a challenge

It’s Sophie’s Birthday. She’s arranged to meet a few people in the Rising Sun for drinks after work. I am a bit late as I have to wrap her present - some earrings, which Fran helped me to chose.

The earrings are like little flowers, dangling drops of blue-green stone with delicate silver petals, and a necklace to match. I’ve also bought a little tin box in the shape of a smiling rainforest frog, and popped them all inside, wrapped in folds of blue tissue.

Wheeling my bike down the street to the Rising Sun I meet Dave the ex-marine, mate of Brett and my accidental nemesis in the Hellathon.

“Hi ya. How’s training going?”

“All right,” he says. “You doing the Arthur Harrington?”

“Don’t know,” I say vaguely, not understanding the reference to my former school.

“You should,” says Dave. “It’s a nice flat course - a good warm up for the triathlon.”

I twig it must be some kind of running event.

“Oh, right,” I say. “When is it?”

“Sunday.”

“What, this Sunday?”

“Yea, hold on,” he says. “I’ve got the details here somewhere.”

We pause outside the Rising Sun. Dave takes out his wallet - brown cracked leather, bulging with bank notes and bits of paper.

“Never throw anything away,” he says. He pulls out a handful of old receipts and starts sorting through them, like a polka player arranging cards. “Ah here it is.”

He hands me a crumpled sheet of pink paper. It’s printed with red ink and has the bottom half roughly torn from it.

The Arthur Harrington 10 Miles. Sunday 23rd August. Start 10.30 a.m. at the Arthur Harrington Community College, Eversley Way, Westing.

Entry £4 (£5 on the day). Medal and goody bag to all finishers (with grateful thanks to Glycospeed, Westing Chronicle, Better Health Insurance (BHI) and Harrisons (Westing) Ltd the official sponsors of the Arthur Harrington 10 miler).

I hand the piece of paper back to Dave.

“Keep it,” he says.

“Cheers,” I say. “See you on Sunday, then.”

Dave nods and heads for the door of the pub.

“You going to Sophie’s drink?”

Dave nods.

“In that case, I’ll see you in a couple of secs.”

I wheel my bike down the alleyway beside the Rising Sun, through a gate, past a couple of old metal beer barrels and into the pub garden. It is a slightly overcast evening, but Sophie is sat outside beneath the vines surrounded by a gang of people from Bakers and Macey. I wave and carefully stow my bike against the fence at the back of the beer garden. I would prefer to lock it. However, I don’t want to appear too uptight, and decide I’ll just keep an eye on it instead.

As I make my way over to Sophie she squeezes herself up on the bench to make room for me. The aroma of microwaved lasagne wafts from the pub kitchen. I am just deciding whether or not to order a bowl of chips, when Brett appears carrying a huge tray of drinks and plonks himself down next to Sophie.

“Budge over,” he says, and prods her bottom in an over familiar way.

“All right Brett,” I say caustically.

He ignores me and starts to slowly hand out drinks. When he’s finished, he takes a sip of his lager, and looks up as if surprised to see me there. “All right Isaac?” he says, his voice filled with mock warmth. “If I’d known you were coming I’d have bought you a Bacardi.”

“Yea, yea,” I say.

He pulls a roll of notes from his back pocket and peels off a tenner. “Go and buy yourself one,” he says. “And while you’re out there get us some dry roasted. Anyone else want any nuts or crisps?”

I ignore him and head to the bar.

“What’s up with him?” I hear him say.

I take a deep breath and order myself a pint of Stella. When I get back outside, I plonk my pint on the table, and squat down beside Sophie.

“You OK?” asks Sophie.

“Yea, kind of,” I say sourly.

She looks away, miffed at my mood.

Great, I think, that cunt’s done it again. I glare at Brett. He looks through me.

“So, Dave reckons you’re running a race against him on Sunday.”

I nod.

“10 miles,” I say. “Warm up for the Hellathon.”

“Are you?” says Sophie.

“Yea,” I say. “Won’t take long. Only a couple of hours in the morning.”

“So how long do you reckon you’ll stay with him then?” asks Brett. “About a mile?”

I look over at Dave. He is deep in conversation with Martin.

“We’re probably about the same,” I say, standing up.

“You reckon?” says Brett. He looks me up and down. “All legs and no body,” he says.

“Well we can’t all be fat gits like you,” I say.

“Newton!” says Sophie.

“Don’t worry love,” says Brett. “He’ll probably put a bit more meat on when he grows up.”

“Oh, fuck yourself, you stupid cunt.”

“Newton!!” says Sophie. Her eyes implore me to calm down. Come on, they say, it’s my birthday. But I’m not to be persuaded and jerk my thumb aggressively at Brett.

“Well I can’t see him doing a fucking triathlon. Everytime he tried to get out onto the beach, the Greenpeace supporters would haul him back in the water.”

A few people giggle nervously.

“What did you say?” says Brett.

“I said you’re a fucking whale,” I mutter.

“You what?” says Brett, he starts to get up.

“You heard,” I say, standing face to face with him, our foreheads almost touching. Sophie looks as if she is about to burst into tears. Fortunately at that moment Nutter arrives.

“Boys, boys, boys,” he says. He wraps an arm around each of our shoulders. “Calm down.”

He somehow manoeuvres us so that I end up being plonked down next to Sophie and Brett is sat on the other side of the table.

I put my hand on Sophie’s thigh. She pushes it off, and looks the other way.

“Anyway,” I say to Brett. “I bet I come in before your man at the Sunday.” I nod over at Dave the ex-marine.

“How much?” says Brett.

I pause. My standard wager is a fiver. But I remember the wadge of notes in Brett’s back pocket. I don’t want to look small time.

“A ton,” I say.

“You’re on,” says Brett. He spits on his hand and extends it across the table.

I shake his hand, his fingers predictably crushing mine, the stickiness of his saliva spreading across my palm. I hear the girls tut and groan with disgust. We look each other in the eye.

“No bullshit,” I say. “One hundred quid. Cash.”

“You better get saving,” he says.

Sophie just looks at me and shakes her head. Her eyes fill with disappointment. I shrug belligerently and wonder why life can’t be more like those old movies where women swoon when guys start fighting over them.

What am I supposed to do? Let that stupid cunt treat me like shit and laugh about it?

I go over to talk to Dave.

“Sorry, mate. I guess you overheard my little bet with Brett?”

Dave nods.

“Just wanted you to know, it’s nothing personal,” I say. “I’ve got nothing against you at all. Far from it.”

Dave doesn’t answer.

“Look, I know Brett’s your mate,” I say. “I just don’t get on with the guy. We just wind each other up.”

“Wouldn’t worry about it,” says Dave.

He casually sips his orange juice. I can tell he doesn’t think I’ve got a chance of beating him anyway. I nod in a friendly enough way. But really I’m thinking, OK you bastard, just you wait and see.

I go back over to Sophie and hand her the present.

“I got you this,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says coldly and puts it in her hand bag without even looking at it. I go over to chat to Nutter and Clem.

Ten minutes later I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is Sophie. She is wearing the earrings. She gives me a rather formal peck on the cheek.

“Those look really lovely on you,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says icily.

I look at her.

“Sorry,” I say.

Sophie stares at me. Her eyes are like stones.

“What?” I say.

She shakes her head sadly.

I take her hand, and give it a little squeeze. She does not respond.

“I’ll see you later?” I ask.

She pauses for a second, then sighs and nods.

“Whatever.”

the Arthur Harrington

It would normally be embarrassing to apply vaseline to one’s extremities in front of three hundred people, a third of whom are semi-naked women. However, Dave has assured me that a liberal smearing of ‘vaz’ is essential in hot weather, and it’s turning into a real scorcher, so I decide I’d better follow his advice. Marines know about this type of thing.

As I shove my hands down my shorts, I do try to be discreet. But, whichever way I turn, my gaze seems to fall upon some overt display of the female form. Breasts strain against skimpy cotton, and nipples poke out like clumsily hidden hazelnuts. To my right, two yards of naked thigh are spread wide open around a vulva of bright green lycra, pouting as if about to give birth to some martianlike offspring of lime latex. And, bent over, just a few inches to the left of my face, a well-toned posterior casually flexes up and down, as if being penetrated by some large, invisible love-aid.

In slightly different circumstances, the scene would be enough to sweep even the most demanding of voyeurs from impotence to premature ejaculation in a few hazy moments. However, as I casually slide my fingers past my penis and smear the vaseline liberally around my balls and groin, I feel not even a hint of titillation. Rather, I am overcome by a kind of asexual indifference, as if all the testosterone has been bled out of my balls and replaced with weak lettuce juice. I guess my hormones have all been diverted, my brain overriding those primitive urges to build up the adrenaline in my legs and lungs, ready for the ten miles ahead.

I casually scoop up another dollop of vaseline and slide it between my buttocks. Most of it gets caught in the hair that sprouts from my arse like rhubarb from a compost heap. I decide not to repeat the procedure.

Squatting on the floor, as if thoughtfully shitting, I slip my hand inside my T-shirt, apply a final dollop of ‘vaz’ to each nipple in turn, and then gaze around at those familiar concrete walls.

It feels surreal being back in the sports hall at Arthur Harrington. Since they’ve changed the school from a Comprehensive to a Community College, they’ve torn down the old boy’s changing rooms. They’ve ripped out the showers with their mildewed tiles and broken taps, removed the toilet cubicles with their graffiti and crap smeared walls, and pulled down the ceiling with it’s layered wads of bog roll, which generations of Westing school boys (including me) soaked in the sink and hurled up there like papier mâché seagull shit.

In place of the changing room,s they’ve built a state-of-the-art gym with treadmills, cycling machines, padded weights and TV screens playing motivational rock videos - the smell of piss, farts and Ralgex, replaced with Calendula, Coconut and Lime. I feel rather cheated. The only thing that doesn’t seem to have changed is the main sports hall. Except, like everything else, it seems smaller than I remember.

I re-pin my number to my vest (having put it on crooked the first time), re-lace my trainers and take one last look up at the basket ball rings, raised from the vertical to the horizontal, as if for a gravity-free game between astronauts and angels.

I remember one morning in P.E., when I was about fourteen, we had to see how many baskets we could score in a minute. Being of only average height, I usually only scored about one basket in three. However, that morning I seemed to be in a perfect loop, jumping up to bounce the ball off the back board, catching it beneath the net, stepping back and jumping up again. I didn’t miss once. In fact, I don’t think I even hit the rim once. I can’t remember how many baskets I managed in my minute. But I can remember going faster and faster, and it must have been over thirty.

When it came to calling out our scores the sports master, Mr Goodall, didn’t believe me. I think I’d probably scored more than he’d ever done. Fortunately the other kids sharing the basket with me, backed me up, and he reluctantly gave me a house point.

Buoyed up by that unexpectedly pleasant memory, I zip up my Gola rucksack and go over to the bag check area - a series of tables bedecked with banners from the sponsors of the race - Westing Chronicle, Westing Building Society, Glycospeed, Saucony, Harrisons Mercedes and Better Health Insurance (BHI) - your first choice for medical care that’s always there...for you and your family.

Actually, I mutter to myself, you’re not my fucking first choice, as I’m a big believer in the NHS (even if I did have that little run in at my local GPs). Still, it isn’t the moment to come over all political. I have a race to run. The race is actually much bigger than I thought it would be. I imagined there’d be about fifty joggers taking part. There are actually five hundred serious athletes, many of whom are competing in the South West 10 Mile Championships.

There’s even some Ethiopian guest runner who was in the final of the 5,000 metres in the last Olympics. Apparently it’s a fast course and he’s trying to beat the British all comers record. Fortunately, there are also a few fat bastards, half-a dozen firemen in helmets and shorts, and a couple of charity runners dressed as badgers, so I didn’t feel too out of it in my old Bob Marley T-shirt. Even so, it is quite intimidating to be surrounded by so many fit people, including Dave the marine who is looking worryingly muscular in matching red vest and shorts.

Standing there in the heat, waiting to be called to the start line, I begin to have serious second thoughts about the Hellathon (and have already kissed my hundred quid goodbye). Dave can sense my nervousness.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just run your own race.” And he begins to jog vigorously on the spot.

I think of copying him, but my mouth is already dry and I am starting to sweat. So, I decide to save my energy for the race, and focus on the motivational articles I’ve memorised from Runners’s World.

‘Why place barriers in front of yourself? If you think you can’t achieve something then you never will. If you always strive to do the best you can, then you will make full use of your potential, and your scope for achievement will be limitless.’

Sounds easy enough...

‘Run the race at your own pace, but respect and learn from your fellow runners. Remember you are not running against them, you are running along side them. The position that you finish in a race depends merely upon the relative speeds of those who you are running with. Even if you are the fastest runner in the world at a certain moment in time, one day you will not be. Achievement is purely personal. You can only ever aim to do the best that you can at a specific time in a specific place and under specific circumstances. To worry about circumstances that you cannot control is a waste of energy. It limits your potential.’

Yea, but that’s easier said than done when you’re about to be beaten by a bloke dressed as a badger.

‘Learn when you lose. When you do not run as fast as you had expected, do not cast blame, do not be depressed, do not give up. Learn a lesson. If you started too fast, you have learned to start slower next time. If you struggle on a hilly course, practice running up more hills in training. Be systematic. Make a note of how you feel before and after each race, what you ate, how much you had to drink and what training you did. Look for the positive patterns and follow them. Remember, it is only by making mistakes, identifying those mistakes and learning how to avoid them in the future that anyone ever improves. Someone who never makes mistakes never meets their full potential.’

Consider the race won...

‘Remember, it is the journey not the destination that is important. If you focus on the finishing line, you will fail to concentrate on what you are doing. You are not made of iron and the finishing line is not a magnet that magically draws you to it. It is merely a place and point in time, which you have not yet reached. So, concentrate on your running - smooth steady steps, treading out those positive patterns that enable you to perform to the peak of your ability’.

Smooth, steady and positive, hmmmm...More like uncoordinated, unfit and unprepared...Methinks I should have trained a bit harder...

‘Forget the popular saying, there is no gain without pain. Feelings of stress, aching and fatigue are not prerequisites for achievement. In fact, those feelings tell us that we are failing to achieve, that we are causing damage to our bodies. When running becomes painful never be too proud to stop. Instead of trying to ignore pain, pause and consider why it has occurred, what it signifies. Do not struggle against pain. Devise a plan to overcome it. You cannot magically make your body able to run further and faster in a short space of time. Slow, systematic controlled improvements are what yield results. And by maintaining a simple, objective plan you eliminate doubt and stress.’

Yep, simple is good for me...

‘Remember emotions float and fluctuate. They are subjective. You cannot deny them, but you cannot make rational decisions based upon them. Numbers are fixed. They are objective. Hence they can be used as unfaltering focal points by which to chart your personal development. So, remember, if you want to maximise your potential as a runner, there are only three things you really need to know - Speed equals distance divided by time. Distance equals speed multiplied by time. Time equals distance divided by speed.’

And fourthly, I really am dying for a shit.

I look over my shoulder. A huge queue has formed at the mobile toilet cubicles outside the sports centre. A loudspeaker blares.

“Would all runners make their way to the start line.”

Fuck it. I go and join the queue. My bowel twists like a Chinese puzzle. I peer anxiously at my watch. Runners continue to gather at the start line. After what seems like half-an-hour (but must only be a couple of minutes) I take my turn in loo three. The toilet is disgusting. They say you should eat pasta the night before a race. From the overpowering stench in the cubicle, I guessed someone must also have had a double helping of garlic bread. And judging by the contents of the toilet bowl someone else obviously opted for Tikka Massala. They have pebble dashed the bowl, the seat and most of the floor, but I am too desperate to care.

I yank down my shorts to my knees, and squat with my bum hovering above the seat. Not an ideal stance if you are constipated. But, at that particular moment it is not an issue. I feel as if a gallon of watery waste is about to explode out of me like effluent from some dodgy chemical factory. In the end, I expel just one squishy pebble with a rasping wet fart. Bodies can be so cruel.

There is no paper, but I am beyond caring. I pull up my shorts, splash through the shit on the floor and hurry to the start. To my relief the race is running slightly late. I push through the fun runners, searching frantically for Dave, among a hundred red vests and marine-style crew cuts.

Eventually, I find him and stand a couple of rows behind, hemmed in on each side. A surprising warmth rises from the runners around me. The butterflies in my stomach make another mass migration to my bowels.

I flick through the buttons on my stop watch. The time 10:34. Date 23 08. Alarm clock 6:25. Shit, wrong button. Stop watch, 0:00:00. Quick check. Numbers move - barely discernible tenths and a blur of hundredths. Click. They freeze 0:02:73. Click. Return to zero. A universe in limbo. No plus no minus, waiting to be ignited by the big bang of the gun. On cue, the starter’s voice comes over the Tannoy.

“OK everybody. The 11th Arthur Harrington Charity Run incorporating the South West Ten Mile Championships will commence in ten seconds, all together now...”

Everyone in the crowd, each runner, even the elite athletes up at the front, join in the chant...six, five, four, three, two, one....

the race

A klaxon sounds like a fog horn, and I am swept forward in a torrent of thrusting limbs. As we pour down the road outside the school, it feels as if I am sprinting. My heart pounds and I start to breath like a dirty phone caller. Ignoring every bit of advice in Runners’ World, I forget any idea of running my own race, and just sruggle to keep up with Dave the marine, eyes focused on his red vest pulling away in front of me.

As we reach the main road, thankfully the pace starts to subside, with athletes stringing out in front and behind me. My mind feels totally consumed by the process of running, emptied of all superfluous thought. My head spins and my gaze glazes over, as if I am looking at a magic eye picture, meditating on the hoof. My legs pound away as if they have become detached from the rest of my body, running to their own rhythm.

It is very strange. The race follows roads I have walked down every day for years, yet it feels as if I don’t recognise them at all, as if I am travelling by magic carpet through some foreign town.

After a while, I find myself running in a group of about a dozen athletes. Dave is striding away up at the front of the group. I am struggling at the back. A couple of hundred yards ahead, I can see a marker board, and focus on that. I imagine we must be about half-way through the race. But when we reach the yellow board it says 2 miles. I start to drift away from the back of the group. I feel like a sandbag being discarded from a balloon, and am glad when the sun finally drifts behind a cloud.

Slowly, I fall away from the group of runners ahead, until I am running on my own down a quiet avenue. For a moment I can hear the echo of my footsteps, above the background of distant lawn mowers and radios. It is another of those ‘hanging in the cage’ moments. But it doesn’t last for long. My calves have really started to ache, unused to the pace at which I’ve been running. The houses in the avenue are bordered by low walls, and I have to fight the temptation to pause and sit on one for a while. Just a quick breather, my body pleads. But I know if my legs stop moving, they will never start again.

At the end of the avenue a man is watering his lawn. His children, two young girls, are running in and out of the spray in vests and knickers. As I pass, they sprint to the edge of the lawn and wave at me. I smile and keep on running. At the corner of the Avenue, a marshal - a young lad in one of those yellow Westing Chronicle bibs - motions me to turn right and I realise I am in the lane that heads up to Hallowsmere Common.

As I run gratefully through the cool shadows of trees, I hear footsteps. I look back over my shoulder and see a guy, about fifty, in a blue vest, pounding up behind me. I put on a slight spurt, but I can still hear him getting closer and closer. At the end of the lane is a drinks stations, the ground covered with discarded cups and sponges. By the time I reach it, the man in the blue vest is right on my heels. I gratefully grab a cup from a girl in a yellow bib, take a couple of sips and pour the cold water over my head, feeling it douse my hair, run down my face and trickle onto my chest. The other man holds onto his drink for longer, taking slow and steady sips. He passes me, and I tuck in behind, letting him tow me along.

The man is quite bulky with flabby arms covered in a dense mat of grey hair, and a slight belly, which wobbles beneath his vest with every step. However, he has very pronounced calf muscles as if he might once have played a lot of football. And he can certainly shift. I glance down at my own arms, which are about half the size of the man’s, and have to concede that Brett was right. Despite all that swimming and lifting boxes, I am indeed all legs and no body. Christ, I think, I can’t let this fat bugger beat me, and I make renewed efforts to stay with him.

As we turn onto the Common, another Marshal shouts at us to ‘stay on the main path and follow the yellow arrows.’ I nod to him and we head on down the stoney track, which curves around the edge of the old American air base. Suddenly, ahead of us I see a small group of runners, and realise we are gaining on them. Spirits lifted, me and the other man start to raise our pace, and we are soon with them. I am amazed (and more than a little elated) to see that one of the struggling runners is Dave the ex-marine. It’s like the tortoise and the hare.

I almost felt guilty about going past Dave. I give him a quick sideways glance and a nod. I hope my look says ‘go on, keep on going’ rather than ‘chew on my sweaty insoles, loser’.

Dave returns my glance with a gritty grin and a thumbs up. So, I guess I don’t seem too smug.

Once we’ve gone past the group of runners, the other man, increases his speed again. I can sense he is pissed off that I am still with him after he’d caught me up so easily. But I’ve got second wind, Dave is safely behind me, and I am not going to be shaken off that easily.

We are so preoccupied with keeping up with each other, that somewhere along the way, we miss a yellow arrow. For a couple of minutes I don’t realise our mistake. But then the track reaches a kind of crossroads. Each of the three routes ahead are minor paths, all overgrown and clearly not part of the route.

“Shit,” I say. “We better head back that way.”

The man ignores me and heads off down to the path to our right. He looks a bit manic and his face has gone bright red. I guess he is just pissed off at having made a mistake. But he seems to know where he’s going, so I follow him.

The man starts to run faster and more erratically leaping through brambles and bracken. I presume he knows a short cut to the main path and is just desperate to get back in the race. I continue to go with him. Then, suddenly the man stops. In fact, he stops so suddenly I practically run into the back of him. Had enough, mate? I think to myself, and charge on past him, grinning madly.

The path opens into an open area of heather with a scattering of pine trees. About two hundred yards away, beyond another mass of birch and brambles I can see the other runners. I sprint towards them, eager to rejoin the race, and desperate for Dave not to get too far ahead of me. About half way across the heather, I glance back over my shoulder to see if the other man is behind me. There is no sign. I guess, he’s probably given up.

Just before I reach the main path, I glance back over my shoulder again. There is still no sign of the man. Oh well, I tell myself, he’s probably sat down for a rest. Maybe he’s pulled a muscle. He did seem to stop very suddenly.

I pause. Beyond the screen of birches, runners flood past. I don’t know quite why, but I suddenly turn and retrace my steps through the heather. I start to run faster and faster, until I reach the path where the man stopped.

He is lying in the bracken. His face is the same purple-blue as his vest. Shit. I scramble over to him and put my ear to his mouth. I feel at his wrist for a pulse. I can’t tell if he is breathing or not. I half-think about administering CPU. But it’s five years since I did a one-day first aid course and I can’t remember if it I’m meant to do one breath and seven pumps on the chest or one pump and seven breaths. I put my ear to the man’s mouth again. His lips look like he’d been sucking a leaky biro. Fuck.

“It’s all right mate,” I say, I’ll be back in a minute. I sprint across the heather, through the birches and head back up the main path at about thirty miles per hour.

Confusion crosses the faces of the runners coming towards me. Most dodge me, one deliberately steps in my way, determined not to break his stride for a madman.

“Get the fuck out of it,” I shout and push him in the chest like a charging flanker.

“Oi mate,” shouts some joker, “you’re going the wrong way.” Another runner, a young woman, repeats the advice. I thinks she is actually being serious, trying to be helpful, as if I hadn’t realised, the daft cow.

Finally I reach a marshal. He looks at me like I’m about to attack him, and actually flinches as I lunge forward, arms outstretched, foaming at the mouth like a rabid mummy.

“You’ve got to help,” I pant, almost doubling over, “There’s a guy back there, collapsed. I don’t think he’s breathing.”

“Is there anyone who knows first aid with him?” asks the marshal. He pulls a mobile phone from his pocket.

“No, he’s off the track. We took a wrong turn. Look, ring for a fucking ambulance, the guy’s going to die.”

I try to snatch the marshal’s phone from him. Another marshal comes to shepherd me away, as the first marshal talks into his phone. I wriggle out of the second marshal’s grip.

“Just fucking follow me,” I shout and head back up the track.

The marshall heads after me. The straggling runners are bemused as we go pounding past them, then suddenly charge off through the birches and bracken.

We reach the man, and the marshal immediately starts to give the guy the kiss of life. I just stand there, relieved to hear the sound of distant sirens. The marshal pauses and puts his ear to the man’s mouth. He frowns and starts pumping away at the guy’s chest like mad. He looks up over his shoulder at me.

“Well don’t just stand there. Get back to the edge of the path mate and guide them in.”

I reach the path and see a Range Rover or something similar with a siren on top, charging towards me. I guess it’s the police and wave both arms in wild windmills. The vehicle reaches us and I realise it’s some kind of four wheel drive ambulance. The paramedics lean out of the window.

“He’s through there,” I tell the driver and gesture beyond the trees, “There’s an opening on the left about fifty yards further up. It’s only heather. You should be able to get across to him. You’ll see the marshal.”

The paramedic nods. “You OK to stay here?” he says. I nod, and the truck heads up the track and then turns through a gap in the trees. More marshals come rushing up the track.

I wave to them.

“He’s through there!”

Suddenly it seems like there’re marshals and police everywhere. A few of the end runners stop to see what’s going on. One of the policemen waves them on. “Please keep running,” he shouts. “The situation is under control. Please continue with the race.”

He waves his arms at me, as I continue to stand there.

“Continue to the end please sir. Nothing to worry about.”

“No, no. I was the one who...”

The policeman isn’t listening.

“On with the race please sir.”

“But...”

He starts to get annoyed.

“Please continue with your running, sir. You’re just obstructing people standing here.”

I sigh and wander off down the track. Fuck it, I think, and break into a jog. I join the last few stragglers.

Sophie is waiting at the end. There are some other people from Bakers and Macey. I notice Dave, standing there in his vest with a medal. He looks slightly confused but pleased to have finished so far ahead of me. They all clap and cheer as I jog past.

“Well done,” says an old guy at the end. He pats me on the back. “Good effort.”

He hands me a cup of water and a banana.

Further along a lady puts a medal round my neck, and hooks a goody bag over my arm.

“Well done,” she echoes in a plummy voice.

Sophie comes over to me all smiles.

“Well done,” she says.

I sigh. I want to tell her about the guy who collapsed, but then my mind just goes totally blank, like my brain has turned into a dry sponge. I lean forward with my hands on my thighs staring at dust.

Dave joins us. He gives me a pat on the back.

I pull away, and go and stand by myself, staring back into the trees.

morning

Cornflakes all soggy and toast gone cold, I sit in the kitchen with the post-race special of the Westing Chronicle. I only picked up the paper from the Spar a couple of minutes earlier, but I’ve already read the story seven times.

RACE OFFICIALS PRAISED AFTER RUNNER COLLAPSES

Race organisers have praised the prompt action of marshals and paramedics who ‘probably saved the life’ of a runner who suffered a heart attack in the extreme heat towards the end of Sunday’s race.

The man, 53-year-old Duncan Jervis, a self-employed plumber of Ravenwood Lane, became disorientated during the race and left the course on Hallowsmere Common.

Marshals were alerted by another runner, and race paramedics were immediately called to aid Mr Jervis, a father of two, who had stopped breathing.

Following treatment at the scene, Mr Jervis was taken to St Margaret’s Hospital, where his condition is said to be serious but stable.

Mr Meredith Davis, Headmaster of Arthur Harrington, praised the prompt action of the Marshals. “I am extremely pleased with the way the race officials, the police and the ambulance service responded to this incident.”

“Mr Jervis’s daughters, Lucy and Gemma, both attend Arthur Harrington, and we are pleased for them that the prompt actions of the paramedics were able to avert a possible tragedy.”

“The conditions were very hot on Sunday, and we do advise people that they run at their own risk,” said Mr Davis.

“I should stress that, while we want to encourage people to partcipate in this annual event, they should always consult their GP first if they have any doubts about their fitness.”

I get dressed and, ignoring the pain in my calves and thighs, I cycle into town. I stop at the cash point by the precinct, and check the balance of my account: £108.43 CR. I withdraw one hundred pounds and cycle to the warehouse.

“I thought you had a day off today,” says Colin.

“I’m going to hand in my notice,” I tell him.

Colin shows no emotion.

“You’ll have to go up and tell Barbara,” he says.

I nod.

“Fine.”

On the way up to Personnel I stop off at the Sports Department. I tell Fran I’m leaving.

“I don’t blame you,” she says, but before we can chat any more she is distracted by a lady who wants to buy a badminton racket for her son.

Brett spots me and strides over, beaming.

“Hey Isaac. I bet you’re sore this morning.”

I nod.

“Yea, my calves are aching a little,” I say.

“And your arse from where old Davey boy whipped it.” He laughs. “Not looking good for the Hellathon is it?”

“Yea, well. I’ve decided not to do it.”

Brett looks over the moon.

“Aha. I knew you wouldn’t. I knew it.” He is ecstatic.

“Anyway,” I say. “Don’t worry about your hundred quid.” I pull five folded twenties from my pocket and shove them into the top pocket of Brett’s jacket.

He looks startled. He pulls the money out of his pocket, and hands it back to me. “Don’t be a twat.”

“No you’re the fucking twat,” I say. I throw the notes at him and walk off, leaving them floating down around him as if from an exploded vault.

“You’re mental,” says Brett. “You shouldn’t be working here.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, without looking back. “I’m not anymore.”

I go up to Barbara’s office, knock on the door and walk straight in.

“Can you wait a minute please,” she says snootily, glancing up briefly from her paperwork.

“No,” I say. “I’ve just come to tell you I’m quitting.”

“Right now?” she asks with a sigh, and continues to scribble.

“Yes.”

“There are procedures,” she says. “First you need to discuss it with your line manager, then you’ll need to give us two week’s notice in writing and...”

“Look I don’t give a shit. I’m going OK.”

Barbara stopped writing and looked up sharply.

“You won’t find it easy to find anything else,” she says.

“Thanks for your concern, but I’ll be OK.”

“We will have to make a note of this on your employment record. You may not get a reference.”

“Whatever,” I say. “Look, it’s nothing personal. I understand what you’re saying. You’ve been very nice to me and I appreciate it. But I just can’t do this anymore.”

Barbara’s eyes glaze over. I can see she has no time for my melodrama.

“Oh well,” I say. “See you then.”

“Goodbye, Newton” she says wearily.

I return to the warehouse and collect my bike. Everybody is busy. I would like to say goodbye to Martin and Nutter and Clem. But, in a way, I’m glad that I don’t have to.

The roads are quiet and warm as I cycle down to the coast. My legs feel like twisted elastic. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t stop until I reach the beach at Brockleigh Cloverton. Everyone is smiling.

“Beautiful day,” says some old guy. He is sitting on a deck chair by his car, having a picnic with the food laid out on the bonnet.

I nod.

“Certainly is.”

I prop the bike against a bush and jog down towards the beach, where I plan to climb the cliff path and keep on walking until I get back to where I started from, and see then how I feel about life on this strange island.

All fiction on this site is © Copyright Roger Frederick 2005 All Rights Reserved