Paralysed

Dougie lives next door to me. I know very little about him as he works away a lot with the RAF. Last night was warm enough for Miche & I to be sat outside after the kids were to bed. Dougie was in his garden too, so I thought I'd say hi over the fence.

We got to chatting. He seemed like a really nice guy. He said,

"Scott, I've seen you run past my house sometimes, are you a keen runner?"

"Yeah", I said, "I get out pretty regular, it's something I enjoy." I was feeling pretty smug about it, to be honest.

"Yeah me too", said Dougie, "Though I don't get to run as much as I'd like"

"Well, I'm going for a scarper tomorrow morning, if you fancy joining me?" I offered.

He seemed up for it. We agreed to try an 8 miler, of course, we were sizing each other up and like any bloke, neither of us would be trumped. I'm surprised we didn't end up planning a half marathon.

So this morning at 8:30 we set off. And at a fair clip too. Certainly faster than I would ordinarily. I kept my mouth shut about that, of course.

After four miles I began to sweat, and my legs began to protest. But we carried on.

He & his wife have recently divorced, sadly. This morning however, it was a blessing. Dougie obviously wanted to spill the beans and recount the whole story. He chatted, barely out of breath the whole time. All I had to do was concentrate on not passing out and offering the odd, "Yeah?" or "Hmn..".

Somewhere in mile seven, I asked,

"So, what do you do in the RAF then?"

"I'm a Physical Training Instructor." He told me, without even a bead of sweat on his forehead.

No fucking wonder then. I felt like a reet tosspot.

I'm sat at my desk now, barely able to move, as me legs have all but seized up solid. I've just checked my Garmin for the run stats; 8.3 Miles, average pace 7:36 minute/mile.

Never again. Never again am I going to let my male pride get in the way.

I'm going out for a few beers with him next Saturday. I've already told him I'm a wimp when it comes to drinking...