Chariots of fire

My list of athletic achievements is not extensive. I was never a particularly fast runner at school, although over longer distances I sometimes managed to outlast my more easily bored rivals. Although a regular member of the school football teams between the ages of 10 and 13, I was probably the worst goalkeeper ever to set foot on a pitch - and after that my lack of height meant opponents could lob the ball over me instead of relying on my butter fingers. As a cyclist, my enthusiasm has always exceeded my speed. And a lack of hand-eye coordination works against me when it comes to badminton and squash.

So it was with some trepidation that I entered the dads' race at sports day this week. I agreed to take part because Adam desperately wanted me to, even though I suspected his pride and confidence in me might not last beyond the first few strides of the race. It was also a slightly altruistic move, believing it was better that I finish last (as I inevitably would) than some dad who was ultra-competitive and might need counselling for the trauma. I didn't think I could last 60m, let alone race it. Forget dead last, anything other than dead would be a triumph.

It turned out that machismo and competitive urges generated a sizeable field of entrants, for such a small school. (It must be said this is a school with an abnormally high proportion of nuclear families.) There being too many to fit on the track at once, someone suggested the dads should be divided by age, 35 being the cut-off. As I looked around I questioned who would fall into the younger group and realised on age handicap alone I might have a chance. As it turned out the 15 or so dads were split according to who was keener, and I found myself in the second race. This put me up against Luke, who was a couple of years ahead of me at school and is as weedy as ever (although a lovely chap). Now here was someone I could beat - and who would cope with the shame of it. 

The whistle blew and we were off, in a blur of slow motion. After about 20m I was behind Luke, which by my reckoning meant I must be last and knew I would have to find another gear. I have to say, by the finish line I was in full flight. I was confident I hadn't come last, because as I turned around after almost hitting the boundary fence a dad was only just crossing the line. But suddenly one of the finish-line judges was slapping a sticker on me: 3rd!

It's fair to say this is one of the finest achievements of my recent life. Sarah listed the names of the people I'd beaten and in fact I wasn't that far behind the winner. I am choosing to overlook the likelihood that the first race was the faster of the two, so third of about eight might equate to 11th of 16. Adam was in fact quite proud of me. I believe it is time for me to retire gracefully, lest I fail to live up to raised expectations next year. In any case Sarah has promised to enter the mums' race...