Run rabbit run

It’s hot inside my rabbit suit. I’m already regretting not training in it, but I would have felt stupid running round and round the estate dressed as a rabbit. I got enough grief off neighbours as it is.

Of course, I’m dressed as a rabbit now, but that’s different, it’s a marathon. There are hundreds, no, thousands of people dressed in costumes; rhinos, penguins, chickens, eggs, rabbits.

I never realised how heavy and stuffy these things are. I always assumed it was easy, so many people wear them. I mean, if some middle-aged accountant from Epping can do it so can I. Except, of course, he probably had the good sense to train properly, took his rabbit-suit to the gym with him after work. 26.2 miles I have to run in this hot, heavy, clumsy, non-aerodynamic costume.

It shouldn’t be so hot in April. It’s been bloody freezing all year and suddenly the sun comes out just when I don’t need it to. Once I’m running there’ll be lots of water stops, but I’ve got to wait for my slot before I start. 35 minutes so far, Mo Farrah will probably have started on his victory lap before I even set off. God I’m melting, just standing here. What’ll it be like when I’m running?

“Hello Tony, nice costume. I always said there was something of the mad March hare about you.”

Fuck! It’s Geoff from work. Dressed as a bloody tortoise! His lousy jokes – I’m a rabbit not a hare, and, it’s April, not March.

“Hello Geoff, how did you recognise me in this?” I’ve deliberately not told anyone at work I was doing the race in costume.

“Oh,” he sounded surprised, “is that not what you wear to work?”

I could hear him chuckling to himself inside his shell.

“Very funny.”

“Oh, yes, I remember, I checked your number on your sponsorship page and have been looking out for you. Funny we should end up starting at the same time.”

“Yes, hilarious.”

We are interrupted by an official waving frantically to signal it is our turn to start and, without any preparation, we set off. We are probably the last group of runners, most of us in costumes and a few old timers on what will probably be their last race. A man that looked about 90 runs passes me and Geoff.

“Right, I’m off, see you at the finish – I’ll be waiting at the line with a drink for you.”

Geoff tears ahead, overtaking the old man.

‘No fucking way’. If Geoff beats me it’s all I’ll hear for the next year, how the tortoise beat the hare (I’m not even a hare, I’m a rabbit, it’s an Easter weekend race for goodness sake, everyone’s bunnies, chickens, even an egg. What in god’s name possessed him to dress as a tortoise?)

In spite of the heat, in spite of the weight of the costume, I pick up my legs and run. It’s hard, heavy going, especially in a thick crowd of people, adding to the heat. What I hadn’t appreciated whilst waiting was how hard it is to breath in these things, the face-hole is tiny and in this heat I need a bellows pumping air in.

I press on though, past the old man (yes!) and approach Geoff’s heels.

I am vaguely aware of a roaring crowd, the other runners, the masses of volunteers at the sides of the road proffering water bottles, the TV cameras sweeping onto me. Right, this is it, I’m on TV, the office will be watching. Now’s my time. From nowhere I find hidden strength and push forward, catching up Geoff, and, with the cameras still on us, passing him. Yes! Victory is mine.

However, I feel the camera leave me and immediately my legs feel heavy, I start to slow, and the tortoise sweeps past me.

“Fun while it lasted, eh Tony. Something to tell your grandkids.”

I try to stop him passing but it is all I can do to keep close, stop him getting a mile ahead.

It must be just as hard for him, I tell myself. After all, he’s got that bloody great shell on his back. Plus he’s older than me, three divorces, that’s got to take its toll on the body.

It must be something like midday. The sun is blazing down. Inside the rabbit costume is as steamy as a sauna, I can barely see through the mist, all I see are vague forms of rabbits, squirrels, giraffes and that fucking tortoise.

I see Geoff slow to take on water. Christ I need a drink, but I’m not stopping, this is my chance. I don’t speed up, no need to kill myself, but I keep going at the same speed and, in spite of Zeno’s finest theories, I am able to overtake him. I am in front, winning. In need of water, it’s true, but I’m ahead.

And I’m bloody well staying ahead this time. I feel Geoff pressing me, trying to overtake, but I give it everything I’ve got to stay in front. He surges again, but so do I. And so it goes on, no sooner do I see off one take-over attempt than he tries again. It’s relentless. I can understand how god must feel trying to answer some poor sod’s prayer and another 1,000 prayers rain down on him before he can get through so much as the first line of the response.

But I’m not like god. I’m not just going to give up, this is going to be the time I got one over on Tony. It will be my revenge for the office Christmas party.

It’s amazing really how different it is running in huge, clumsy, heavy, furry feet. Round my local estate, in my T-shirt and running shorts, I could whizz about like, well, a mad march hare. But here in the costume every step is a mile. Everything is so slow …

Bugger, he’s passed me again. I mustn’t let him get a lead. That’s all that matters. Keep him in sight and he’ll tire. He’s only human (probably).

He’s like the Duracell bunny, just doesn’t stop. Hold on, I’m the bunny. At least he isn’t attempting to break away, probably as exhausted as I am. I think I’ve lost a stone, it’s sweltering in here. These things should come with a warning.

Hang on, what’s that up ahead. It’s bunting, a mass of people, tables of people giving out water – it’s the finish line! Thank god this is nearly over. I just have to get past Geoff.

He’s seen it too, he’s speeding up, but I’ve got the sprint speed. Yes, I’m catching him. Oh yes, the rabbit passes the tortoises. Christ it’s hot in here, but I don’t care, I’m the world champion.

I stop, exhausted in my glory, grabbing some water which I throw over my sweltering face through the tiny breathing-hole.

I turn to watch Geoff cross the line, ready and poised to gloat.

“Well done,” he says cheerfully, “keep this speed up and you’ll beat me yet. See you at the next mile-post.”

He runs on, as if the race wasn’t over. As if … fuck, as if we have only just reached the first mile-post, as if there are 25 miles still to go.

It’s hot in this rabbit suit. Not ideal for breathing. In fact, yes, I seem to have stopped breathing.

And I seem to be on the floor. I am lying on the floor and not breathing. That's a turn-up.

If I could speak I would shout for help.