Every day, WordPress emails me one writing prompt. Today’s writing prompt is:
Compose a Series of Anecdotes
Shrill screams and giggles woosh passed as I dart and dive between plastic cones and skipping ropes, stamping across the concrete. The two boys flank my position, eager to catch me. To anyone else watching, this is an innocent child’s game, but I’m young for my year group, and they have a rougher game in mind laced with malice. I can’t be caught.
I zig-zag between the groups of people as the closest chaser trips over his own feet and rolls across the hard ground. I laugh – the chilly air whips around my hair and face, and I am free… but I run right into the arms of the other chaser with a winding wallop. They cackle like hyenas as they poke and prod, punch and kick a little too hard.
I was not fast enough.
The parents cheer and clap encouragingly as we stand on the starting line. It’s a rugged route of grass – barely a racing track at all. I look between my competitors, all stretching and limbering up. I awkwardly scratch my calf with the toe of a muddy trainer. The whistle blows, and we run. I spring off my heels, taking a striding two steps, but my competitors are already ahead of me. It’s a quick race, and as much as I will my legs to go faster, move quicker, they obstinately plod as each runner gracefully passes the finish line.
The winners get congratulatory cheers as I dejectedly trod over to sit with the rest of my House. A few moments later, another whistle goes off, and the next race begins. I watch in amazement as my best friend, a heavy-set lad, jogs with a funny high-knee sprint, and inexplicably outpaces every person in his race. There are whoops of disbelief and amazement. We all clap him on the back, congratulate him profusely. I admiringly ask how the hell he did it.
I was not fast enough.
BLIP
And we’re off. We all jokingly walk to the other side, sauntering along and laughing with our mates as we all make it with plenty of time to spare. We stand around expectantly as-
BLIP
We laugh at the bathos and go to back to the starting side. We’re all taunting each other, betting that we can beat our closest friends, survive the longest-
BLIP
We pick up the pace, some striding, others lightly jogging, just making sure we get to the other side in plenty of time before-
BLIP
It’s getting faster now. Walking won’t do. Our heart-rates are ever-so-slowly increasing with every-
BLIP
A couple of people who weren’t really trying are cut off, and nonchalantly sit to the side as-
BLIP
It’s a full-on jog, no time for breaks, because as soon as we get to the other si-
BLIP
A few more leave. I’m struggling. I pick up the-
BLIP
The gym’s air stinks. My lungs burn as-
BLIP
I can’t quit this early. I just need-
BLIP
Please, let me catch my-
BLIP
I can’t-
BLIP
BLIP
BLIP
The gym teacher points to me, and I sit by the side, trying to force the air back into my body as most of the class continue running back and forth between the two points. Sure, it’s not long before most of my peers are sitting beside me, watching the sporty few whizzing in front of us with each BLIP, but I could have done one more round. I could have made it and pushed myself further.
I was not fast enough.
The sun beats down on the bright-red track, as House colours are proudly flown on flags and painted onto our bodies. There’s a lot more grandeur, a cake sale, a hotdog stand for the entire school. The track is bright red, a professional 400m circuit. I spend the morning with friends buying Doritos, fizzy drinks, chocolate – everything we need to sit by the side of the track and do absolutely nothing.
I’ve signed up for one event: the high jump. I watch the sporty lot make their way round and round the circuit, in it for the long haul of a 1,500-metre sprint. I’m quite content sitting with mates and rolling down the grass, playing football by the side.
Besides, I’m not fast enough.
My Games Period is different. I’m not shivering on a cold rugby pitch or waiting patiently for a pass on the football grounds. I’m not on the edges of a cricket boundary or tripping over a hockey stick. I’m at the gym, running on a treadmill. My competitors beside me never pull in front. No one progresses, we’re all focused on putting one foot in front of the other. I play my music, and my body gets into a moderate rhythm as I shake off my tiredness and stress.
As I leave, I have a half an hour walk back to my car… or a ten-minute jog. I set off. It takes me 15 minutes, but I run all the way.
I am not fast.
I take my dog off the lead, and she darts into a hedge, disappearing in a flurry of black fur. I play my music, and I set off. I trip and tumble across the muddy, stick-ridden footpath. I pant as I climb the hilly field to the woods. I pass the barrier of trees to the motte and bailey castle site long forgotten. The path makes a track all the way around the castle site, over a mile in total.
The trees are a rich green as the bright sun exposes their veins. It’s a beautiful, lush canopy covering a well-trodden path. I breathe in the sharp, fresh air, slightly freezing my lungs. I cough a little as the dog zooms between my legs, but I keep going. I run two miles. I stop, at the crest of that ancient forest, watching the tractors lumber across the golden fields, the top of my house just visible, nestled between hedges and trees. I lap up the countryside with my eyes and breath, tasting the smell of pollen and greenery.
I am not fast.
But I have stamina.
My final Sports Day. Most of my friends have already gone. I laze on the grass and watch the people run. The tannoy calls for the racers of the 1,500m to come to the starting line.
I stand up.
I walk to the starting line.
We’re off.
Just like last time, the sporty people race forward, leaving me in the dust. But I’m not last. I’m second to last, following the person in front intently. My lungs are burning, my legs aching, but I don’t stop. I follow that guy step after step. 400 metres. 800 metres. 1,200. I wait until the last 100 metres to spring my plan into action. I run. I sprint past him, and he panics as he fights to keep level with me. Through the pumping blood in my ears, I can vaguely hear people screaming. I’m pushing myself harder and harder, and so is he. We’re ten metres away, and he goes for a final push.
And I hit empty. I falter for the briefest second, and he nabs victory.
I was not fast enough.
And my lungs burn, and my heart thumps, and I’m just trying to stay standing and breathing. And as I go to walk back to where I was sitting, I hear people congratulate me. I came second to last, and they still commend me. Even my competitor admiringly shakes my hand. I didn’t think I’d be able to run the whole distance. No one expected me to put up a fight.
I am not fast.
But I have stamina.
It’s 4am. I munch into Big Mac as the pavement outside shines with the grey glow of another concrete morning. My hair is dyed blue, my extra-large costume t-shirt hanging off me as I shovel fries into my gob. I am with my two closest university friends. We reminisce about our first-year, excited to live together in our second. And with one last slurp of Coke, we prepare ourselves for the walk home.
It’s pouring it down. True Manchester weather. We look at each other, and Chris runs for the door. Ash follows. We all run down the deserted street, laughing as the paint in our hair streaks down our faces. We take off our t-shirts, hooting and hollering down the road, the paint coating our bodies. It’s the most beautiful primal feeling as the natural rain cascades down and washes away our worries. We run together.
I am not fast.
But I am fast enough.
It’s four years later, last week, to be exact. I’m at home. I no longer run. Two years ago, I tried running around the old ancient wood behind my house, and I can’t run that 2 miles anymore.
But I want to change. And I download the NHS Couch to 5km app, and I begin my first run. I’m doing alright, despite my tight trainers and the dog running between my legs and the dirty footpath. And an old familiar feeling washes over me. The lifeforce of the air streaming into my lungs as my body shakes off its hibernation, the months of inactivity, and I feel so alive. And Jo Wiley urges in my ear that it’s the last push and I push myself, and I feel so good.
I trip and tumble into a tree.
I’m on my back, dazed. My legs are scratched with brambles, my elbow aches, my toe feels crushed, and I remember all the times I wasn’t fast enough – the times where I couldn’t run away from the bullies, or win the race, or keep up with the BLIPs, or run the 1,500-metre sprint. I am unfit and can’t do what I used to do. I’ve let my fitness slide.
But I get up.
And I finish my run.
And even though, I’ve limped on my bruised toe all week, watching my elbow scab grow black and yellow, wincing as I run a hand over the leg scratches, four days later, I ran again. I did the three runs I needed to for the week.
I am not fast.
I don’t quite have the stamina.
But I’m moving forward.
And that’s fast enough for me.
[40 minutes]
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