All the late night bargains have been struck
Between the satin beaus and their belles
Prehistoric garbage trucks
Have the city to themselves
Dire Straits, Your Latest Trick
Cities at night have a rhythm, a heavy pulse that links to our subconscious, tuning us in with the rattle and hum. Street cleaners hail bar staff sluicing out last night’s detritus. Late night revellers weave home through the mist, arms entwined, sharing a silent joke, huddled faces bathed in soft neon.
Two hours before the sun was due, I did something I’ve not attempted for the best part of seven months. I went for a run.
It was an ugly, desperate affair, all flop-sweat and rasping breath. I stopped, sucking heavy air, hands on knees. This must be that old twenty minute barrier, I thought. I glanced at my watch. Five minutes.
Five minutes and you’re almost dead, sang Jean-Jacques Burnel.
Christ.
I pushed on, past the shuffling Lost, the sun-dried Homeless gathering on the boardwalk, waiting for the public amenities to open. After what seemed like a lifetime I veered right onto the beach. Crushed shells pounded flat make a nice change from unforgiving concrete. Beach-lamps leered out of the fine ocean mist like distant runway lights. I pushed on.
The knee felt fine. I had to stop again, though. My lungs, convinced this was some kind of suicide attempt, needed reassurance. I fed them, peering out to sea for a glimpse of daybreak. The inky blackness peered back, silent, un-moved.
Twenty-nine minutes, two-point-five-five miles. Nothing and everything, for me, a triumph. A shower, a latte, day-break, an anti-inflammatory (you can’t be too careful). Breakfast will taste better than it has in a long while.
It begins.
