The Tough of the Track

‘Lynch, have you heard Give Peace a Chance yet? It’s got masturbation in the words.’

‘Cobblers’

I wasn’t falling for that again. I’d nearly worn out my Top of the Pops LP listening to Ain’t Got No I Got Life and I still hadn’t heard tits in the lyric.

I wasn’t in the best of moods. Lindsay’s rejection was a kick in the teeth and the ridicule that followed was so bad that I couldn’t wait for the end of term.

Recovery was a matter of time and largely dependant on fate. A nice big show-up for somebody else would deflect the mockery elsewhere, but in my hour of need there was no such tonic and I consoled myself with an after school jaunt to the High Street, where Woolworth’s were flogging off cheap strawberries. Carrying half a crown’s worth of soggy strawberries in a brown paper bag is tricky. Though the paper bag made it all the way home, many of the strawberries did not. 

Burp!

On the eve of the school sports I lay in bed thinking about my race. Plenty of lads in our year could outrun me, but they were scattered across different events. Brian Lack and Raymond Wright, the big two, were sure to battle it out for first and second in my race, leaving me and five others to run our own race for third. But with Lindsay and the whole school watching I wanted more than third place. I wanted to run like the wind and leave the entire field trailing. I wanted to punish and destroy them, hammer them and murder them, and be something other than an object of scorn. Could I push myself through the pain barrier, like Alf Tupper, and run faster than ever before? Could I really do that? Could I be a winner? I desperately wanted to try.

Sports Day

I can, I must and I will. I can, I must and I will. I can, I must and I will.

Psyched up and ready to explode, I recited the Gordon House motto in my head as I lined up on the track for the third year boys’ half mile. Brian Lack and Raymond Wright were in for a shock and so was Miss Mitchell. Fussing about in her red tracksuit, the Gordon House leader too busy organising the proceedings to realise history was in the making. 

‘On your marks… get set… go!’

I took off like a greyhound. Oh, the exhilaration as I burst clear, shot round the first bend and hit the downward slope. Oh, the thrill of being in the lead and hearing the thunder of chasing footsteps.

But a hundred yards of glory came at a heavy price. In big trouble by the second bend, I was already blowing hard when Brian and Raymond overtook me and powered along the bottom straight. In less than half a lap the dream was over.

Roars of encouragement greeted Brian and Raymond as they stormed round the fourth bend and passed the cheering masses to complete the first lap. Some fifteen seconds later I plodded by, heavy legged and feeling stupid, driven only by the desire to get clear of the spectators as quickly as possible.

Despite experiencing what seemed like a slow death, I lolloped round the track a second time and was still clinging to third place with half a lap to go. Almost at a standstill by then, I sensed the pack closing in but even as I glanced over my left shoulder to check my diminishing lead, four of them were overtaking on my right. Seeing one lone competitor behind, it hit me hard to then look to the front and see the overtakers had found a second wind and were charging up the slope towards the spectators. Show offs. With nothing left to give, I could only look on helplessly. At least I was spared the ignominy of being last over the line.

I was last over the line. The back marker – who was alive and well when I last saw him – was already at the finish. While I’d run the gauntlet of shame, he’d hobbled across the field with a face saving injury and was shamelessly milking sympathy from everyone.

Bastard, I thought as I crossed the finishing line, unloved, unnoticed and uncared for by anyone.

Note: As expected Brian and Raymond took the first two places for Nowell. In which order, I wouldn’t know, but if any school records were broken that day, I’d like to think it was down to the pacemaker.

And so another year of highs and lows came to end, but not without another blow. Toni Walters left Upbury. I, for one, would miss her.