…he’d be a miler. I believe this very firmly. The distance seems right for him: anything shorter and he wouldn’t bother; anything longer he probably wouldn’t have time to train for properly, what with his job and all the traveling he does. Seriously, though, just imagine what a cool runner James Bond would make. Or better yet, a race director. Those races would go off flawlessly. They would be models of efficiency. And the goodie bags would contain super-nifty running gadgets, like packets of Gu that double as reflectors you could wear when running in the dark. O the possibilities! Running’s classiness would have no choice but to ratchet up a few points.
After seeing Skyfall, the newest Bond installment, I’ve actually been thinking that the world in general, not just running, could stand a good strong dose of 007. Not the man himself, obviously, or his cohorts, but the spirit of it all. Guns and violence and the incessant stream of pesky villains plotting mass destruction notwithstanding, how great would it be if people started acting a little more like the characters in a Bond movie? The good guys, that is. The bad guys all tend to be nuts, and things generally don’t work out well for them anyway, so let’s just disregard them.
The men and women of Ian Fleming’s world are intelligent. They are resourceful. They dress, if not impeccably, then tastefully, always. They display tenacity and guts under every circumstance. They always seem to have a drink nearby, and always generously offer to share even if they despise their company, but no one ever gets sloppy. Everyone has a different role – spy, boss of the spy, tech person, curious damsel – and though they rarely understand each other, they eventually accept that nothing will get accomplished successfully without everyone working together.
Breaking it down further between the sexes: the men, even if they sometimes act like baffling jerks, would have an excellent grasp of basic manners and chivalry. In the end, they would actually turn out to be pretty great, yet still retain some alluring mystery. They would drink simple yet classy drinks – no Red Bull and vodka, no rum and Diet Coke. They could operate any vehicle, ever. They would know how to fight – with their fists – but only if they really, really had to.
The women would be smart. They wouldn’t take garbage from anyone, not even a suave, cunning British guy in a tuxedo. They would drink whisky and have their own boats. They could smoothly sashay around in a formal gown, acting casual and sophisticated, with a gun(s) strapped to their leg. They, too, would know how to fight, if they really, really had to.
Do I wish I could land a spot in a Bond flick? Heck yeah! First, however, they would need to find a role for a woman who prefers jeans to dresses, who wears high heels approximately six times per year, who would usually take a beer or glass of wine over anything containing vodka, who would dream of owning a boat if she lived near actual water, and if she really, really has to, knows how to…er…run.
Oh well. A girl can dream, can’t she?