Run, Fatso, Run.

Harris and I have been trampling the tarmac for decades now.

We know we’re a couple of fatties at heart, there’s no denying it. 

But if I cease my regular run, I’ll lose the bet and return to Fatsville.

I have a recurring nightmare about my wager with Harris. 

There’s tsunami of wobbling belly flab, thighs and bingo wings. 

It chases me across fields, down a high street and all the way back home.

Breathless, I slam the door behind me and it charges down my road.

I’m sure if I stop running, it’ll catch me.

God forbid that happens.

*  *  *

I don’t recall talking to Harris during my first week at junior school. It was a fortnight later that we got to know each other better. I remember being invited to his birthday party, along with everybody else. His mother hosted the event at a local church hall and went to town with the decorations. There were balloons, crisps and countless party games, all with edible gifts. We played tape-the-tail-on-the-donkey, musical chairs and pass the parcel; until everyone had won a prize. 

   Harris’ mother was a whirlwind of joyful energy and circulated bowls of salted nuts and sugary snacks. In between the contests, she swooped round the room, topping up our empty glasses with fizzy orange. It’s surprising any of us got any sleep during the next fortnight, considering all the sugar we consumed. 

   I remember feeling full when I returned home, going straight to bed and throwing up during the night. But what a party. Anyhow, restraint isn’t a concept that appeals to impressionable minds on encountering an endless river of sweets. To be fair, my parents never indulged my desire to consume sugary snacks, and I was blessed with strong teeth, unlike some of my peers; burdened by mouths full of lead before they were eight. The local dentist must have made his fortune with all the countless fillings.

*  *  *

The main reason I got to know Harris was because of our sporting prowess. Well, that’s true, but only because we lacked it. During the lunch break at junior school, everyone played school yard soccer. It was a rough and tumble version of the game we played twice a week on P.E. days. 

   Team selection was a simple process. The oldest pupils were the soccer experts and got to pick the sides. They’d choose the next most competent team members and so forth until there were two sides of equal number, plus a few reserves who’d watch from the sidelines, hoping they’d have time to join in. 

   After weeks of watching from the sidelines, Harris and I soon recognised our ranking. Yes, you got it. We played left-back. Our sporting prowess proceeded us, and we remained left back on the sidelines regularly. In retrospect, I can’t believe we aspired to scuffing our knees on rough asphalt and getting bruised like everyone else. The fact is, we kept our dubious reputations throughout our school years. As sporting duds, the only time we left-backs saw the ball was when we carried it back inside, after the school bell called time.  

 *  *  *

Six years of inactivity dragged by on the edge of the sports field until we moved up to big school together. In Britain, during the late 80s, if you were bright, you ended up at a rugby playing school. We both passed the entrance exams and faced the daunting prospect of compulsory rugby three times a week, and weekend fixtures.

   For my part, I’d lost any serious interest in team sports and it showed. My body had bulged and drooped awkwardly, and I dodged competitive physical activity. Ironically, this made me a perfect candidate for the most loathed position in any rugby team; ‘prop forward.’ 

   For those who might be unfamiliar with the term, a ‘prop forward’ is one of two players who carries the weight of half the team on his shoulders in the scrum. What’s a scrum? The scrum is the collision of both teams in a tight knot of heads, thighs and necks. It’s a spitting, grunting and shoving mass from the lower circles of Dante’s inferno and inescapable if you’re overweight at a rugby-playing school. The scrum is a strange place to make lifelong friends with anyone of a sound mind. I mean, who would choose to risk receiving a bust lip, possible concussion, or pair of cauliflower ears? 

   It’s the least attractive part of the British school system, but it’s guaranteed to cure you of any form of inhibition, except for being overweight. Harris and I were both prop forwards for our team’s weekly grudge match with the school’s regional adversaries. There were plenty of scores to settle against our regular opponents whose gruesome and mangled faces we learned to loathe. 

   We both pushed and shoved on behalf of our school’s honour for seven years and hated every minute. Saturdays weren’t our own anymore and three nights every week, we trained come what may, through the worst forms of winter weather known to mankind. However, it toughened us up and set us up for a lifetime’s wager and a bet that we still haven’t settled. 

   Oddly enough, it was our arch-enemies at school who were responsible for us shaking hands on our life’s challenge. Smithy and Duggers were a pair of arrogant thugs who made our lives a misery until the school expelled them, but not for causing trouble. Their fifth year exam results were so poor that even our dubious establishment had to draw a line and let them go. However, they ran amok before they left and tormented any unfortunate pupil who looked like a soft target. Harris and I were a couple of likely lads because of our ungainly physiques and unassuming dispositions. We skulked around the edges of life at school and kept low profiles, however the more we avoided Smithy and Duggers, the more they tormented us.

*  *  *

I was a 14 pound bouncing baby, born fat, and that’s a fact. My chubby cheeks and cheeky grin were my curse, even if they made old ladies smile. They’d pinch those rosy cheeks to my vexation and said, “What nice dimples and such a lovely moon face.”

   The name got around and everyone called me “Moon Face” at school. It started off as a spinster’s term of endearment and transformed into an emotional cattle prod that stabbed at my deepest neuroses. I could lurk in the shadows and wear flattering clothes that covered my awkward body, but I had big, jolly cheeks and a cheeky moon face. The extra thirty pounds I could handle, but my big moon face was another issue. 

*  *  *

Harris and I were both in denial and too scared to accept the truth.

We needed to admit there was no getting away from our genes. 

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter how many excuses we made up.

We were both fat, and that’s that; stout is a state of mind.

Running for Harris and me became a life choice.

It was a mission that we’re both committed to following.

Did we have a choice or do we have a choice? Well, yes and yes.

At an early age, we had a option to do something about our lives.

Harris and I created an exercise challenge that’s lasted a lifetime.

*  *  *

Once we’d graduated and gone our separate ways, the bet remained active. We’d meet occasionally to check on our waistlines. Maybe we’d go on a quick fast and pound round the block before catching up. I’ve got to say, over the years, Harris has never confessed to binging and neither have I. 

But you never really stop being a fatty. 

Once you’re stout, you’re stout for life. 

The temptation to snack never goes away. 

*  *  *

Last week, I got a text from Harris. It was thirty years since we shook hands and made our bet. We were still holding out and maintaining our promise. We knew we could never stop now. A life of regular exercise is addictive and one of us had a lot to lose.

Harris told me he had annual leave to take and said he’d be over to check I wasn’t cheating. I laughed and returned the joke. How did I know he wasn’t pigging out somewhere?

*  *  *

The day we discussed our wager was the first time in an age that I’d encountered Smithy and Duggers. It was a warm summer’s evening, and I ran by the river for a change. The River Thames has miles of towpaths with overhanging willows where one can enjoy a run; deserted walkways with the occasional picturesque pub. It would be a pleasant change to rest for a while by the flowing waters and order a refreshing juice. However, who should I encounter, but our ancient nemeses? 

   Smithy and Duggers were sipping their pints of beer outside The City Barge Pub; their feet propped on the wooden table, burger stains on the sleeveless cotton vests and swollen guts hanging over their belts. 

What was it Smithy said one day?

Yep, sure, I recall, “Use it or lose.” 

I’ve had to work at it all my adult life. 

I’m just one of nature’s fatties. 

So, I never stop running. 

That’s my curse. 

“Hey!” Duggers pointed at me. “Here’s comes Michelin man.”

“Me?” I say, looking left and right. 

“Run, fatso, run!” Smithy said, as I pause for breath. 

He looks me up and down with a sneer on his lips.

“You’ve still got a moon face,” he says, cocking his head like a dumb parrot.

“Do I look like the Michelin man to you?”

“Well,” he said, smirking. “You’ve still got a moon face.”

“Yeah, right?” I said. “I’m Moon Face, all right.” 

“You can’t run forever!” 

I pick up the pace.

They waddle after me, yelling ancient jibes. 

I’ve not heard their childish insults for decades. 

I heard them spluttering their taunts in the distance until, breathless and outpaced, they quit their calls and returned to their beer and cigarettes with swollen limbs and aching bones.

*  *  *

“Shall we call a truce?” 

“You mean end the wager?” 

“Well it’s been a lifetime, Harris.” 

“Fine by me,” he said, offering his hand. 

We talk and laugh about Smithy and Duggers. 

Surely, they are the hopeless fatties now? 

We chuckle and believe our conceit. 

But later, at home, I order a takeout; two litres of regular coke and four tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ‘Phish Food.’

I eat the lot by myself and kick back. 

The weight’s gone forever, that’s for sure. 

Tonight’s just a one off, I promise myself. 

I’m not a fatty anymore and proud of it. 

The End