We’re, like, three Ks into a 10k race when Ronan tells me that the pills that I thought were performance-enhancing were nothing more than hormone replacement drugs for his neighbour’s dog.
“Rosser,” he goes, “all that woork you did in the gym, that was you. Had nuttin to do with chemikiddles. Now, let me ast you a question.”
I’m there, “Fire ahead.”
“Can you still see that Gaddet sham?”
I’m like, “In the distance, yeah… He’s getting… smaller, though.”
And Ronan goes, “Up the pace, Rosser. You can beat him.”
And suddenly hearing that my son believes in me gives me a rush of energy. I’m there, “I’m going to have to… hang up, Ro… I’ve got a race… to possibly win.”
I put the phone back in my pocket, then I put my head down. I stort picking off the athletes in front of me, first the fun runners, then the amateurs, then the serious athletes. It takes me, like, three or four kilometres, but I eventually reel Garret in.
He can’t believe it when I suddenly appear at his shoulder. He turns his head and goes, “Ross?”
And I’m there, “You sound… surprised.”
He goes, “No, it’s just…” and he checks his watch, thinking he must have accidentally dropped the pace if I’m suddenly right there with him and matching him - we’re talking stride for stride.
“No,” I go, “your watch… is right… I’m still here… Still in the race…”
And that’s when I hit a wall. Not literally. I’m talking about the wall that athletes often talk about when they’re two-thirds of the way through a race and they feel suddenly banjoed. My legs are like jelly from the effort of making up the ground on Garret. He must possibly sense this because he slips into another gear and storts pulling ahead again.
And that’s when I go, “This is… ridiculous.”
That gets his attention. He looks over his shoulder, going, “What?”
I pull level with him again. I’m there, “What are we doing… as in, to each other…? I mean, we’re supposed to be… friends.”
He goes, “We’re not friends.”
I’m there, “Our wives are… So maybe me and you… should make more of an effort… with each other.”
He laughs. He’s like, “You’re so transparent.”
I go, “What do you mean?”
“You’re trying to butter me up so I won’t humiliate you too badly.”
“I’m not… actually.”
“That’s what it sounds like to me.”
“I’m just wondering… why me and you… can’t get along… We actually have loads… in common… Including Claire… I know that must drive you mad… by the way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The fact that I’ve… been with her… as in…
“That was years ago.”
“Multiple, multiple times… And the fact that… she obviously… still has a thing for me.”
“Okay, I’m leaving you here.”
“No, wait… Wait… All I’m saying is… me and you… aren’t so different.”
“Yeah, over the years, you’ve slagged off absolutely everything I hold dear. The online blog I kept while I was travelling around South East Asia. Our humanist slash Buddhist wedding. Our organic bakery. And you’re always slagging off Greystones.”
“Maybe it’s because... I’m jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Yeah, I mean… you and Claire... have it made.”
“I didn’t think you thought that. You’re always calling us saps.”
“Come on… You’re living… over here in Toronto… You’ve got… your own business… doing something you feel… actually passionate about… You’ve travelled… as in, properly travelled.”
“I just believe if you have the courage to throw away the guidebook, you’ll be rewarded with authentic experiences.”
“And your wedding… The tea ceremony… And the Non-Harming of Life vegan buffet… Sorcha was like… ‘Why didn’t we think of that?’”
“Really?”
“Genuinely.”
“But you still stand by what you said about Greystones?”
“Hey, it can’t… be all bad… It’s near the sea… It’s got one or two… decent restaurants… And Reggie Corrigan… lives there.”
“Who’s Reggie Corrigan?”
“You’ve never heard… of Reggie Corrigan?”
“Was he a rugby player?”
“You could say that… One of my heroes… All-time… Come on, Garret… Let’s stop this war… Let’s call… a truce.”
“I really want to, because I know it upsets Claire when we’re constantly at each other.
“Well, then.”
“There’s just one problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
“One of us has to win here. One of us has to cross the finishing line first.”
“No, we can make it… so we cross the line… together.”
“Do you really want to do that?”
“A lot of training portners… do it… They hold hands… when they’re crossing… the line.”
“I think holding hands might be a case of too much, too soon.”
I laugh. I’m there, “You might… have a point… What do you… say, though?”
He goes, “I know Claire and Sorcha would be delighted.”
“Then it’ll be worth it… just to see their faces.”
So that’s how it happens. Over the last couple of kilometres, me and Garret end up putting years and years of hostility and mutual hatred behind us. We take the final turn. I can see the finishing line, a couple of hundred metres ahead of us, and that’s when I make a grab for Garret’s hand.
He actually laughs.
I can pick out Sorcha and Claire’s delighted faces in the crowd. Then I spot Honor. She’s screaming, “What the fock?” at me, her face all red and furious.
Garret goes, “Did you see our wives? I think we’ve made their day.”
And I laugh and I go, “Yeah, no… I think you’re right.”
And that’s when I do it. I shake Garret’s hand loose and, before he realizes what’s even happening, I kick for home. I cover the final hundred metres in about ten seconds, sprinting for all I’m worth, at the same time thinking, ‘Who’s Reggie Corrigan? I’ll focking show you.’
I dip my head as I cross the line, then I turn around and I watch Garret running the final twenty or thirty metres, with a look of just, like, confusion on his face.
Father Fehily used to say that the race doesn’t go to the fastest - it goes to the smartest. I hold my two fists up, middle fingers cocked as Garret crosses the line and I remind him what he is - and what he is, today and every day, is a loser.