Art by Nadia Uddin
Sunshine and Rainbows
by Bryony Lorimer
Mile seventeen was not the mid-marathon experience Adam was hoping for. Staggering through the Isle of Dogs, apocalyptic made efforts at pronouncing forth from his salt-crusted lips. Those come hoping for a gentle nudge towards forbearance, an incremental gain in strength of character decried themselves heartily misled. Tough luck. They’d forge themselves right here and now in the inferno or slink home forever the shirker, a shameful Did Not Finish.
So the proverbial wall had put in its appearance. Grown men took to wailing. Women renounced childbirth as the pinnacle of endurance. Nipples bled through nylon. Toenails detached and roamed malicious. Begrudging spittle collected in hellish mouth cavities, ejecting onto tarmac. Nobody made eye contact. Everyone panted. Throw in a swarm of locusts and you’d have a case for declaring biblical. You get the gist.
Outer reality being what it was, the sensible ones turned inwards, scourged the depths of consciousness for a glimmer beyond, a higher meaning.
And he turned right along with them, succumbing to the temptation of wishful thinking.
The vortex of heaviness drew deep. Thrashing around amid mortal despair, spiralling through baseless emotion, his suffering ballooned to cosmic proportions. Five-thousand quid in the hole, the landlord breathing down his neck was World Bank relevant. The shoddy hotel mattress he’d tossed on all night was a personal attack by Asia’s entirety. And the ex who’d turfed him out for being a lazy good for nothing bastard? Well, she was eternity’s prolific snob, a public flogging would be too good.
Floundering, the urge to stop almost uncontrollable, he breathed deep. Didn’t put a dent in it. Considered finish line glory. Couldn’t care less. In the pits of his soul, he wept. How low was low?
A drinks station materialised; he’d made headway despite himself. Last gasp efforts then. Raising his hand to the side, a volunteer thrust an open bottle at it. He sipped. No good, the orange sugar medley sickened in his mouth and a certainty bordering on saintly conviction arose: the taste would forever represent the fathomless abyss of human misery.
With a half-heartedness so polished as to suggest stage managed, he released his grip, and the bottle surrendered to gravity’s pull.
Of course, he’d known happier times, been innocent once. Jaunting through mile three and Woolwich’s carnival cheer, he’d high-fived the charity runners—jovial dinosaurs, glittering drag queens, a two-piece donkey—with magnanimous encouragement. And a harmless follower, he’d partaken in the self-important tossing away of the half-drunk water bottle, the exaggerated wipe of the brow, the toothy smiles at spectators. Just believe in yourself, he’d urged, and one day this could be you.
The bottle hit the ground, and his left foot landed heavy on its curve. Majestic, he dove forward and downward, arms stretching out on automatic. Was an impact fracture and compulsory ambulance ride the merciful end?
But stationary and forlorn on all fours, hope was a dying creature. Fate only saw its way to muster a grazed right knee.
He bade welcome to the low point with gusto. “Fucking Christ almighty.”
A dull thud cut through his dry heaving sobs and in the corner of his eye a beam of wood rested on the road. Lifting his head, the folds of a beige robe embraced his nose and eyebrows. Below, a pair of dusty bare feet. A hand from above reached down to his line of sight.
“A hand, mate?”
He looked up, blinked through the fog of insurmountable sorrow, and arrived at the sunshine of a late Sunday morning in April. “Jesus?”
The hand was calloused but strong and made good at bringing Adam upright. Hefting the cross back over his shoulder, Jesus bent forward under its weight, appearing on the verge of hunchback-hood. They continued together.
Avoiding the knock-out sway of the wood side-to-side, a fair twenty metres passed in an aura of general disbelief. If Adam was honest, the aura also contained a slight embarrassment towards his recent perspective on life. “Some costume, you’ve got there. And your crown of thorns, the blood and whatnot, it’s very realistic. Fair play to you right enough.”
Jesus turned to him, his face a tone of resigned sadness.
“So how are you faring at this point, Jesus, if I can call you that? This wall, though. It’d snare the best of us.”
Jesus kept running.
“And the feet, it’s an authentic touch, but you’d want to be watching all the debris. You saw I went arse over elbow back there?”
No response from Jesus, but they fell into a rhythm regardless. There was a comfort about him, the slap of his feet, the flap of his robe.
“Oh, and I’m Adam by the way.”
Jesus turned in acknowledgement and camaraderie. Then he faced back forward, and a depthless moment ensued.
Through mile eighteen now, almost clear of the ragged Isle of Dogs, and Adam’s thoughts veered back to the ex. Perhaps he’d been harsh and just a light-handed thrashing would suffice. Yes, chatting things through with a fellow runner was likely all he needed, gain some perspective. It was good timing, certainly. Carry on like this with Jesus at his side, and he’d wager pulling through mile nineteen.
“So what charity are you running for? I bet you’ve raised thousands.”
“No charity as such,” said Jesus.
“And have you a woman at home, someone you’re hoping to impress? Hate to admit it, but it’s a woman who’s put me here.”
“Oh?”
“To prove a point. She called me lazy, so I said I’d show her.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
Adam preferred the silent Jesus. In lieu of an answer, he looked forward and continued on.
Pain and desperation still tainted every footfall, but there was light in the sky now for those who had eyes to see. And he’d hardly be caught whinging beside a barefoot man lugging a lifesize cross.
Fable told that beyond the wall lay glory and honour. But what was questionable was the location of this beyond. Some said it beckoned around mile twenty-two and you’d know peace from there on in. Some said it would materialise only as you were near to drawing your last and stumbling over the finish line.
Near Blackhall, they welcomed mile nineteen. At the celebratory drinks station, Adam foraged two bottles of water and passed one to Jesus. “So are you making a weekend of it then, Jesus? Here, I’m keeping you in character but just say the word if you’d rather I called you something else.”
“No, just going home after.” He switched the cross between shoulders then held the water to his cracked lips, splashing his face. The liquid mingled with the blood dripping from his crown and the robe took on a rust colour round the neck area.
“A local then?”
“Out East.”
“Greenwich way? That would’ve been handy for the start then. No maneuvering your cross on the tube. But will they let you on with it for the way home? Right enough though it’s a Sunday, the bike restrictions are generally a weekday rush hour. You’re likely fine.”
Jesus didn’t appear concerned about transport arrangements, so Adam reverted to the original subject. “I’m down from Edinburgh myself; they put a good train on. Just the five hours takes you right into King’s Cross. Buy a lunch at Waverley, get yourself a table seat and you’ve a pleasant enough afternoon on your hands.”
Jesus was a rock of silence, bearing forward, head almost parallel with his hips under the weight of the wood.
Remembering his own evacuation from the bottomless pit of despair, Adam felt called to reciprocate. “How about I carry it for a bit, give you a breather?”
Jesus looked at him as if a kidney was on offer. Then with reverence, gave him the cross.
Attempting the required pose, Adam bent right down and forward. Pacing five steps, the spicy undernotes of the cedar were just wafting towards his nostrils when searing agony through his spinal cord brought him to a halt. Nothing for it but to concede defeat.
Jesus stretched his arms out, pre-prepared. “Don’t worry, it’s my burden to carry.” He heaved the cross back up.
“Respect, mate,” said Adam. “But you don’t think you might do some irreparable damage? We’ve another six miles.”
Without fanfare, they turned West, lumbered into Poplar, and saw in mile twenty.
“Don’t worry about me,” said Jesus.
Almost imperceptibly, there was a shade of lifting, a tentative promise of a new lease of life. It was all westward bound from here.
Jesus sped up.
“So what do you do for work then? I’m in IT myself,” said Adam, admiring the slow grey of the Thames to their left.
“Oh, I dabble.”
They were heading into a build up, a congealed mass of runners late to the wall party. Fit bastards. With a rising vigour, Adam unleashed a sideways dance to compliment the forward motion, skirting round slow-folks and dodging the swing of the cross sniffing at his shins. If Jesus insisted on carrying this beast to the end, perhaps he’d not take offence to an amicable parting of ways just now? After all he’d done though, it was an ungrateful train of thought and Adam shoved it back down.
Hinting at clairvoyance, Jesus turned to him. “Will we see through this last distance together then, make good time?”
Maybe Jesus himself was in need of some encouragement now, a talking through of his troubles. Yes, Adam could put his own concerns aside if he had to, stick with this guy through his bad patch. He raised a comforting palm. “Sure, Jesus, lead the way.”
“Okay, I was going to say follow me, but same difference.”
The sun beamed down, birds chirped ecstatic, and the mass of runners ahead parted down the middle. A rainbow arced the sky—he’d later consider this detail apocryphal. But most impressive was the way the cross swiped left and right with not a head taken out, a lower leg bruised.
Eating through the distance, taking in the sights of the City of London from the embankment, Adam realised he’d bid farewell to the wall. In the stretch since mile marker twenty-four, he’d witnessed two lilac unicorns emerge triumphant from the Thames, moonbeams dripping from their flanks. As they galloped upwards through the clouds and rainbow headed for the perpetual sunshine, he’d a general sense this vision was for sharing wisely. He didn’t mention it to Jesus.
Passing Covent Garden at mile twenty-five, he settled back into thoughts of the ex, finding the energy to be philosophical. “You know, I’m wondering if making this race about her was a bit of a mistake, Jesus, sort of beneath me. I’m feeling like a changed man just now.”
“Good call, Adam. Yes, always wise to take the high road where you can, Lord knows there’s a price to pay otherwise.” Jesus slowed down, set the cross on the tarmac, and held out his hand. “Well, this is me then.”
“But we’re almost there, come on, you can do it.” Adam grabbed Jesus’ hand, pulled him forward.
“You go ahead, Adam. I’ll see you later. Just having a little rest.”
“Right, you are then, Jesus, and thanks. If you’d suffer a pint later then I’m buying.”
Jesus held up his palm weakly and smiled.
Adam faced ahead and with an inane grin gave it the remainder he had down Birdcage Walk.
From the comfort of the home straight he afforded himself the luxury of sentimentality. Without doubt, it’d been a marathon.
Along St. James’s Park and turning onto the Mall, the spectators roared as if just for him. The scene was both entirely recognisable and nothing like the depiction on TV. Emotion swelled and threatened to cause tears. Adam, himself, the lazy bastard, was about to finish the London marathon. And who could forget, the highs and lows—Jesus himself making a cameo. Yes, it would be one for the annals.
The finish line loomed. The digital clock hung overhead, still ticking below the four-hour mark. No last-minute mishaps and he’d take on the status of legend. Sprint finish? He chuckled, tongue hanging out and eyes agog. Well, the mind was willing at least.
As was customary when traversing the rubber mat, he raised his arms, let out a gasp, and assumed a face of sheer elation. He knelt to kiss the ground but an attractive female in a race sponsor tracksuit urged him to keep moving. She slung a medal round his neck.
Shuffling forwards to the official photo section, he looked behind for a hint of Jesus. That would be a picture alright. But not to be, no sign of the king-size brown beam bobbing above the heads. It was a solo pose.
Corralled conveyor-belt style along a network of collection points—t-shirt, more god-forsaken orange liquid, a goody bag—he emerged into a crowd in various stages of reunion and embrace.
Squatting on the nearest empty patch of pavement, he rifled through the treats in the bag and waited for Jesus. Twenty minutes passed; a no show.
With an epic effort, he hefted himself to his feet and questioned the nearest receptive looking woman. “Seen Jesus? Man with a robe and a cross, bit of a hunchback about him?”
“Not today pal, I’m a tourist.” She turned and fled.
Adam consulted his phone. Who to brag to first? Surely her, the self-righteous ex. A photo of the medal behind a two-finger salute. It was a delicious thought but was there nobility in it? Would it behoove the man he’d become? What would Jesus do?
It was a high-minded being that descended the escalator at Green Park Station. He’d take the metaphorical high road, let her think what she wanted. This right here was a man of action, one for seeing things through—start to finish—no obstacle too great. And what awaited this hero back at the hotel was a warm bath and a soothing recline, possibly a pint or three if he could rouse himself downstairs to the bar. A sit on a comfortable stool and let the day sink in, soak through.
He was brand new.
About the author:
Bryony Lorimer is a Scottish writer living in Edmonton, Canada. Her main loves are running, reading, and writing short stories.
Find her on Instagram @bryony_lorimer
