Some people collect stamps, some others change carriers, some more get a stupid tattoo or a bike that will eventually kill them, or a woman that may do the same.

Some more, like me, take a gym membership, enlisting the help of horrific instruments of torture in the losing battle against the pull of gravity, nature and time.

After some time with relative success (I considered a successful day the day I went to the gym, forget about BPMs, VOx2 or whatever other acronyms describing your objective progress) I was going nowhere not really fast (at exactly 12min/km according to the anthropomorphized hamster wheel).

Thus I requested the assistance of one of the gym's personal trainers. At first I was assigned Tom, with a brilliant past in the army, a short temper that was triggered by anybody with BMIs higher then 25 and a contempt for anybody else that had the disgrace to be a fellow penis carrier.

So I complained (discretely, I did not want Tom to know in case he went all Rambo on me) and was assigned under the protection of Kathrine. After a couple of months in the gym I had already of course noticed her presence, the red-headed beauty that regularly pumped iron with regular gusto, but always looking delicately feminine.

Unlike Tom, that used to shout at me when I would not manage a given exercise, Kathrine would just smile sympathetically and occasionally would roll her eyes, but just a bit, nothing too bad. As far as I was concerned she could have treated me even worst than Tom, that is how much I liked her, but she was always polite, affectionate and encouraging.

I frankly was bored with the gym, and my visits became more sporadic, so I changed to do some running, this was transforming. All of the sudden I began to really enjoy myself, going out in the morning, rain, snow or sun, to run first a couple of miles, then a few more, and after a couple of months I was running 10Km regularly each weekend and improving my speed, the funny thing is that because I eat like a small African elephant I did not lose much weight, which probed to be monumentally important.

In the park I noticed that I could be faster than people that looked much fitter than me. The reason for this, I will learn later, is that I was training for racing specifically while other people do lots of weights but little aerobic else.

So I was a fat bastard that could run faster than most iron pumpers, with this knowledge in hand I started to join races with the reprehensible motive of humiliating the hunks that had never trained for any race longer than the one needed to catch a bus in a hurry.

So there I was, readying myself for one of this races (10km, clear day, beautiful location) when I spotted my lovely gym trainer in running gear. To say it was a vision of heaven is a cliché, but since I am only good at clichés we will have to live with it. Clad in black, her toned, muscular legs looked spectacular, her flame of a hair was tied up in a cute ponytail and wearing menacing sun glasses. Oh my, my heart rate monitor showed my BPM going all round the place as soon as I saw her.

I naturally approached to say hello and she was genuinely surprised to see me there. Grabbing the occasion I joked that I bet I could beat her on the race. She stared at me with a "no f-way" look on her eyes. So she dared me: "what do you want to bet?".

OK, I said, dinner, the winner says where. She agreed, foolishly, because she had only seen my clumsiness in the gym but not my escapades in the park. Information is power they say, I do so as well.

So we lined up and the race started. She took off and started too fast, by then I was an experienced  runner, I knew how to pace myself and was happy to settle hooping for a PB this time. To my surprise (since I frankly was not expecting to win) I saw that I was beginning to recover the ground lost.

When I overtook her, around 1 km before the end, I saw her beautiful features harden, the fatty was passing her!

When she reached the finish line, clearly a bit angry, she looked at me with a mixture of disdain, curiosity, and maybe a bit of appreciation.

Where is dinner then? - she said as a manner of greeting.

"On my place!" I replied inspired, she looked at me inquisitively "and when?" she said.

Tonight - I replied - unless you are really tired.

Smiles.

That day a very memorable relationship started, no t of Polish Princess proportions, but close enough.

Eventually we parted ways, the memory that comes more often to me is not her looks, her beautiful face, nothing visual. It is the feeling the first time I touched her legs, some weeks later once her defences fell down given her  natural reticence to be seen around with a fatty lad.

The hardened muscle underneath the soft skin made, and still makes, the hairs in the back of my head stand. I have never touched something more beautifully impressive than those well toned calves.

Those calves. My kingdom for those calves!