The reluctant fun runner

I stagger down the street, ambling along like a zigzagging, drunken one legged pirate. My breathing has turned to a wheeze which wouldn’t go amiss at the Heavy Breathing Phonecall Society. Inside my chest my heart is thumping like a chorus of japanese drummers but thats not the worst of it. Sweat has trickled down my back and between my bumcheecks, causing them to rub together, the resulting friction meaning that I believe the rubbing has actually lit a fire around my nipsy. My ears detect the sound of cheering, or it could be an ambulance siren, I can’t tell. My vision is blurred, caused by the accumulation of sweat in my eyebrows, the results of which are twofold, my eyebrows have become heavy  with sweat, combined with my eyebrow muscles being rendered useless due to my blood rushing to my major organs in an attempt to keep me alive, my eyebrows hang heavy over my eyes, giving me a neanderthal, Rocky Balboa appearance. Secondly, the accumulation of sweat in my eyebrows is constantly breeching the dam, affecting my vision to the point were I am looking through a rained on windscreen.

The shouts/sirens in my ears get louder and more intense, so with a mighty effort, I lift my head from its position of straight down and look around through my blurry eyes, in an attempt to see what the noise is about. All around me I am being overtaken by people who are clearly restricted as runners, they’re either old, fat, or dressed as dustbins/vikings/sumo wrestlers. But yes, they are overtaking me.  Up ahead, I can just make out a sign, Finish line. Suddenly A surge of joy passes through my body and I let out a little yelp, startling an octogenarian as he passes me by. Bloody hell, I’m being beaten by a bloody pensioner! I put a spurt of effort into my legs, taking energy from the only source I have left, my pride. The old man sees this as I come up on his shoulder, and so for the last hundred metres of this 10 kilometre “fun run”, I’m locked in a 5mph battle to the line with a man 50 years my senior. I knew I shouldn’t have raced off behind Katy’s arse..

3 months earlier and its Katy’s arse I’m watching over the top of my mug of coffee as she puts up a flyer on the noticeboard at work. Sensing an opportunity to interact with this lovely young woman, I wander over to see what she’s pinning. “Oh a fun run. eh? I didn’t know you were a runner Katy.” I say over her shoulder. Slightly startled by the sudden voice in her ear, Katy turns to me and says, “oh, hi Brian. Yes, I’ve been running for ages, I’m in a running club, we meet twice a week. I’m just seeing if I can encourage anyone in the office to run. I suppose I’m using this event to give people a taster.”

“Running club eh?” says I, “I suppose there’s lots of discussion on whether urinating during a run is socially acceptable.” Katy stares at me, a slight offended look on her face, my joke backfired faster than Usain Bolt with the trotskis. Within a microsecond, my mind reaches back to repair the collateral damage in the only way it knows how, by lying. “So, I, er…have done some running. I’d be interested in taking part.” I splutter.

“Katy’s face brightens, “Really? Cool! What level have you run at?” Level? There’s levels? Bloody hell, think, numbnuts, think. “Er, you know, a pretty standard level. Done some uphill stuff, downhill….roads.” Katy giggles, “haha, you’re a funny guy Brian! So I’ll assume this’ll be easy for you? I’ll stick you down as a yes.”

She hands me a form to fill out and takes her wonderful bum back towards her desk. I stand there, mesmerised for a moment, but then left wondering how once again, I have allowed my penis (little brain) to get the better of my head (big brain), and drop me into a position I don’t want to be in, all in the name of lust.

The next day I come to work with a sports bag, fully intending to show Katy how seriously I am taking this 10K run by going for a jog at lunchtime. At 12.55 I grab my bag and head to the toilets, knowing that Katy will be heading out at 1pm to the shop for a sandwich. I change quickly and quietly make my way out of the building. At the front entrance I start some exercises, bends, touching toes, lunges etc just as Katy comes out. “Oh hi Brian, are you going for a run? Dressed like that?”

She stops me dead with that answer and I look at my attire, bermuda shorts, an old pair of converse, and a vest top straight out of Gok Wan’s worst nightmares. “Er, yes,” I reply, “just going to take a quick jog around the park. I do most days. Keep in practice. This outfit stops me being chased by large dogs.” I quip. She giggles and says, “well change your outfit, and I might join you now and again!” She walks away laughing as I try to respond, so I stop myself. As soon as she’s out of sight, I jog down to the carpark, get in my car and light up a ciggie. Plenty of time to get fit for this run, there’s three months yet.

However the 3 months go by with me performing the mother of all fitness procrastinations by putting training off until the day of the race. I finally get a bit of training in by running up and down the stairs at home a few times. Yep, that wasn’t so bad. This run should be a cinch. After shelling out at Sports Direct I’m now dressed like a walking advert for Nike, and that combined with my running number neatly pinned to my skintight, breathable running top, makes me feel invincible. I jog out the house to the car and spurt off to to starting bit of the race.

The day before I’d arranged to meet up with Katy so we could run together. That way, if my fitness did start to fail then I could just follow her bum around the course, mesmerised like Tom Cat when he smells a pie cooling on a window sill. So when I arrive, Katy’s already waiting for me, springing up and down like a boxed in kangaroo amongst the thousands of runners. “Hi Brian, ready to go?” she says. “Yep, ready as I’ll ever be. Say Katy, after the race has finished, do you fancy going for a quick drink?” She stops bouncing and looks at me with a smile on her face. “Well, I was wondering if you were ever going to get round to ask me that! Yes!” She giggles.I’m about to say something when a voice come out over the klaxon, “runners, if you would kindly make your way toward the starting road, 2 minutes until we start!” We begin following the crowd but there are so many people I simply don’t have an opportunity to dazzle Katy with my suave lines and witty repertoire.  Before we know it, a horn sounds and we are off! Well jogging on the spot for a minute or two until the crowd thins out a bit, but then, we’re off!

Immediately I shoot off at a quick pace in a vain attempt to impress Katy, but the pace I’ve set is actually slower than hers and within 100 metres I find myself lagging behind her. Not even her manslaying buttock oscillations can keep me up with her. After the first kilometre she’s out of sight and I’m starting to breath like Darth Vader orgasming. 9 kilometers to go..

So the finish line approaches. I’m locked in a life or death race with a pensioner. Both of us jostle for position. The old man elbows me in the chest and lunges for the line, but at the last minute I catch his ankle, tripping him and he falls flat on his face. I don’t have the energy to get out the way and trample over the old man, falling just ahead of him. As I try to stand, a bony hand grasps my ankle, slowing my stance. The old man pull himself toward me and tries to bite my ankle, like the last act of a soon to be destroyed zombie. I panic, which gives me renewed energy and standing, drag myself and the old man attached to my ankle over the line.

The crowd cheer as I collapse to the floor and I lie there, looking up at the sky with a gnawing pain at my ankle when a face fills my vision, its Katy. “Oh Brian, look at you! hanging back to help that old man through the race! I think I may have found my ideal man!” She starts kissing me. Now normally at this point with the thought of the owner of that bum kissing me I would probably get to a state of uncontrollable arousal but  the fact that I’m not sure if I’ve shit myself, and that my blood is still at my major organs in a attempt to keep me alive, means all my penis can do is waves the white flag.