Perhaps I Shall Do Better Tomorrow

This morning I woke with the distinct feeling that today was going to be the day. The morning itself was no different from the preceding mornings, (almost three hundred of them now), when I’d awakened around about six and slid quietly out of bed, fumbling around in the smoggy darkness so I didn’t wake Maureen. It was almost November and reasonably cold. A soft drizzle was tickling against the window pane as I sat on the edge of the living room sofa, lacing myself into my trainers and considering the morning ahead. I’d take the same route I usually take, down the drive and along the road, into the park at the Westerly entrance, five laps of the playing fields, then home at a clip, in time for the papers and a bowl of porridge before I caught the eight o’clock train. The morning had begun in exactly the same fashion as the morning before and yet, in my bones, I felt a little different. If I’d had to put a word to this feeling, I’d have called it something like optimism. Yes, I felt optimistic and positive. I felt sure this morning would be the morning I actually managed to outrun Chris.

Chris is our neighbour on the Southern side. He and his wife, whose name is Samantha, only moved in about a year ago. Before Chris arrived in the neighbourhood, I was the only runner in the village. I liked my status as the only runner. I liked the way our neighbours, out walking their dogs or driving for the early train, would catch the blur of me whizzing past and automatically raise their hand in greeting, knowing it couldn’t be anyone else. I liked the way the local wives, encountering Maureen in the village store would occasionally say, “I saw your Nigel out this morning. He’s very dedicated isn’t he?” I liked the way running was my thing. But mostly I liked to revel in the assumption that I was the quickest, the fittest, the very best runner in a two to three miles radius.

All this changed with the advent of Chris. I did not know he was a runner but then one morning, just before Christmas, I was labouring through my final lap of the playing fields when Chris came sprinting out of nowhere and passed me at tremendous speed. Ever since we’ve been meeting by non-arrangement at the same time each morning. We are quick to emphasise this non-arrangement is totally casual. It just happens to happen every day. And every day, like bloody clockwork, though he insists it isn’t a competition, Chris laps me about two thirds in. When we happen to cross paths at other times, socially or by chance outside the house, Chris never mentions the fact that he always beats me. He shrugs it off with a casual grin. “Yes,” he says, “Nigel and I sometimes jog together. It’s nice having a bit of company.” I don’t believe him for a second. I’ve seen his face as he goes sailing past. The way he bares his teeth and grunts. The sheer wilful determination of him.

I’ve been careful to keep my training a secret. I don’t want Chris to know he’s bothering me. I’ve a treadmill down in the basement and some weights and an exercise bike. I’ve been putting an hour in after work each day. Building up my stamina. Working on my muscles and breathing. Every morning, I’ve been pushing myself a little harder. When I hear Chris’s footsteps getting closer, I grit my teeth and give it all I’ve got. This morning I can feel it in my bones. I’m going to glide right past that smug bastard. I’m going to show him a pair of clean heels. And when I’ve soundly lapped him, I’ll wait for a moment by the Westerly gate, pretending to stretch my muscles against the railings, waiting for Chris to come panting up, just so I can look him directly in the eye and say, “you alright Chris? Have you put on a bit of weight?”

And if I don’t quite get there this morning -though I’m pretty sure I will- perhaps I’ll do better tomorrow or the next day. I’m going to keep pushing and pushing ‘til young Chris knows, I’m the main runner in this village. It doesn’t matter how fast he goes. He’s only ever going to be a sideshow. People here know that running’s my thing.

Inspired by a line from Agatha Christie’s 1971 novel Nemesis