The Race

The crowds are gathered along the sides of the track. I feel butterflies in my stomach when I hear their excited voices but I must focus on the finish line. That is my goal.

I am doing this for my grandfather. He competed in the Old Limp Dicks years and years ago. If I win then it will prove I have inherited his jeans. My father never got into sport the way my grandfather did. I do this now in my grandfather’s honour. They say that the sporting jeans must have skipped a Jenny Ray’s son. I do not know Jenny Ray or her son, but they are in my mind now as I check my toes are right on the start line, not one centimetre over and not one centimetre behind.

I jump up and down to loosen my limbs and get them ready for action. I take deep breaths in and sharp breaths out. My blood must be pumped up with oxygen so my muscles can explode down the track and carry me onwards to victory.

Some people have said that I am taking this too seriously but I know you don’t succeed in life by not taking things seriously. What has my life been for if not this moment? The hours of endless practice, the diet created for total fitness and the study of past winners will have been time wasted if I do not take this seriously.

Some people have said I am not a born athlete but who is? Who arrives at the hospital already running or jumping or throwing world record results? Nobody, that’s who, so nobody can be born an athlete. Being an athlete is something you have to want so much that sacrifice is just another thing you do and not really a big deal.

I have sacrificed even my favourite television programmes so I could get my Four Goes done before dinner. You must Four Go pleasure to train your body so I have done Four Goes every night for months now. It feels like my whole life has been spent Four Going.

The sacrifice has been worth it as I glance at my right arm. The small bump there between my elbow and my shoulder was not anywhere to be seen before I started preparing for today. Perhaps I will grow another one on my left arm once I have tasted victory. It is a Bye Sep and I only need the right arm one for what must be done this day.

I squeeze my eyes a bit when I look up at the sky. It is wall to wall sunshine today, just like they said it would be on the news last night. That’s another sacrifice I have made. I do not like watching the news in the evening. It makes people angry a lot of the time. I began watching it last week though, just in case today’s event got mentioned. I might have picked up some last minute tips and tricks if they had talked about it.

They never said anything about it. I think that is so the crowds gathered here today didn’t get so worked up that they stormed the palace or something in their excitement. We don’t even have a palace in our town so good luck with storming it!

What I did get to see was that I was right to do my training every day even when it was raining. The weather people said there could be a chance of showers for today. I thought they meant showers like you have to get clean but now I know they didn’t. They meant showers of rain.

It’s a different thing to do this if it is raining, or even if it has rained earlier in the day. Even if it does rain a shower before this is over I will survive. I have trained for it come Rain, Hail or Shine. The sky is blue and there are no clouds at all but a weather front could move in off the Atlan Tick in a flash.

I am willing to bet that the others standing ready along this start line have not shown the Teddy Cation I have. I never caught my death of a cold in the rain thanks to my trusty Mac and I never burned to a cinder in the sun thanks to my Factor Thirty. I survived so I could stand here today to make my Grandfather, who I call Pop, proud of me as he looks down from his seat in Heaven.

I resist the temptation to look at the others in the race to my left and to my right. I can hear them breathing but it is not the “deep breath in, sharp breath out” of an athlete like I am doing. I make my breaths a bit louder so I can Inty Mid Date them all. It’s all part of the game and not illegal. Every little piece of the jigsaw counts to the bigger picture.

I look ahead of me along the track. The finish line tape is being put in place. I should picture the moment my chest breaks through it as I win the race but instead fear and doubt slam into my brain. The butterflies return to my stomach and my left knee begins to wobble.

I look to the crowd for reassuring faces but see nobody I know, only strangers staring back, frowning because they know I will be the one to bring shame and defeat upon their loved ones. I jog on the spot, pumping my arms and my Bye Sep to get rid of the wobble in my leg. I do my athlete breathing to clear my mind but all I can see in my memory now is the injury I got three weeks ago.

It could have been the end of it all and when I saw the buckets of blood bursting out of me I thought I was finished. It was during the third of my Four Goes during a training session. An unexpected patch of gravel under my foot and over I went. It felt like my knee was being ripped off. I imagined a long stay in hospital and years of Fizzy O to regain my strength. I imagined I might never walk again, never mind race.

I did get Fizzy O to recover but it was just fizzy orange and not the stuff you get in hospital. The fizzy orange did make me feel better and helped my return to fighting fit form. The relief in everyone’s hearts made me feel proud and I knew then I could not let them down by not winning today.

I glance now at the graze on my knee that has not fully healed over and it makes me determined once more. I banish those butterflies in my stomach with thoughts of the win. I stop the wobble in my knee by sheer force of Will Power. I focus on the tape at the other end of the track and calm my shattered nerves. I am an athlete.

Our race is announced on the loudspeaker. More people join the crowd already lining the track and the music that was playing cuts out. Breathe in deep. Breathe out sharp. A movement to the side catches my focused eyes. This is it. The moment has come.

One more shake of my limbered limbs and I draw my silver spoon out of my waist band. We all have the same spoon so not one single person can claim an advantage with a better shape or quality of silverware. I was allowed to take mine home for my training Reggy Men as long as I promised to make no adjustments or alterations to the stainless steel Imp Lament. As if I would dishonour Pop with sneaky Tack Ticks like that.

I hold the spoon out in front of me, glaring at my hand so it does not dare shake. Mrs. Dunwoody places the egg on my spoon. I slow my breathing now as the seconds count down. I try not to smile or be distracted when Missy Spelton drops her egg on the ground. She starts crying and refuses Mrs. Dunwoody’s offer of a replacement. One less person to beat I guess.

I bend my knees ready for the shout that will see me run to glory. I grasp the handle of my spoon tight. My egg sits perfectly still with my perfect balance. I am in command.

My whole life for this moment. The first grade obstacle course and the shame of not finishing it, are in the past. The wheelbarrow race of second grade is not to be brought up. My wheelbarrow let me down and I have not spoken to him since. It has all been about this, the third grade Egg and Spoon race. This is what Sports Day is all about.

I do this for me.

I do this for my family, even though it seems they haven’t secured prime positions to witness the marvel that is about to unfold.

I do this for Pop.

“On your marks!”

I bend my knees, ready to spring into action.

“Get set!”

I take a deep breath, staring ahead at the white ribbon I will burst through.

“Go!”

Eyes on my egg balanced on my spoon, I charge forward. My legs are pumping like iron Pissed-Ons. I am out ahead of the others but still I push my body to its limits.

I am confused. To my left I see a shape passing me. For a split second I take my eye off the precious egg and see Sammy, my best buddy, pulling away from the rest of the racers. Don’t do this to me Sammy! You are my best buddy but this is my race to win.

He is too far ahead now. I pump my legs harder but the speed to match Sammy will not come.

My egg wobbles but I regain the balance and plough on. I glance at Sammy.

He trips. He falls. His forehead smashes his egg. I feel joy at his disaster and guilt at my joy.

As I reach level with him sprawling on the grass I hear him crying. I try to ignore the ache in my heart I feel for him and look back at the white ribbon, so close. I hear the thundering of the others behind, gaining on me.

I hear Sammy crying.

I slow.

I stop.

The others rush past me as I walk over to Sammy and kneel beside him. He looks up at me. He has grass smashed into his face and his eyes are all wet with tears. Bits of his egg’s shell are stuck to his forehead but I try not to laugh. It is not good to laugh at someone who is crying.

I hold my hand out to him as I hear the crowd cheer and applaud. Someone else has won my race. Sammy takes my hand and I pull him up off the ground. He wipes a bit of snot from his nose and I give him a hug. Hugs are good when someone is crying.

I take the hand that does not have snot on it and make him hold my spoon with me. I smile at him and nod. He nods back and we walk together to the finish line. We hug again as we cross the white ribbon lying on the ground, broken through by someone else.

I look to the sky to apologise to Pop on his seat in Heaven. I did not win. I did not make him proud.

“But you did,” I hear him say inside my head.

Sammy and I start laughing at the yellow egg yolk drying on his forehead.

While we are laughing the back of my mind starts thinking about next year.

The Sack Race.