Fat Chance (21 page)

I feel a small pang of sympathy for her. I once played a rugby match with the kind of hangover they sing about in songs.

Will starts a countdown from ten and holds up a starting pistol. The noise of the crowd ratchets up to an almost painful level.

I set myself and wait for the off. If I was a religious type I’d probably be sketching the sign of the cross on my chest right now. As I look to my left down the row I see Valerie doing that very thing.

The countdown reaches zero, Will pulls the trigger, and with the gun’s sharp report ringing in my ears I start to run.

Well, I say
run
. . . a fumbling jog is a more accurate description of what I’m doing.

All the white shirts take off a brisk pace, including Elise, who, despite her hangover, is still able to trot off at a lightning rate compared to me.

Frankie and Benny take an early lead out of the competition couples, which comes as no surprise.

Benny’s pretty much keeping up with the white shirts as we hit the first three hundred metres. Frankie is struggling, though, so I can see some marital strife occurring about seven kilometres down the road if she’s not able to keep up with her husband. It’s the first
couple
across the line, not the first
person
.

I will have no such problem with my betrothed. Zoe looks about as enthusiastic about this as I am. Her pace mirrors mine and we run along shoulder to shoulder in a delightful show of matrimonial solidarity.

Frankie and Benny’s determination to win this challenge has filtered down to most of the other couples as well. Valerie and George are jogging no quicker than we are, the two lesbian girls are a bit faster but not by much, Pete and Lea are plodding away twenty feet back, and Shane and Theresa are walking so slowly they’ve barely got away from the start line. No-one seems to have the stomach for a fight with the Jamaican couple up ahead—who have put even more distance between us.

In fact, we’re all so slow that it’s giving a healthy percentage of the enormous crowd ample chance to follow alongside the race route, hollering and shouting at us as they do so.

I hear a lot of encouraging shouts of ‘Come on!’, ‘You can do it!’, and ‘Keep running!’ However, I also pick up quite a few less-flattering cries. ‘Run, you fat bastards!’ is a lovely thing for someone to shout, as is ‘You’re so fucking slow, you fat cunt!’ These witty epithets are accompanied by a great deal of laughter coming from the more boisterous members of our entourage.

I grind my teeth. That sense of being a performing monkey, sent out to prance and frolic for the delight of the crowd, returns to me as I plod my way towards the park’s exit.

As we reach it, I notice that a lot of the white t-shirt wearing brigade have slowed their pace and a few have even stopped at the park gates. They are looking back down the course at us, waving and clapping their hands in encouragement.

I now feel like a dog being called by its master.

‘C’mon Greg! C’mon, boy!’

I’m amazed to realise this is actually
worse
than being called a fat cunt. Insults are easy to deal with when you get right down to it—you can either ignore them or hit a bastard in the face. But heartfelt support laced with good-natured pity? What the hell are you supposed to do with that? You can hardly punch somebody in the mouth for cheering you on, can you? It might come across as a little ungrateful.

Grind, grind, grind
go my teeth, making it quite hard to effect a fake smile as I lumber past our well-wishers and onto the road leading out of town.

‘This is not what I’d call a fun way to spend a Sunday
afternoon
,’ Zoe pants from beside me.

‘No, not really,’ I reply. ‘You might think being patronised and insulted from every angle would be bags of fun, at least in theory. But it’s surprisingly unpleasant in reality, isn’t it?’

‘Yep. If another prick in a white running kit tells me I’m doing well, I might just kick them in the giblets.’

‘They’d probably just congratulate you on how strong your kick was, and that doing it helped you burn five more calories.’

Zoe laughs, which is probably not the best use of the oxygen in her lungs at the moment, but it puts a smile on my face. Any time I can make my wife giggle is time well spent.

The smile drops off my face when I hear somebody shout ‘You fat tosser!’ from the crowd. I don’t know if the comment is directed at me specifically, but it hardly matters at this juncture.

Zoe picks up on my mood change. ‘Don’t worry about it, baby. They’re idiots.’

‘It’s not them I’m mad at. Some people just love being pricks if you give them half a chance. It’s the bloody radio station I’m pissed off with for putting us in this situation.’

‘Well, try not to think about it.’ Zoe points ahead. ‘Elise is
jogging
back this way and she’s got her microphone out.’

I groan and look from the crowd to where Zoe’s mate is coming back towards us, an expectant look on her face.

Elise stops in her tracks and allows us to catch up, slotting herself in between the two of us as we jog along. ‘Will’s going to throw over to me in a second for a quick interview with you both,’ she informs us. ‘Have you got enough puff to talk?’

‘Just about,’ I tell her.

This, in and of itself, is a rather amazing thing. I must have jogged well over two kilometres by now and I can still hold a conversation with relative ease. This would have been unthinkable a few months ago. About the only conversation I’d have had with anyone at the end of this much running back in January would have been the one conducted with St Peter while standing at the pearly gates.

This thought cheers me up no end, and the idea of being a source of public amusement seems a little less awful. If being called a fat cunt and treated like a puppy are the price I have to pay for a decreased chance of getting heart disease, then so be it.

‘Do not
ask me about wanting to get pregnant again, Elise,’ Zoe says to her. ‘Unless you want a discussion live on air about how good Adam Edgemont is with his tongue.’

Elise groans. ‘Don’t worry, I’m in no mood for anything like that,’ she says and takes a deep breath. ‘Frankly, all I want is a hot bath and a nap.’

‘Great, then by all means . . . interview away.’

Elise talks into her headset for a second, indicating that we’re ready to go. A few moments go by and she suddenly changes from a tired and hung over friend to a bouncy and enthusiastic DJ in a split second. It’s quite the sight to see.

‘Thanks, Will!’ she exclaims into her microphone. ‘I’m here with the Miltons, who are proving to be one of the most popular couples in the competition so far.’

We are?

‘They’re currently just passing the three-kilometre mark of the run and are looking good!’

We are?

‘How are you feeling, Greg?’ she asks me and thrusts the
microphone
in my face.

‘Um, yeah, pretty good I suppose. My feet are hurting a bit.’

‘That’s great!’

It is?

‘And Zoe, Frankie and Benny have motored off well into the lead. You think you have any chance of catching them?’

‘I don’t know,’ my wife replies. ‘They looked pretty up for it at the start line. You’d have to stick a rocket up my arse to catch up with them now, I reckon.’

Zoe sometimes just can’t resist making her friend’s life more difficult, no matter how hard she tries.

Elise administers an irritated punch to Zoe’s shoulder, and the microphone is swept back in my direction. ‘And what do you think of the support today, Greg? Aren’t all these runners great for coming along?’

I figure I’d better sound a little more lively, just to give the poor girl a bit of a break. ‘Yes they are, Elise!’ I blurt out. ‘I’ve never felt so supported and encouraged!’

‘Fantastic!’

‘I know! I can’t wait until we reach the finish line when I can thank them properly . . . and then hopefully one of them will give me a dog treat!’

Confusion is writ large across Elise’s face.

‘Also,’ I carry on, just because I’m in that kind of mood now, ‘I really can’t thank the crowd enough for following us along the route!’

‘Okay . . .’

‘Oh yes! Why, if they weren’t constantly reminding me that I’m fat, I might have completely forgotten in all the excitement!’

Elise isn’t a genius, but even she knows when an interview has gone south. ‘Well, thanks for your time, Miltons!’ she says, and hurriedly pulls the microphone away from us before we can embarrass her further.

‘Pleasure!’ Zoe and I echo.

‘We’ll throw back to Will, who’s now driven up to the finish line,’ Elise tells the listeners, ending her broadcast. She drops the microphone into the holster on her hip and glares at us both. ‘You pair of tossers.’

Zoe and I both laugh out loud.

Elise spits a few more exasperated insults at us for few moments, before jogging ahead to no doubt collar some other unfortunate for a chat.

‘That was a bit mean,’ Zoe says after her giggles have died down.

‘So is making fat people run for the amusement of the masses,’ I counter.

The next kilometre passes in more or less the same way as the first three.

While my breathing is fairly laboured and my legs are a bit rubbery, I’m otherwise in pretty good shape at the halfway point, and feeling positive about finishing the fun run without disgracing myself. I might even beat a few of the white t-shirt brigade if I’m very lucky!

It is at this stage in proceedings that the gods of over-confidence decide to pay me a visit for my towering hubris.

Their punishment is meted out via the running shoes I’ve currently got on my feet. They were purchased specifically for this race from one of the local sporting goods shops.

My old trainers had reached the point where the soles were starting to come away, thanks to all the exercise I’ve been doing recently. I didn’t particularly fancy the idea of them falling off my feet before the finish line, so thought I’d better pick up another pair for the eight-kilometre run.

So on Saturday I went in to the gigantic DC Sports store on the retail estate just outside town, with the express purpose of finding replacements. Having never been one for labels, I walked straight past all the expensive brands like Asics and Nike and into the section containing the cheap no-brand alternatives.

This proved to be a mistake of
Herculean
proportions.

You see, wearing cheap running shoes is fine when all you’re doing is walking down the street to get a pint of milk and a kebab. When you’re actually
running
in them, though, it’s a completely different story. There’s a lot more pressure and friction going on, and if you’ve picked a pair of trainers that even the impoverished Bangladeshi children who make them wouldn’t stick on their feet, you know you’re going to have a really bad
time of it.

Badly made, cheap running shoes don’t fit properly, don’t cushion your feet adequately, and allow a lot of uncomfortable rubbing. This leads to every jogger’s worst nightmare:
blisters
.

And how long does it take for cheap, badly manufactured running shoes to cause painful and debilitating blisters, you might ask?

Oh, about four kilometres into a fun run, I’d have to say.

I’m first aware that something is wrong as we jog up the hill that goes past the train station. This is the first stage of the race that’s been uphill, and the change in gradient is enough to start those shoes rubbing in lots of uncomfortable places.

My feet have been aching and a bit tender ever since we set off, but I’m well used to this sensation by now from all my daily exercise, so have been able to more or less ignore it. However as the road climbs, I start to feel a sharp, stabbing pain in both of my little toes, my left big toe, and my right heel.

‘Fuck,’ I wince as we run past one of the local pubs, where about twenty people are cheering us on from the beer garden.

‘Are you okay?’ Zoe asks.

‘I’m not sure. My toes are hurting for some reason. It feels like someone’s stuck a hot needle into them.’

‘Ouch. Do you want to stop for a second to have a look?’

The next words that tumble from my mouth are the most unwise to have ever sprung forth from my lips. ‘Nah. I’ll be fine. I’m sure it can’t get any worse.’

It absolutely
does,
of course, but my brain’s gone into ‘ignore it and it’ll go away’ mode so I manage to convince myself that the pain isn’t increasing for the next kilometre of the race. But by the time we’ve run back down the hill and have hit the suburban sprawl that rings the city centre, every single footstep has become agony.

It feels like I’m running barefoot across hot coals.

I’m now sucking air in through my teeth with every step I take, and I’m starting to sound like an overworked steam engine.

To mitigate the pain I try to run in as ginger and light a fashion as possible, in order to keep the weight off my poor battered toes.