Running Log

It's 4pm and 22 degrees, summer at last. The air by the bandstand smells of burnt sausage, car exhaust fumes and melted ice cream as we set off down the hill to the seafront, running on the spot, waiting for a gap in the traffic. My brother's back starts hurting as soon as we hit the beach, even-paced along the narrow strip, no wider than a metre, between the water and dry sand. After a mile we stop, pulling up by a man selling ice creams from the back of a caravan. We walk back to the car. To my surprise I'm barely out of breath.