Tooper has, on occasion, wondered whether he is being a bit of a wimp by not joining the growing band of smug over-achievers who have completed a marathon during their lifetime. But then, would he really want to wallow in the wave of self-righteousness that overtakes these once normal people before they embark on their voyage of self discovery?
‘I could barely make it to the local shops before,’ they announce, wide eyed with disbelief before trotting out their finishing time, rather in the manner of a proud father announcing his newborn’s weight. And of course, that time would have been so much better had not … the wind been too gusty … the tarmac too sticky … and the fancy dress costume too sweaty.
Tooper consoles himself with the thought that, like most people, the enthusiasm that grips him as he watched these athlete-come-lately evangelicals stumble over the line, gasping for air and stabbing at their wristwatches; any misjudged feeling that he might actually have the cojones to join them will soon pass.
Anyway, he defies anyone to look cool swathed in bacofoil.