Village Squire, 1976-07, Page 34we came to a quiet agreement to take it easy
until the stretch drive. The result was what
had to be a new record for the slowest race in
history. But I came a rather embarassing
second.
My surprise came when I looked at the
athletic department bulletin board a few days
later and saw my name down for the 440 -yard
dash at the district track and field meet. This,
was ridiculous. It wasn't half as ridiculous,
though, as me actually trying to run the 440.
I decided that I couldn't let my school down so
I'd better go out and practice for the event.
made it about three-quarters of the way
around the track before I collapsed in utter
pain. I wondered how I could bring on a
sudden case of appendicitis before the
upcoming track meet.
But the worst was yet to come. The big
track star, the guy who'd won the 220, came
up lame and couldn't run in the meet. I was
pencilled in to run not only the 440, but the
220 as well. I gave my mother my
measurements for the coffin I figured I'd
need after running both events.
The day arrived, so cold, wet and windy
turned purple when I got into my track suit.
While these other jocks in the other lanes for
the race had fancy starting blocks and track
shoes, I had a pair of *2.98 Simpson's special
running shoes. What, I asked myself, am I
,doing here?
The 440 came first. It went like I
expected, maybe worse. One after another
they whished by me. I finished...somehow.
'But the pain in my chest and the cramps in
my side made me think I had a sudden case of
appendicitis compounded by a heart attack. I
felt I was going to be deathly sick any moment
and the purple of my skin from the cold
clashed violently with the green around my
gills.
It seemed only minutes before they called
the 220. I felt like a trench soldier when they
cried "Over the top"; I had to do it even
though it meant certain death. Somehow,
made it. It was a race without strategy, except
perhaps that I wanted to keep from falling on
my face and get it over with quick so I could
go somewhere and die.
I was amazed when I stunibled across the
finish line and some guy handed me a third
place ribbon. I thought it must be a mistake,
but no, I was the third man across the
line...and there were even more than three in
the race. Wow! I was embarassed and proud
at the same time. What a fluke.
soon gave up my track career. Such a win
might have spurred a determined romantic on
to hard work and dedication to being a star
220 -runner. After all with practice...
But me, I was too realistic. I decided to quit
while I was at the top. I never ran again,
except to catch a street car in the years I lived
in the city. I usually lost that race too.
OEDRIRDS
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