But for now, I’m going to join Rosina, Radia and Chloe in cheering as loud as I can for Marcello, the love of my very imperfect but very happy life.
Marcello
Never again. Never, ever again.
Those are the words I’ve had on repeat in my brain for the last few miles of this run that I swear is going to kill me. In fact, I may already be dead. This may be what hell is – a never-ending run in Lycra with a massive wedgie from the tri-suit that I suspect cost Giles a small fortune but I swear I’m going to burn it when I get home – and I’m stuck here.
I didn’t think I’d end up in hell. I’ve always paid my taxes, never more than a few weeks late. I’m nice to old ladies and I wash milk cartons before recycling them. But maybe the dirty tackles I did playing football as a teen have caught up with me. And there was also that time I kissed the girl Antonella was seeing but in my defence she threw herself at me andhonestly, Antonella was cheating on her with at least two other people so she deserved it.
I stumble round a corner and finally, I see the finish line. And I see people.
People.
Where are my people?
I hear them before I see them. A shrill whistle. Chloe’s booming voice saying my name. Mamma’s rapid-fire Italian. And Giles. I hear Giles above them all.
“You’ve got this, Marcello! You can do it. Stay strong. Stay focused.” It’s so similar to all the things he says to me when we’re training together. And some of them he said when we were first intimate with each other in those disastrous but so delicious sex lessons.
Then I see them. Well, first I see the banner he and my mother are holding. I saw it at my first transition but I was too light-headed from my swim to read it properly. I spent the whole of the bike ride wondering what it said. It was the perfect distraction. At my second transition, from the bike to running, I finally read it and for the first three kilometres of my run, I was smiling as I recalled it.
But that only lasted so long. The slightly bleak and industrial surroundings of the run killed any good mood I had and I think I had the shortest ever recorded runner’s high which quickly broke to make way for runner’s low, identifiable by blisters on feet, chafing thighs and a very persistent cramp in the stomach. A cramp that has only worsened with every step I've taken.
I know you’re supposed to carb load before a race but maybe I did overdo it with Mamma’s cannelloni last night.
It’s only a few seconds after I see the banner again and the shouting, smiling faces of my mother, Radia, Chloe and Giles that that cramp turns into a stabbing pain so severe I stop running and double over.
“Cazzu dialulu!” I call out and hug my stomach. Aware of pounding feet all around me, I try to straighten up. I can’t let this get the better of me when I’m literal metres from the finish line, and being watched by those I love most.
But it’s impossible. The pain is too much. It feels both burning hot and ice cold, which interestingly enough is what my body temperature is also replicating. It’s like a blade slicing through my intestines, especially on the right side, and straightening up only increases the pain tenfold.
So, I guess I’m crawling to the finish line.
Because I will finish this. I’ve come too far not to.
Besides, I don’t want Giles to worry. I don’t want him to think that I’m in pain or uncomfortable. I don’t want to give him even a slight hint that something is wrong with me. I know how hard he’s battled his compulsions recently. I don’t want to undo his good work.
And I want to make Giles proud of me. I want to thank him for all he’s done for me as my trainer but also as my boyfriend. I want to tell him that he’s changed my life, bringing colour and excitement and purpose to it. I want to ask him…
An arm wraps around my back, halting my thoughts.
“Are you okay?” Giles voice is near my ear. And of course it’s him. I smell his leafy, earthy scent and I smile, even through the agonising pain.
“Cramp,” I say, even though I’m far from certain this is what it is. I’ve had stitches and cramps aplenty during our training runs and occasionally during my practise swims, and none of them have felt as blindingly bad as this.
“Okay,” he says and his arm starts to pull on me, urging me up a little. “Let’s get you across the finish line.”
“I can do it,” I tell him and I unfold myself just enough to see how far I’ve got to do.
I groan. Did I go backwards? I swear the distance just doubled.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. We’re going to do this together.”
Together… Him and me. Me and him.
Yeah. That’s what I want.
“Okay,” I say and I push up a little more. The pain doesn’t go anywhere – it’s alarmingly stubborn – but I lean against Giles and trust that he’ll get me where I need to .
