Ice Cream Sandwiches

We have completed little over a mile and a half when Ed turns to me and says:  “Can we slow down a bit?  My false leg is giving me trouble.”  I am surprised as we have been training together for months – stretched-out, long, sweaty laps of the park down the road.  “False leg?” I ask.  He holds his hands up like a hostage.  “You got me.  Ok, confession time.”  He goes on to tell me that he is actually Ed’s identical-but-for-the-false-leg twin brother Edwin.  “So, where’s Edward?”  Edwin points to the crowd and says:  “There he is.”  Edward waves and I swear at him and have to be restrained by Edwin.

We continue to run, now at a slower pace.  When we get to the point where the coast road turns inland we exit the route and rip off our numbered vests.  Edwin buys us both an ice cream.  The wind whips around the headland and whips around the whip of our Mr Whippys, all of the whipping making the ice-cream difficult to eat.

“We’ve met before,” Edwin tells me when I explain that I didn’t even know Edward had a twin brother.  “Remember that time we made ice cream sandwiches?  That was me.  And lots of other times.  We tend to swap in and out.  The leg makes things difficult but…”  He does not finish his sentence.  I am busy thinking down the years of our friendship and sending more swear words Edward’s way by whatever brotherly telepathy we seem to have cultivated during our many years of friendship.


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