We are not now young

“You’re gonna kill yourself Pete,” I said.

“I’m not doing anything you’re not,” he said, between desperate gulps for air. “What is it anyway, 10k – no distance. We grew up running miles.”

“Yeah, and I think the world went metric since you last ran.”

“We’re the same age.”

“Yes but I’ve been running three times a week for the past 32 years. You’ve barely walked to the corner shop in all that time.”

“Still, it’s a mental thing, isn’t it, running? They say that all the time, it’s mental strength you need, not physical.”

I said nothing. Mentality is everything to running, it’s true. That said, it helps if you have actually left the comfort of your armchair at least once in the past thirty years. It’s not a ‘mental thing’ if your heart conks out three miles in.

Left leg forward, right leg forward, and repeat, ad infinitum. When you’re still running at my age you rely more on muscle memory to get you round than anything else. All Pete’s muscles have been long forgotten and abandoned, like pre-historic temples, I hear him struggling and gasping alongside me.

“Why the Hell do you want to do a 10k run? I’d asked him. You’ve never ran in your life.”

“It’s that young kid at work, the one who’s been asked to ‘shadow’ my role. He kept on and on about how fit he was and he bet me a ton I couldn’t do it.”

“Is the bet open to others? I asked, "Only I fancy some of that.”

“Cheeky sod. You gonna help me or not?”

I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t say no, even though he’d pulled a muscle thirteen yards into his training run and was barely moving again by the time of the race. I agreed to run with him, so that if he did collapse I could apply the kiss of life, or at least bury his corpse.

“Are you okay?” Pete had stopped, clutching his stomach.

He said nothing, but threw up mightily, a pan-dimensional spew of what looked like two weeks' food rations.

“What the hell have you had to eat today?”

“Fry up. I thought if I was gonna run 10k I should have a good breakfast. I didn’t wanna pass out half way round through lack of food.”

I was lost for words. Even Mo Farrah couldn’t run 10k with that crap in his stomach.

Pete took a long swig from his water-bottle and restarted his run. I trotted alongside, dreading what was going to happen next.