The dirt swirled in the air, propelled by the wind that out of nowhere and all of a sudden buffeted all who stood out on the field. Hats were turned down to shield the eys from the debris and those without hat’s turned their backs hoping to avoid the worst of the tiny grains that now peppered them. There was however a single group that gritted through it, unwilling to turn away or to shield their eyes with their hands for fear of breaking their own rhythm; instead they closed their eyes for the briefest of moments trusting that the person next to them and in front of them and behind them wouldn’t veer off or slow down or speed up. It was a bloodless free for all in the worst of conditions but that merely meant that the sense of honor amongst them all was higher than normal.

            When they lined up for the gun, they all had different goals in mind: to win, to finish, to be in the pack, to lead the first lap, to be third, to not give up. Only one was keen on racing against the surefire and incessant ticking clock though he knew that he would not break his own personal record that day. The track was sluggish dirt that soaked up his energy rather than bouncing him further and the unpredictable gusting would inevitably slow him down. But he had his own answers for each of those in turn; a friend to do nothing but run steady sixty second quarters in the front and thus breaking the wind for everyone, a set of ceramic spikes that would create their own sponginess rather than the typical solid aluminum spikes that ground themselves into worse than useless nubs. Today was less a test of speed and more so a test of fortitude: who here on this hot, dusty, windy track had the most guts?

            It fired and they were off. He wasn’t contested as he sped past everyone to the front. He had earned the respect of everyone there and was by far the fastest man in this particular footrace. No one dared spark a battle that they would lose. Behind him one could hear the rapid footfalls as everyone jostled for position and settled in. His friend, though the race was only fifty meters in, a scant seven or eight seconds, finally took the lead as agreed and pushed a steady even pace despite the occasional wind blowing hard against them. The rest trailed behind forming up the pack, stunned at the effort of their two leaders, and trying to squeeze in as much as possible following behind in the ruptured air. They flashed by the line, a single lap down and a single lap to go. The timer shouting as loud as he could… SIXTY! SIXTY-ONE! SIXTY-TWO!

Right on schedule for the race favorite, though blistering for most others.

            The struggle began to show as the pack slowly loosened and strung out into single file and then finally breaking apart into two groups and then three and finally each man forming his own group except for the lonely two in front. Even then they might have been solitary men, they did not talk and each one nursed their growing hurts in their own particular way. They pressed on in rebellion as the dust whipped into their faces. Down the empty back straight and into the last bend. And that’s where it happened. He swung out and threw out all the energy he had saved by drafting. Arms methodically pumped away at an invisible rope that drew him ever nearer to the chalk line that denoted the finish. His feet kicked up high enough to be even with his own quads, each step throwing up more dust into air and adding to the general chaos. The world simply ceased to exist as he thrust himself ever faster towards the line.

            A single missed step would be disastrous. He would fall and tumble undoubtedly drawing blood from either spiking himself or skidding to a stop along the ground. He would lose the race to the mule he had harnessed. He would fail in breaking 2 minutes in the worst conditions possible. He would embarrass himself in front of a crowd that cheered loudly regardless of team loyalty at his efforts to conquer nature. To stumble now within the last fifty meters, within the last seconds of the race, were to openly invite good natured teasing and malicious ridicule. To fall by oneself is too admit the greatest crime of all for a runner, tiredness. There would be no one to blame but himself for the failure and the exposition of such a startlingly clear flaw.

            He did not fall though. He crossed the line a clear victor but without a celebratory throwing of fists into the air. It was first and foremost against the rules of good gentlemanly athletic conduct; however, it would have slowed him down by a fraction of a second. The breaking of the body’s rhythm a serious consideration when one was running not against the flesh and blood of fellow competitors but the intangible, silent, incessant ticking of a clock. He gradually slowed to a stop and then turned round to walk back. A single word, a single question etched into his mind: “Time?” The answer, “two flat.” He had failed. His best planning and best effort had in fact not conquered the elements. He had put his best foot forward and it was not enough.