Page 87 of The Weight Of It All
“Fair enough,” he said with a smile. “Emily read you the riot act, didn’t she?”
“Yes, though I was very brave.”
Reed smiled and looked down the path we would soon be taking. “Okay, so we’re going to jog, slow and steady, for three kilometres.”
I whined.
“You do it three times a week, Henry. And we’re gonna do it at your pace.”
“My pace is about fifty kilometres an hour, in my car.”
Reed chuckled, and with a nod over his shoulder, he said, “Come on. Let’s do this.”
And so I did. I started off on the seven kilometre Bay Run, with the only person on the planet who could have ever made me think it was possible.
Fifteen
Reed knewI couldn’t jog and talk at the same time, so he stayed alongside me, the support in his silence loud and clear.
The path that traced the bay was for joggers and cyclists, dog-walkers and pram pushers. It was very scenic and a popular place to be. But in the past, I’d simply driven on the road next to them, never given any of them a single thought.
Now under a perfect Sydney sky, they smiled at us or gave a nod or a “hi” as we went past each other. I had to admit, it was nice and reaffirming that society, and people in general, didn’t all suck like I’d presumed for years.
I wasn’t miraculously cured of my cynicism, but the change of outlook, no matter how brief, was refreshing.
Don’t get me wrong, I was still dying. And I’d never been more relieved when Reed’s phone beeped. He pressed a button and said, “That’s three Ks. Wanna keep going?”
I stopped and waved my hand dramatically before putting my hands on my knees and gulping in air. “No. Dying. Fuck. Legs. Lungs. On. Fire.”
Reed was barely sweating. “You’re doing great. And you’re almost halfway. Come on, keep walking.”
We’d probably walked a hundred metres before I could talk properly. “It’s different than running on a treadmill.”
“It is.”
“It’s harder.”
“Treadmills are a controlled environment. This isn’t.” He looked at his watch again, and pressed some more buttons. “Come on. This time we’ll go for one K.”
And so we jogged again. I was nearly taken out by a guy on a bike, and Reed had to pull on my elbow to avoid me being mowed down by a lady pushing a stroller, who I was certain was being remote-controlled by the evil toddler in the stroller. The little kid laughed when I almost tripped over but miraculously managed not to face plant. I considered giving the kid the bird, but thought it might be frowned upon.
Somehow, I made that one kilometre, then we walked for a bit while I caught my breath. Before I knew it, we were around the other side of the bay, and I could see the Haberfield Rowing Club up ahead. “Jesus.”
Reed smiled effortlessly and showed me his watch. “Less than two kilometres to go.”
I had a sip of water. “And I’m not even dead yet.”
“Not even close,” he replied. And so we started to run again. Well, maybe the word run was a little ambitious. At the rate we were being overtaken by people with prams and dogs, it was safe to assume the termslow jogwas probably more apt.
But I didn’t stop for another kilometre.
This time I needed to not walk. I needed to stop completely and take some deep breaths. With my hands on my hips, I had to work to get air into my already struggling lungs.
Reed gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re doing great, Henry. Almost there.”
If I looked directly over the water, I could see Drummoyneswimming pool and Terry Park, where Anika, Sean, and Melinda were waiting in the shade on blankets with cushions and baskets of food... exactly where I wanted to be.
“Only got the bridge to go.”
