(010)
By this point, the plan was well and truly out of the window. The plan had been to focus on every step being done with correct form – core tight, glutes squeezed, balls of the feet – but the plan hadn’t taken this god forsaken path into account. With his eyes always down watching for sticks and rocks, or avoiding potholes, his attention had been elsewhere. This path hadn’t respected the plan, and now Andrew was struggling. His shoulders are slumped, knees coming inwards on every step – to any half attentive onlooker it would have come as no surprise that he’d fall eventually. And he does, tripping on his own foot at the bottom of a hill, and instead of turning right with the path, he falls left onto grass. Rolling down the gentle bank and landing on his back, facing up at the grey sky through the skeletal branches of the sycamore tree. The bellows are working overtime, his chest inflating and deflating, steam shimmering at the edges of his skin.
“Um,” the voice of a child from a distance, “are you okay mister?”
Am I? He thinks, before raising a fist with an outstretched thumb into the air, not even lifting his head to see who it’s for. If there’s anyone even there.
“You’ll be needin’ some wa’er there I’spect?” A deeper voice now, closer than the other.
Andrew turns his head to the right, squinting in the direction he thought it had come from. A thick set man, broad shoulders and the hint of a belly under his chequered shirt is walking towards him, his knee high rubber boots squeaking as he does so. Behind him is a young boy on the water’s edge, dressed similarly, a pole in one hand and the thread of the line in the other, a round magnet dangling in front of his face.
The older man offers a hand to the still supine Andrew, and Andrew stares at it, mustering the energy to accept, but eventually doing so. The fisherman’s hand is rough and he pulls him up with ease, clapping him on the back when he’s on his feet.
“You’re awright.” He proclaims.
Andrew tilts at the hips and puts his hands on his knees, unsure of the assessment.
“Marathon is’et?” The fisherman asks, holding an olive green flask out towards Andrew, the lid thankfully already removed.
Andrew stands up to take it from him, using his other hand on his hip to lever himself. The flask is full, and frustratingly, his hand trembles at the weight of it.
“Ultra.” He says between deep exhales, and lifts the flask to his lips. Rivulets of water pour from the corners of his mouth as he gulps it down.
“Ooer,” the fisherman says, “one not enough was’et?”
“Mm,” Andrew exhales a laugh through the water, bringing it away to breathe, “something like that, yeah.” He offers the flask back to the fisherman, who shakes his head and suggests that he should drink some more.
“Come over ‘ere with us for a minute, ‘ave a seat.” He gestures back towards a camping chair by the edge of the water, the boy standing beside it pulling the line from the river.
Andrew shakes his head, bringing the flask back away from his lips again, “mm mm,” he hums, “if I sit down, I won’t get up again,” another deep inhale, “but thank you.” He smiles.
The fisherman meets his eye and nods. “Awright then,” he turns and walks back towards the water, “I’ll sit, you can stand.”
Andrew has no choice but to follow.
The fisherman opens a large plastic cooling box beside the chair and brings out a vacuum bag of sandwiches, flops into the chair and sets about opening the bag.
“You ‘ungry?” He asks.
Andrew limps towards the water, his breath finally catching up to him. He shakes his head.
“Come on now, ‘ave a bite, you must be starvin’.”
By way of response Andrew’s stomach growls, and he gratefully accepts the offer. He takes a bite without knowing what’s in it. Tuna and cucumber, normally not his favourite, but today isn’t a normal day. He devours it in three bites, then chases it with even more water.
“So ‘ow far’ve you come already?” The man asks. Behind him the boy pulls the magnet out of the water, a cluster of coins cling to it like barnacles.
“Dad, look!” He cries, and the fisherman turns to see.
“38 kilometres,” he wipes the sweat out of his face with the back of his arm, “I’ve got 12 left.”
“Bloody ‘ell that’s a fair whack!” He bites one corner of his sandwich, eyebrows still raised, perhaps both for his boy and for Andrew.
“Yeah,” Andrew rubs his eyes, “it was okay at first, but the path has been horrible. I just want a nice patch of flat road, you know?”
“Yah,” the fisherman nods, “I can imagine.” He points his little finger at Andrews shirt, the only one available. “You runnin’ for MND are ye?”
Andrew’s eyes initially follow where he’s pointing, down to the words across his chest, ‘motor neurone disease association’, and then he nods when he realises what the question is.
“Mmm,” the fisherman nods too, “my old man ‘ad it, that’s why I know what it stands for.” He swallows the sandwich he’d been chewing on and turns to look at Andrew. “Who you runnin’ for?”
“Uh,” Andrew can feel that his legs are beginning to seize up, so he steps from one to the other, shaking them out. “Myself.” He laughs, the truth of that answer now painfully absurd to him.
The fisherman blinks, mouth agape. Andrew keeps his eyes on his feet, moving left, right, left, right.
“Wow,” the word is heavy in the man’s mouth, “I’m sorry to ‘ear that.”
“Mm,” Andrew responds, “me too.”
“‘Ow long’ve you known for?” The boy lifts the magnet up behind him again, covered in coins, but this time doesn’t call.
“A few months – they caught it early they said, although what difference that makes I don’t know.” He winces at his shoe rubbing against his achilles.
“Mmm,” the fisherman hums, turning the sandwich round and round in his hand, “did they say ‘ow long ye’ve got left?”
Andrew shakes his head. “They said they couldn’t estimate. That it’s different for everyone.” He stops moving and looks at the fisherman again. “How long was it for your dad?”
The edges of the fisherman’s mouth curl down in thought, and he looks up to his left. “‘Bout 2 years I’d reck’n, from the first diagnosis that is.” He eats the last piece.
Andrew starts fidgeting once more.
“And did it get…y’know,” he swallows, “bad…quickly?” A shiver runs down his back, his body cooling down and drenched with sweat.
“Well,” the fisherman reaches into the box again, coming back with a couple of cans of beer, offering one to Andrew, who declines, “yah, pretty fast I’d say.” He puts one can down beside him, and cracks open the other. “Within 6 months he couldn’t really walk no more-” he tips his head back and takes a few good glugs, finishing it off with a quiet ‘ahh’.
Andrew rubs his hands up and down his arms against the chill, aware he needs to start moving again soon.
“- but d’yknow what?” He catches Andrew’s eye again. “That last year and ‘alf we ‘ad together was the closest we’d ever been.” He tips his head back and finishes off the first can, reaching for the second in one swift motion.
“Course it was ‘ard,” he continues, cracking the second can, “but we also ‘ad a right laugh at it all,” he makes sure Andrew is looking at him, and that it’s quiet enough that the boy doesn’t hear, “at ‘ow shit it all was, and ‘ow there was nuttin’ we could do but embrace it…y’know?” He sips the second can to break the eye contact.
Andrew sighs out a breath that it felt like he’d been holding onto for months. “Yeah,” he exhales a laugh through his nose, then whispers, “it is shit.” He shivers again. “But listen, if I stand still any longer I’ll freeze here, so I should probably get going.” He offers the flask back for the fisherman to take and he does so, they share a knowing look, and one final nod. “- and thank you for the help.” He turns and walks back towards the path, feeling the strength in his legs more prominently than before, along with the pains. Just before he climbs the bank he’d rolled down, he hears the boy behind him and turns to look.
“Mister! Wait up a sec!” The boy is running towards him with one hand clenched tightly in a fist. He reaches Andrew and holds it up in between them, then opens it to reveal a little metal pin of a pink rabbit head, a bowtie around its neck. “I thought that this rabbit might ‘elp you run faster!” He puffs from the short sprint over.
Andrew smiles, biting his lip to hold back laughter. He takes the playboy bunny from the boy’s hand and pins it to his shirt. “Thank you,” he grins, “it’s just what I needed.”
The boy grins back at him before turning and running back to his father. Andrew sticks a thumb up in the air at the fisherman, who raises a can back up at him, then turns and starts back onto the same shitty path again, laughing as the pain returns.
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