For a group of girls most characterised by their ability to fill entire evenings with relentless consumption of alcohol and cigarettes, our latest goal could possibly be construed as a fanciful one.
A half marathon.
Bring it on, I say. There's nothing like the prospect of serious physical pain to force regime-change.
Francine was the only person who said, '21kms, you've got to be KIDDING' - ironically she's the only one of us who can currently run more than 10.
Anyway, September 9: Tara, Julia and I have a date with Medellin, Colombia. I have been banking on our altitude-inspired advantage. We're training at 2300 metres and the race is at 1500 so I thought that'd count for at least a few kms of fitness.
Unfortunately, then I did some research. In the eyes of many, altitude training is a myth.
Never mind, onwards and upwards. Or downwards as the case may be.
Francine likes to run to stay trim: after a small Mexican doctor told her he was 'overweight', she came to Parque Chapultepec and lost 12 kgs in the space of a few months. Now she is an utter babe.
She has no concern about the fitness at all, which is lucky because my legs are long enough that I can stagger along gasping for breath while she trots along beside me saying 'no Michelle, you don't call him and say you miss him. You are increasing your value. Let him come to you. Value maximisation, that's what we're doing here.'
Usually at that point, all I want to maximise is oxygen to lungs so I just make understanding noises and hope she keeps talking.
We are on the way out of Parque Chapultepec, after an easy 8km jog which canvassed topics like: Is Mr UN a cabron dirty-dog player who triple times women and then dumps them? Should breast implants be resisted purely on the basis that your boyfriend is pushing for them (YES!) and why do Mexicans wear tracksuits to run in the middle of summer? (Francine: "little fatties think they're going to sweat out 20kgs of fat in one afternoon. Huh.")
We are driving the wrong way down a one-way street out of Parque Chapultepec, and Francine is explaining value maximisation,
"You should make sure you are unavailable at least once - twice is better - when he wants to see you. Also, I'm going to make sure I tell Cachai that Mr UN is all over you like a rash so that then he'll tell Iñaki ... as soon as someone else starts sniffing around, that's what drives them crazy."
"But Francine, isn't that game-playing?"
"Game playing? God no! It's the truth. Oh shit, is that a police car? Is he coming after us? Oh fuck, no way. Hang on, I've just got to pull over. Oh great, he's going to want a bribe. I've only got a 500 and there's no WAY I'm giving him that."
She gets out of the car, the policeman explains that she was driving on the cyclists track, not to mention the wrong way down a one-way street. I watch them in the rear vision mirror, Francine is using WAY too much good Spanish to now be able to pull off the flakey foreigner 'I'm new here' tack.
She comes to the window, "I bet the little runt wants me to pay him. Can you see my registration papers? They're in the glove compartment, have you got 20 pesos, maybe 50. No, I don't want him to see you reaching for your wallet because I don't even want him to think about money."
Traffic police are among the least-respected occupations in Mexico. I'd say they rank even lower than the guys who fence off bits of the curb, wave their arms while you're parking, and then require you to pay them.
These guys just go around busting people, and getting paid bribes. That's it. There is no such thing as a ticket... the money goes straight into their pockets.
She takes the papers and returns moments later. "He's saying 'hay que pagar' - I have to pay. I played it dumb and said 'are we going to the delegation'. But he's saying that he'll lead us out to Constituentes because we're lost."
We're driving along behind the police car, all its lights flashing and Francine is saying, "I do NOT want to pay this guy."
We reach the roundabout and the police car passes the exit for Constituentes, and plants itself in the exit to a dark street that appears to lead nowehere. He's waving us past.
If there's one thing I would say I do well, it's staying calm in pressurised situations. While Francine is blistering about what the f*ck are they doing... I say,
"Are we going to do a runner?"
I mean, let's face it, the police car would have to do another whole lap of the roundabout to catch us and then get past all the traffic.
Francine floors it and we take the Constituentes exit. To show that we're not actually doing a runner, we smile, wave and call 'Gracias', to the cops who are now doing emphatic hand movements to tell us to follow them.
Francine is now driving like a madwoman, and I'm starting to think the traffic police will have to catch up with us in five minutes anyway to clean up the five-car pileup we're about to cause... she's slipping through green lights and swerving around gridlocked traffic.
As she drives, she does a running commentary, "Huh. Couldn't take the bribe in the open so they wanted to get us away from public places did they? Wants a blowjob down a dark street does he? Well, I'm not giving a blow job to that little fat fuck. Got to be kidding."
Over the course of the 20 minute journey home, it seems every second car on the road is a police car with its lights on. So the trip is punctuated with "Is that our guy Michelle?"
"No Francine, there is no way they could have caught up to us, not with the way you were driving."
Most of them are just harrassing microbuses, tailgaiting the poor things yelling 'avancele' over the dictophone. What social purpose they're serving, I'm not sure.
So there we have it, Francine and I have successfully done a runner from the police.
I feel we should be playing the soundtrack from Thelma and Louise, but unfortunately all she's got is Luis Miguel, whose teeth are WAY too white.
I go home to savour Monday night with an apartment, TV ... and a beer.
