Page 66 of Must Love Christmas

“Aren’t you glad we came?” Garen asked.

“I am now.” Simon had been dubious—even anxious—about this endeavor, worried it would make him bitter about his loss of mobility. But it was hard to feel bad amidst a sea of Santas. “What about you? Regretting the idea now we’re on the hill?”

“Not. A. Bit.” Garen sped up, veering left to dodge a photographer perched on a ladder in the middle of the street. “I’ve been working on my stamina for just this occasion.”

He started singing Chuck Berry’s “Run Rudolph Run” at the top of his voice, attracting attention with his volume and his over-the-top outfit. Soon spectators and other racers started taking their picture. Simon waved at them, feeling ridiculous but mostly in a good way.

As the street grew steeper, Garen stopped singing. His pace slowed to a light jog, then a brisk walk.

“Gonnae hold my beard?” He handed the jingling mass of white hair to Simon. “Ah, much better. Say, does this chair have a lower gear, like on a bicycle?”

“Sorry, no. Shall I help by pushing?”

“Not yet. Stick to the plan.”

But Garen’s gasps came harder and harder, and soon he and Simon were being passed by small dogs and babies in buggies.

“I swear to Christ,” Garen said, panting, “when we go downhill, I’m riding in your lap.”

The idea appealed to Simon. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Garen just laughed with what sounded like his last breath.

Ahead of them to the right, a small girl with a long blond braid was riding on the shoulders of a tall, thin man who’d already removed his Santa hat. She looked at Simon and Garen, then patted the man’s bald head and said, “Daddy, can we help them?”

The man turned and did a double-take. “Yes, of course.” He smiled down at Simon. “If it’s all right with you.”

“Please,” Simon said. “I think my friend is dying.”

“I’m not dying.” Garen let go of the handles and stepped aside. “But thanks, mate.” He raised his head to speak to the little girl. “You’ll definitely be on Santa’s nice list this year.”

“That’s what I was thinking!” she said with a giggle.

Garen walked on Simon’s left, his face damp with sweat. He gave a wordless nod of thanks when Simon offered him the water bottle.

At the next junction, Simon heard a familiar voice calling from the side of the road. “There you are!”

He looked over to see Oliver, Luca, and Gillian weaving through the crowd of runners.

“Sorry we left you behind,” Oliver said.

“We felt pure sick about it once we realized how steep this first hill is.” Gillian smiled up at the man pushing Simon. “But I see you’ve found a good Samaritan.”

The man and his daughter left them with a friendly wave and trudged on ahead, while Luca began to push Simon’s chair.

As much as Simon appreciated his new friends’ consideration, his entire body was longing to take control. Despite the Santa suits and Christmas carols, this was still a race, with every sight and sound sparking his marathon instincts. It felt so wrong to just sit here.

The moment the road began to level off, he held up a hand. “My turn to push.”

There was a pause, probably Luca looking to Garen for confirmation. Then Luca said, “Well, as my favorite Canadian would say, giverrrrr!” He offered one last shove for momentum.

“Wait for us!” Garen called out as Simon moved ahead of them. But the competitive spirit was taking hold. He recalled his old racing tactic of setting his sights on the next person ahead of him, then the next, envisioning a fishing line drawing them back and him forward.

Finally the course turned left, down toward the shining silver river. From here, Simon could see the mighty Finnieston Crane, and far below, the Squinty Bridge over the Clyde. As he zoomed along, pedestrians cheered and waved, shouting “Gie laldy!” and “Ya dancer!” and other phrases Simon couldn’t fully decipher.

For the first time since he’d moved here, this city felt like home.

The road descended more steeply. Simon slid his hands over the rims of his wheels to slow down, grateful for his padded cycling gloves, an early Christmas gift from his father.

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