Life Is a Marathon

By Neil Miller

Life is a marathon, a long drawn out battle with many ups and downs.

Life can become a marathon for those individuals, and anyone connected with them, who enter the London Marathon every year.

"Life is a Marathon" is a humorous fictional story of seven wildly different yet somehow connected individuals from the same small town who take the plunge and enter the London Marathon for the first time. You will find someone you can relate to amongst an obsessive runner, an overweight jilted wife, an overworked young mum, a powerful middle-aged business man, a gym junkie, a fun loving party queen and a football mad jack the lad.

Laugh as you learn about their life stories and discover how they, however tenuous, are all connected. Be inspired as you find out what it is like to run in the greatest mass participation race on earth. You may even be motivated by their reasons for running, which range from selflessly raising money for charity to selfishly trying to get on National television, to start running and enter the London Marathon yourself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491879214

Neil Miller

Neil Miller has been running for over 20 years. As a competitive runner he ran on the track, cross country and road, ultimately finishing in the Top 100 of the London Marathon. He now runs for fun and fitness and lives with his family in a small commuter town outside of London.

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© 2013 Neil Miller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/01/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7920-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7919-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7921-4 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 In the beginning

Chapter 2 Running is Life

Chapter 3 Big Girl Power

Chapter 4 This one’s for me

Chapter 5 Doing something physical to earn real money

Chapter 6 Look over here, I am superman

Chapter 7 Stop the partying, it’s time to do something more healthy instead

Chapter 8 A solo mission to impress

Chapter 9 The formation of the magnificent marathon seven

Chapter 10 A day out at the farm

Chapter 11 The Big Day

Chapter 12 On the start line

Chapter 13 We are sailing

Chapter 14 A bridge too far

Chapter 15 Gone to the dogs

Chapter 16 Finishing what they started

Chapter 17 Life is a marathon

About the Author

Everyone has a story to tell, a book hidden inside them, and thanks to my wife and parents for encouraging me to tell mine.

CHAPTER ONE

In the beginning

One day, one place, one challenge, one race, one goal—don’t you believe it… .

The alarm sounds to signal the start of yet another new day and an arm automatically ventures from beneath the thick warm duvet in a vain attempt to mute the offensive high pitched electronic beeping sound. It is 6:00am, pitch black and freezing cold outside which is in keeping with the time of year. Why would anyone of sound mind be voluntarily rising from their slumber two hours before they actually need to leave the house for their mundane job at the local bank?

This is not a question that crosses Jim’s mind as he switches the alarm off and tentatively slides his legs out from underneath the duvet and away from the mattress, then carefully places his feet on the cold carpeted bedroom floor. With fear pulsing through his veins he stealthily creeps across the floor, instinctively avoiding all of the creaking floor boards, like a member of the SAS on a dangerous night time manoeuvre. From bitter experience, waking up the wife is not a scenario he wishes to encounter, but he comes pretty close as he trips over the washing basket and stumbles, limbs out of control, through the door way onto the landing. He just about manages to regain coordination as he reaches the top of the staircase and thus avoids going down head first. Heart beating like a drum, he holds his breath in anticipation of a failed mission, but the loud snoring sound that breaks the early morning silence signals that he is still in the clear.

A quick visit to the bathroom to answer the early morning call of nature completes the awakening process. Once downstairs in the hallway, and without turning on the light, he slips into the damp and slightly soiled tights, t-shirt, fleece and woolly hat that saw action the night before, but are OK for one more outing before they reach the sanctuary of the washing basket. Fresh socks are pulled on before his feet are squeezed into one of the numerous pairs of trainers that adorn the shoe rack. Each pair may have a different purpose, but all are blemished in some way and carry a distinctive odour that indicates they might have a dual purpose as a cat litter tray.

He places the key in the front door and to avoid making a jangling noise turns it as slowly as a safe breaker in the old black and white movies twists the dial on a bank vault. The door is then pulled gently open to be confronted by the cold morning air and he is away down the path and onto the pavement.

His legs are stiff as they start to adopt the shuffle which will eventually transform into a running action as bodily movements gradually synchronize with the message that is being sent from his brain. Hopefully he will get going before he passes the milkman or the workers returning home from the night shift, and no one will spot this ungainly sight that is part of a daily religious like ritual carried out in the faith that it will bring him closer to his goal.

It is 8:00am, the four year old is safely parked in front of the television watching the latest colourful children’s characters dancing crazily around, whilst Katie hastily shovels food into the six month old baby’s mouth. The baby is none too pleased to be restrained by the straps of the high chair and the ensuing struggle results in most of the Rusk being deposited either on his cheeks or the kitchen wall, rather than in his mouth. Another inconvenience that adds to the chores that must be accomplished before the school run can start.

The emergence of the buggy with associated buggy board from number sixty four confirms that the washing up has been done, the washing machine has been started, the kids are dressed and that Katie has got changed and put her make-up on. The pink sports bag over one shoulder is the only thing that signals today is Tuesday and thus is different from the other four week days. She hurriedly makes her way to the school to drop off number one child. Number two is then deposited in the crèche at the leisure centre prior to her meeting up with Julie in the changing rooms. Panic over as the two of them don their pristine sports kit before venturing outside to commence their exercise.

They cannot completely relax, for they only have just over an hour to jog, walk and gossip themselves round the five miles of quiet country lanes before Julie starts her shift as manageress at the local supermarket. Two affairs, one bereavement, the latest hairstyles, a pregnancy and a mutual friend’s husband later the conversation is beginning to dry up. However, the chatting may well have stopped anyway considering Julie’s physical condition. As the smaller and larger half of the Lycra clad duo touring the countryside, she is finding it increasingly difficult to muster anything more energetic than a less than powerful walking action. Her heavy breathing is starting to scare the local wildlife and excite the farmer who has been distracted from ploughing his field. At the other end of the body shape spectrum is the taller and, despite her recent pregnancy, thinner Katie who is literally jogging on the spot in order not to desert her best friend. As their thoughts focus more on the task at hand, two very different motivations are driving them back to the leisure centre and onto next Tuesday when the only difference will be what they discuss before fatigue takes control again.

Hiddenford is just like numerous other rural towns that are linked to London by a reasonable quality railway line. Its primary function nowadays is to house the commuters who travel down and back to the capital day after day until their pension fund is sufficient to set them free. For some their sentence may only be twenty years, but for most it is more like life. Around forty years of the same daily routine of rising early but late, donning the obligatory pin stripe suit, grabbing some breakfast, saying goodbye to the wife, kicking the cat, picking up the briefcase and frog marching down to the station. Years of experience mean that instinctively you know, essentially by your position down the high street, how fast you need to go to make the train when the level crossing gates start to come down. Of course this includes the time required to nip into the newsagents for the acquisition of the essential copy of the Financial Times and also the daily rag that it is actually read on the train, generally The Sun.

Having completed the morning commute part of the daily timetable and then enduring the weekly board meeting David is now about to escape. It is midday and he is just finishing adjusting his blue knee supports and red head band. Decked out all in white he looks ready for action on Wimbledon’s centre court until you notice that he is minus one essential item, namely a tennis racket. Years of wining and dining clients may have taken their toll, but this bionic pot-bellied middle aged business man is leaving the high rise office block and going into battle. No power walkers or shoppers are going to get by him on his twenty minute lunchtime plod. His confidence is sky high as a result of yesterday when he not only chased down, but then relatively flew past a shuffling white haired little old lady only laden down with two bags of grocery shopping. These battles are all part of the build-up to the war he faces with himself in a few months’ time, but defeat is not an option as there will be too much at stake on judgment day.

Back at Hiddenford leisure centre You’re simply the best belts out of the speakers in the gym. Yet even Tina Turner at full volume is no match for the treadmill, situated in amongst the aerobic equipment, on the far corner of the room opposite the full length mirrors. When it reaches top speed everyone else in the room knows, for there is a distinctive ear piercing screech as the belt spins round and smoke begins to pour out from around the bearings, indicating if this speed is to be maintained for more than ten minutes then the treadmill will explode. However, neither is a problem for Brad. The noise ensures that fellow exercisers are looking at him in full flow and ten minutes is a target he will need a miracle to reach. For it is physiologically impossible to run for that length of time in a flat footed fashion whilst holding your breath, tensing all of your muscles, keeping your hair in place and not sweating. Especially as this is at the end of a bodybuilding workout designed to make you look like something off the front cover of a glossy men’s health and fitness magazine.

Brad is a gym junkie who lives for the daily fix of weights, treadmill and rower that ensure he looks good for his yearly holiday on the beach and for Friday nights at the local nightclub when he wears the latest fashion in white coloured ‘pec’ hugging attire. Life is all about impressing Joe Public with the shape of his body and demonstrating to the other gym junkies that he is supremely fit. However, even Brad has become aware that his exercise routine of superhuman feats is not having the desired effect and he must do something else to highlight what his perfectly sculptured physique is capable of achieving. The daily surge of testosterone may have diminished his cerebral capabilities, but with the help of his adoring mother he has stumbled across an idea that will help confirm his rightful position as king of the Hiddenford gym. When accomplished no one could possibly doubt that there is a physical challenge which would get the better of this finest of physical specimens.

It is mid-afternoon and across town at the flats that line the river Melissa is lying in bed in a semi-conscious state. She has completely covered herself with the duvet in a desperate attempt to avoid any shafts of daylight that pierce through the curtains from reaching her sore and half-opened eyes. Her head is pounding and her stomach churning as a direct result of the alcohol abuse she subjected her body to the previous evening and the early hours of this morning. It was supposed to have been a celebration like no other, a monumental occasion to reflect the joyous news she had received late yesterday afternoon from her consultant. However, despite her best intentions the evening was little more than a glorified drinking binge and it has left her feeling much the same way as it has done for most of her teenage years and adult life. The physical and psychological high of the night before has been replaced by a sick body and a mental jigsaw. It takes the whole day to summon the will to get out of bed and at the same time she has to piece together the intermittent flashbacks that will eventually reveal what actually happened after the alcohol took full control and then wiped her mind.

By late afternoon things are beginning to come together. There was the traditional antics of drinking games, talking to the good looking men, avoiding the ugly blokes and their dodgy chat up lines, dancing around the odd hand bag and then stumbling home after being refused a taxi. But there was one moment that made last night distinct from all of the others that had gone before. About the