Page 65 of Must Love Christmas

Chapter 14

14 Days UntilChristmas

In some ways, the Santa Dash was unlike any race Simon had ever run. It was taking place in the still-unfamiliar city of Glasgow, the runners were wearing Santa suits—issued by the race in exchange for a £10 entry fee—and, most significantly, he’d be traversing the course on his arse instead of on his feet.

Despite the new elements, this race had all the familiar triggers that shot adrenaline through Simon’s veins: the crowds, the music, the volunteers, even the number bibs. As he pinned the number6151to the front of his Santa suit, he jounced his heel against his wheelchair’s footplate in anticipation.

“How do I look?” Garen asked Simon and their friends as they waited for the race to start. “Too much?”

Simon examined him. Garen had strung tiny jingle bells onto red ribbons, then woven them into his Santa beard. His Santa hat’s white puff ball bore a blinking green LED Christmas tree. Draped over his Santa suit were two strands of multicolored, battery-powered Christmas lights. And above each red trab he wore three anklets made of green glow sticks.

“For anyone else it would be too much,” Luca said. “But for you, it’s just right.”

A gust of wind came up, making Simon’s number bib flap against his chest. He tugged his Santa hat down over his forehead to secure it. At least the costume’s thick white beard would keep his face toasty warm on this near-freezing day.

Around him, George Square was packed with waiting Santas, some cradling cups of steaming coffee while others perused the stalls of the Christmas Market. The carols piping in over the PA system mingled with the music of the spinning carousel to create a cheery cacophony.

An announcement came over the loudspeaker, asking the Santas to head to their pace groups for the start of the race.

“That’s us to the ten-minute-mile club.” Gillian waved at Simon as she turned to leave with her husband, Jack, and their daughter, Willow. “See youse two at the finish line.”

“You’ll see us long before that,” Garen called after them, “when we leave your arses in the dust!” He turned to Simon. “Shall I push you to our starting spot?”

Simon nodded, appreciating that his friend always asked permission before touching the chair.

As Garen wheeled Simon toward the back of the massive queue surrounding George Square, the press of humanity started to feel a bit claustrophobic. Normally, Simon would be among the tallest in a crowd, yet now he was below eye level for everyone but kids and dogs. Was this how short people and other wheelchair users experienced life all the time?

He’d worried that today would be a repeat of their awkward tree-shopping trip, but Simon was greeted with welcoming smiles as they found a spot amongst the “Fun Runners,” those with no chance or desire to finish near the front of the pack.

He gave a warm wave and thumbs-up to a nearby woman in a wheelchair, then promptly felt like a fraud. What would she think if she knew Simon’s chair was but temporary?

Then again, maybe she was also using a chair due to an injury or a reversible illness. Before this bout of Guillain-Barré, Simon had never considered the thousand reasons people might use wheelchairs. He’d seen the aid as a trap. But in these last two weeks, the chair had come to mean freedom, not captivity. Itgavehim power rather than taking it away.

And it sure as hell beat lying on his back staring at the ceiling.

At the starting line far ahead of them, a great roar arose.

“We’re going!” Next to Simon, a young boy of about eight years bounced on his toes. “Ma, how many Santas are in this race?”

“Must be at least 5,754,” she said, poking at the four-digit number bib on her son’s back.

He reached round to touch the bib. “Can I keep this after?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Aye, you can,” Garen told them. “And when you finish, you get a medal.”

The lad’s eyes widened, and he started to bounce even faster.

His mother laughed. “Save some of that energy for the race, wee man.”

At last the people in front of them started to move off with a crescendo ofho-ho-ho’s.

“Jingle your bells, mate!” Garen shouted as he pushed off at a slow jog.

Simon reluctantly reached down and shook the sleigh bells attached beneath his arm rest. When the spectators applauded him, he did it again, louder. He had to admit, the sound made him feel just a bit jolly.

As they turned off George Square, Simon looked up to see the long first hill, where thousands of runners had transformed St. Vincent Street into a roiling mass of red and white. “That looks amazing.”

---