Newcastle Herald short story competition 2022: Sally Davies writes 'A runner's resolution'

Well, I think "insanity" must be my middle name. Duncan Insanity Donaldson.

Damn you new year's resolutions. Every year I fall for you. Every single year. Lured by the idea of "new year, new you" and all that jazz. New year, new delusional ideals about what the year ahead will hold. That should be the saying. At least it's realistic, albeit not particularly pithy.

I should reserve an entire room of my house as a museum to the discarded resolutions of old. I'll call it "The Room of Broken Promises". I could display my easel (too many Bob Ross videos), tap shoes (too many Fred Astaire videos), camping equipment (I'm no Bear Grylls), kayak (Aldi special buys), treadmill, elliptical trainer and kettle bells (no comment), fishing equipment (too much Hemmingway), and macrame set (don't ask).

Running seemed the cheap option. Not sure why I chose beach running though. I hate sand. Loathe the stuff. It's tiny and gritty and gets everywhere. It's so annoying. I liked it as a kid when I could mess around in it with a bucket and spade and my awesome plastic castle that made the perfect sandcastle every time. They even had turrets. Tur-rets. Such a great word. I've thought of it too many times now. It doesn't sound like a word anymore.

It's far too early for this. I should still be in bed. Asleep. The beers last night were a bad idea.

The 6am alarm was even worse.

I think my lungs are going to explode. How do people run AND breathe at the same time? Did humans make a pact with the devil and only have the choice of one: run OR breathe? Whatever's happening with my body at the moment, I sure can't seem to do both.

This sand is so coarse I'm wearing away the soles of my feet. I'm going to be an inch shorter by the time I finish this.

Actually, what does finishing this look like? Do I just get to a point and stop? Is there a certain distance I should cover? Do I run until I collapse, in which case I think I'll be finished within the next 10 metres. I really should have thought this through.

I've just tripped over someone's abandoned left thong. Should I look for the right one? Maybe I'll get some footwear out of this morning's escapades and it won't be a complete waste.

There's a purple person running towards me. He looks like Grimace in a tank top. We've just nodded an hello and continued our respective, torturous journeys. Another Resolution Runner I suspect. You can tell by the imploring look we gave each other, pleading for the other to save us from ourselves.

Whatever noise was being emitted from that guy didn't sound natural. Actually, the noise has continued.

Oh, it's me.

There's a flock of seagulls ahead. I can't break stride. If I stop now, I'll never start again. They're all staring at me. They're refusing to move. This is like one of those old, silent movies where the damsel's tied to a train line and the train is hurtling towards her. That would make me the train in this analogy. Never has something been further from the truth.

Panic over. They've scattered. All but one. It has stopped and just stared at me as I jogged past. I can feel its judgment boring into the back of my head.

Was it my gait that made it so nonplussed? My ratty shorts? My squashed cap emblazoned with a tyre brand? It seemed like a good deal at the time. Buy four new tyres, get a hat. I probably should have thought that through more too. Seems to be a recurring theme. Maybe that should be next year's resolution: Think Things Through More.

That's if I even make it to next year. The way my legs are feeling, I'm not sure I'll make it to 8am.

I have an audience that's worse than the seagulls. People. There are two women sitting under a giant beach umbrella. They have all the usual paraphernalia with them too - chairs, a giant esky. Who's that organised on New Year's Day to pack up all that stuff and be set up at the beach this early?

Actually, I just spied an open bottle of red next to them. I think they've batted on from last night. Respect. I tap the brim of my squashed hat in greeting and continue on.

The ocean baths are getting closer. Can I make it that far? Come on, Duncan. Oops. Said that out loud. Just woke up a youth who was sleeping off the night before on a sand dune. Oh, to have a back that could do that again. Now, if I don't sleep on the right pillow, I have to have six sessions with my chiropractor.

I'm here. The baths. The water is so inviting I don't break stride and just walk straight in.

The cool, salt water washes over my exhausted, sweaty body and gradually drops my temperature to something slightly less than magma.

I splash about. Families are starting to arrive and kids are jumping into the pool, laughing and playing.

This is all rather lovely actually. The sound of the waves, the gentle lapping of the water. Minimal sand.

Right, that's it. Next year, my resolution is swimming. Ocean baths swimming.

I can do that. Lock it in.

***

Sally Davies, the author of this piece, is a finalist in the 2022 Newcastle Herald Short Story Competition. Read the full list of finalists in this year's Herald Short Story Competition by visiting the Newcastle Herald website.