It occurred to him around mile 11 that his book would not be a success. There was no need for a book; the whole experience could be summed up in three words.
‘Running And Pain’. Maybe even one word.
There were slogans for it aplenty. ‘Don’t stop, you’re almost there!’ at mile 1 (and mile 2). ‘You’re hot when you sweat!’ was another.
He still hadn’t hit mile 12. A whisper that needed violently suffocated: ‘You’re not even halfway.’
The irony was it would probably need to be a short story of some kind. Maybe a poem. Had poems been written about completing marathons?
“A man ran,
It was pain.”
Short to be sure, but some would likely find value in it and God bless them.
‘I’m a senior citizen – what’s your excuse?’ ran past him. This was the second time, which felt insulting. She probably didn’t have a blister and a possibly bleeding left nipple.
Mile 15. That was unexpected. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.
No suffocating it this time, just an ‘Easy tiger.’
Hunger; not good. Jaffa cakes – good. Close one.
Mile 17 is awful. It’s the worst of some really bad ‘worsts’. Still basically ten miles to go.
No. It’s less than three miles until 20. Say 2.5 and we’ll round it down. So two miles. Then the last mile doesn’t count. So; these two miles, then only five to go!
And, sure what’s two miles?
Mile 18.
Still mile 18.
Running out of steam.
Still mile 18.
Fuck.
19. Yes.
Gels. Feeling better. Get that grit back.
Mile 23. Sore everywhere. Being is sore.
There it is; the sign for Mile 24. People stopping still; injured and broken.
Mile 25. He could still stop.
But he doesn’t.
Twenty six…
Point Two.
‘A good title.’