Page 8 of Your Pace or Mine
Darius snorted despite himself. The sheer audacity of the man was too much. The man shot him a cheeky grin, as if daring him to contradict him. Darius allowed his eyes to roam over the new arrival, taking him in fully for the first time. He was undeniably attractive with his blonde curls and blue eyes that sparkled with mischief. “And you,latecomer, what’s your name?”
“Jamie,” he said, offering a small, wry smile.
“Well, Jamie, I’m Darius, your coach for the next few months,” Darius said, still grinning as he recognised him as the missing member of his training group. “You’ve got impeccable timing. We were just about to start a tempo session. Let’s see if you can keep up.”
Darius set off with the lead group, those aiming for a sub-3:30. It wasn’t an especially fast time from his perspective, so he tried to keep his pace easy. He knew the speed wasn’t what others would consider easy, but it was surprisingly difficult to gauge without constantly staring at his watch. It had been the smallest group from the start, but people started dropping off quickly. He tried not to frown as they completed the first few laps and Anders barked at him to be more encouraging, whatever that meant.
As expected, Jamie, the man who’d waged war on his favourite jumper, stuck near him as they continued around the track.Somehow, he’d known that issuing a challenge to the man would have him fighting to fulfil it. He seemed reasonably fit. His strong thigh muscles hadn’t escaped Darius’s notice, so it should be fine—he’d keep up.
Less than fifteen minutes in, though, Jamie, along with the majority of Darius’s remaining group, was starting to lag.
“Come on, pick up the pace.”
A groan came from someone in the diminished pack. “What pace even is this?”
“I’m questioning all of my life decisions right now,” groused another.
Jamie didn’t make a peep, but Darius could see the strain on his face when he glanced over. It wasn’t that fast, was it?
“If you have enough energy to complain, then you’re fine,” Darius stated as he continued, not breaking pace for even a second. “We’ll turn around in a minute and go the other way, so you don’t over-train one side.”
By the end of the 45-minute workout, most of his original group had dropped back to Jackson’s or even further.
He noticed Jamie had stuck with him, though he threw himself dramatically onto the grass the second Darius came to a slow stop and announced the workout complete.
“Nope, no way. Up, you need to stretch.”
“Can’t. I’ve died. I’m a ghost, back to haunt you for subjecting me to that absurd torture.”
“Even ghosts need to stretch so they don’t get lactic build-up.”
Jamie glared, but he did push himself into a seated position and fold into a deep hamstring stretch, hands easily reaching well beyond his feet as he folded forward. “I don’t think that’s strictly true. Aren’t they all ectoplasm? So, where would the lactic acid even build up?”
Darius laughed, surprising himself. “Hadn’t realised I was dealing with an expert.”
“I’ve seen Ghostbusters like a million times. You should respect my authority on the subject.”
He found himself momentarily fixated on Jamie as he stretched his lean body, a spark of interest flying through him. “Original or remake?”
“Animated, obviously. Come on mate.” Jamie laughed as he fell into a split like it was nothing.
Darius’s enjoyment faded to disappointment when Jamie pulled out his phone, balancing it precariously against his water bottle to shoot a video. “Sorry, got to feed the content machine if I’m going to hit my fundraising target.”
Darius deflated, just like everyone else; he’d probably be after Darius for a donation any second now. Strangely let down, Darius left him to it, leading the wider group in a more traditional cool-down routine.
“So, how are you feeling about training so far?” he ventured to a friendly-looking older man who stood closest to him in the circle they had formed.
The man seemed startled by the question but recovered quickly. “So far, so good. It’s the bloody fundraising, though.”
Darius sank into a calf stretch and gestured to the group to do the same. He could see what was coming next a mile away. “Don’t suppose you’d be willing to chip in, mate?”
And there it was. “Send me the link,” he said with a sigh.
The man didn’t even have the grace to feign embarrassment. He just switched legs and replied. “Great. It’s a good cause. I’ve only got about eight hundred quid left to hit target, pocket change for you, right, mate?”
“I’m not going to give you eight hundred quid,” Darius replied. Everyone was fundraising for a differentgood cause, obviously. If it were really such a great one, he’d just donate directly. Darius was well aware that none of these people were runningfor charities because they cared about the cause. They were just doing it to get a place if they missed a shot at the ballot.
The London marathon had been oversubscribed as far back as he could remember, probably since its inaugural event. If you weren’t getting in on a ‘good for age’ time, then the odds really weren’t in your favour—unless you ran for a charity. Going around asking people to sponsor you for something you wanted to do anyway had always seemed like a bit of a con to Darius.
