Page 4 of Your Pace or Mine
So with one door closed, on mostly his own accord, he’d thrown himself into finding out everything about everyone casting in the West End. It had felt like he’d hit the jackpot when he found a producer fundraising for a local LGBTQ+ youth centre and re-tweeting their calls for charity runners in the London Marathon. Easy, right? Just raise some money for a charity, run a little race and boom, perfect networking anecdote.
His best friend, Reggie, had encouraged him, keen for him to do something that he insisted would belife-changing.
So he’d signed up.
Then he’d plastered it all over his marketing, in his monthly newsletter and socials, and it had been fine. Until it had sunk injust how far he’d have to run, and just how much money he’d have to raise.
He’d ended up with a handful of casting directors who were actuallyinvestedin his marathon journey, replying to his posts, and cheering him on… so now he was stuck. There was no backing down, but with the marathon suddenly not feeling quite so far away, he needed to start taking it seriously or he’d risk embarrassing himself at best, a career-ending injury at worst. Managing training alongside teaching dance and staying audition-ready was going to be a nightmare.
Jamie’s first serious training run would be tomorrow morning, early enough that he’d have time to make it to the studio to teach beginner’s tap by 7am. It all sounded exhausting and like a terrible idea, but maybe he had a secret talent for running that he’d uncover and leave the stress and backstabbing of the theatre world behind for a career as a professional athlete.
That would be less drama, right?
Jamie did not have a secret hidden talent for running.
He’d dug out his trainers and gone out for a jog, thinking an easy five-mile run would be a reasonable place to start. By the third mile, he was gasping for breath, and his legs were screaming. This was ridiculous. He had excellent cardio, thank you very much.
How dare this pavement defeat him?
Jamie spent hours of his day dancing and ran on the treadmill sometimes, as a warmup at the gym, but this kind of running seemed to be a completely different beast. It wasn’t like anyone in his circle was hanging out at run clubs; who had time for that when there were bills to pay and auditions to prep for?
Jamie did know one serious runner, and the idiot was at least partially to blame for getting him into this mess in the first place, his best friend, Reggie.
He hadn’t met up with Reggie for a while, often finding himself losing touch with his real friends, few and far between though they were these days, during the intense and insular period of a major West End show, but Reggie was one of the best people Jamie knew.
Devastatingly, Reggie was very straight.
Teenage Jamie truly had been destroyed by the revelation that they would never be a thing. With his dark curls and bright green eyes, Reggie was a unique brand of gorgeous that he’d noticed right from the moment they met. Despite being just nine and ten years old, respectively, when Reg’s family moved in next door.
They’d grown up together, in South Liverpool, where Jamie had lived his whole life within walking distance of most of his relatives until moving to London for Drama School to chase his West End dreams. Recently, though, Reggie had turned into one of those people who thought running a 100 km mountain trail was afun day out.Jamie could never handle that level of intensity in a partner, so it was all for the best.
Logically,heshouldabsolutelycall Reggie and try to diagnose whatever the problem was with his running. He just couldn’t stand the idea of anyone he knew knowing he had failed at something, and the last thing he needed was this getting back to his parents. They worried about him enough as it was. So instead, he turned to his trusty research partner, TikTok.
After several hours of scrolling through multiple running-related posts, and, as per usual, stumbling on a few things that he couldn’t unsee. Jamie had been reliably informed—thanks to TikTok—that he needed new trainers. His bank account was looking a bit sad. He really hadn’t managed to save as muchduring his last show as he’d intended, but that’s what credit cards were for, wasn’t it?
Jamie cracked a beer and settled in to watch reruns ofDancing with Celebs.The show was like a comforting blanket that reminded him of everything he loved about dance, even when the industry itself was getting him down. He watched absentmindedly as he scrolled through various online shops selling shoes and running equipment.
It was… a bit overwhelming.
There were cushioned shoes, zero-drop shoes, super shoes—some of which were evenillegal? He read through about a hundred different websites telling him which pair were the best for a first-time marathoner—all of which completely contradicted each other.
He ended up settling on a pair of trainers with a decent amount of cushion—though not an illegal amount, he’d checked—in white and baby blue. He mostly chose them because he liked the colour, but they were also made from recycled ocean plastic, which was very much something Jamie could get behind. Besides, the internet seemed to collectively think they were decent. A lot was riding on these shoes. He was confident today’s attempt had just been a fluke; it was because he had the wrong shoes.
He was going to be great at running.
He was truly a disaster at running.
Jamie knew he looked fantastic in his new running outfit. His blue trainers and cheap and cheerful high street running gear certainly made him look the part. His second running attempt, though, had proven only marginally less pathetic than his first. He’d made it halfway through his planned eight miles, whichwas admittedly better than his first run, but nowhere near what he was going to have to do for a marathon.
Halfway through the run, though, right in the middle of Hyde Park, he’d essentially collapsed. And not even in a sexy,Oh, I can’t go on, please save me,kind of way.
No, he just collapsed in a heap on the damp, cold grass in Hyde Park, amidst the swans and the gawking tourists. He must have lain there, spread-eagled, for about fifteen minutes before getting up and taking the long, disappointing journey back to Mile End.
It was immensely frustrating. He’d just come off months of six shows a week, where he’d been dancing and belting out non-stop show tunes; he should be able to handle this.
His lungs seemed to disagree with his assessment, though, feeling like they were going to give out at any moment.
As he made his way to the tube, his phone buzzed, his agent, Jonathan’s name, lighting up the screen.
