LONG RUN SHORT

by Richard Banks

So this was it. What I had been training for, for nearly three months. In as many minutes we would be off, me and twenty-five thousand other underdressed masochists shivering with cold and nervous tension on a shrill April morning. I eased my way into the mass of runners by the three hours, thirty minutes sign and found a small gap on the tarmac between a grizzled veteran in his club colours and a younger, but less fit man, dressed as a clown. Despite the banter, everyone was on edge, anxious to be off, watching the second hand on the big clock creep round towards the final minute.

      The veteran half turned his face towards me. “First time, son?”

      I nodded.

      “Thought so,” he said, “can usually tell. What time are you aiming for?”

      “Three and a half hours, if I’m lucky.” I bit my tongue, what did luck have to do with it? I reflected on the training sessions I had missed. Had I done enough?

      The veteran sensed my uncertainty and lack of preparation. “Well, at least you’re standing in the right place, not like that wally on the other side of you. He set his

stop-watch for the off. “Thirty seconds to go,” he muttered. “Run steady for the first few miles, then pick it up from there, if you can.”

      I took off the old sweater I was wearing and tossed it onto the pavement. The hooter sounded and we were off - a slow shuffle at first, easing into a gentle jog as we passed over the starting line. A hundred yards on, the crush of bodies began to ease and the veteran, with practised precision, started to weave his way through the crowd.

      I let him go. After four miles of steady running, I attempted to take his advice and take it up a gear. A mile later I took it back down, and by the time I reached Cutty Sark, I was ready to stop. Seven stops later I knew it was all over; with twelve miles gone and fourteen to go, I was never going to make it. I walked disconsolately to the next junction and turned left, away from the course. A black cab pulled up.

      “Want a lift mate?” The driver thrust his large shaven head through the open window and looked at me like a vulture anticipating its next meal. I climbed in, thankful that I had some emergency money pinned to the inside of my vest. As we pulled away en route to my hotel in Greenwich I crumbled into the seat, feeling like the utter failure that I was.

      The driver tried to console me. “Never mind mate, there’s always next year. You’re not the only one to drop out.”

      “Maybe not,” I sighed, “but how many of them are sponsored for ten thousand pounds. I explained that I was running on behalf of little Tommy, the critically ill grandson of my next-door neighbour, whose family needed the money to send him to a specialist unit in America. The cab came screeching to an abrupt stop and the driver swivelled round. He looked angry. I thought he was going to punch me. “What, and let little Tommy down! We can’t do that!” he roared.

      “But what can I do? There’s no way I can make it to the finish.”

      The cabby thought otherwise. “Oh yes there is my son! Oh yes, there is!” He turned the cab around and set off towards the City.

      I sensed that my day was not improving. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.  

      “To Birdcage Walk.”

      “That’s on the course, isn’t it?”

      “Indeed it is my son, just ’round the corner from the finish in the Mall. We’re going to do an Archie.”

      “Archie?” I said. “Archie who?”

      “Too much information,” he said. “All you need to know is that he had the same problem as yourself. Different race, but same problem.”

      “And what did he do?”

      “The same as us. Now listen up. When we get there you put on my overcoat. We find a gap in the crowd. You crouch down, make yourself small and I’ll stand over you, giving you a bit of cover. When you see your chance, slip off the coat and rejoin the race.”

      “Isn’t that cheating?”

      The cabby pulled a face. “Just think of little Tommy.”

      Half an hour later we pulled up in St Anne’s Gate and descended the steps that led down to Birdcage Walk. There were no gaps in the crowd but the cabby forced a way through to the front and occupied a space between two metal fences. I followed him in, and several minutes later re-entered the fray.

      I would like to say that I felt guilty as I dashed over the finishing line. Instead, I gave a clenched fist salute to the TV cameras. I even framed the medal they gave me; well it’s not every day you run a marathon in under three hours. A week after the race I embarked on another marathon, collecting my sponsorship money. Tommy got to go to America, and after a stunning marathon debut I retired from the sport and took up darts.

      The pub team I belong to is having a sponsored bulls-eye competition next month. It’s all in a good cause. I’m not very good, so I don’t suppose it will cost you much. Can I put you down for fifty pence a bull? 

 

Copyright Richard Banks