The Run Club by Daniel Bird

The Run Club by Daniel Bird

It’s chilly but not cold. The word ‘cold’ is overused, particularly by those who don’t ever exercise outdoors. There’s a fresh breeze around my bare shins, as if the backdoor has been left ajar on Christmas morning. But it isn’t the kind of strong prevailing wind that’s noted in time trials or Olympic finals. It isn’t going to slow me down much, even if we’re all about to run into it. Which we might be. It’s just a feature of what, if anybody cared to ask me, I’d dub as almost-perfect weather for running.

A lanky man called Lesley stands on a park bench under a bare beech tree. I note that he’s wearing very fancy running shoes with luminous yellow laces. His socks are fluorescent pink and pulled up to just below his knees. A golden boy on his first day of school. I’ve yet to decide if his appearance is affected. Very skinny. From where I’m standing, gently stretching my left quadricep, Lesley’s legs appear so narrow that his torso is balanced on a pair of Korean chopsticks in front of the small crowd that has now assembled before him. He speaks confidently and briskly, as if he were a headmaster trying to convince a class of the merits of doing more homework.

“Welcome everybody! It’s a bit fresh tonight but I promise you’ll be nice and warm once we get running. And you regulars will know that by the end you’ll be…”

He pauses in a pantomime-ish fashion whilst staring out to his little audience with a rehearsed pedagogue’s charm. His left hand reaches behind his ear which he bends forward as if prompting a small child to use The Magic Word.

“Sweating!” chorus the motley disciples followed by polite laughter and a smattering of cricket clapping.

A man in a bobble hat and three-day stubble calls out from the enthusiastic cluster, “Hurry up so we can get to the pub for the drinks, Les!”

This is met with more chuckles. Most are in their forties. A few late thirties but with pronounced paunches. One portly man catches my eye as he appears to be wearing a pretty thick cotton t-shirt that is stretched out of shape. The neck is far too wide and hangs low. He is a wizened sea lion peeking through a hula hoop in a black and white film. His shorts are Bermudas with a design I’ve not seen since the 90s. His trainers are out of my sight, but I have a feeling they will have laces that have been tied tightly once and never undone again. Not running attire at all, mate. Yes, it’s nippy out but you’ll be sweating buckets in that material.

I switch legs to ease out the tension in my other quad. It affords me a view of a different portion of the crowd. Women. Yes. At least a dozen. None of them fawning next to their boyfriends either. Probably single. Likely. My attention is drawn back to Lesley who is pointing down the arboretum.

“So, apparently, they are doing construction work down by the kids’ park so that’s a bit off-limits. So, we’re going to head the same way as usual but instead of turning right at The Red Lion and looping back we’ll take a left. That’ll bring us up round the copse -”

“But that’s a bloody hill, Les!” calls out the same stubbly guy who had mentioned the pub.

“It’s a small hill, Jezza. And once you get to the top you follow it round and back down. It’s a downhill finish. We prefer those. You’ll hit the car park and make a sharp left until the last 50 metres to the finish line past The Red Lion. Same finish line as usual but coming the other way. Not too complicated for you, is it?! You’ll see Lillian and the cool box. Oh and please be careful on the downhill. It leads through the gravel car park outside our beloved pub.”

A small blonde woman raises her hand. Her voice is somewhat urgent,

“How far is it?”

“It’s 5 kilometres. I promise.”

She nods, a little disturbed. She must be new. Like me. She’s cute. Slim. Probably does yoga or something, but running is a whole different demand of physical competence. Maybe she’s never run 5k before. She has a little makeup on and her trainers look shiny. ‘Run Clubs are the new dating hotspots’ it said in Time Out. That’s why she’s here. Eager minds think alike.

“How do you bloody know it’s 5 kilometres, Les?” calls out another bloke.

“I ran it an hour ago and double-checked my GPS. I’ve hung a high-vis jacket on a post where you’ll turn down the hill. You won’t miss it. 5 kilometres, as usual. I wouldn’t lie to you now, would I?”

A general groan of mutual acceptance swells. I notice Lesley’s watch. It’s large and very new. I don’t have that version. Mine is a good year or so old. If I remember rightly his records open water swims too. I have no need for that nonsense. Looking at his car-boot-sale-coat-hanger-physique he is probably a triathlete. The kind who would cross a room of angry wasps to tell you they eat activated almonds.

“Oh good, you’ve run today already, Les. Maybe I’ll beat you for once!”

A round of applause from the usual crowd. Lesley raises his hand.

“Now, now, I’ll be joining you but I’m not racing this one as you know. I’ll be going back and forth to check on you. If you need any advice or help, just call out to me. Maggie, you here?”

A chubby lady with a perm and tight leggings raises her arm. It looks as if she doesn’t have kneecaps due to the podge overspilling from her thighs.

“Course I am, Les”

“Maggie, you happy to take up the rear? Sit back with any stragglers, as per?”

“Course. So long as you buy me a drink and don’t rush me.” More laughter.

“Double Hendricks with slimline tonic. I know, love.”

Maggie salutes with a smile. Lesley’s attention turns farther out. He sees me limbering up by the recycling bin. He places a hand above his eyes as if shielding them from the bright sun. There’s something falsely theatrical about Lesley.

“Now, any newbies here today? I see new faces. I certainly got a few new names on my Facebook Page.”

The jovial crowd before him turns. They take me in. I notice a few other sheepish runners around me pause their stretching and wave gingerly as they’re observed. One cute brunette with a sweatband and leopard print scrunchie says “Hi!” with an attractive belt of self-confidence.

“Welcome, you’re all very welcome. As you know from the Facebook group, I’m Lesley and we’re all here to simply do our best. Any of you run before?”

I notice that I’m now looking at the gravel in front of me. I hear the leopard-print-scrunchie lady say, “Yeah, a bit, New Year’s resolution. You know?” There’s a general chuckle of agreement.

I look up and Lesley is staring at me. He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Yeah, a bit, now and then,” I say. Frustratingly my voice breaks a little at the end. A bizarre and inconvenient pre-pubescent squeak. I don’t elaborate. I don’t mention that I ran track at school. I don’t mention the fact I was a league level squash player at university. I don’t tell him that every Sunday morning I walk my border collie for two hours across fields and fens come rain or shine. I don’t mention the dozen other run clubs I’ve frequented this year alone. I have strong legs. Next to Lesley’s they would look elephantine. Sally once compared them to pistons on a locomotive.

“That’s good to know. Well, if you feel faint, dizzy, or have chest pains please stop immediately. Maggie here has a First Aid Kit and emergency phone with her and, as I say, I’ll be roving among you. We’ll all meet at the finish line for high fives then head to the pub to sink a few.”

I raise a thumb to acknowledge his excessive caution. Chest pains? I cringe inwardly. It feels not unlike a Christian team-building excursion. All positive and glowing. No winners or losers. Lesley, you may well be monitoring our progress but by the end of this race you’ll be inviting me back for a head-to-head. What’s wrong with some competition? What better way to break the ice with a few of these fine-looking single ladies than blitzing through all five kilometres first? That’ll get tongues wagging at the bar. I look around and spy a few more whose phone numbers I wouldn’t mind adding to my Christmas list. There’re a number of men in good shape though. A few significantly younger than me who are twirling their pelvis and limbering up with some intent. Some have iPhones in pouches on their arms. Old school kitsch.

Lesley jumps down from the bench and we amble over behind him to the start line: a cool box and a stack of coats. A painfully thin ginger lady is sitting by them texting. Lesley walks over and places his hand on her shoulder.

 “We’ll see you at the finish line, love. Ok? Thanks for taking the stuff.”

She nods without taking her eyes off the screen. A few others say cheers to Lillian; one reminds her that their phone is their jacket pocket and please don’t lose it. I don’t know how she’s going to carry all the stuff but she doesn’t seem worried. There’s a ritual about this run club that I don’t fully grasp. It’s noticeably less serious than the others I attended. Lesley stands before us. Everybody starts pressing buttons on their sports watches and phones. Some wave their wrists around trying to capture the GPS signal above their heads. Before I can squeeze through to the front of the line, Lesley calls out,

“Three, two, one, go!”

We’re running. Maybe thirty of us. The path across the arboretum is narrow and it’s a squeeze at three abreast. Within seconds I’m siphoned further back and find myself trapped behind a threesome of women in matching Lululemon attire chatting. To my left is Maggie. She is dawdling at best. She turns to me, “All right, love?” I resolve to get myself out of this embarrassing position.

“Excuse me, ladies.” I say to the trio two paces ahead of me. This time my voice remains a stable masculine low. One of them turns their head.

“Oh,” she addresses her friends with an irritated look. They make a little space which I try to pass through. Picking up the pace, my elbow jostles the lady on my left and I mutter an apology. Then I’m free. I look at my watch. We’ve covered 258 metres already. That’s a quarter of a kilometre. I can see my average pace is way below what it should be. If I’m going to make it to the front of the pack, I’ll really need to push it. I consider my VO2 Max and my heart rate which has barely risen since Lesley did the countdown. Maybe it’ll be advantageous to have begun so leisurely.

I thump out a solid 200 metres and feel my breathing change a little. The end of the arboretum appears. The path widens into a pedestrianised road. It’s concrete. Probably used by those irritating cyclists. I hope I don’t see any. Always clad in Lycra and peering back over their shoulders like skinny owls wearing safety helmets.

I overtake a few more pairs of runners. Most are either older or fatter than me. Or both. I give them a respectful nod. They return it with a somewhat surprised expression as I plough on in front of them. My feet are thumping confidently. I keep my shoulders back, filling my lungs with air as best I can. 800 metres. Coming up to 20% done. I reach what I consider to be a feasible pace. My heart rate is comfortable but rising. I can still breathe through my nose. I’ll wait a while before switching to the mouth. It’s not attractive but it’s usually necessary. I’m pleased with my pace. It’s like being in the middle lane on a motorway. I’m overtaking people gently on their right without blitzing too fast and wasting away early. Slow and steady wins the race.

My watch beeps. 1km done. Tucked away and packaged into a little data bundle I can check on my running app later. My profile is public so the others today will see the stats. My HR, my cadence, my kilometre splits – it’s all there for them to gawp at. I look at the screen of my watch again. I’m a good 45 seconds slower than where I want to be but I was held up. Hardly my fault. Besides, I feel I’ve got more in the tank. I see the blonde lady with the spanking new trainers. What a chance. I peel right and lengthen my stride to decrease the appearance of effort. Soon I’m running beside her. A metre between us. I risk a glance. She has earphones in. She turns to me after glancing at her sports watch.

“1.1km done!” she shouts, unaware of the volume of her voice.

I smile. God she’s cute.

“Yeah. What are you listening to?”

I regret asking her immediately.

“What?” she yells as if calling across a valley.

“Doesn’t matter!” I yell back much louder than she did.

She reaches up and removes an earphone.

“Sorry, I can’t hear a bloody thing with – oh shit!”

She has dropped the earphone. Her cold hands, numb with the chill, are clumsy like a wooden puppet’s. She puts the brakes on and stops to look for her fallen tech. I roll my eyes. What to do? I consider leaving her behind and apologising when we get to the pub. I could offer her a replacement pair. Sally left hers at mine when she moved out and still hasn’t asked for them back. Or her dog for that matter. “I’ll bring you a new set next week,” I could say. A bit flash but also kind. She wouldn’t have to know where they came from.

The blonde lady is now twenty paces behind me. I glance over my shoulder. She’s on her knees looking carefully at the concrete. Maybe she needs glasses. I slam my own brakes on and run back. I’m at her side. Other joggers swerve around us like moody black cabs during rush hour.

“Here!” I call and retrieve the earphone from the ground directly in front of her. Our fingers touch. They’re indeed cold.

“Oh thanks so much. These things are always bloody falling out.”

She stands and resumes the jog. My pace has been massacred.

“What did you ask me just now?” she queries. She doesn’t seem annoyed at all.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I reply. I’m anxious to get to the race. This conversation could be parked til later.

“No, go on. You were nice enough to stop and help me. I left my glasses at home. Contacts don’t do it for me when it’s windy. You know you get dust or pollen or whatever and then it’s just a catastrophe.”

I can’t believe how much she is talking. We’re barely covering ground now. Soon Maggie is at our side.

“You drop something, love?” says Maggie between gulps of desperately needed oxygen.

“Yeah, my bloody earphone”

“Oh that’s a shame. Still, nice of this handsome fella to come and help.”

I simply don’t know where to look. The joggers are disappearing into the distance like credits at the end of a film.

“What’s your name, love?” says Maggie.

“Erm, it’s Peter.”

“Oh that’s nice,” says Maggie. “My neighbour had a dog called Peter. Had to bury it last Boxing Day. It’d eaten a kilogram slab of sea-salted chocolate straight from its wrapping under the tree. Labradors will scoff anything.”

“I see.” I say as politely as I can, my eyes fleeting down the route.

I attempt to pick up the pace and separate from the chatty pair. But soon the blonde lady is beside me again.

“I just turned the music off. I can hear you now,” she beams, fumbling with her phone. God, I hope she doesn’t drop that as well.

“Right,” I say, noticing the other runners swerve left in front of an old cottage-like pub with a large statue of a lion in the car park. I have so much distance to catch up on, but she continues to speak.

“It’s nicer without the music. You know. Hearing nature and footsteps.”

She’s keeping pace with me but I’m not exactly flooring it. I don’t want to finish third last on my debut.

“I look forward to chatting to you at the pub. What was your name?”

“Oh yes, that would be nice. It’s Susan.”

To my horror she reaches out to shake my hand. I awkwardly reach across with my right palm and meet hers. Two frozen bony steaks pressing against one another in the wind.

“Well, Susan. If you don’t mind, I’m going to try and break my PB.” I wave and speed up.

“What’s a PB?” Susan calls out. I slow down so I’m beside her again.

“Personal Best. Fastest time. Yeah.” I say hurriedly. I’m about to drop coals into the furnace and steam ahead when lanky Lesley appears running towards us. A ghostly stick insect. His stride is long. A mathematical compass wearing a running jacket.

“You feeling ok back here?” he asks with genuine concern. He looks at me, worried I’m having a cardiac arrest. I pull back my shoulders and nod. I worry if I speak I’ll sound exhausted. He isn’t out of breath at all. Jogging alongside Susan he enquires, “You feeling light-headed? Susan, isn’t it?”

“Yes. No no, I dropped my headphone thing,” she chirps. How she can be so relaxed about its impact on her performance I don’t know.

“Oh” says Lanky Lesley with genuine concern.

“Got them back now. All good.” says Susan.

Lesley turns to me. My two strides for his one.

“All good there, Sir?”

“Yep.” I say. I take a deep breath. “Just helped Susan here pick up her stuff. Going to try and smash my PB now.”

It’s the second greatest single moment of idiocy of the day so far. I sound like a fourteen-year-old boy showing off his Top Trump cards. But two seconds later I make it worse because I realise that I’ve begun sprinting as if it’s a 100-metre dash. I leave Lesley, Susan, and Maggie in my metaphorical dust as I bend left in front of the pub. I look at my watch. I’m really covering ground. Anybody nearby would assume I was about to miss my flight or that the police were after me with a rabid canine unit. My heart rate is climbing like a slot machine jackpot. I notice I’ve switched to mouth breathing. But I can’t slow down. Not whilst I’m still in eyeline of Lesley and Susan. I thunder forward, hoping that this new path winds so that I can ease off the pace in a blind spot. I can only imagine the confusion on their faces.

One benefit of this stupid sprint though is that I’ve started to catch up with the main pack. My watch beeps. 2km. My heart rate has almost maxed out. If I could just slip in front of the group. I could slow down and their footsteps behind me would provide the motivation I need to keep going. There’re over two dozen runners. I think of Lesley’s stilt-like legs and increase the length of my stride. The joggers to my right turn to see me as I glide past. I imagine a drone filming me as they do these days when documenting the Tour de France. It would swoop in over the heads of the pack as I seemingly saunter past with this incredible pace.

“Bloody hell, you’re quick mate!” says one younger guy.

“Go on!” calls out another.

I pull in front of the pack. I drop the pace. I spit twice onto the road. I’m sweating. I wheeze. I cannot let myself fall behind them. To my right is the man I saw in the oversized cotton t-shirt. He matches my pace but with all the grace of a dyspraxic donkey. His posture leans to one side and his left foot clops against the ground far more heavily than his right which pronates dangerously. It’s an absolutely awful running technique. Yet his focus is unwavering. He looks only at the path about ten metres ahead of his clumsy feet. His eyes are glistening with sweat which pours from his forehead and tumbles down to fill his t-shirt which is now smattered with dark puddles.

We approach a bend and my watch beeps to signal it’s the third kilometre. The road begins to steepen. It’s a slight incline but we all feel it. All of us except for Lesley who whizzes past me; he’s Tom Cruise buzzing the control tower in a F-14. He calls out to us without turning back.

“Good pace, gang. Take it easy on the up. Remember: short strides when you go down and lean back. I’m going to check on the one at the front.”

The one at the front?

I thought I was the front.

Lanky Lesley disappears ahead with incredible ease. His fluorescent laces flapping like glow-in-the-dark bunny ears.

This hill is taking its toll. We’re all panting. I’m a good three metres in front of the pack. My heart rate dropped a bit but it’s way higher than I would want. 1.6km to go. Can I catch up to the leader? Forget Lesley. He isn’t human; he isn’t even racing, technically. But the leader. Who is it? I think back to the briefing: the crowd. I peek behind me at the pack. Who’s missing?

The bobbing, panting heads that pursue me are missing one accessory. The leopard print scrunchie. It must be her. I’m quietly impressed. As she would be if nipped by her at the finish line. Oh, what a conversation starter! That and Susan’s musical taste.

I look at my watch. My heart rate isn’t dangerously high. What’s the rule, 220 minus your age? Isn’t that how you improve fitness anyway?

The path is curving around the copse. I see the high-vis jacket hanging ungraciously on a stick and take the path to the right. We’re now heading back towards the pub, the lion statue, and then the glorious finish line with the recently transported cool box and coats by the ginger Lillian. I think about that high-vis jacket and how Lanky Lesley will have to jog back to pick it up later. He probably wouldn’t think twice about the effort involved. I feel sweat pooling at the base of my spine.

We’ll be at the finish line in just over a kilometre. That’s what my watch tells me. It’s not that far. The incline suddenly stops and our thighs sigh with relief. I imagine being injected with adrenaline by a giant needle. The fluid rushes into my veins, twisting and turning like Sonic the Hedgehog before dispersing through the chambers of my heart. I lengthen my stride and lean forward as the descent becomes palpable. My pace is incredible. Sweaty cotton t-shirt man is now visible in my rear-view mirror. If this was the Olympics, the commentators would be standing up and shouting:

“It’s Peter Fowler, he’s broken away from the pack at an unprecedented speed. He may well catch leopard-print-scrunchie-girl within the distance left. Peter Fowler, an amateur athlete in his youth, got into run clubs after hearing it was a great way to meet romantic partners. He’s travelled to various counties to try his luck. To test himself on different routes. To shed the skin of his ex. Well, that objective soon got left behind when he discovered a talent for cross country. He blisters forward with purpose. His 27th run club in the last 13 months. Now let’s see if that late-blooming talent can get him first place.”

I realise that I’m smiling for the first time in half a year. My eyes stream as the cold wind attacks them relentlessly. The path turns here and there but it remains an unrelenting downward slope. My watch beeps signalling my max heart rate has been reached. At that moment Lanky Lesley appears, running towards me up the hill like a startled gazelle in socks.

“Lean back! Lean back!” he yells after me as I pass him. I imagine my industrious breath filling his ears with the Doppler Effect. A quick turn left and then right and there she is. The leopard-print-scrunchie-girl is just 10 metres ahead of me. She is leaning back; her strides are short. She’s fast but cautious. Within seconds I’m on her. I pass on her right.

“Woah,” she says, “be careful!”

For a moment I think that maybe I had knocked into her. But I felt no impact. No, she was referring to something else. Then I see the pub appear, only this time from a different angle. As Lesley had said, the route takes us purposefully across its car park and past the bronze lion that greeted us earlier in the race.

I’m going too fast for this; I cannot slow down.

I’m leaning forward and I realise I’m flailing. My footsteps are erratic and each step is a desperate attempt to maintain balance. I reach the gravel and try to slow down. My trainers, which cost a small fortune, have no purchase and my left foot slides. I correct with my right but that slides too. I see the bronze lion approaching and am reminded of a holiday in Hong Kong with Sally. We had our photo taken with the lion statue outside the enormous bank. Our hands clasped over its paw which had worn down a little thanks to the frequency of rubbing by the Chinese pedestrians who thought it bestowed good fortune. The holiday where I was accused of having a dated attitude toward women. Among other things. Yet she’d happily let me pay for the trip. The shrimp dumplings were delicious.

Both feet have given up trying to be helpful. I sail headlong into the lion. My hands reach forward to break the impact but collapse without protest as my mouth crashes into the king of the jungle’s broad and muscular bronze flank. I feel several teeth break.

In the darkness that follows I hear dozens of legs run past muttering phrases of pity and concern. I blink my eyes open. A mountain range of pebbles fills my vision. Behind them a pair of trainers with familiar fluorescent laces.

“Can you hear me?” asks Lesley as if I’m a pensioner in a dusty nursing home armchair.

“Yes, yes,” I utter, my mouth full of shattered enamel and blood.

“Maggie will be along with the First Aid kit soon. Did you hit your head?”

He looks deeply concerned.

“I should have been clearer about the downhill. This is my fault.”

I feel the blood from my lips flowing down my neck and into my t-shirt . I try to stand. He warns me to stay put but I point to the finish line and insist with an impolite shove. Lesley exhales disapprovingly but supports me as I hobble to the finish line.

I’m met with applause. Leopard-print-scrunchie-girl approaches and puts her little face towel to my gory mouth. It smells of body butter and coconut.

“Well done,” I say, feeling a bit delirious, “You’re so quick and your stride is just effortless on the downhill.” The towel in my mouth makes me sound as muffled as a bound hostage trying to appeal to terrorists in an embassy siege.

“Oh I didn’t win,” she replies.

I look up and see the rest of the group applauding the man with an appalling posture in the sodden grey t-shirt. His hands are on his knees as he gasps for breath making sounds not unlike a walrus calling for its young after seeing a polar bear swim past.

“He was just behind you down the hill. Surprised you didn’t hear him.”

Lesley releases his grip as he lowers me onto a bench next to the group just after the finish line. His ginger girlfriend or wife sits with the cool box and coats nearby, seemingly unaffected by the drama around her.

The man in the grey t-shirt appears to be crying. Perhaps wailing. Then he vomits. The splashes of last night’s rice cause the crowd to step back a bit but soon they approach again and rub his back as if he were a golden retriever visiting an office for the first time. They don’t seem surprised.

“You did it again, Clive. You bloody did it!”

Clive is still weeping but a smile appears on his face. He stands up and wipes the sick from his mouth with his soaking wet t-shirt. Lesley leans into my ear.

“That’s Clive Bentley. His wife passed away last year. He wins every week. We’ve no idea how.”

I look up at Clive. Each run club member comes up and gives him a high five. Then they do the same for each other. Soon they approach me, gentle understanding smiles on their faces, as if I’m 17 and just got caught drinking behind a dustbin. I weakly raise my left hand whilst the right stems the bleeding from my gums with leopard-print-scrunchie-girl’s sports towel. They smack my palm with enthusiasm. They shower me with compliments about my speed. My effort. Have I ever run track before? Someone asks me what my time was.

I look down at my watch. The screen is completely smashed but the time has frozen. It’s a cartoonish affair; it could be critical evidence in a modern episode of Columbo.

I hold it up for the onlookers to see.

“Ooooh, 42:16! That’s bloody quick mate!”

“God I’m lucky if I get under 45.”

“What was your split for the last leg?”

“What’s your VO2 max?”

“What’s your max HR?”

I don’t answer the questions because Susan and Maggie are now in front of me. Maggie has self-importantly opened the First Aid kit that she carried in her little rucksack the whole race.

“Oh that’s nasty!” she says unhelpfully and replaces the bloody towel with a clean compress.

Susan sits next to me.

“I was listening to Suede,” she says. “You know, Beautiful Ones? I put it on loop.”

“That’s a great track,” I reply, smiling. She really is astoundingly pretty. She doesn’t seem bothered by my pratfall. She looks genuinely concerned. So do the rest of the crowd.

Someone calls out.

“Right, let’s get to the pub, everyone! Drinks on Clive as usual and we’ll get some ice for newbie’s face. What’s your name, mate.”

“It’s Peter, Peter Fowler” I say.

“Some ice for Peter Peter Fowler first.”

A kindly run club member offers a hand which I refuse as I raise myself from the bench. I’m met with another round of applause that surprisingly warms me deep within. I cannot meet their eyes.

Lesley stands close by in case I fall again. He leans in and whispers, “You’re more than welcome to join us again next week, Peter. But I have to insist you lean back on the downhill!”

I nod. Lanky Lesley is right. I turn to Susan. She is fussing with her AirPods and phone. Her hands are uselessly cold. I’m pretty sure we’ll have a laugh tonight. If she can get over my chipped teeth. I won’t need to ask for her number. She’ll be here next week.

“Sorry Peter, my hands are numb. I’m trying to unlock my phone. Wait up will you.”

If my watch wasn’t smashed to pieces, it would register an increase in heart rate equivalent to a 6 min per kilometre pace.

“You need a dentist. Badly. You’re in luck though. My husband’s one. I’ll give him a call and see if he can meet us here. His clinic is only round the corner. He has the keys.”

She has a husband. Of course. He’s a dentist. Of course. I broke four teeth. Of course.

I stare ahead mutely as we wander through the car park and into the pub. Before my eyes have adjusted to the insipid light Clive thrusts a soggy tea towel packed with ice to my mouth. He takes the bloody compress from my hand and replaces it with a pint of warm local ale. Then, bizarrely, he kisses my head with a resounding smack, as if I’m the trophy he just won.

“Good run Peter Peter Fowler. You made me break my PB whilst you broke your teeth.”

He leans his head back and laughs. Bits of regurgitated rice decorate his misshapen collar; the reek of his sweat is palpable. Now I know I’ll be back next week. Forget Lesley. I have to beat Clive.

“Welcome to Run Club Peter,” he shouts and the rest of the sweaty joggers cheer and raise their glasses. We really all are a slow old bunch.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Daniel Bird 2026

Image Courtesy: Jorgen Hendriksen from Unsplash.com