction last term, Francis”

“You keep out of this”, said Francis, trying to out-stare Ashok and Arabella at the same time.

“And why should she?”, riposted Ashok, who secretly harboured hopes about Arabella.

“Thank you, Ashok, but I can take care of myself”, said Arabella, coldly. Clearly, she harboured no such hopes about him.

Francis, on the other hand, refused to get distracted by these romantic interludes. He thumped his hand hard on the table, spilling a glass of his wine on himself.

“Careful, you stupid chump”, bellowed Arabella, as she jumped from her chair.

“But I say..”, said Francis, whose dignity had been severely dented by the red blotch on his shirt

“Quiet”, said Arabella, “Go wash yourself while we clean the table”

Francis started to say something, but quickly clammed up after he caught Arabella’s eye.

This unexpected intermission served to calm down everybody’s nerves. The next few minutes were spent in cleaning up the table. By the time Francis came down from the bathroom, his white shirt a delicate shade of pink, the dinner plates had been cleared away and various forms of dessert had been laid out.

“Ah! Delicious”, said Arabella, tucking into her cheesecake with relish. She had taken the words out of my mouth. Even Francis seemed mollified after taking a bite of the cheesecake.

“Coming back to the point”, he said, “I do admit I sneaked a look at your report while checking mail on your laptop”

“I knew it. I knew it!”, said Ashok, triumphantly, conveniently forgetting that it was I who had pointed out that fact. “You are a fucking crook.”

“I am nothing of that sort”, said Francis, his face once again striving hard to match the colour of his shirt. “I am just trying to help”

“Just what Norman Bates would have whispered to the girl in the shower”, said Irena, flashing her trademark beatific smile. If I had said that, I would have got a knife on my back. All Irena got was a refill of her wine glass from Arabella.

“And how exactly were you planning to help Ashok?”, asked Arabella.

“Well, now that he knows his answer is wrong, he can do something about it”, retorted Francis, with some of his original belligerence coming back.

“And why should I believe you?”, asked Ashok, hotly

“Because I am telling you, you fucking jerk. No wonder you did so badly last term. I can’t believe that they took you into the school in the first place”. Francis was himself again, bravely rising above the rosy tinge on his shirt.

“When they can take in peeping toms like you, I don’t see why they shouldn’t take me in. I bet you copied to clear your GMAT”, replied Ashok.

“I will have you know that I have a GMAT score of 780”, said Francis, a fact he had advertised to every single person he met in the city.

“And who did you pay to take the test?”, riposted Ashok, standing up.

“Don’t you dare”, said Francis, also standing.

I was wondering if the table was going to receive another thump, but Arabella pre-empted that.

“Relax, boys. Why don’t you simply show Ashok where he went wrong?”, she said, mentally resolving to add another mile to her morning run next day, as she shovelled in another helping of the cheesecake.

“I will, if this jerk is willing to listen”, said Francis, slowly retreating to his chair.

“Fine, show me”, said Ashok, realising that this was a good opportunity to get some free input on the report.

He drew out his laptop. We all crowded around as Francis went through the analysis in detail, pointing out how Ashok had not calculated the WACC properly and lecturing in detail about how he would have done it himself.

Suddenly, Ashok leaned back with a smug look on his face.

“You know what?”, he said

We looked at him – Francis, suspiciously; the rest of us, curiously.

“My IRR is bigger than yours…”

Irena winked at me and leaned back in her chair with a look of satisfaction. The night was still young…