Backwards

by Rob Grant

  And the whistle blows, and Rimmer hoists off his front legs instinctively.

  Before the slowest starter has left the line, Rimmer is three strides ahead of his nearest rival.

  He can hear his brothers' raucous yells as he pounds away at the track, his arms and legs pumping rhythmically in synch, his breathing easy and measured.

  And though it's not the thing to do, as he crosses the hundred-yard mark, he chances a look over his shoulder.

  Bobby Darroch is right behind him. His face is purple with exertion. His balance is wrong. His arms are wind-milling round. He's not keeping up with good technique, he's keeping up with sheer willpower.

  Rimmer looks forward again. He finds another gear and pulls away. And with thirty yards to go, he looks back. Darroch must surely be digging deep into reserves Rimmer didn't know he had. He's two paces behind, running for all he's worth.

  And he doesn't stand a chance.

  Even if he keeps his mad pace up, there simply isn't enough track left for him to make up the gap.

  And suddenly Rimmer understands that Darroch has to win this race. He simply has to.

  Falling over and making it appear like an accidental trip is not the easiest thing to do, but Rimmer is determined to make it look good.

  He slides his front foot slightly too far over, and manages to catch his heel with the toe of his oncoming shoe.

  It is a spectacular enough tumble. He crashes headlong on to the clay just yards from the tape.

  And to his horror, his momentum sends him skidding forwards, skinning his knees and propelling him towards the line.

  For one awful moment, it looks like he's going to win, anyway, but little Darroch drags some extra effort from some hidden place and breasts the tape just inches before Rimmer's skidding nose.

  Darroch collapses, spent, to the ground and Rimmer tumbles into him.

  The purple-faced boy opens his eyes and looks into Rimmer's face. He smiles and says, 'Thanks, Ace.'

  Rimmer curls his forehead. 'Nonsense, old sport. Fair and square.' He offers his hand and the two boys help each other to their feet.

  Rimmer looks down at his raw knees. He tests his weight on his right ankle and winces. He'll be limping for a week.

  His brothers crowd around him, offering commiserations and inspecting his injuries. Over their shoulders, he spots his mother.

  She is looking at him, puzzled. Her head tilts slightly to one side. She's asking him 'why'?

  Rimmer simply smiles and shrugs.

  After all, losing isn't nothing.