Bedtime Stories

Cracks in the Pavement

Bedtime Story #1

In my early years, when I was still at primary school, I loved to run. I loved

running so much I availed of every opportunity to indulge in it. I ran to school, I ran in

the playground, I ran into classes, I ran out from classes, and then I ran all the way

home, again. I ran everywhere, and I could not understand why anyone might want to act

in any way differently.

I lived in Sunbury on Thames, a place where all the paths, all of the pavements were

made from concrete-paving slabs. Whilst they are quite easy to install (and to lift again,

if maintenance or repair work to the services hidden beneath is deemed necessary),

they do have one major drawback – they crack. You need only take a short walk around

any built-up area, where this type of pavement has been installed, to see what I mean.

Most people don’t even notice these cracks, these failings in the paths beneath their

very feet, and even if they were to notice them, I am sure they wouldn’t give this

problem any more attention than a passing glance. I, however, gave this situation a lot

more attention than that. I saw each and every one of those cracks, be they merely

chips off the corners or giant earthquakes splitting entire slabs in two, for what they

were – a opportunity to run with the precision of an Olympic athlete.

You’re laughing, aren’t you? You’re thinking how silly I was, believing that a few cracks

in the pavement could hone my running skills to such a degree. Please allow me the

chance to explain…

I went to St. Ignatius primary school. It was small and terribly old fashioned – we even

had gas lights in one part of it, but I still loved it, we all loved it. And while it was indeed

a wonderful school, nothing exciting ever seemed to happen there, the highlight of the

entire school year was the inter schools sports day. To be a part of the select few, the

team representing our school, was something that each and every pupil aspired to. I

was no exception.

I can remember, one year, watching the hundred yards dash, thinking how glamorous it

must be, to be offered the opportunity to represent the school. I can also remember

watching our runner coming in a close second, and seeing the delight on his face as he

slowly came to a halt. I can remember thinking if that was how he felt coming in second,

to actually win must be a sensation to beat all others. And at that moment, that very

instant, I vowed that I would be in the next inter schools sports day. Nothing would stop

me from this aim, absolutely nothing.

That was how I came to develop my new training regime, running like the wind,

using the cracks in the pavement to hone my running skills to perfection. Confused?

Read on...

Although I enjoyed running, I needed something to give me an edge, like a coach, to

spur me on to the speeds necessary to represent our school. But a coach was totally

out of the question. Have you ever heard of such a fanciful idea? Whatever I was going

to do, it was most certainly not going to be with the help of a coach.

I was determined to be in the next inter schools sports day, that went without question,

so I began running and running and running. I ran everywhere. And it worked. I

gradually became faster and faster and faster, surprising my family, friends and even

myself in the process. However, after only a few short weeks dashing to and from

school – not to mention everywhere else as well – I felt that

my performance had peaked. I needed more stimulus, I needed a challenge, I needed

something extra, something to give my performance the extra push it needed...

That was when I had the idea, that was the moment when I saw the cracks in the

pavement as a godsend, and I laughed, I laughed at the utter simplicity of it. My plan, my

oh-so-simple plan was to avoid the cracks in the pavement, nothing more nothing less.

As I continued to train, dashing along the same old routes, I avoided each and every

crack in the pavement. And let me tell you, running at the speed that I was accustomed

to, it was no easy feat!

As I set off on the first day of my new training regime, my brother, Tony, said he thought

that thought I was barking mad, racing along the path with my head staring down,

scanning the pavement for the next crack to avoid. I laughed, I laughed at him, for who

was he to know, anyhow? But when I arrived at school, with my legs aching from the

unaccustomed restraints put upon them, I almost agreed with him.

Despite these early misgivings, I persisted with my new training regime and as the days

crept slowly by, and my legs became increasingly accustomed to my new way of running,

my speed began to increase again. And with the dawning of each new

day, I felt healthier, fitter, stronger and, above all, faster.     

“Tony,” I said one Friday afternoon as we left school, “Tony, you go on ahead of me…”

“Why?” he asked me curiously.

“I want to see if I can catch up with you. I’ll give you ten minutes head start…”

“OK,” he replied with no hint of emotion in his voice.

“You can go as fast as you like.” i said, urging him on.

He trotted away, Tony trotted off down the road – he had never shown any

predisposition to speed.

I waited, I waited for over ten minutes, closer to fifteen minutes if I’m perfectly honest,

and then I set off. As I raced away, religiously avoiding the cracks in the pavement, I

wondered if I had left it a bit too late, to have any hope of catching up. I wondered if I

would find him, having already arrived home, sitting down to his tea.

 I needn’t have been concerned, though, because I caught up with my brother

surprisingly easy. I caught up with him standing outside the hardware cum toyshop,

holding his side. And it was only a few yards past the halfway point, I might add.

“Is this as far as you’ve managed to get?” I asked, disappointed that the race had been

so easily won. 

“I trotted, like you said,” Tony replied, “but I got a stitch…”

“From trotting?”

“Yes,” he replied nonchalantly.

“From a little bit of trotting?” I asked him again, unwilling to believe his pitiful excuse.

“I didn’t ask to be in your stupid race,” he retorted, returning his attention to the toy

display in the shop window, signalling the end of our conversation.

From that day on I chose to rely on only myself for my coaching, training and racing.

Others were far too unreliable. I trained throughout the entire winter months, running,

avoiding the cracks in the pavement with a zeal that would leave the most diehard

athlete agog. It was a lonely occupation. Sometimes my mother would me ask if

everything was all right, and was I doing it because I was unhappy about something. But

when I reminded her just why I was doing it, to represent the school – and to win gold,

she relaxed and left me alone.

I trained all through the spring, increasing my hours of training with the lengthening of

the days. I trained harder and harder, and I became faster and faster as the time for the

trials grew nearer, when the best of the athletes would be chosen to represent our

school.

It was a warm June day when it arrived, the day of reckoning, when I would find out if all

my efforts had been enough. Like my life depended on it, I sprinted away in race after

race, trying to better my previous years, let’s just say rather dismal performance. After

the last of the trials was over, I waited to hear the final decision of the adjudicators, and

although I had streaked home at lightning speed in several of the trials, I was still

unsure if it had been enough to secure me a place on the team. 

As the names were read out, of the children who had qualified to represent our school,

my heart pounded with both anticipation and fear. Then I heard it, I heard my name

being read out – I was in!

I had not only qualified for the one hundred yards dash, but also for the relay race. Oh,

what a day. I was overjoyed, I was ecstatic.

The Inter Schools Games were held the following month, July. All of my classmates were

there, cheering me and my team mates on. The first race, the one hundred yards dash,

began, and I can still remember the excitement as I heard the gun crack and I shot off

ahead of my opponents. I can also remember the boy on my left, the one with the

tremendously long legs, as he caught up with me and raced on to victory. Oh, well, I

came in a close second…

I still, however, had a chance in the relay race, but due to a mix up by two members of

our team when they were exchanging the baton, we only managed to come in a good

third.

Was it all worth it? Was all that running, avoiding the cracks in the pavement worth

achieving only second and third places? You can bet your bottom dollar that it was! It

was a truly wonderful experience; one of the best in my entire life, and to this day I have

never looked at a paving slab in the same light again, though I do have to admit that I

ignore the cracks – well, most of the time, I do….

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© Gerrard T Wilson 2008