Stiff Competition

Stiff Competition.


Dr. Hartson stood outside his front door poised for the early morning October chill. He took in a deep breath, preparation for the jog in the park he was about to endure, and was surprised at the revitalising quality it injected into him. So much better than jumping in a car, suffering the London rush hour smog and then sitting in a stuffy office all day. He thought he should have done this years ago, not just because of his profession (although he didn’t smoke, or drink heavily, he was partial to invading the fridge in the small hours of the morning), nor because his nagging (but caring) wife had persuaded him to either. “Lose some of that weight for Christmas,” she had said.

Leaning forward, attempting to touch his toes but getting no further than mid-shin, he tried stretching. He could have sworn he had heard a creak and, giving up the warm up session, headed across the road towards Victoria Park.

He passed through the park’s giant, black, iron gates with a fast walk. On noticing the other early risers taking exercise there, he suddenly felt slightly conscious of himself and his appearance. Joggers circled the park as though they were running around a track; some ran in pairs, some as couples; the more serious health addicts ran at a fast furious pace, heads down, sweat pouring. They all wore the latest in sports wear and the now slightly embarrassed doctor wished he had equipped himself with the same- he still somehow managed to squeeze into the tracksuit he had once used in his college days- picture the Michelin man at the Olympic games in the sixties and you have a perfect picture. Vanity wasn’t a word in his dictionary, but he now felt like a stranger in a strange land.

Accelerating from a brisk walk to a jog, desperate to fit in with everyone else, he started his first lap of the park. After a hundred metres or so, his legs began to feel the effort and he was puffing like a whale. He slowed his pace, giving his heart a well needed breather; realising he was going look somewhat outcast, he resigned to the fact he would have to slow jog if he had any chance of completing a single lap.

The red faced doctor had now settled into a moderately comfortable pace; although his legs felt like vinegar ran through them and his lungs felt like shrunken balloons, he was able to maintain the pace. How could something so painful be good for you?, he mused, then remembered the saying: no pain, no gain. The thought of just walking home swam into consideration; his mind’s eye cast a picture of warm cosy duvets and hot steaming mugs of coffee, only to be banished by his wife appearing and nagging him to “get back to that park and lose that extra tyre!” After weighing up the options of either stopping this painful encounter with the park or, facing his wife, he decided the latter far more painful.

The park band stand came into view and he knew he had nearly completed half a lap. He thought about stopping to catch his breath there, sit on the steps and watch everyone else torture themselves instead.

He was within twenty yards of his designated resting point when two rather attractive girls jogged into view. They were travelling at an impressive speed and even managed to hold a conversation as they bounced up and down in their tight Lycra. Oh what is it to be young and agile… and so firm, his aching limbs were momentarily forgotten as his eyes appreciated the firm tight skin beneath their outfits.

Naturally being male, the doctor didn’t want to appear feeble in front of a couple of pretty girls, and he headed back on course to complete the lap. He picked up his pace to a sudden run and held it till the girls had passed.

A new power surged through his system, the pain in his muscles had ceased, his heart and lungs no longer burned and he felt better for the sudden effort. He was sure it had something to do with the adrenalin that had kicked into action the moment he had spotted the young women. It was as though he could feel no pain; he felt “in the zone”, the feeling athletes get when they are at the top of their game, their bodies working in perfect harmony, leaving them with the feeling of invincibility, no lactic acid coursing through muscles whatsoever- although far from an athlete he did feel better now he had warmed up.

He continued to run and complete the lap, perhaps starting another? Lets just take it a step at a time shall we?... quite literally, he thought, as he head ever onwards back to the giant, iron gates.

An elderly gentleman puffing and panting, his cheeks beetroot red from strain, jogged towards the renewed doctor and, on noticing the older gent’s attire felt a little relieved. The white haired, red faced jogger wore a tracksuit from around the same era as his own; same colour too: navy blue with white piping down the sides. As the elderly jogger drew nearer the doctor raised his hand and bid good morning. The old man didn’t take a blind bit of notice and kept on jogging, the concentration adding many lines to the already creased face. Blimey, it’s stiff competition around these parts, he thought.

He came to and passed the gates that marked the beginning of the lap, the feeling of good health swaying his decision to stay and start another, perhaps meeting the young girls on their new lap on his way round.

Eventually the band stand came in to view again, but instead of the expected bouncing Lycra, he saw the girls making up the numbers of a small crowd that was now gathered by the stand. He slowed to a walk and headed over to the attraction. A suited man walked franticly around, mobile phone stuck to his ear. The excited undertones of gossip quickly spread, and as Dr. Hartson approached, he saw through the crowd’s legs a man lying out on the grass verge, just off the path. He was wearing an old dated tracksuit. Poor old bugger finally blew a casket, he thought.

In the distance he could hear the faint cry of an ambulance siren and he looked towards the iron gates, as if it was about to tear into the park at any moment. As he stood with his hand to his eyes, shielding them from the bright morning sun that was starting to make its self present, watching for the imminent arrival of the ambulance, he noticed a figure jogging past the gates. The figure was slow and hunched over slightly, and as he came out of the sun’s glare, the doctor recognised the unfashionable tracksuit and the wispy white hair; the sun light shone through it making it almost translucent and it made him look like some relation of Einstein.

The siren screams grew louder until finally, lights ablaze, the ambulance sped into the park. The confused doctor watched its advance and followed over to the increasing crowds. Two ambulance people jumped out, ordering people back, and it was at this point Dr. Hartson realised it was himself lying on the grass.

As the dissipating crowd gradually grew thin, the stunned Doctor stumbled over to his lifeless body sprawled out on the grass. He was now mumbling incoherently and he lowered himself in front of his empty shell. The two young women were now talking to one of the ambulance men, whilst the other kneeled down in front of the former doctor, laying a white sheet over him, totally oblivious to the confused being that mourned himself only inched away.

Whimpering, the shock inducing sheer white panic, the doctor started to wail. He yelled at the ambulance men to leave him alone, he wasn’t dead; he started to wave his hands and then made fists, banging them on the ground. They didn’t even batter an eyelid.

His mind reeled with crazy thoughts and images, some memories of his past, others just pointless, meaningless rabble. He thought how upset his wife would be; he would welcome her constant nagging for another lifetime just for a small chance to come back again. These thoughts flitted into and out of recognition like a flashing strobe, only to be left with an image of a film he had once seen: Superman flying through space; he was travelling faster than the speed of light and orbited the Earth in the opposite direction that the planet was spinning. This thought seemed to stick… but why? Time travel, that was it; Superman could change the course of time if he travelled faster, and opposite the Earth’s orbital direction. The thought wouldn’t leave his chain of thinking no matter how hard he tried to banish it. Was it a message, a meaning, an answer… a way back?

No sooner had he thought of this, he was up and running around the park- in the opposite direction. With all the confusion, immense distress and mayhem that dominated any rational thinking, this one thought alone was the only thing he could grasp and hold onto, the only remaining slither of hope. If he could just get round the park faster than the previous lap then maybe, just maybe he would arrive in his body of flesh and bone, the ambulance men given vital, precious seconds that might have saved him before.

He was now running, chasing his life, his body not feeling a single ounce of pain, with the hope of bringing himself back, back to the world he thought he disliked sometimes: the London smog, the stuffy office, the nagging wife…


…If you ever happen to be in, or visit Victoria Park, London, and the weather is just right: perfectly still, not the slightest hint of a breeze and preferably summer, you can sometimes feel an occasional brief, but cool breeze pass you.