“I’m not normally. But I’m also not normally getting dragged around on a run I really don’t want to do.”
“You do know you’re going to have to run further than this in the triathlon,” I say and regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I doubt they’re going to help.
My fear is justified when a low, gravelly groan tumbles out of his mouth. It’s followed by more Italian words I don’t understand.
“That’s it. Signing up to Duolingo as soon as this run is done.”
That changes Marcello’s tune and he huffs out a quick laugh. “If you do start to learn, I can guarantee you’ll be better than me within a few months. I only know curse words and chat-up lines.”
“Chat-up lines? I won’t learn those on Duolingo. Teach me some. I’ve always liked Italian men.”
Silence falls between us. And I mean silence, which should be impossible in this part of central London. It’s like the birds stop singing. The pedestrians around us stop talking, and the traffic that has been consistently rumbling along Bayswater Road has come to a sudden standstill.
“I mean, some Italian men,” I add and make it even more awkward.
A few more seconds of tense silence stretch out between us and I’m not brave enough to look at Marcello to see if he’s cringing at me, or worse, looking suddenly afraid to be running at my side again.
Here we go again, on the direct train to Station Overthinking, no stops on the way.
“Marcello,” I venture and I wince at myself when my voice cracks a little. “I didn’t mean—”
Suddenly a boom of deep laughter ends the silence. “Are you saying I don’t do it for you?”
“I’m not saying that,” I splutter. Shit. That’s not the right thing to say. “Fuck. I mean, I used to have this crush…”
I’m silenced by a big slap on my back that propels me slightly forward. “I know what you mean, man. The whole Italian Stallion thing. I get it. I hear it all the time. I mean, I used to. But I know I’m more of a geriatric Italian donkey right now so…”
Marcello drifts off and so does the sound of laughter and ease in his voice.
“New rule,” I say, and I too find my inhales and exhales a little trickier. “No self-deprecating allowed. I happen to believe a positive mindset is essential for training and seeing gains so I’ll be keeping an eye on that as well as your split times.”
“Split times?”
“How fast you run each of these kilometres,” I explain.
“Bugger. For a second I was hoping it was related to banana splits.”
“Banana splits! Whatever happened to them! Do you think kids even eat them these days?”
“Probably not. Too busy on their phones.”
“True story. You know, I’m so happy I grew up without social media and smartphones.”
“I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess you’re right. How old are you, by the way?”
“Forty-five,” I say and I don’t miss how it feels like the words have barbs as they leave my mouth. I’m not ashamed of my age – I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished at work, and how I look at this stage in my life – but I’m not at complete peace with being this old.
“I’m forty-two.” Marcello inhales sharply. “But honestly, I feel like I’m still nineteen most days. Well, most days when I’m not being forced to run around Hyde Park that is.”
I can’t help my shudder. “You couldn’t pay me to go back to nineteen.”
“Why not? All that youth! Endless energy for well, everything. Hangovers that you could shake off with a couple of paracetamol and a bottle of Lucozade. Erections that pointed to the ceiling, even when you’re standing up? What’s not to like?”
“My dad died when I was nineteen,” I say and I’m not surprised when Marcello falters next to me. We’re approaching the end of The Serpentine and I indicate with my hand for us to take the path that keeps the water on our right.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Marcello eventually says.
“No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t a very cool thing to do, to just drop it into conversation like that.”
