One Man Race

One man Race

The boy closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He counted slowly to ten before exhaling smoothly and flexing the muscles in his arms. He felt his strength, testing it, knowing it.

His white lycra costume clung to his adolescent body. It revealed every rippling muscle. He was lean but overdeveloped for his fourteen years. He was a man-child, honed and lithe, pushed daily to the very limits of his endurance. The boy trained every minute that he could. He wasn’t the best in the country—but one day he would be the best in the world.

He knew this. It wasn’t a dream or ambition, it was fact. It was expected of him, as similar achievements were expected of his siblings who had their own goals to achieve.

He checked the handlebars, rubbed chalk into the grips and probed carefully at the rubber. He looked for the first indication of perishing, grasping the handle-grip and twisting his wrist to feel if his hands would slip. He examined any small thing that may be dangerous. Turning the wheels, he ran his finger over each tread, it was imperative that that his tyres were absolutely perfect. There was no room for any slapdash attitude. No room for a mistake. He stood on the starting block, ready to go.

This was a one man race. His opponents were dishonour, disappointment and death.

Satisfied that his bike was as fit for the ride as he was, he psyched himself. Breathing deeply as he shut out all of the noise that was prodding at him to loose his concentration. His heightened awareness tracked the single tear of sweat that abseiled the ridges of his spine. He had adrenalin on tap. It seeped though every fibre, cell and pore of his body, flooding his senses and jarring his nerves. He heard his name. He was ready.

The race began.

He was past the half way mark.

He shook his head and beads of sweat jumped from either side of his brow and hairline like water shaken from a dog. He wobbled, corrected himself, straightened his posture and wobbled to the other side. He almost lost it. Regained control and concentrated on controlling the trembling that would be his signature of failure if he allowed it to engulf him.

He talked to himself, calming his nerves.

‘It’s okay. Take stock, readjust and take your time. That was a close one but you're still in the race.’

He needed to remove more stinging sweat. He tensed, made the adjustments to allow for the unbalanced movement. He mustn’t fall.

He pedalled slowly; it wasn’t about speed.

He blocked everything from his mind except the finishing platform. He had only the one thought and one goal.

Only a few more turns of the peddle.

Three more.

Two more.

One more.

Safety.

He climbed from his bike, his face holding the victory smile in place.

Sixty feet below the tightrope, five hundred people released a communal held breath.

There was no net and no safety harness. He only had his wits to safeguard him. Antonio Riviolatti. Star of the Riviolatti Family Circus and Blind from birth had successfully completed his journey on a two inch tightrope, raised sixty feet above the Big-Top.

It was the Saturday Matinee performance and he had it all to do again in just four hours time.

One day his luck would run out and the race would be lost.