For Drew, running was simply something he could do well. It required little thought and even less effort. His style was natural and graceful, fleet-foot, his pace almost musical. What JB lacked in natural ability he made up for in his drive and commitment and by being a great actor who could hide pain behind his trademark swagger, mask struggle with banter and use laughter and a constant litany of expletives to keep himself going. JB also had a taskmaster for a father which had created an enduring terror of failure. Taylor was pretty good at all sports but happy enough to excel at none. Camaraderie fuelled him and he loved running with JB and Drew best of all. Drew, whose energy and aptitude appeared to be transferable; JB, whose constant stream of bullshit and bluster drowned out objection from limbs and lungs. And so here they were with hangovers of varying intensity, loping their way along the long and undulant twist of the Luskentyre road, heading for Tarbert and the hire car they’d overlooked yesterday. It was ten miles, mostly rolling with a long descent into town. On paper, it was a sensible final leg-turner before the marathon. In reality, it was a terrible idea really, coming hot on the hungover heels of the excesses of the night before. However, the landscape in which they foundthemselves gradually soaked up their self-pity while the soft air of coming spring refreshed sore heads.
Taylor took position at the back. Ahead of him, JB laboured and yelled at himself to comeonyou ass-wipe, while Drew just laughed, running as if he’d had ten hours of restful sleep and zero alcohol. Taylor listened to them trading choice insults and there were some good ones today: cock-dicker, ass-eating-shithead – andfuck you and the boat you sailed in on,whatever that meant. Invective, it seemed, gave a far better boost than any energy drink. Then, at some magical point, they all settled into a steady pace; Drew singing Springsteen, JB silent at last as he focused on staying in the zone, Taylor feeling his legs truly carrying him. And on they ran; on and on, passing occasional sheep, the postman in his van, a gnarly old farmer, two tourists in foldable chairs next to an RV. The vast bay which had been filled with all that blonde sand this morning was now drinking in the tide. Taylor recalled his mother saying that she’d felt her childhood homeland was floating, floating all the time. He tuned in to being on an island flung out in the ocean but it all felt rock steady to him; anchored. Sometimes he could be in the most familiar of places and wonder quite where he was. But not today.
I am here. I am here.
Iain MacAllister had set off for Stornoway from his home in Nisabost for a meeting and to pick up various things from Tesco for his wife. It was a drive he enjoyed: up and over the Clisham, a mountain whose mood could change in a moment, and then that breathtaking swoop around Loch Seaforth while the North Harris hills sternly demarcated Lewis from Harris and kept the two islands distinct. He was just opening a chocolate wrapperwith his teeth, his thermos of tea between his legs, when suddenly he saw them. Strung across the road in a line they were, arm in arm in arm, moving very slowly. Iain swerved and bipped his horn.Oh Dhia –good Lord! Of all the numpties! Only then did he see that the middle lad, flanked by the other two, was all but hopping. So he pulled in a little further on and left the car to see what all this was about.
The car was crammed. His wife and daughter could fill it well with their chatter when they were out as a family but this was different. These three lads dominated every pocket of space, from the bulk of them and the sweat steaming off them to the boom of their accents and the bit of bother they’d found themselves in. Two were squished in the back while the injured one was in the front appearing a wee bit grey around the gills, seat shunted right back for those long legs. Iain rolled down his window as tactfully as he could, introduced himself and asked their names, wondering how to remember them. Somebody somebody somebody the Fourth. JB for short, thank goodness.
‘Trip over a sheep did you?’ Iain asked.
‘No Sir,’ JB said. ‘We thought we had a shortcut licked until I summersaulted over some random rock.’
‘Oh aye, JB, they’re easy enough to miss,’ Iain said dryly, nodding at the landscape they were driving through, bombarded as it was by rocks of all sizes humping and bumping through the vegetation as far as the eye could see. ‘I’d advise you to wear your specs when you’re having a wee jog around these parts.’
The boys in the back stifled a laugh, and JB grinned magnanimously, teeth clenched in pain.
‘You boys on a rock-kicking holiday?’
‘We’re running a marathon here – this Friday.’
And before Iain could tell them that there wasn’t a marathon, he was hearing all about Paris and Harris and how fast they could run and that this marathon would be their fourth this year, with six more to go. They’d done Home to Rome, now they were doing Harris from Paris.
‘Laddie,’ Iain said, ‘the only thing you’ll be running in the next few days is a hot bath.’
‘Where we’re staying there isn’t a bath to run, only a shower.’
‘I hate to break it to you, but there is no marathon here on Friday,’ Iain said.
‘Yes there is,’ said the one called Drew who was gazing out of the window thinking that this landscape belonged to a different planet.
‘It’s ourownmarathon,’ said the tailor or the sailor.
‘Taylor’s from these parts,’ JB said, mid-wince.
‘You’re a Hearach?’ Iain remarked, glancing in the rear view mirror.
‘Sir?’ said Taylor.
‘AHearach,’ Iain repeated. ‘One who is from Harris.’
‘No Sir, I’m from Colorado Springs. It’s just my mother was born here, is all. She left years ago.’
And Iain thought about this. He thought but you’re here – marathon or not – here you are and that’s a long way to come for a wee run.
They had arrived in Tarbert and Iain pulled in to the health hub. In a tumble and limp, the lads extricated themselves from the car. They thanked him profusely and, with a bip of his horn, off he drove thinking how his car now felt as big as a bus, to him. Big as a bus.
Leaving JB, Drew and Taylor walked to the car hire, passing the hotel and groaning at all the things they probably said and sang and did in there but had no recollection of.
‘Did some guy drive us home?’ Drew wondered.
‘He said his name was Murder,’ Taylor said.
‘No one’s taking the marathon seriously.’
‘I wouldn’t take us seriously, if I’d met us last night.’
‘True that!’ said Drew. ‘What did that Iain dude call you? Sounded like he was clearing his throat.’
