Page 67 of Must Love Christmas

“Oi, Born-to-Be-Wild Man,” Garen said as he caught up to him. “Did you miss the speed-limit sign, the one that says, ‘Twenty’s Plenty’?”

Simon grinned. “Still fancy that ride?”

“Mmm. Maybe later.”

Is he saying what I think he’s saying?Simon decided to probe. “‘Later’ as in, ‘later in the race,’ or…”

“Later as in ‘later.’” Garen looked down at him, his face glowing with exertion. “Wouldn’t want the other racers to get jealous.”

Yes, he’s definitely saying that.Simon imagined Garen riding him later—today, tonight, tomorrow, or all three. “Okay, but only if you wear that Santa hat.”

Garen threw back his head and laughed. “Whatever turns you on.”

Buoyed by their flirtation, Simon let go of his wheel rims and let the chair accelerate again, so that he could soar on the outside as well as the inside. He let out a long, loud whoop as the buildings flashed by.

At the bottom of the hill, Garen caught up to him again. “We’ve gone 3K, so time for me to push, according to our plan. Is that okay?”

Simon agreed reluctantly, then took the opportunity to drink from the water bottle and munch on an energy bar. The last kilometer had taken more out of him than he’d realized. He looked back to see Gillian, Oliver, and Luca about twenty meters behind. Luca had hooked all three beards onto his belt, making a hairy white apron.

They passed at a brisk walk beneath the M8, where a mural was painted on the concrete span under the motorway. Three swimmers were featured upon a backdrop of a sunny sky with fluffy clouds. Two were painted mid-stroke, and the third was poised on the starting block: leaning forward, left heel up, hands gripping the edge of the board for balance.

Simon studied the mural until they were past it. “Promise me something, Garen?”

“Anything, mate.”

“Promise you’ll let me finish by my own power. Even if I’m struggling. Even if I’m so slow you can’t stand to look at me.”

“Of course,” Garen said, his voice and breath now steady. “You’re a runner. I would never take the finish line away from you.”

“I’m not a runner anymore.”

“Pish. That word ‘anymore’ is so permanent. It only fits pure factual statements like, ‘I’m not twenty-five anymore.’ If running for you is like curling is for me—if it’s part of who you are—then you’ll always be a runner, even if you’re not running on your feet on this particular day.”

Simon considered this for a long moment. Despite Garen’s occasional verbal blunders, when things got serious he always seemed to say the words Simon needed to hear. “Thank you.”

Soon they were going uphill again, back toward George Square. Simon sensed the “smelling the finish line” excitement in the racers around them, as everyone’s steps got a little bouncier. On one street corner, a bagpiper was mangling what Simon assumed was a Christmas carol.

As the piper’s notes faded behind them, recorded music came over a PA system up ahead.

“Almost there!” shouted Gillian, who was now jogging several paces in front of them. “Jack and Willow will be filming us from near the finish line, so we need to make a good show.” She started pumping both fists in the air in time with her steps and singing the theme toRocky.

“I want to push now,” Simon told Garen.

“The plan was to wait until we entered George Square. Also, we’re going uphill.”

“Please. Just trust me. I can do this.”

Garen squeezed his shoulder. “Aye, you can. And I can’t wait to watch you.” He let go and moved beside him.

Simon put his hands on the wheel rims and gave a great push. “Let’s do this!”

Before long, he understood why the other racers had removed their Santa beards. Sweat began to coat his face, and he found himself puffing to keep the beard’s curly white hairs out of his mouth and nose.

The crowd from the square grew louder, and now both sides of Buchanan Street were lined with spectators, as well as racers who’d already finished.

Their shouts and cheers and whistles faded into background noise. For a few glorious moments, Simon had Marathon Mind. His entire awareness shrank to the road before him, to the pumping rhythm not of his hips, legs, and feet, but of his shoulders, arms, and hands. His breath was everything.

They crested the hill, where it was time to turn into the square. He slowed one wheel while pushing the other.

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