I went for a run tonight: the first time in ages. I forgot how exhilarating it is to head out on the open road, to feel your muscles flex and release, tighten and relax, powering along, every sinew and nerve-end taut and screaming to be driven hard as you draw that life-giving air deep inside you and savour its cold bite on your lungs. To feel really alive.
That’s a lie. It nearly killed me.
It started with the visit to that bastard doctor and, being me, I can’t not do what I said I would, so here I am out running, at my hour of life. It’s pathetic, I know. I know, all right? I know, but it was always going to happen, and it would have happened sooner if the first week of the year hadn’t been completely fucked up by being sick. By getting so sick, in fact, that I couldn’t even go to the annual New Year party in my pub of choice and ended up seeing my local quack for drugs and bullshit talk. Bastard.
Oh, I’ll stick with it, a little bit at a time until eventually I’ll be running at least a hundred yards without throwing up. It’ll be great and everyone will see how lean I’m looking these days.
They’ll nudge each other and say, Jesus, look at Bock. Is he … you know … sick?