Girl on the Run (26 page)

Grandad looks up as we approach. ‘Did you know that if you tell people they’re watching telly in high definition, they’ll say the picture’s sharper even when it’s not?’

‘Really?’ Tom raises his eyebrows.

‘So these Dutch boffins say,’ replies Grandad. ‘Good thing I’ve only got a black and white portable to watch
Loose Women
on, isn’t it, Reeny?’

I smile. ‘Er, it’s Abby.’

‘Sorry, course it is,’ he stutters. ‘You’ve not written to me much on Twitter, I must say.’

‘Oh, I know, I’m sorry,’ I reply. ‘I’m afraid I hardly have time these days.’

‘Don’t worry, my laptop’s on the blink anyway,’ he says. ‘Don’t know what’s caused it but it’s confounded them over at PC World. Still, Angela there has taken charge now and promised me it’ll be back on Monday. Now she
did
have a look of somebody.’

‘Let me guess,’ says Tom. ‘Aunt Reeny?’

‘No, no . . . you’d have never caught Reeny in a skirt that short.’

Tom shakes his head. ‘We need to warm up, Grandad.’

‘Go, boy, go,’ he replies. ‘I’ll be cheering for you.’

We head to the warm-up area and the other members of the group.

‘How exciting for you, Abby!’ Geraldine beams. ‘Are you all set for your first ever Ten K?’

In truth, I’ve never felt less like running in my life. And that’s not just because my black lacy thong already feels as if I’m wearing a cheese slice. I feel as nervous as I did for the five-kilometre race, but a combination of that and tiredness is giving an added sensation of nausea. My only hope is that I have enough adrenalin to get me round the course in a time that doesn’t show me up completely.

I’m about to confess this, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn round and realise it’s Oliver. The warmth from his touch makes my knees go weak.

‘All set, Abby?’ He smiles that gloriously cute smile and I melt on the spot.

‘Absolutely.’

‘What sort of time are you hoping for?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m just doing it for the practice. The time isn’t important to me.’

‘It’s important for your training,’ he insists as sunlight casts shadows on his dimples. ‘That’s how you improve. Plus, you need to set a target to spur yourself on.’

‘A target?’ I say, hiding my alarm.

‘Anything less than an hour is very good for your first race. You should be able to manage that, shouldn’t you, Abby? I’ve got great faith in you.’

‘Um . . . have you?’

‘Of course,’ he murmurs. And I know right then that, no matter what it takes, I’ll be running through that finish line before the clock hits twelve.

There are about two thousand people in this race, a few of whom are ‘elite runners’. They’re in a different league from mere humans – proper, bona fide athletes to whom this sort of thing comes naturally. My first session at the club was three and a half months ago, but running still feels about as natural as a ladyboy’s boobs.

Jess warned me that the number of people taking part means that the start points are staggered. The elite runners are at the front, next to the signs saying
30 minutes
– which I realise with ill-concealed disbelief is their predicted finish time. The only way I’d achieve that is by helicopter. Tom and Oliver will be starting near the front – they’re both hoping to finish in thirty-five minutes – while Jess is aiming for forty-five.

‘Surely if I’m stuck at the back at the one-hour mark, I’ll be at a disadvantage,’ I point out huffily. ‘There are so many people in front, it’d be half the battle trying to squeeze past.’

‘They’re the rules, Abby,’ Jess shrugs. ‘They rely on the fact that it matters most to the elite runners at the front.’

‘It matters quite a lot to
me
,’ I say, trying to stop myself drooling as Doctor Dishy limbers up. Then something strikes me. ‘How does anyone
know
what your finish time is likely to be?’

‘They rely on honesty.’

‘So, what would happen if someone went close to the front when they were meant to be at the back?’

‘If everyone did that, it’d cause chaos.’

‘Yeah, but what if just
one
person did it?’ I whisper.

She suppresses a smile. ‘That would depend on whether her best friend agreed to keep quiet.’

I smile sweetly. ‘That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?’

‘Fine. I’m supposed to be at forty-five but we can both bob down to forty minutes and hope no one sees. How are you feeling, by the way?’

‘Sleep-deprived and seriously concerned about my chafing knickers,’ I reply.

‘I might try that excuse myself one day,’ says a familiar voice, as I spin round to see Tom grinning.

I stand at the forty-minute mark, surrounded by people who look like they’d feel guilty eating a carrot without doing pressups first. I jog up and down, rolling back my shoulders in the way the American sprinter Michael Johnson does on telly, and pray that I’m carrying this off.

If someone looked closely, the wobbly bits at the top of my running pants and glimmer of fear in my eyes would instantly reveal me as an impostor. Fortunately, those in this category are too focused on their own undertaking to worry about me.

I spot Mum in the crowd, looking slightly uncomfortable – then realise why: Dad’s turned up and is standing next to her. I suppress a smile as the clock counts down, the air sharp with adrenalin. My heart is racing, despite the fact that I haven’t moved yet. Jess nudges me and grins with three seconds to go. ‘Good luck, lady.’

The starter’s gun fires.

The first minute of my race emulates a David Attenborough programme in which wild horses gallop majestically across a plain, annihilating the smaller, weaker creatures under their hooves.

Okay, it’s stretching it to describe me as
smaller
, since most of the women whizzing past look as if a brisk wind would sweep them off their feet. But given that their elbows seem to have been primed with industrial sharpeners, looks are obviously deceiving.

I give the first kilometre everything I’ve got, but the sheer number of people who overtake me is so demoralising I suspect I’ll need therapy afterwards. Worse, the friction from the lace triangle of my G-string, two inches above my bum, is beyond distracting. With every stride I take, it shifts back and forth, rubbing against my skin until I’m starting to think of little else.

By the time I hit two kilometres, confirmation that I’m not at the top of my game engulfs me. I’m putting in so much effort it feels as though I’m ready to burst a blood vessel, but it’s paying no dividends.

I pass the three-kilometre mark feeling as if I’ve done thirty; the idea of another seven is unthinkable. Fortunately, I can’t think about it. I can only think of my knickers and the skin above my bum, which doesn’t just irritate now – it hurts. Properly
hurts
.

At four kilometres, an insidious thought enters my brain and gnaws at me, its significance eating away at my confidence:
Jess forgot the M&Ms.
It sounds like a small thing, but as I wheeze along the course, my lungs sounding as if they’re held at gunpoint, I become convinced that without my sucrose injection I’ve
had it
.

By five kilometres, I remind myself that I’m halfway round. That I’m on the home stretch. But all I can focus on is the fact that the last race I ran stopped now. The concept of having to do the same again, all the while being assaulted by my thong, is unbearable.

At five and a half kilometres, I try to get a grip. I know I’m going to pieces and I’ve got to stop. But my legs are burning, my chest is burning, my feet are burning. None of that, however, is as bad as my G-string. That isn’t just burning, it’s positively thermo-nuclear.

At the exact moment I think things can’t get any worse, there’s a rumble of thunder and the heavens open. The rain falls in sheets, wind cutting my cheeks like a whip. I expect to see people dropping out, but the opposite happens; everyone seems to speed up. I
want
to speed up – dear Lord God,
how I want to speed up!

It takes all my effort as I pass the six-kilometre mark not to fall to the ground and shed the tears of a broken woman. I look at my watch and realise that I’ve been running for forty-eight minutes. Short of me sprouting wings and a jet-pack, my aspirations to get to the end in under an hour are doomed.

Rain lashes my face and it strikes me that if only my feet could run as fast as my nose, I’d be fine. I hear myself snort, laughing at the sheer hideousness of the situation. And how bloody unfunny it is.

I think about Heidi and the half-marathon and realise the implications of this. If I can’t even do ten kilometres, how am I going to run twice that? What am I going to do with all the money people have pledged? Give it back?

Then I think about Oliver: about the sight that will confront him as I limp across the finish line, desperate only to rip off my thong and blow my nose. Not with the thong, obviously.

Tears fight the rain for space on my cheeks and I’m consumed by self-loathing. A groan of despair escapes my lips as my legs shuffle to a pitiful stop.

A race official runs over. ‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ I whimper. ‘No.’

‘Come on, love.’ He puts an arm round my waist and leads me to the edge. ‘Sometimes you have to call it a day.’

Snivelling as I let him sit me down on a tree trunk, he unscrews a flask of hot coffee, pours some in a plastic cup and hands it to me. The gesture, no matter how kind, makes me want to cry even more. I shouldn’t be drinking coffee. I should be streaming triumphantly past the finish and into Doctor Dishy’s arms.
In twelve minutes’ time.

I sniff again as I hear a whiz of traffic and look up. Then I realise something.

We’ve come to the part of the route that meets the road. Although our section is cordoned off, traffic passes next to us. Catching my breath, I think about the race layout. About the start, the finish and how the road winds between the two. I stand up and decisively hand the race official my coffee.

‘You know, you’re right,’ I tell him, shuffling to my feet. ‘Sometimes it is time to call it a day.’

He nods.

‘But today
isn’t
one of those days.’

He looks like he’s about to call the men in white coats.

I straighten my back and begin jogging with the other runners, my poor aching legs begging for mercy.

‘Good luck, love,’ he cries, as I turn the corner and, out of sight of a few other straggling runners, I glide onto the road.

When the first orange light appears, I stick out my hand and shout the one word required to get me my triumphant finish.

‘TAXI!’

I instruct the driver to drop me off at the corner, out of sight of the race route and half a kilometre from the finish line.

‘You’re not going to do what I think you are . . . are you?’ he smirks as I pull a fiver from my bum bag and thrust it in his hand.

‘Don’t tell me everyone’s not at it,’ I mutter.

‘This is a first,’ he grins, which isn’t the news I wanted.

‘Are you new to driving a taxi?’ I ask hopefully.

‘When I started, love, prawn cocktails were the essence of suave sophistication. But I’ll remember this one, I promise you.’

I check that the coast is clear and step out of the taxi, before tiptoeing behind some trees. I look at my watch. Fifty-six minutes and three seconds – less than four minutes to get to the finish.

I pull a branch across my face and peer through a gap in the leaves. A group of competitors is heading this way, with nobody behind. If I time this right, I’ll be able to slip in after them as if I’ve been there the whole time. I am poised to pounce, when I hear a voice.

‘Did you go for a wee?’

I spin round and am confronted by a freckle-faced girl of about nine years old wearing a fur-trimmed pink anorak and sucking a lollipop.

‘What?’

‘You’ve been for a wee, haven’t you?’ she grins. She has a gap the size of Cheddar Gorge in her top teeth and her tongue is the colour of an exploded ink bomb.

‘No!’ I hiss.

She pauses, sucking her lolly as she thinks. ‘Was it a number two then?’

‘No!’ I shriek, edging my way round the tree so the approaching runners can’t see.

‘So why are you hiding behind a tree?’

‘I . . .’ I pause as an awful possibility flashes through my mind. What if she works out I’m cheating and tells someone?
Imagine
the humiliation. My first ever Ten K race and I’m disqualified for taking illegal transport halfway round.

‘Okay, yes,’ I tell her. ‘You’re absolutely right. I went for a
number two.
Satisfied?’

She shrugs. ‘Doesn’t bother me.’

‘Where’s your mum anyway?’

‘Running the race. My dad’s over there.’ As she points to a tall man in a navy cagoule a little way from the tree, the group of runners speed past and I spot my opportunity.

I dive out, leaving the girl behind me and join the back of the group. I’ve only run four steps and my heart is pounding, though more in fear of being caught than exhaustion. I’ve got my head down and am pumping my arms and legs, when a competitor in front – a tall woman with muscular legs and a greying ponytail – turns round and glares.

‘Nearly there!’ I grin, panting a bit more to deflect suspicion.

She turns and continues running.

And it’s as easy as that.

Nobody notices. Not a soul.

They’re too busy concentrating on their uphill approach to the finish and the roar of the crowd. I run as fast as my aching legs can carry me, ignoring the fact that the skin at the top of my bum feels as if a caveman’s trying to start a fire on it, ignoring the blisters throbbing on my feet, ignoring everything other than my absolute and unequivocal need to get to the finish line in under an hour. Which is less than three minutes away.

As I turn the final corner of the route, I see the finish in the distance and am greeted by a crash of cheering. Most of the crowd are strangers, there to see their friends and relatives run, but happy to provide moral support to anyone with a number. In between their cries, I can hear my name.