Chapter 18

We collected our kit from the minibus and went into our allocated changing room to get changed. Of necessity we had to share the room with several other teams. As soon as we entered, boys from the other teams stopped to look at us, and then at me in particular. And then the whispers started:

“That guy’s gay.”

“I bet he runs in the pack so he can watch the asses of the guys in front.”

“Don’t bend down in the shower afterwards.”

I was still mildly annoyed that Eugenie Butler-Walker hadn’t stood up for me, and the continuous stream of taunts wound me up even further. They hurt even more because running in the pack was my normal strategy. I resolved to try to get ahead of the pack so nobody could accuse me of watching their asses.

Taking his captain’s role seriously, Corwin Baylee herded us outside after we had finished getting changed and spoke some words of encouragement, but I was fuming so much that I didn’t hear them. Somehow, in my funk, I got split up from the rest of the team and chose a place far out to one side on the starting line. Even there it was crowded, because of the one hundred and eighty runners scheduled to take part.

To my chagrin, the sun had chosen to put in appearance while we were changing. The warm day was rapidly becoming hot. Yet another thing to wind me up.

The starting pistol sounded and we were off. The sprinters raced across the school field. I wasn’t even going to try to match them. Then came the fast runners. I started running at the pace I had ran the previous Monday when I was also working off my frustrations. I reached the other side of the school field at the tail end of the fast runners and ahead of the pack.

The first side of the squarish course contained a gentle decline. The going was easy and I continued comfortably despite running at what for me was a faster than usual pace. One or two runners overtook me but I slowly pulled away from the pack. I was in good shape when I reached the first corner and received acknowledgement from the marshal.

The second side of the square contained a long, gentle incline. I tried to maintain my pace and actually overtook a few runners on the way, but I was really grateful when it levelled off because I was sweating profusely, my lungs were bursting and I was starting to struggle. I remembered Coach Budd’s advice to keep something in reserve for the last incline and realised I could be in trouble.

I received an acknowledgement from the marshal and set off on the third side. I kept to my fast pace even though I was hurting because I had something of a rhythm and I reckoned slowing down wouldn’t make me hurt any less. I vaguely noticed overtaking one or two runners but I was concentrating so hard on the pain that I barely noticed other runners, except for an awareness that I was still ahead of the pack.

The fourth side of the square started with a steep decline. The going was rutted and I had to concentrate on my footing so I didn’t trip over. Concentrating on something other than the pain seemed to help and by the time the course levelled off, I was into my second wind. Then it suddenly struck me - I couldn’t remember having received an acknowledgement from the marshal at the last corner. In fact I couldn’t remember seeing a marshal at all. I had a mild panic attack. I couldn’t go back: it would eat up so much time and energy that I’d probably come in last and at a walk. I decided my least worst option was to finish as well as I could then wonder about what might have been.

The last stretch back up to the school was a steep incline, in as poor a shape as the previous decline. Despite knowing it was suicidal, I kept running at my fast pace. I was conscious of passing several runners, some of whom had been reduced to walking. The lung-bursting pain came back with a vengeance but, just as I thought it was getting too much and I’d have to slow to a walk, I saw the school in the distance through my blurring vision. Needing to concentrate on my footing, I didn’t dare to look back to check on the whereabouts of the pack so I forced myself to press on, spurred on by my desire to keep ahead of them. Somehow I managed to haul myself up the rest of the slope, and from there I struggled across the school field to the finish line, vaguely aware of some cheers from spectators as I passed.

After the finish line, I staggered on until I reached a quiet spot away from the crowds. I collapsed onto all fours and dry-heaved until my whole stomach lining felt sore. Then I rolled over on my back and took short, shallow breaths until the pain in my lungs eased and my vision cleared.

I got up and headed to the changing rooms, hoping to shower and change before the throng arrived in order to avoid any more comments about not bending over in the shower, but the door was locked. That made sense, it was to help keep our clothes and possessions safe, but it was frustrating. There was nothing for it but to head back and seek out the rest of my team to face the music.

A man in a marshal’s bib saw me and asked, “Are you number one three six?”

That was a really dumb question because my number was showing as clear as daylight. “Yes, that’s me.”

“I think you’re wanted in the Admin Tent,” he said.

I wasn’t too surprised. I’d pretty much convinced myself that I was going to be disqualified. I wandered over to the Admin Tent and approached one of the administrators. “Hi, I’m number one three six,” I said, my voice huskier than normal. “Someone said you were looking for me.”

She checked off my number. “Oh yes, that’s right. They’re about to start the presentations for your race.”

“Was everything okay? I don’t remember getting an acknowledgement from the third checkpoint marshal.”

“Let me check ... Yes, she saw you okay. You were checked off at all three checkpoints.”