- Early July – Check
- Early Sunday morning – Check
- Fucking shit weather – Check
All that can only mean one thing. Yup, it’s long Sunday run time! Let’s roll!
Somehow I persuaded Gilmour and James to meet at Quennevais to start today’s grand adventure. As we all know by now Gilmour generally completely loses his shit if you suggest running anywhere but from West Park to Corbiere and back. He likes that route because it’s nice and fast and when his friends in Scotland see his run on Strava they are impressed with his pace and possibly forget that he’s a shit who they don’t miss at all. Thing is James has started training for the marathon. This means he now gets to overrule Gilmour’s bullshit Sunday run. Usually Gilmour is in charge of the Sunday run and Gilmour usually makes it 90 minutes, which is too short and is a big old waste of fucking time.
So yeah, I was amazed when Gilmour agreed to meet at Quennevais at 8am today. James wanted to do between 22 and 24 kilometres. Fuck knows why he didn’t just say 23 kilometres but he didn’t. You’re cooking a pizza and it says put it in the oven for 8-10 minutes then you put that thing in for 9 minutes. It’s not rocket science.
Quennevais is only a mile up the road from me so even though it was raining like a maniac I ran up there. I figured I might be able to use that extra mile as an excuse if I started suffering during the run. “Slow down, guys! I did an extra mile!” Although the weather was so bad I didn’t expect either of them to be there, to be honest.
James was in the car park. Gilmour wasn’t because he’s always late because he’s a self-absorbed prick. Nice. Standing in the rain. Cool! This is exactly how I wanted my Sunday to begin.
“Where’s that fucking cunt?” asked James.
“How should I know? I thought he was your mate,” I replied.
“Nah, I don’t like him but he just hangs around. I feel sorry for him, if anything. Shall we just fuck off?”
“Give him a couple of minutes.”
Now, we met right next to The Frank Machon Memorial cycle track. It’s nearly a mile around. I don’t really like to talk about it but I think I’ve the record for a lap of it on a bicycle. 2 minutes. Had a 54 tooth chain-ring on that glorious summer’s day. A day as different from today as could be. James’ probably wasn’t even born when I did it.
“Shall we do a lap while we’re waiting for dick splash?” asked James.
“What, a lap of this track? The one I have the record for on a bicycle – 2 minutes flat.”
“Yeah, shall we?”
Now, I’ll be honest here. I didn’t want to run with James on his own. James is too fast. He’s miles faster than me. And although Gilmour won’t admit it James is also faster than him. So there’s a sort of balance on the longer Sunday runs. Obviously Gilmour won’t run too fast, because he knows James is better. James won’t run too fast because Gilmour tells him to slow down and then I can can just about keep up with the pair of them.
Without Gilmour I was fucked. What could I say? James, just run the whole run slowly? Nah, I couldn’t say that. Come on Gilmour, turn up you absolute arsehole! We did a lap of the track. A lot slower than the 2 minutes it once took me. We got back to the car park and there’s no Gilmour.
It was obvious he wasn’t coming. I was resigned to doing the run with just James. I wondered how long I’d be able to keep up with him. What excuses I could use. James suggested we go around the track again which made no sense. We’d been at Quennevais for ages and it was time to face facts. That bell-end wasn’t coming. We went around again. “Yup, 2 minutes it took me,” I told James. Still remember that day despite it being over 20 years ago. 25 maybe.
Got back to the car park and cuntchops’ car is there but there’s no sign of cuntchops.
“Oh my Christ, where the fuck is cuntchops?” asked James. We stood in the car park for a while. Soaked. Cold. Tired and we hadn’t even started running thanks to Johnny Late-Bollocks. “Maybe he’s running around the track?”
“None of this makes sense,” I told James. Why wouldn’t he just wait near his fucking car for five minutes?
“I think he was dropped on his head as a baby. Repeatedly. He could be fucking anywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was up a fucking tree!”
“Yeah, he’s a piece of work.”
“Shall we go?” asked James.
“We’ll have to, I suppose. Maybe we’ll bump into him?” I said that in hope more than expectation. James and I started running. For the 8th time. Up to Corbiere, around the headland, along the Five, back on the inner road, up Val de la Mare, around the airport and back to Quennevais. It was okay, actually. Bit fast for my liking, really. We didn’t bump into Gilmour. I didn’t even ask James to slow down either. Well, at one point he asked how I was feeling and I said it was a bit fast for my liking. He said we could slow down but I styled it out.
Back at the car park Gilmour was sitting in his car, weeping. He didn’t see James and I approaching. I knocked on the window and he dried his tears and got out. “Nice one, Dickhead!” said James. Gilmour launched into a big explanation about what had happened. None of it explained anything. Just raised more questions. Apparently he’d just got out of his car and started running while we were waiting for him by running around the track which I think I have the record for, on a bike, even though it’s not a big deal. 2 minutes.
After I got home I checked out where Gilmour had gone – by looking at Garmin Connect – and fuck me if he hadn’t run the stupidest fucking route ever run by anybody. It was the route a rat in a maze might take. Fuck.