Four Minutes and Ten

Staccato beep-beep beep-beep wakes him from sleep. It doesn’t sound again - he’s already swiped to silence it as he swings his legs out of bed. He drops to the floor and starts.

Fifty sit-ups. Fifty press-ups. His fingers are planted inches away from the dusty box of trophies under his bed. Plank for two minutes. Three minutes. Three and a quarter... three and a half... he grits his teeth for this new Personal Best. Four minutes. He drops to the floor, breathing hard. Tomorrow he will do four minutes and ten.

He glances at his phone - a notification from the app that sends him motivational quotes:

“Work hard, train harder. - Anon”

Getting up, he pulls on a loose gym t-shirt, socks and shorts, and leaves the empty bedroom to go downstairs. His footsteps echo in the spacious modern kitchen. This was the most expensive house on the street three years ago. The coffee machine breaks the silence whirring to make today’s espresso; the grind setting just right for this months’ bean subscription. He decants it into a thermal flask, fills a water bottle, and gets a single portion of protein-supplemented and calorie-balanced batch-cooked lunch from the fridge.

His rucksack is already packed by the front door, and the bare hallway watches him as he checks it again: towel, change of clothes, hair clay, antiperspirant, work laptop and charger, headphones, notebook, and pen. He zips everything into the rucksack and ties on his trainers.

Pausing to tap his phone screen to start recording, he sets off jogging. With the sunrise behind him, he focuses straight ahead on the familiar route to work. There’s a hill coming and he keeps a steady, rhythmic pace.

The pavement eventually starts to climb as it reaches the park and he adjusts his pace slightly, steadfastly putting one foot in front of the other. In the park, a scattering of colourful wildflowers are emerging into the golden morning light, surrounded by a verdant horseshoe of trees. A man waits patiently as his toddler gazes open-mouthed at a squirrel leaping from branch to branch. Sweat begins to bead on his forehead. A woman is walking towards him, her little dog trotting in front of her. She smiles tentatively at him. He runs past with his head down to check his heart rate on his watch: perfect zone, perfect beats-per-minute. Steady pace.

The route continues out of the park and flattens to meet the village’s high street. Today’s bespoke dawn chorus is a magnificent melody of whistles and trills. It is drowned out by his well-practised symphony of pace and breath. His feet hitting the floor are a metronome. The baker is putting out fragrant fresh loaves that are not calorie-controlled, and sweet pastries that contain negligible protein. He passes by the window in a blur.

-

As he takes his final step at the office doors, his phone beeps as he stops the recording: 10.1km in fourty-three minutes. He logs this on the app for the people he’s never met to see. So his eyes can follow the rising slope on his progress graph later. Next week he will do fourty-two.

He heads to the showers to get ready for work. On his phone:

“Extreme achievements need extreme focus. - Anon”

Striding across the office floor in his smartest suit, his brown eyes are glassy as he thinks through the day ahead. Familiar faces nod, say ‘morning’, but none expect a response. Two of his colleagues are sat chatting, sharing stories of their weekend. They laugh. He settles at his desk, chair angled just too far away from the window to see the day’s moving tapestry of clouds and sky. The young woman with dark hair that sits opposite him looks up with a hopeful face. He doesn’t look at her. She returns to her work.

Opening his laptop with one hand and espresso in the other, there’s an acceptance email from an academic journal. From his first choice of journal this time. Impact Factor: 56. His highest yet, and the highest ever for this research team. One more publication to add to this year’s total which is already eight higher than the last. Next month he will submit to a journal of Impact Factor 68.

Headphones on, the morning passes with a flurry of emails and editing of spreadsheets as he listens to a podcast of panellists exchanging the latest nutrition advice. The dark-haired woman’s phone between them lights up occasionally. Each time, she looks at the screen and smiles. He picks up his phone once to make a single note: ‘add more magnesium to next week’s meal plan’.

After a time, he eats his lunch whilst carefully composing a post to his socials announcing the publication news. He taps ‘submit’, locks his phone, and opens the next draft to edit on his laptop. Cutlery rattles on plates, microwaves ping, and kettles boil as colleagues gather in the kitchen. He reaches up and turns on the noise-cancelling function without losing his place on screen.

-

That afternoon he has a lecture to deliver on last year’s research to some Masters’ Students. He heads to Lecture Theatre 2 early so that he can set up and start on time. Every seat fills with eager ears. Once he’s in full swing, he paces before his slideshow, timing his steps with his words and his key points with his pauses. He doesn’t need notes. He answers their questions effortlessly. His phone in his jacket pocket says:

“Keep your eyes on the prize and don’t look back - William J. Clinton”.

When he finishes, the students applause, watching him in awe. Questioning hands are raised in the air He looks past them through the door and across the hall to Lecture Theatre 1.

-

On the bus home, he sees that hundreds of people have ‘liked’ or commented on his post. He has no unread messages. He methodically bookmarks articles to read at work tomorrow. The young man sat across the aisle puts his arm around the woman next to him and kisses her head. She leans in close.

-

A recipe book sits alone on a stand on the kitchen table. He turns the page over to page 83, and follows the instructions there precisely. He portions the rest away for tomorrow and collects the knife and the fork from the drying rack. Next time, he will turn to page 84.

Whilst he eats, he gets a text: “Hey, long time no see!”

Another one: “How are you mate? Fancy a pint at that pub near you in an hour?”

He replies: “Sorry, can’t tonight. Another time.” A full stop.

He rinses his cutlery and returns it to the drying rack. It’s 7pm so he heads to the living room and draws the curtain tight against the glare. He grabs his controller from the arm of the sofa. It’s the WorldBeater 2 tournament tonight and he’s going to win.

The square black hole that dominates one wall flashes white before the logo appears. The first task is getting to the final, but he’s done this part many times before.

His character progresses through series of rounds, each in a different location. He travels through vast blue oceans, swimming with dolphins through jet-streams, bright coral marking the way. He flies through white clouds with false wings, following an eagle’s path over the patchwork land below. He gallops through lush green fields on a strong brown steed, leaping over obstacles and racing towards the horizon. On the screen.

He’s made it to the final. This last round is a knockout of hand-to-hand combat with other finalists in a huge virtual arena. To prepare for this fight, he’s trained every day for years, pushing his body to the limit. He’s travelled the world to seek the wisdom of experts in martial arts. In the game.

His last opponent puts up a good fight, and through his headset he can hear her faraway frustration in a language he can't name.

It’s a close match, but he wins. The Leaderboard flashes up on screen with his name at the top. He has the most points on the Leaderboard; the highest score ever achieved in WorldBeater 2. His opponent, in the real world, hangs her head in defeat, and her sister puts a consoling hand on her shoulder. He puts down his controller. WorldBeater 3 is released next year.

The sun has set and around him the room beyond the screen’s glow is inky black. Behind the curtain it is a clear night, and the full moon illuminates the constellations and a fox watches her kits play in his garden. He turns off the game and heads upstairs.

On his phone, face-down on the bedside table:

“Success without happiness is failure - Tony Robbins”

Tomorrow morning he will do four minutes and ten.