Passing The Baton

Passing The Baton

‘Blow wind, come wrack – at least we’ll die with harness on our back’

He’d been running since before he could walk.

That’s not strictly true, of course, but certainly it felt that way. People would say to him – Slow down. Where are you off to in such a hurry? You’ll fall and hurt yourself – but he never did.

He loved the feel of the air on his face, the blood in his heart, his lungs on fire. When he ran, all his cares fell from him: his insecurities, his inefficiencies, his fears, his follies. He left them all behind. A new world focused as the old one blurred. He knew that he had been born to run.

The day he joined the Athletics’ Club was heaven on earth for him. Here, he could run to his heart’s content. Immediately, he stripped to T-shirt and shorts and ran around the track ten times without stopping before dropping to the grass in blissful exhaustion. After that, hardly a day passed when he did not spend at least some of his time at the Track.

Yet even here, strange to say, he was slow to make friends. Years of wearying taunts had made him unduly wary of letting others in but gradually he came to see that, though they were his foes as he ran, they were truly his friends.

The Coach taught him how to hone his technique. At first, he’d reacted defensively: what was wrong with the way he ran – it had served him well thus far, but he came to see that energy conserved in the smallest of things afforded him a capacity for greater speed and granted him that best of things: the Second Wind. And in due time, the Coach thought him ready to race.

On the morning of that First Race, he rang in sick: heart-sick, stomach-sick. He just could not run. The Coach, a wily Old Boy, told him to turn up anyway, just in case he felt like running after all. And run he did. When he saw the Track, heard the crowds, he felt again the wonder of that first day at his home club. He knelt in the Blocks, mumbled a silent prayer and as the Gun was raised, he poised himself for the Race of his Life.

He won it easily, no-one came near him and, as the crowds chanted his name, he knew that he had truly found out who he was. After that, he swept all before him: Junior Records, National Records, even World Records tumbled to his irrepressible Desire. He never lost a Race, not in fifteen years of running. He never ever lost a Race.

And then the day came when, as a final farewell to the Track, the Authorities asked him to run in an All-Stars’ Relay Race. He was considered something of a veteran by now: nobody wanted to see that wonderful solo record come to grief but they wanted to see him one more time.

He’d never run in a relay before but he gladly agreed to participate. He’d been born to run. He’d never turned down an invitation to run. One Last Race.

They asked him which leg he would like to take: First or Last? The Glory of Beginning with the Baton or of Bringing It Home? He opted for running the Opening Leg and prepared himself meticulously. He would be in top shape when the time came. And he was.

As he came out onto the Track, the Crowd, to a man, rose to applaud a life-well-run. With his customary self-deprecatory wave, he acknowledged their cheers. Was this truly the last time he would stand before these crowds, feel their approval, sense the adrenalin-push surging through his veins? What lay beyond? What was the point of life if he could not run? He tried to push these thoughts aside but they continued to press upon him as he faced his denouement.

He bent to the blocks, straightened under Starter’s Orders, broke as the Gun sang. Once again his feet flew over the Track, the wind in his ears, the blood in his veins. He passed every athlete in front of him and prepared to pass the Baton.

And at that point, his mind swarmed with uninvited fears: what if he dropped the baton – what if they dropped the Baton at the exchange, what if his Teammates failed to run the race of their lives, what if they took from him a lifetime’s unblemished record, what if they stumbled, what if one tore a muscle or something worse? Ahead of him, he could see the Second Leg preparing to receive the Baton. He was tall and he was strong. Surely he would do a good job. But what if he didn’t?

And at that fateful moment, he made his decision. He took firm hold of the Baton and, ignoring the outstretched hand of his Teammate, he carried on running.

The Crowd gasped but he ran on. And on. Past the Third Leg. Past the Fourth heading into the Home Straight still, incredibly, in the lead. He would win this race. He would win it on his own. He would maintain his unbeaten record. No-one would take it from him. No-one would deny him that.

But others were closing fast. He had run too far, too fast. His legs began to falter, his muscles cramp. And then a terrible pain seized him where before there had been nothing but joy. What was this…? Why was this…?

He fell, lifeless, a yard before the Tape as the others streamed past him. In the end, he had failed to pass the Baton, to finish the Race. And his Team was disqualified into the bargain.

They buried him in his kit, with full Athletic Honours and the National Anthem sounding his retreat, the baton still clenched in his hand. No-one was about to take that from him.

Next day, they closed the Athletics’ Club which he had made his Life. It didn’t seem altogether decent to keep it open after his passing.

A.R. Garner 300812 (For Churches Together at Ebenezer Chapel 150912)