Dangerously sporty

Friday mornings are not supposed to begin with drama.

They’re supposed to begin with reluctant alarm clocks, yawning adults, and someone discovering there isn’t enough milk for cereal.

Unfortunately for the Brand household, Mr Brand had what Mrs Brand later described as “one of your dangerous healthy ideas.”

At precisely 5:42 a.m., while the rest of London was still negotiating with their duvets, Mr Brand’s eyes popped open.

“Hmm,” he muttered.

Mrs Brand, without opening hers, replied, “Whatever it is, no.”

“I feel like going for a run.”

“You’ve got a fever.”

“No, honestly.”

“You pulled your hamstring at Sports Day. You’re forty-two.”

“I’m forty-one.”

“Exactly.”

Mr Brand ignored the maths and quietly pulled on his running kit.

His hamstring gave a tiny warning twinge.

“I’ll take it easy,” he whispered confidently.

It is worth mentioning that adults only ever say, I’ll take it easy, about five minutes before doing something spectacularly stupid.

Twenty-five minutes later he returned, slightly sweaty but feeling rather pleased with himself.

“See?” he announced quietly. “Still got it.”

He made coffee.

He made toast.

He looked out of the kitchen window.

The sunrise was beautiful.

Birds were singing.

The park looked peaceful.

Then he had another dangerous healthy idea.

“We should all go for a family bike ride!”

Mrs Brand looked up from her laptop.

“It’s six o’clock.”

“Exactly! Beat the crowds.”

“It is six o’clock.”

“The boys will love it.”

“They’re unconscious.”

“We’ll wake them.”

Mrs Brand gave him the sort of look usually reserved for people who suggest replacing tea with kale smoothies.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Your funeral.”

At 6:10 a.m., Mr Brand bounded upstairs with entirely unreasonable enthusiasm.

“BOYS! BIKE RIDE!”

Silence.

Then…

“…what?”

“…is it Christmas?”

“…fire?”

Barry sat bolt upright.

“Bike?”

“Bike.”

“I’m awake!”

He wasn’t.

He immediately walked into his wardrobe.

Three doors away, Marjory answered her phone wearing one slipper and holding a mug of tea.

“Morning.”

“Fancy a bike ride?”

“What time is it?”

“Just after six.”

There was a long silence.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Probably.”

Another pause.

“I’ll get Marmaduke.”

Marjory smiled to herself.

Life had become rather different after losing her husband, but mornings like these—shared chaos with the Brands—made everything feel wonderfully normal again.

Five minutes later Marmaduke appeared wearing his cycling helmet backwards.

“Ready!”

“No, sweetheart,” laughed Marjory. “Your face goes through the hole.”

“Oh.”

Soon the little convoy rolled towards the local park.

Alfie rode smoothly and confidently.

Barry wobbled magnificently.

Marmaduke wobbled even more magnificently.

Their stabilisers had only recently disappeared, and the boys had discovered that riding without them was mostly a matter of convincing gravity to be polite.

Gravity remained unconvinced.

“You’ve got this!” shouted Mr Brand.

Barry immediately cycled into a hedge.

“I meant after the hedge!”

“I’m practising!”

“For what?”

“Hedge racing!”

The park was almost empty.

A few runners.

Several dog walkers.

One elderly gentleman feeding ducks.

The air smelled fresh.

Everything looked calm.

Which, in Barry’s presence, never lasted long.

“Race you!” shouted Barry.

Before anyone could explain that racing required steering, Barry set off.

His tiny legs pumped furiously.

His handlebars wobbled like spaghetti.

He sped towards the duck pond.

“Barry!” called Mrs Brand.

“Turn!”

“I’m trying!”

“Not that much!”

Barry turned…

…far too much.

The front wheel hit the grass.

The grass became mud.

The mud became sliding.

The sliding became…

“SPLASH!”

Barry disappeared into the edge of the pond with an enormous splash that sent three ducks into immediate airborne protest.

QUACK!

QUACK!

QUACK!

Barry emerged sitting in about eight inches of water.

He blinked.

He looked around.

He smiled.

“I found the pond.”

Mr Brand sighed.

“Yes.”

“I wondered what was under the water.”

“Mostly you.”

Mrs Brand couldn’t help laughing.

“You’ve been cycling for twelve minutes.”

“That’s a new record,” said Marjory.

Barry stood up.

Water poured from every item of clothing.

Even his socks somehow looked wetter than ordinary wet socks.

One duck floated past looking deeply unimpressed.

Barry waved.

“Sorry.”

The duck ignored him.

Probably because ducks have standards.

After a quick towel-down with an emergency blanket that Mrs Brand wisely kept in the bike bag—

“I knew you’d need this.”

“How?”

“I’ve met Barry.”

—they continued.

Barry squelched.

Every pedal made a tiny squish.

“I sound funny.”

“You do,” agreed Alfie.

“I sound like soup.”

“You do.”

“I like soup.”

“We know.”

Meanwhile Marmaduke had become fascinated by standing up on his pedals.

“Look!”

“Very nice,” said Marjory.

“I’m nearly as fast as Alfie!”

He wasn’t.

Alfie had already completed one enormous lap of the park and was overtaking them from behind.

“Morning!” Alfie grinned as he sailed past.

“Wasn’t he behind us?” asked Barry.

“He still is,” said Mr Brand.

“He’s just behind us… again.”

Alfie disappeared into the distance.

Barry looked impressed.

“I think he’s showing off.”

“He definitely is.”

“I would.”

“We know.”

Marmaduke concentrated so hard on watching Alfie disappear that he completely failed to notice where he was going.

The front tyre rolled directly through something soft.

SQUELCH.

The smell arrived half a second later.

Barry wrinkled his nose.

“What’s that?”

Marmaduke looked down.

His tyre had become entirely brown.

“Oh.”

Mr Brand glanced over.

“Oh dear.”

Mrs Brand glanced over.

“Oh very dear.”

Marjory didn’t even need to look.

“I know that smell.”

Barry pointed helpfully.

“Marmaduke!”

“What?”

“You’ve found dog poo!”

“I know!”

“Lots of it!”

“I KNOW!”

He kept pedalling.

Unfortunately, every rotation of the wheel flicked tiny dots onto the back of his shorts.

“Splat.”

“Splat.”

“Splat.”

Marjory burst into laughter.

“Oh sweetheart…”

Barry sniffed.

“It smells like somebody cooked broccoli in old socks.”

“That’s… surprisingly accurate,” admitted Mrs Brand.

Mr Brand produced baby wipes from the miraculous parent backpack.

Parents’ bags are mysterious places.

Inside one you can usually find:

• Snacks.
• Plasters.
• Wet wipes.
• Tiny dinosaurs.
• Half a crayon.
• A receipt from 2019.
• Something sticky that nobody is willing to identify.

Mr Brand cleaned the tyre as best he could.

“I think we’re safe.”

Barry inspected it.

“I wouldn’t lick it.”

“No one was planning to.”

Off shot Alfie again.

He loved cycling.

He cornered smoothly.

He rang his bell politely.

He overtook joggers with cheerful “Morning!” greetings.

An elderly cyclist nodded approvingly.

“Good riding!”

“Thank you!”

Barry watched him disappear.

“He’s annoyingly good.”

“He practises,” said Mr Brand.

“I practise crashing.”

“That is also obvious.”

“Come on,” encouraged Mr Brand.

“Let’s do one more lap.”

He stood on his pedals to demonstrate.

There was a loud…

“TWANG!”

Then another.

“Oooooh!”

Mr Brand froze.

His face changed colour.

His right leg refused to cooperate.

Mrs Brand looked over immediately.

“Oh no.”

“My hamstring.”

“You’ve done it again.”

“I’ve done it again.”

He slowly climbed off the bike like a cowboy who’d spent three weeks riding a horse made entirely of bricks.

Barry looked concerned.

“Are you broken?”

“A little.”

Marjory folded her arms.

“Didn’t someone tell you this morning not to go running?”

Mrs Brand smiled sweetly.

“I distinctly remember saying something.”

“I thought it’d be fine.”

“Famous last words.”

Alfie completed another lap and arrived just in time to see Dad hopping gently on one leg.

“What happened?”

“My hamstring.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

Barry looked thoughtful.

“So… everyone fell over?”

Mrs Brand counted.

“You fell in a pond.”

“Marmaduke found dog poo.”

“Dad broke his leg.”

“I didn’t break it.”

“You certainly offended it.”

“And Alfie…”

“…didn’t.”

Everyone looked at Alfie.

He shrugged modestly.

“I just kept pedalling.”

Barry sighed dramatically.

“That’s much less interesting.”

The journey home became rather slower.

Mr Brand limped beside his bike.

Barry squelched.

Marmaduke sniffed suspiciously at his own back wheel every thirty seconds.

Alfie circled the group like an enthusiastic sheepdog, completing little loops while waiting.

As they reached their street, neighbours were beginning to emerge.

Mrs Henderson looked over her garden fence.

“Lovely bike ride?”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Educational.”

“What did they learn?”

Barry answered proudly.

“Ponds are wet!”

Marmaduke added, “Dog poo sticks to tyres!”

Mr Brand groaned, “Hamstrings remember Sports Day.”

Alfie smiled.

“And helmets are definitely worth wearing.”

Mrs Henderson blinked.

“I see.”

“No,” laughed Marjory, “I don’t think you possibly can.”

Back inside the house, everyone peeled off muddy shoes.

Barry’s socks made noises nobody wants socks to make.

Marmaduke’s bike was banished to the garden for a very thorough wash.

Mr Brand applied an ice pack to the back of his leg while trying to look dignified.

This proved impossible because the ice pack had smiling cartoon penguins on it.

Mrs Brand took one photograph.

“For family memories?”

“For evidence.”

Marjory laughed so hard she nearly spilled her tea.

Alfie sat happily eating toast.

“I had a brilliant ride.”

Barry looked offended.

“So did I.”

“You fell into a pond.”

“It was still exciting.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“I learned loads.”

“Like what?”

“Never follow smells.”

“Excellent advice.”

Barry grinned.

“And next time…”

Mrs Brand narrowed her eyes.

“There isn’t a next time.”

“…can we race the ducks?”

“No.”

“The geese?”

“Definitely not.”

“The squirrels?”

“Barry.”

“The pigeons?”

Mr Brand chuckled despite his sore leg.

“I think,” he said, “our next family activity should involve sitting down.”

Barry considered this.

“Can we sit in a canoe?”

Everyone groaned.

Even Alfie laughed.

Outside, the ducks had already forgotten about the small boy who had briefly joined them for breakfast.

Inside, the washing machine prepared itself for battle against pond water, mud and grass stains.

The bike tyres were finally clean.

The hamstring was iced.

The toast disappeared.

And Mrs Brand quietly moved “family bike ride before sunrise” onto the ever-growing list entitled:

Things We Absolutely Shouldn’t Let Dad Organise Again.

It sat just underneath:

• Indoor football.
• Homemade trampoline repairs.
• Competitive wheelbarrow racing.
• Barry’s “safe” chemistry experiment.
• And the unforgettable afternoon when Marmaduke asked, “What happens if we all press the doorbell at the same time?”

The list was getting rather long.

Knowing Barry and Marmaduke, however, everyone suspected it was only the beginning.