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The Best of Times Short Story Competition


Spring 2022 Results




Fifty, Fabulous and (not quite) Fit

Copyright © Leigh Garrahy 2022


I’ve joined a group of runners at the local park. The sun has been up for half an hour when we set off on the five-kilometre circuit. The sky is clear, and the air is unpolluted on this beautiful Saturday morning.

Most people go sky-diving or hot air ballooning to celebrate turning fifty, but not me. Despite the fact I’ve never been athletic and the only time I’ve been in a gym was when I was looking for a bathroom, I decided this was the perfect time to take up running.

I’m halfway through the first kilometre (I think that sounds further than 500 metres) and feeling okay. A little bit smug to be honest. My heart rate is steady, and I’m breathing naturally. The path passes through the shadows of a line of centenarian oak trees. I feel humbled by their grandeur and their age. My foot slides on a rogue acorn and I feel my knee wrench.

I run past a pond surrounded by leafy elms and willows dipping their feathery branches into the water. Sleek black and green ducks dart from the reeds to compete for scraps of bread being thrown to them by small, excited children. It’s good to be alive, I think. My shoe squelches in a slimy duck squirt on the path.

I make my way along a boardwalk listening to the rhythmic pounding of the other runners’ footsteps. In comparison, mine have become a thud, thud, shuffle.

At the end of the third kilometre I’m panting, and my calves are aching. One of the other runners comes alongside me.

“Keep going. You’re doing great,” he says.

I manage a breathless “Ugh” in reply as he and his dachshund run past. The dog’s little legs move effortlessly, and he slides a side-long look of disdain at me as he passes me. Further along the path, I stand in dog poo. No doubt deposited there by the dachshund to show his contempt for my pitiful running technique.

Everything is starting to rub me the wrong way. My new shoes are giving me blisters, and there’s a nasty rash on my inner thighs. The sun is shining in my eyes mercilessly, and the flowers in the garden beds are too colourful.

By the fourth kilometre, I can feel searing pain in my chest. My heart is being squeezed in a vice. I can barely lift my arms to brush my hair away from my sticky forehead. I can’t feel my legs. I think I might be having a stroke. I can’t remember the number for emergency services. I can’t remember anything. I certainly can’t remember why I thought this running lark was a good idea.

The end of the circuit is in sight. In the last few steps, I stumble and sprawl across the finish line. I kiss the ground and thank the Lord for not letting me die. My calves are paralysed with cramp, and I can’t stand without help. Upbeat co-runners are milling around, patting me on the back and congratulating me on what they are calling a fabulous effort.

I don’t want to disappoint them, and I smile back at them, but I don’t feel fabulous. I feel dead, and I want to vomit.

“How was it? Did you enjoy it?” I’m asked by one of the cheery jocks who looks like the five kilometre run has merely been a doddle around the park, smelling the flowers.

“NO. No, I didn’t,” I think, but I nod weakly in response. As soon as I’m capable of dragging myself to my car with an iota of dignity, I’m going to go home and stay in bed for eternity, or at least till next Saturday.

“See you next week,” someone says. They’ve got to be kidding; you’d have to be mad to willingly put yourself through this torture again.

But now that my breath has returned to normal, and I can stand unaided, maybe it isn’t that bad. Maybe I could come back. At the very least, I should try to beat today’s PB.

“Sure, see you next week,” I say.