For
those who have been asking (and the majority of you who haven’t)I
notched up another win at the Throttle-in-Mossdale
Run in the Park on Saturday. This time I beat 5 adults (two of whom
were octogenarians) and 4 kids who were admittedly distracted by the
addition to the race of an 'obstacle option'. One of them had to be
cut out of the agility ladder at the end by a passing volunteer fire officer. Though welcoming on the whole, the village
runners haven't taken too kindly to being beaten by a barefoot
incomer and, during the cool-down on the newly-installed outdoor gym,
there were dark mutterings by the sit-up
benches. It would seem that in a fortnight's time at the Annual
Village Fun Run, I am to face my nemesis in the shape of a 12 year
old, known locally as ‘The Whippet’, so called as he is rumoured
to possess the speed of a whippet, the height of a whippet (stood up
on its hind legs) and the stamina of a...whippet. (So hopefully, he
might struggle over 3k). Incidentally, it might interest readers to
know that in Yorkshire, a whippet is a standard measure of speed,
length, weight and time. Hence in God’s own county, national speed
limit signs show the silhouettes of two whippets rather than the
familiar black diagonal line. Yorkshire people talk of their children
as having grown ‘as tall as three whippets’ and Yorkshire
weight-watchers are happy to announce that this week they’ve lost
‘a whippet and a half’ from around their waist.
My
show-down against ‘The Whippet’ promises to be like the climactic
final scene in the classic western, High Noon, except the race starts
at 11, there won't be any guns involved (though there is an archery
display afterwards) and, at 54, I'm older than Gary Cooper was in
the film and, even to my eyes, he looks well past his best and
totally incapable of defeating the younger, more accomplished Miller
gang. “They’re making me run,” says Cooper’s character in the
film, “and I’ve never run from anyone before.” In contrast,
people have never made me run and, in fact, quite a number of people,
including close family members, would be very happy if I stopped.
Furthermore, having grown up in Belfast during what is
euphemistically referred to as ‘The Troubles’, I became very
adept at running away from all those who wished me harm due to my
involuntary religious convictions and how I pronounced the letter
‘H’. (Differences over the latter and the ‘substance’ of the
Eucharist after consecration combine to form the source of the
conflict in Northern Ireland.) Even beyond the contested confines of
Northern Ireland, running away has been a tactic that has served me
well over the years when disaster, humiliation or a promotion seemed
headed my way. I shall, therefore, not follow Gary Cooper’s advice
and, in two weeks time, will hopefully look over my shoulder to see
The Whippet and his youthful posse struggling to catch me as I turn
for home just after the newly-refurbished children’s play area.
