Chapter 118 : Bikes and Spikes

A few weeks ago I entered the Bikes and Spikes online.

The website asked me for my best recent time over the distance. I entered a time as accurately as I could.

I’m sure they will check and besides I’ve got nothing to hide.

I entered the 800m Master’s handicap event. Handicap by distance not time.  Not weight for age. Everybody will start at the same time.  I will find myself starting few hundred meters ahead of a back marker.  I will run less than 8oom. Everybody will try and go past me. The “also runs” will start in front of the talented runners.  I will be overtaken by some. How many?  I have to adjust to having the field behind me and coming at me.

Normally when I run everybody starts together and I settle down amongst runners of a similar speed. I then focus on a person in front of me and imagine a string connecting us together. I imagine them dragging me along. This coming race will be different. I will be out in front and strive to hold everybody off. I need to prevent them passing me. I need to imagine something new. I will be the hunted hound fighting to keep ahead of the foxes.

The handicapper is aiming for a blanket finish. Everybody finishing together sounds good to me.

In the weeks before my race I practice for the race. By running. Running seems to be good practice for a running race. I practice sprinting around a circular track. How do I practice running around a track with a noisy crowd.

Every time I hear spikes on the radio I galvanize and listen and then it turns out to be about spiking of drinks.

The big day of the Hobart Bikes and Spikes Carnival arrives and before my race I wander then sit in the grandstand and watch.

Runners wear colored vests. Sprinters wear colored vests crouch tensely. When the gun explodes they spring into action. Powerful leg muscles stride down the lanes with arms swinging. Looks beautiful. From the side some forge ahead. The field separates into fastest and just fast. From the front each runner is a bundle of active muscles. Tensing and lengthening.  Arms swing wide for a lunge at the finish gate.

Bikes controlled by helmets, sunglasses and velcro shorts and shirts and focused ahead glide around the velodrome. Legs pump like pistons as they propel the smooth sliding machines at speed around the velodrome.  

The announcements are ceaseless. They broadcast each race.  Telling us the names of the cyclists and runners.  At the marshaling area I greet other runners. Most of them I recognize. There are fourteen in my race.

I crotch behind the starting line. The gun goes off. I am by myself. Nobody to comfort me. Please be fast.  Breathe deeply. Swing arms wide. Take big long steps.  A guy overtakes me very quickly and gives me something to chase.   

I’ve got to go faster. Legs stride bigger.  Reach out further. Stride longer. Longer and even longer.  Legs go faster. Go quicker. Lungs breathe deeper. Breathe out bigger.

The announcer continues announcing for the watching crowd.  After the race I have no idea what he says. I’m focused.

I can hear more breathing behind me. It’s getting closer. I’ve got to speed up. I will stop them passing me. The breathing is getting closer. I can see them now. Next to me. Now past me. I’ll hang onto him. Repass him. I can’t catch him. I can hear the crowd yelling. They are yelling for me. I won’t let them down. I’ll catch this guy. Get back in front of him. He’s going away from me. I can hear more breathing behind me.

I’m coming around the corner. I can see the finish line. I sprint. I increase my stride. I increase leg speed. I increase my arms swinging.

I finish. The result is I came fifth out of fourteen.  Sounds good to me. I am exhausted. I didn’t know I could breathe so deeply. I rest my hands on my legs.  I shake hands with the other guys. They’ve all done what I did. They have all done a great job.