Heart pounding, sweat pouring off his brow, aching legs pumping, Gary wondered, not for the first time, what he’d let himself in for. It had seemed a good idea at the time. And the family supported him when he eventually convinced them of his determination. There they were, by the side of the track, shouting encouragement. Not far to the finish now.
Once committed, he had thrown himself into training, jogging every day after tea along the quiet lanes dragging with him with the surprised and somewhat reluctant dog who normally spent her evenings relaxing in the back garden. His wife had laughed: “No need to take it quite so seriously, Gary! No-one expects you to win. You haven’t exercised, not properly I mean, for years!” That upset him a bit – did his family think he was such a couch potato? Yes, he enjoyed his telly and the odd glass of beer and OK, maybe he had let his weight drift up a little lately, but it wouldn’t take long to get back into condition and then he’d show them! Spurred on, he redoubled his efforts until the dog, exhausted, refused to accompany him on the nightly jaunts.
He’d even instituted a regime of 20 press-ups before breakfast. And he had to admit that he did feel better for it, trimmer as well as fitter. He should have done this ages ago!
The day arrived and, naturally, it was raining. After one of the driest springs on record, of course the weather would break yesterday. And these weren’t just “isolated showers” as that irritatingly smug forecaster predicted. Oh no, it bucketed down from dawn to dusk, torrents sweeping along the pavements and roads, drains filling up and overflowing with the unaccustomed volume of water. He had made his final practice run along puddled paths, a waterproof draped over his vest and shorts. But, as he lined up with the other competitors, the sun burst through the grey clouds and he wished he’d worn his eyeshade rather than his battered old rain hat.
And they were off!
At the beginning, the runners were bunched together and it was hard to get out of the crush. Two people bumped into him and he was nearly down in a knot of arms and legs. Somehow, he recovered his balance. The rest of the field was also having problems. The running track was greasy from enough rain to float Noah’s ark on top of hard ground parched by weeks of dry conditions. Every time he slipped, his once-pristine trainers acquired another greenish stain. He tried to keep the rhythm going – right foot, left foot.
Every contestant had his supporters and they were all calling and whistling, urging their man on. Some of the spectators lining the route became so carried away, they spilled onto the track while anxious stewards tried to push them back behind the barrier.
The finishing line was in sight! Lungs bursting, Gary made a final huge effort and flung himself over. Cheers rang in his ears. Then his son hurled himself at him. “Daddy, Daddy, you won!” Won? He’d won? He disentangled his limbs and staggered to his feet. He’d gone weak at the knees. Good job he’d done all that training or goodness knows what sort of state he’d be in!
He hobbled over to the podium where the Mayor, beaming and resplendent in his gilded chain of office, was waiting.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I am pleased to present the medals for the final event of the Manx Junior School’s Sports Day – Gary Jones and Mark Smith, congratulations on winning the fathers’ three-legged race!”
Once committed, he had thrown himself into training, jogging every day after tea along the quiet lanes dragging with him with the surprised and somewhat reluctant dog who normally spent her evenings relaxing in the back garden. His wife had laughed: “No need to take it quite so seriously, Gary! No-one expects you to win. You haven’t exercised, not properly I mean, for years!” That upset him a bit – did his family think he was such a couch potato? Yes, he enjoyed his telly and the odd glass of beer and OK, maybe he had let his weight drift up a little lately, but it wouldn’t take long to get back into condition and then he’d show them! Spurred on, he redoubled his efforts until the dog, exhausted, refused to accompany him on the nightly jaunts.
He’d even instituted a regime of 20 press-ups before breakfast. And he had to admit that he did feel better for it, trimmer as well as fitter. He should have done this ages ago!
The day arrived and, naturally, it was raining. After one of the driest springs on record, of course the weather would break yesterday. And these weren’t just “isolated showers” as that irritatingly smug forecaster predicted. Oh no, it bucketed down from dawn to dusk, torrents sweeping along the pavements and roads, drains filling up and overflowing with the unaccustomed volume of water. He had made his final practice run along puddled paths, a waterproof draped over his vest and shorts. But, as he lined up with the other competitors, the sun burst through the grey clouds and he wished he’d worn his eyeshade rather than his battered old rain hat.
And they were off!
At the beginning, the runners were bunched together and it was hard to get out of the crush. Two people bumped into him and he was nearly down in a knot of arms and legs. Somehow, he recovered his balance. The rest of the field was also having problems. The running track was greasy from enough rain to float Noah’s ark on top of hard ground parched by weeks of dry conditions. Every time he slipped, his once-pristine trainers acquired another greenish stain. He tried to keep the rhythm going – right foot, left foot.
Every contestant had his supporters and they were all calling and whistling, urging their man on. Some of the spectators lining the route became so carried away, they spilled onto the track while anxious stewards tried to push them back behind the barrier.
The finishing line was in sight! Lungs bursting, Gary made a final huge effort and flung himself over. Cheers rang in his ears. Then his son hurled himself at him. “Daddy, Daddy, you won!” Won? He’d won? He disentangled his limbs and staggered to his feet. He’d gone weak at the knees. Good job he’d done all that training or goodness knows what sort of state he’d be in!
He hobbled over to the podium where the Mayor, beaming and resplendent in his gilded chain of office, was waiting.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I am pleased to present the medals for the final event of the Manx Junior School’s Sports Day – Gary Jones and Mark Smith, congratulations on winning the fathers’ three-legged race!”