THIS is what it’s all about, eh? Running in the summer. Proper summer and not the bullshit we’ve had so far. It’s, like, 20 odd degrees. What a great day! It was made even better by the fact Gilmour is in another country so I didn’t have to run with him today.

Durr, wonder what he’d be doing today? My guess is 1hr 30 mins at about 4min/kilometre. Fuck that. He wasn’t here so I went running with Tom and Dan. It’s better running with Tom and Dan because they’re hardcore runners who are prepared to push boundaries when it comes to running routes.

We met in St Aubin at 8am. Tom was already there when I jogged down. The first thing he said to me was, “look at this.” This was before any other pleasantries, you know? Just BANG! “Look at this.” He then began to lift the leg of his shorts up.

“Oh Tom! Not here, not now!” I gasped because I’m straight. I looked around to make sure we weren’t being paparazzied. We weren’t. Tom’s shorts went higher. I put a knuckle in my mouth and bit down. Flapping my other hand at my face to cool it.

Tom was pointing at a big scabby mess on his outer thigh. He hadn’t been showing me his dick. I was both relieved and strangely disappointed. He went on to explain how he’d fallen off his bicycles the previous day.

“I was going around a corner and there was a car and I fell off,” he said. Not really explaining it though the fact he’s a triathlete was explanation enough. Triathletes are shit at not falling off bicycles. It’s kinda their signature move. Like those goats that go rigid when frightened.

The Mystery Machine pulled into the car park and Dan Romeril exploded forth. We were set. We just had to decide on a route.  But before that Tom showed Dan his leg. Not to be outdone Dan pulled both legs of his shorts up. He said something about how he gets road rash from football pitches but his legs were unmarked. I think he just wanted to show them off but at least with that out of the way it really was time to set off.

Tom always wants to go up a path next to La Haule Hill. Always. He doesn’t shut about this fucking path whenever I see him. The thing is La Haule Hill doesn’t go anywhere. There’s nothing at the top.

“We could go up La Hau-” Managed Tom before I silenced him.

“Cliff paths around to Corbiere?” I said decisively like Gordon Ramsey judging a flan. Dan was okay with that.

“Yeah, first we could go up the path by La Hau-“

“No, Tom. We’re not doing that.”

“Maybe on the way back?”

“Maybe, Tom. Maybe.”

“Oh boy, I love that path!” Squealed Tom, beaming with delight. Dan high-fived him and we set off. After 73 metres Dan Romeril took his T-shirt off. Fuck knows why he put it on in the first place. The route itself, the cliff paths around from St Aubin to Corbiere, are rather like a dolphin with a chainsaw – awe inspiring but deadly. The hills, the twisty rocky paths, the steps. Rock climbing on the beach at Ouaisne. It’s tough, one wrong move and your ankles are breaking clean off and you’re fucking dead. But the scenery is also great. Makes you glad to be out. Makes it all worthwhile. Gilmour wouldn’t do the run because he has weak ankles and the pace wouldn’t be impressive to his goblin mates back in 16th century Scotland. I was conscious of this, you know? How the pace wouldn’t be impressive when Gilmour checked.

“That knob Gilmour will check our pace and reckon it’s shit,” I said as we tackled the  gruelling ascent of St Brelade’s Bay. A climb littered with the unrecoverable corpses of  foolhardy people who overestimated their ability.

“Nah, he won’t,” said Dan.

“He fucking will, bet you. He’s a total fucking knob!”

“He’s okay.”

“Okay? You fucking with me, Romeril?”

“I like him too!” said Tom.

“You should learn to ride a bike, Tom. Before you suddenly decide you’re a big famous psychologist who knows if people are knobs or not.” We ran on in silence for a bit after that. I felt bad.

“Sorry Tom, it’s just Gilmour and his pace shit… Fucks me off.”


“Sorry for snapping at you.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, like, about three minutes ago.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did you hit your head when you fell off you bike?” I asked.

“Who fell off a bike?” he replied. After that we didn’t talk until we got to Corbiere. Here Dan – who’s a teacher or something – told us he’d organised a group of children to be present at Les Quennevais sports pitches conducting a guard of honour for him and he’d promised to wave at them. So we went there. It was the only time Dan hit the front. If that wasn’t bad enough he shouted “Come on, slow coaches!” to me and Tom when he was right in front of the cheering children. As soon as we were passed them and around a corner Dan stopped, doubled over and got his breath back.

“That was really impressive, Dan,” I said all sarcastic.

“Thanks, I really do it for the mothers though, you know? Give them a bit of a thrill in their mundane lives.” He winked, stood up straight and made his pecs dance.

“Which way shall we go back to St Aubin?”

“Down, the Railway Walk?” said Dan but he winked at me again.

“Yeah, down the Railway Walk,” I said trying not to laugh. We looked at Tom who was on the verge of tears. “Just fucking with you, Tom!” I said, finally laughing.

“Yeah, let’s go down the path next to La Haule Hill!” said Dan.

“For realsies?” asked Tom.

“For realsies!” said Dan.

“Oh boy, oh boy! You won’t regret it, I promise!” said Tom hugging first Dan and then me.

We ran down that path. We did regret it because it was fucking shit. All up and down.  And also pitch black. So fucking shit. Tom’s promises are fucking worthless. Remember that.

Twenty minutes after I got home I got this text from Gilmour.

“Was your session a long easy run or a fast walk?” He punctuated it with a thumbs up.

I fucking told you, Romeril I thought to myself. The joys of summer leaving me like an emptying sink.


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