on, Dan unzips his spotless Tommy Hilfiger top and does a couple of energetic stretches. Even though it’s a chilly January morning, he’s wearing shorts, no doubt to show off his muscular, hairless legs, which seem to be suspiciously tanned given the time of year.
‘So, what’s the plan then?’ I ask him nervously.
‘Like I said. We’re going for a run.’
‘Which involves?’
Dan sighs. ‘Well, it’s a bit like walking. Only faster.’
‘No, Dan. I meant where are we going, how far, that kind of thing.’
‘Need-to-know basis,’ says Dan, leading me out of my front door and down the steps.
‘Don’t we need to warm up or something beforehand?’
‘Nah. Best warm-up for running is running. Come on.’
Dan hits the pavement and takes off at a light jog in the direction of the seafront, me following about five yards behind. By the time we reach the end of my road, I’m already starting to feel the pace, and it’s with some relief we have to stop at the crossing.
‘So…how…far…?’
‘See the cafe over there?’ says Dan, jogging on the spot as we wait for the lights to change.
I look across at where he’s pointing, about four hundred yards away. That doesn’t look so bad.
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, my usual run is past that, along to the marina, and then back.’
‘What?’ I say, horrified. ‘That took us ten minutes last night. Driving.’
‘So?’
‘In the car,’ I add, just in case he hasn’t got me.
Dan looks at me with disgust. ‘Don’t be such a wuss. I thought you wanted to get fit?’
‘Fit, yes. Not train for the London Marathon.’
As the green man beeps at us, Dan sprints across the road, followed by me at a somewhat more leisurely pace. My new trainers are already beginning to hurt.
8.05 a.m.
Brighton’s West Pier is a shadow of its former glory—a hulking, sagging wreck that’s losing the battle against the relentless tide and the passage of time. In many ways, it’s just like me this morning.
For the next few minutes our ‘run’ consists of Dan alternately jogging forwards, then turning and sprinting back to where I’m hobbling slowly along. We get as far as the Angel statue that delineates the Brighton/Hove border before Dan turns around to see me in a state of near collapse. He jogs back over to where I’m fighting for breath by the side of the road.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks, still hardly breathing himself.
‘Badly,’ I pant.
‘Come on. You’re bound to get your second wind soon.’
‘Second wind? I’m not sure I’ve even had my first one.’
‘Just try to keep it going.’
‘I can’t,’ I puff, my face the same shade as the rest of my outfit. ‘I’m flagging—’
‘I can see that,’ interrupts Dan, ‘but if you just keep moving…’
‘No. Flagging down a cab. To take me home. This is ridiculous. We’ve only been at it five minutes, and already every part of me aches.’
Dan punches me playfully on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Edward. You know what they say: “No pain, no Jane”.’
I shake my head, partly to keep me from further humiliation, but mostly to avoid any more of Dan’s awful puns on my girlfriend’s name.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say, in between gasps for breath. ‘I appreciate you coming out with me this morning, but this just isn’t going to work.’
Dan shrugs, starts to say something, and then is distracted by two attractive girls jogging past in the opposite direction. He looks at me, then at them, then back to me, a pleading expression on his face.
‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Fetch.’
As Dan sprints effortlessly off in pursuit, I wait by the road for a taxi. The first two drive straight past, obviously reluctant to pick up someone who looks like they might expire on their back seat, but eventually one takes pity on me, and I climb awkwardly in, mumbling some excuse about having twisted my ankle while out jogging.
It’s only a short distance back to my flat, but ironically I find myself
‘So, what’s the plan then?’ I ask him nervously.
‘Like I said. We’re going for a run.’
‘Which involves?’
Dan sighs. ‘Well, it’s a bit like walking. Only faster.’
‘No, Dan. I meant where are we going, how far, that kind of thing.’
‘Need-to-know basis,’ says Dan, leading me out of my front door and down the steps.
‘Don’t we need to warm up or something beforehand?’
‘Nah. Best warm-up for running is running. Come on.’
Dan hits the pavement and takes off at a light jog in the direction of the seafront, me following about five yards behind. By the time we reach the end of my road, I’m already starting to feel the pace, and it’s with some relief we have to stop at the crossing.
‘So…how…far…?’
‘See the cafe over there?’ says Dan, jogging on the spot as we wait for the lights to change.
I look across at where he’s pointing, about four hundred yards away. That doesn’t look so bad.
‘Yeah?’
‘Well, my usual run is past that, along to the marina, and then back.’
‘What?’ I say, horrified. ‘That took us ten minutes last night. Driving.’
‘So?’
‘In the car,’ I add, just in case he hasn’t got me.
Dan looks at me with disgust. ‘Don’t be such a wuss. I thought you wanted to get fit?’
‘Fit, yes. Not train for the London Marathon.’
As the green man beeps at us, Dan sprints across the road, followed by me at a somewhat more leisurely pace. My new trainers are already beginning to hurt.
8.05 a.m.
Brighton’s West Pier is a shadow of its former glory—a hulking, sagging wreck that’s losing the battle against the relentless tide and the passage of time. In many ways, it’s just like me this morning.
For the next few minutes our ‘run’ consists of Dan alternately jogging forwards, then turning and sprinting back to where I’m hobbling slowly along. We get as far as the Angel statue that delineates the Brighton/Hove border before Dan turns around to see me in a state of near collapse. He jogs back over to where I’m fighting for breath by the side of the road.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks, still hardly breathing himself.
‘Badly,’ I pant.
‘Come on. You’re bound to get your second wind soon.’
‘Second wind? I’m not sure I’ve even had my first one.’
‘Just try to keep it going.’
‘I can’t,’ I puff, my face the same shade as the rest of my outfit. ‘I’m flagging—’
‘I can see that,’ interrupts Dan, ‘but if you just keep moving…’
‘No. Flagging down a cab. To take me home. This is ridiculous. We’ve only been at it five minutes, and already every part of me aches.’
Dan punches me playfully on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Edward. You know what they say: “No pain, no Jane”.’
I shake my head, partly to keep me from further humiliation, but mostly to avoid any more of Dan’s awful puns on my girlfriend’s name.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say, in between gasps for breath. ‘I appreciate you coming out with me this morning, but this just isn’t going to work.’
Dan shrugs, starts to say something, and then is distracted by two attractive girls jogging past in the opposite direction. He looks at me, then at them, then back to me, a pleading expression on his face.
‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Fetch.’
As Dan sprints effortlessly off in pursuit, I wait by the road for a taxi. The first two drive straight past, obviously reluctant to pick up someone who looks like they might expire on their back seat, but eventually one takes pity on me, and I climb awkwardly in, mumbling some excuse about having twisted my ankle while out jogging.
It’s only a short distance back to my flat, but ironically I find myself
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