Run, don't walk

"Just don't start walking... Please don't stop running."

Our hero plods along the pavement, glistening in the shimmering heat as one mirage after another appears on the horizon. First, an oasis; then the St Louis Arch; finally, and strangely, a casino.

He has returned to Mattoon IL for the 4th tri of the season. Staying with the pack during the swim, he had inadvertently entered the Ulimate Fighting Championship and received several blows to the schnozz. Undaunted, he pressed on with his superbike, Blackbird.

Now, he is on the last mile of the run. So far, so good, save for the heat. It is early July in the middle of the cornfields of Illinois. Though it is not truly stifling, it is definitely uncomfortable for a Canadian. The casino morphs into an inviting ice floe. Harp seals call out to him, telling him that it would be cooler if he just slowed down.

With 1/2 mile to go, he approaches two male runners. These men are probably wholesome, honest citizens. Good fathers, perhaps; stewards of their community. But on the battlefield, they are goons. They are both in their 50s and burly. They hear our hero approach, and with a dismissive glance, turn up the pace ever-so-slightly.

The three cluster together for the next few minutes. An unspoken pact is forged: let's see who has the mettle; whoever falls back is the loser. The pack stays intact up until the last twist of the trail, which veers from the pavement onto a grassy field: 40 yards to go.

Goon A makes a charge, leaving Goon B in his wake. Goon B yells encouragement. Our hero lays back, calculating his move. With 30 yards to go, he springs into action: ignoring a pounding headache, he sprints away from Goon B and starts to reel in Goon A, who is now 20 yards from the finish. Having seen most of the field finish without incident, the crowd cheers the dramatic episode...

With 5 yards to go, our hero is right on the tail of Goon A. The narrow finish gate forces a crucial split-second decision: does he take the victory with a gauche elbow-chop-and-butt-in-line move, or does he ease up, having proved his point? He chooses the latter. A small, tactical battle won with implicit class.

He crosses the finish line. But all is not well... The long week has taken its toll and, having completely overheated, his own body turns against him and launches a rather, er, violent protest.

Minutes later, tri #4 is a memory. Our hero finishes 75th out of 90, a frank exposure of his modest talent and a testament to the elite caliber of the field.

But there is a bright side: he didn't walk.