One more reason to play sports

I was around 40 when I had a revelation. The magazine I worked for at the time had to form a team of all-female runners to participate in an awareness demonstration on the issue of sport and safety, following some nasty incidents in which athletes had been harassed during their training sessions in city parks. I pretended to be dead so I wouldn’t have to join in, which unfortunately didn’t work, and I found myself, on a very hot evening in early June, trotting along for 10 endless, exhausting kilometres, where all I could think was, I’m going to pass out now.

When I realised at the end of the trail that I wasn’t dead, I was overcome by an indescribable euphoria, amplified by an unexpected detail: the soft sweatshirt that some kind soul had placed on my shoulders. And you might say: what does a sweatshirt have to do with it? They could have put a bathmat on you, and you wouldn’t have noticed.

But no, my dears, stay with me.

And all the while, I curse myself for the ridiculous idea of becoming an athlete as an adult. I end up bright purple, and it takes me at least an hour to return to any colour remotely recognised for the human species. But, yet, I know they’re waiting for me after my shower – a lovely maxi cardigan with a belt at the waist, drawstring jersey trousers, and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a high neck. They are my cuddle, the soft hug I give myself for not succumbing to laziness. Slipping into them is like saying: well done Cristina, you loved yourself again, today.