It’s summer, which means, in our house at least, that my husband is on a quest to perform his own individual Olympics. As soon as the weather warms up, out comes the Lycra, the stretching and the “need” to be out at inconvenient times because it’s time for a long run or a speed session or… To be honest, I’ve zoned out, so I don’t know.
It’s great that he wants to be fitter; what a brilliant example to the children. But must it take over all our summers? Early tennis matches or golf games mean zero assistance with school runs. Long runs tend to fall on a Sunday lunchtime. And a quick jaunt to the driving range or a short run often coincide with bedtimes. And at all other times he’s so exhausted that he’s conked out on the sofa, snoring, while I run around negotiating homework, walking the dog and emptying the dishwasher.
Meanwhile, I’m supposed to be grateful if I can dash out of the house with my Pilates mat tucked under my arm once a week.
It seems that Olympic fever has struck a few marriages this summer – mine’s not the only partner chasing a youthful sporting legacy. One friend’s husband was so focused on becoming an elite cyclist that he injured his calves in the process, rendering him useless to his young family. One signed up to climb a mountain. Another spends all Saturday chasing much younger blokes up hills on two wheels. While another thinks he has his own personal Wimbledon journey, such is his commitment to the tennis court.
I suppose the striving for something should be celebrated. Good for them. But the by-product of all this is lots of expensive kit cluttering up the hallway – new running trainers are an essential every few hundred miles, apparently. The washing machine is constantly on, washing sweaty nylon. A stationary bike has been suggested as an addition to the dining room. Another side effect is the constant talking about “splits” and “PBs” while hunching over his Strava profile, deep in concentration.
And what is an athlete without the correct fuel? Gels, glycogen, glucose. I hear about them all. Protein powder is being delivered and consumed seemingly constantly. A disapproving eyebrow rises as I dish up the dinner. Seems the protein quota isn’t high enough for recovery. Or the carbohydrates on offer won’t do for whatever endurance event he has planned next.
Summer evenings, in my book, should mean a couple of drinks in the garden, perhaps lighting up the barbecue or firing up the pizza oven. But in our house, the focus is sport, sport and more sport. Nothing alcoholic will pass my husband’s lips, he’s rejecting ice creams with the kids, and my hopes of entertaining with a barbecue have been dashed – how can he devote the time to grilling burgers when he has an urgent cycle ride to attend to?
As the saying goes, it’s a marathon, not a sprint, and I know that by the time we’ve all moved on from the Paris Olympic Games, my husband’s summer of sport will be on the wane. An injury, pressure at work or simply his age will have caught up with him. I’d be less disparaging if I thought this energy would continue much past the August bank holiday. For now, give me strength.