The One To Beat

She wore all black. Crop top and running shorts. Her shoulders were slick from heat and there was a pink to her skin. Her warm-up was determined, stretches nimble and sleek. Even her short ponytail bobbed with purpose. She was my One to Beat.

Over three hundred pairs of running shoes jostled at the start of this, the Southampton 8K Firecracker road race. The air was clammy, oven hot and zinging with anticipation. A strangled breeze struggled to lift the dozens of flags lining the main street.

Amongst a sea of runners, I’d lost her. I’d burrowed myself in the middle of the pack for the start, confident I’d find her again. She wasn’t one of the finely-tuned looking, six-pack bearing heavy-hitters who’d no doubt win the race. She had the look of a mother who ekes out what little time she has to train. She was my One.

After a mile I’d found her. I’d peeled off from the middle, felt a surge passing fellow runners, clambering my way forward. She was still some distance ahead, running in a man pack. Around her there was bulging muscle, shaved heads, taut calves, wet skin.

I inched closer as the man pack began dwindling. She kept constant, strong, but the macho muscle mass cushioning her was slowing. I passed the men, heard spitting, puffing and exasperation.

It was around mile 2 when I passed her. As I approached, I sensed her struggle – lingering feet, slack shoulders. We had no shade and the road beneath was leaching heat. I was tiring too. But I had to pass her and get beyond. She was my One.

Ten minutes later my body too was slack. I could feel the dull thud of weary running shoes thumping humid Tarmac.

Then she was there. I saw her shadow first. Nimble legs casting strong lines on the road. I heard female grunting. She wasn’t letting me get away with this.

For a while we ran alongside each other, languishing briefly in the shade of trees lining the streets. We said nothing but the competition was on. She slipped in front of me and we ran like that, safe for a while. Her purposeful ponytail rocked from side to side. No one was making the first move.

But then she did. She inched further forward. Her shoulders seemed strong again, feet lighter. I knew I couldn’t follow her then and part of me gave up a bit. My muscles stung, my throat creaked with thirst. I was sagging. The give-up side of me said she could have this one.

But the stay-strong side knew I had one card left. She slid further and further away but I kept her in sight. She passed two other girls. I knew she’d moved on from me. She had other Ones to Beat.

I cornered the last bend. I knew the crowd would be there soon. My kids, husband, brother - their cheers. I needed them now. Even my stay-strong side was losing courage.

They came into view. I made out glee on my kids’ hot, sticky faces. The finish line was 150 metres away. She was 50 metres from it.

I heard my family and dug deep. Legs lost their ache, propelled forward. Rigid arms locked at my side began to power. In this sagging, worn, sweat-splattered body, I’d cobbled together a sprint. Something ignited in my belly.

Passing her I shot a final glance at that ponytail, those shoulders. I’m sure I heard her mumble ‘sprint finish’.

She was my One to Beat. And I did. Until the next time....

The white-sandalled cheering squad did good