The Tomerton Dash

After weeks of training i was ready. i knew the course like the back of my hand. There was only one serious rival, and i had his mark. First prize in The Tomerton Dash would be mine.

Arriving on the day, i collected my race bib and moved to the change rooms. It was here i first caught glimpse of my competitors. A scruffy bunch of chancers. And he, Gordon Goodney. I gave a terse greeting. Peculiarly, as i dressed, all the others disappeared into the one toilet cubicle together - from where i heard scraping and snorting sounds. I assumed this was race nerves, and felt even more confident in myself. Shortly after, they all tumbled out, behaving most oddly. Davey Ravey kept waving his hands in the air (almost as if he was dancing to some imagined hypnotic music). Gary Gurner was chewing furiously and kept sipping from a bottle of sports-pop. Barth Whitey really wasn't well. But Goodney himself was looking pepped, focused, ready to race.



At the starters gun, we were off. I expected Goodney to play a smart tactical game, drafting on the leader, till a sharp sprint towards the finish. Only he was off sprinting from the word go!



This was madness. Over 100 yards certainly, but for the entire distance, you could never sustain this pace. I matched him, to gasp 'this is madness Goodney, you'll be done'



He met my entreat by speeding up. Over the hills, through the forest around the town. I was coming to the horrific realisation: i was going to lose this race. Damned Goodney was pulling of a pace none of his previous track efforts had matched!



I fell back with the pack. Ravey will still waving his hands in the air - like he just didn't care? Gurner was in danger of chewing his gums out, and kept sucking that sports pop like his life depended upon it. And Whitey - between bouts of vomiting seemed to want to insist earnestly that he loved everyone, and hug us. I was beginning to get an inkling something wasn't right with these fellows.

Using my last reserves, i tailed the leader again:
'Goodney you rotter! you're on drugs aren't you? You and all the rest of this rabble! you've never run a pace like this in your life!'
'So what if i am Tommy Twinkletoes - you'll never prove it. Racing authorities in Tomerton are notoriously naive nitwits - the prize is mine!'



Damn that man! A wave of fury swept over me. And as we turned into the high street, dripping with sweat, with a light breeze blowing against us, a desperate idea struck me.

***********

[excited commentator speaks] here we are at the final turn, and - oh my! Twinkletoes has just disappeared into a builders shed, a er, tent sorry. He is inside a tent, there is rummaging visible, and all the while Goodney is getting away. What is that man thinking???



***********

And there i emerged. If you could soundtrack this section of the story with the theme music from 'chariots of fire'. For i had calculated the additional weight and drag being caused by the sweat and breeze, and concluded i could win, just: naked!



The crowd cheered. Some mothers were torn between covering their childrens eyes, and having a good look. Professional photographers reached for their zoom lenses. Sure enough, foot by foot, i made up the ground to level with Goodney: 'ive got you now, you cad' i hissed, and im pleased to say he was lost for words.



It was an unprintable photo finish - the judges ruled that i had i crossed the line ahead of him by approximately 4 inches (*6 by my measure).

And if there's a message for young athletes out there: drugs might make you feel like a winner, but it's what's underneath that counts.