Fat Chance

by Nick Spalding

  ‘Feet . . . are . . . hurting!’

  ‘Then stop!’

  ‘No! I . . . want . . . to . . . finish!’

  Zoe grinds to a halt, leaving me to stumble up the road a few more feet.

  I notice she’s not by my side any more and come to rest myself. ‘Why have you stopped?’

  ‘You need to look at your feet, Greg. You can’t keep going like this. Come over to this bench and sit down.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Now, Greg!’

  I look around the street. Miraculously, we seem to have temporarily dropped all our fellow runners and followers from the crowd. Taking this as a good sign, I do as I am told and limp my way back over to where my wife has sat herself down on the bench.

  The relief when my backside hits the wood is indescribable. The instant the bench takes my body weight, the ache in my thighs slackens off, and the intense agony emanating from my feet reduces to a dull roar.

  What’s going on underneath those cheap trainers isn’t going to be pleasant to look at, though, so I put it off for a few seconds.

  I lean back against the bench and let out a groan of pleasure. Such a simple thing it is to sit down and not move. I must try to do it more in the future.

  ‘Come on,’ Zoe says and punches me on the arm. ‘The race isn’t over yet. Let’s see what the damage is.’

  I sit up and groan once more, this time in utter despair, and unlace my left running shoe. This is the foot that’s hurting the most, so I figure I’d better take a look at it first to see the extent of the injury.

  With the shoe removed I tentatively pull my sock off.

  The simple act of removing one’s sock should never be accompanied by the kind of pain I feel as I pull it over my heel. It’s like someone has taken a rusty cheese grater to my skin and is giving it a vigorous rubbing.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ I cry in distress.

  ‘Oh, good God,’ Zoe says and clasps a hand over her mouth. I’m not sure whether this is just in shock or to prevent vomiting.

  My foot is a horror show. One that makes Hostel, Saw, and The Evil Dead look like Finding Nemo.

  To start with, the whole foot has gone a very strange colour. It’s a mixture of hectic red and pallid white, with several disconcerting small patches of purple thrown in for good measure.

  This is all merely background, however, to the real awfulness going on around my toes and heel.

  To start with, my little toe has basically turned into one big blister. It extends from the nail, down to where toe meets foot, and wraps its way underneath. The blister is a milky white, and when I prod it with my finger I can see the pus moving around under the semi-translucent layer of skin.

  A second enormous blister about three inches long runs down the side of my big toe. It is another bulbous cushion of skin and pus, formed by the constant friction of five kilometres of running.

  Things are even worse on my heel, though. At some point over the race another gigantic blister must have formed. However, such has been the pressure applied to it every time I put my foot down, it has burst, creating a mess of such nastiness I can barely bring myself to describe it here.

  Firstly, the pus has soaked my sock and created a kind of biological glue that has managed to stick sock to skin, resulting in the hideous pain I felt when I pulled the damn thing off. Doing so has ripped the skin that formed the blister, which now flaps around in two sagging halves. Underneath is a large patch of fresh pink skin, which is incredibly sore and tender when even lightly touched.

  ‘Everything alright?’ I hear a cheerful voice say from in front of me. It’s the middle-aged woman in the headband from the start line. She’s seen us sitting here and has jogged over to lend some moral support.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Having a break, are we?’ she asks, jogging up and down on the spot. Behind her I see Valerie and George pass us by. Headband has obviously broken off from the pack surrounding them to come over and see what’s going on with the Miltons.

  I hide my foot under the bench so as not to distress her.

  ‘No, not really,’ Zoe tells her, in that dismissive tone people use when they just want the other person to fuck off.

  ‘There’s no shame if it’s got too much for you, you know!’ Headband says and continues to bounce up and down on the spot.

  I’m instantly enraged. She automatically assumes that we’ve stopped because we’re big fat twats.

  These people may have turned up to this fun run to support the cause, but it doesn’t mean they’re not still as prejudiced as the ones calling us fat cunts while safely hidden in the crowd.

  ‘We’ve stopped because of my foot,’ I tell her. ‘Come here and I’ll show you it.’

  Headband smiles in an agreeable fashion. ‘Okay.’

  As the woman leans in, I produce the Foot of Horror and wave it at her, giving her the full impact of the double blisters and torn flesh.

  ‘Oh, good God!’ she exclaims.

  ‘That’s just what I said,’ Zoe replies.

  I point at the rapidly diminishing Val and George. ‘You should get back to the others, you know. Like . . . now?’

  Headband backs off, getting the message. ‘Yes, yes, you’re right,’ she says a little queasily. ‘Well, best of luck with the rest of the race!’ she finishes and bounces away.

  I look down at my swollen foot. ‘I think the chances of there being a rest of the race are slim to none,’ I say with inevitable gloom.

  ‘Let’s look at the other foot and see how bad it is,’ Zoe suggests.

  I flip the other shoe and sock off, and am pleased to see that the damage is less extensive. There’s another small blister on my little toe, but other than that it’s not too bad.

  What’s more, my left foot has returned to a rather more healthy colour now that it’s had a few moments out in the air. I can’t run any more, though. The idea of putting my sock and cheap running shoe back on over my wounds and plodding up the road is unthinkable.

  Zoe puffs out air. ‘I guess that’s that, then.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, sweetheart.’

  I put an arm around her as we watch Pete, Lea, and the two lesbians jog past us with another gaggle of white-shirted fun runners. I am reminded of the pilot fish that constantly hang around whales in the ocean.

  ‘Don’t worry, these things happen,’ Zoe says, patting me on the leg. ‘We did quite well anyway.’

  ‘I would have liked to beat that lot, though,’ I say, nodding my chin at our passing competitors.

  ‘We won the last one. That’s good enough for me.’

  I let out a snort of disgust and sit back against the bench. A few blissful, peaceful minutes go by as I let the light drizzle cool my brow and bare feet. We’ll have to get up and arrange some sort of transport away from here soon, but just for the minute I’m enjoying the relative quiet away from the madding crowd. Now all the runners have gone ahead of us, there’s nobody about other than the two of us and a few pedestrians.

  ‘Greg . . . look.’

  Coming down the road are Shane and Theresa. They are completely on their own. Not one of the thirty white shirts run alongside them. It’s quite a pathetic sight. Theresa is puffing and blowing, dragging one foot in front of the other. Shane has his head to the sky, his neck strained upwards almost as if he’s actively fighting the colossal weight he carries around with him. Their pace is incredibly slow, but they are still going.

  ‘I’d forgotten all about them,’ I say.

  ‘Me too. I thought they’d given up ages ago.’

  ‘Everybody else certainly seems to have given up on them.’

  I feel the anger that Headband sparked off returning.

  Everyone wants to support the fatties—providing the fatties aren’t too fat, you understand. Nobody wants to ha
ng around with the slowest and biggest of the bunch. Where’s the fun in that?

  Shane and Theresa reach us as the bench. Shane gives me a thumbs-up and looks back up the road. Theresa attempts a smile, but it comes across as more of a grimace.

  As they pass us, I feel a powerful compulsion to join them wash over me.

  I look down at my battered feet. There is no way in hell I can run in these cheap, shitty shoes again.

  But if Shane and Theresa can keep going, then I can sure as hell keep going too, even if I have to do it in my ruined, sweaty socks.

  ‘Greg? What are you doing?’ Zoe asks as I painfully slip the socks back on and get to my feet.

  I throw both running shoes into the bin next to the bench and look back at Shane and Theresa. ‘I thought I might go and keep them company for a bit.’

  ‘You can’t run any more!’

  ‘No, but they can’t run at all, and they’re still going, aren’t they?’ I extend a hand down to her. ‘Let’s go with them, baby. They shouldn’t be doing this alone.’

  Zoe takes my hand and stands up. Her eyes look a bit watery. ‘There are times when I am very glad I married you, Greg,’ she says, her voice cracking a little with emotion.

  ‘Let’s see if you still think that when this race is over,’ I tell her and start to hobble off down the road.

  When we catch up with Shane and Theresa, there isn’t a lot of conversation exchanged. They’re both too puffed out to speak much and I’m in too much pain from my blisters. It’s up to Zoe to ask if they’d mind us accompanying them to the finish.

  It’s hard to tell under the hectic red faces and sweat, but I think they are both grateful for the companionship.

  The final three kilometres of the race are absolute hell. We have to stick to Shane’s pace, as he’s the slowest of all four of us, so it takes us nearly an hour to get in sight of the Stream FM building. In that time I feel the blister on the side of my left foot burst and the whole of my right foot goes numb thanks to the fact I’m now running with no shoes on at all.

  During the last five hundred metres of the race I’m only able to limp slowly up the road, so it’s just as well Shane can’t go any faster himself.

  The crowd begins to build again as we head towards the finish line. They can see what distress we’re in and react to it with an up-swell of cheering that actually lifts my spirits, and helps fog the pain I’m in enough for me to keep going.

  As we get nearer to the line I can see Shane really starting to struggle. He starts to weave across the road erratically, his shoulders slumped from the effort.

  His legs have gone.

  If I don’t do something, the poor sod will collapse in front of all these people and tomorrow’s front page story will be written.

  I limp over to him, curl one arm under his, and lift him upright again. This adds a huge amount of pressure to my already ruined feet, but there is no way in hell I’m giving this crowd the thrill of watching an obese man fall to his feet in failure.

  ‘Tha . . . thanks,’ Shane says and lifts his head. With my help he’s able to jog in a straight line again and the finish line gets ever nearer.

  With only fifty or so metres to go, I tap him on the shoulder and say ‘Can you do the rest on your own, mate?’

  He looks at me out of the corner of one eye and nods his head.

  I remove my supporting arm from his and slow my pace even more, letting Shane and Theresa get slightly ahead of us.

  ‘They deserve to cross the line first,’ I say to Zoe, who nods in agreement.

  To the sounds of thunderous applause, Shane stumbles his way across the finish line with his wife, his arms held high above his head and an exultant—if exhausted—expression his face. With head held high he emits a long, loud cry of what I can only assume is a combination of agony and triumph.

  The ovation from the masses is no quieter when Zoe and I cross the line as well, I have to say.

  I don’t feel like raising my arms over my head and shouting, though. All I can think about is getting off my feet and sticking them in some warm, soothing water.

  We are instantly surrounded by the other couples and the white shirts, all of whom take turns in clapping us on the back and telling us how incredible we are.

  Funny, just an hour and three kilometres ago nobody gave a toss.

  Elise interviews both Shane and Theresa, while Will talks to Zoe and me. I try to make light of the fact I finished the race in my socks, but Will is having none of it. My blisters will be the subject of some discussion on the radio station and in the local paper for a couple of days to come, it seems.

  The real heroes are Shane and Theresa, though, as is right and proper. The DJs and reporters can see how much of an effort they put in to finish and are extracting all the human interest they can get out of it for their airwaves and column inches.

  I spot Frankie and Benny standing over in one corner looking a little disgruntled, and feel a fair bit of pity for them. They won the race, after all, and yet the guy who came in last is getting all the attention.

  Sorry . . . the guy who came second to last. The honour of the wooden spoon falls to yours truly and his blisters.

  ‘I bet Shane and Terrie will be the ones featured in the paper tomorrow,’ I point out to Zoe in the taxi back home a little later.

  ‘Probably. I’m sure they’ll get a shot of him crossing the line with his arms up. It was like something out of Chariots of Fire. Only with more wobbling.’

  When I do see the paper the next day, though, I am amazed to see that the image they’ve gone with to illustrate the dramatic end of the fun run isn’t one of Shane crossing the line. Instead, it’s a shot of me and Shane just before the finish with our wives alongside us. My arm is tucked under his, and the strain and effort is writ large across both our faces.

  The caption that goes with the story is He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

  You couldn’t ask for a better cliché than that, could you?

  Cliché or not, I can’t help but feel a bit proud of myself.

  Zoe was certainly proud of me, as by the end of the day she’d already got the cutting from the paper framed and on the kitchen wall. She also had the kind of sex with me that night that most men only dream about, or watch late at night on the Sky channels near the top end.

  The blisters on my feet still haven’t completely healed and I think a trip to the doctor’s is in order for my left heel, but I’m still extremely glad I saw the fun run out.

  If nothing else, I got the chance to help another man lift his arms above his head and cry triumphantly into the sky.

  I also learned a valuable lesson.

  Sometimes, you really do get what you pay for . . . especially when it comes to footwear.

  ZOE’S WEIGHT LOSS DIARY

  Tuesday, July 8th

  11 stone, 4 pounds (3 stone, 3 pounds lost)

  My life has become very peculiar.

  I would even go so far as to say quite bizarre.

  One minute I’m boring old Zoe Milton, sales co-ordinator and wife of eighteen years; the next, I’m a local celebrity.

  In the past four months, since the beginning of Fat Chance, I’ve had to get used to seeing my face on a variety of billboards, posters, websites and leaflets. This was initially the worst thing to ever happen in the history of the universe, given that the last thing a self-conscious fat person wants is for her grisly visage to be plastered up all around town. When it’s hard to look in the mirror every morning, it’s downright impossible to walk past a poster of you posing like one of the special kids without breaking down and crying like a little girl right there and then in the street.

  After a few weeks I got to a point where I could block out all the pictures mentally, in the same way really rich people block out the homeless folk they walk past every day on their way to their
six-figure-salary jobs. Where once I would see my fat face and all its chins staring down at me as I drove past on the dual carriageway, now there would merely be a large hole in the fabric of the universe, an area of dull negativity with absolutely nothing worth looking at in it.

  This happy state of affairs continued until a couple of weeks ago, when my relationship with all those awful pictures underwent an interesting and unexpected change. Where once I would look up at them and feel self-loathing and despair, I now looked at them and felt a strange mixture of pity and pride. Pity for that poor obese girl staring back down at me, and pride because I wasn’t that poor obese girl any more.

  I am a whole three stone lighter than I was when those pictures were taken, and if I ever needed proof of the difference that makes in the way you look, all I need to do is look in the mirror, then look at that billboard on the dual carriageway on the way in to the office.

  Of course dealing with inanimate objects like billboards (or cardboard stands in a gym reception area—that bloody thing is still there and taunting me every time I go in for a workout) is one thing. Coping with the unwanted attention of my fellow human beings is entirely another.

  Be they family, friends, work colleagues, or complete strangers, everyone’s attitude towards me is coloured by Fat Chance.

  The competition has become a massive hit, much to my disgust.

  Listening figures have skyrocketed at Stream FM, visits to the website to watch the videos have gone up over one hundred percent, and the Breakfast Show now attracts the biggest audience of any local radio morning programme. This is especially true every Monday when we all troop into the show for the weekly check-in.

  These have become an unlovely constant in my life.

  Monday mornings are never much fun, but when you add the joy of speaking to several thousand people over the radio, they become ever so much worse. I am not by nature the type who likes to perform on any kind of stage, even one where nobody can see my face—so trying to be entertaining and interesting on a weekly basis is about as easy as pulling somebody else’s teeth. Thankfully a lot of the other contestants have warmed to the job now and are ‘giving good radio.’ This means that Elise no longer has to bully me into saying something interesting, as she constantly had to do in the first few weeks of the show.