Marathon on the cross roads

via Daily Prompt: Marathon

Hi there, it appears I have become infatuated with these little bouts of inspiration that pop up upon the reader page. In fact, I find them rather endearing. I may continue to follow these writing prompts, that is, if it gets my idle mind ticking again!




Sweat plastering his brow, like a sheen of ill faith, he rode onwards. His feet slamming against hard concrete, encased in worn trainers, his form sheathed in a thin running attire. Made for speed, just like he was. Whatever had urged him to attempt this task? A forgot new years resolution turned sour? No. God no. He wasn’t as sentimental as his other co workers that, over cheap champagne purchased at a nearby Sainsburys, would succumb to the flush of change and excitement; to swear to exercise, to be a better  and so forth. As he rubbed the perspiration free, that was dripping into the course of his vision, he considered stopping. Why was he even running? Why bother? He was never fit, not even when he was a boy. He enjoyed closing the curtains and turning on the TV, to stare at the screen with awe inspired eyes.


To witness the miracle that broke the paradox of his guarded childhood through. Instead of the clouds, the empty fields and the boring old bookshop down the world, there was a life beyond. A world accessed by this small screen, or an even larger one if he could be bothered getting the bus up to the local cinema. Sport never appealed to him. The clammy changing rooms, the cold winter mornings in tight gym shorts and the ache of his muscles after. He knew he would never be involved in that ‘lot’ or so he referred to them. He was a gentleman of few passions, one of which would never be running or so he thought. But one day, he felt the urge. Thus, he threw on his old joggers, his old battered pumps that had been wasting at the back of his closet for years, and ran. He didn’t know where he was going nor, it seemed, did he care. The thrill in his veins pulled him onwards, up the Mauderville road, down the back alley, through Chesterfield park. His breath grew ragged, his heart drew close in his rib cage but he had never felt more alive.


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