 |
|
Lap three. I felt an increasingly hot pain shooting up my right leg. "Sciatica." I thought. But, I couldn't stop. I wouldn't! "One second off record pace," yelled Edgar. Step-hop--step-hop-step! Final lap! "We're one second ahead of Olympic record pace!" We were on our way to greatness. We were reachin' for a star. Livin' a dream. Running for three-legged racing immortality! But, as we came out of the second turn, I realized the burning pain in my right leg was worse. And, now I was smelling smoke! Step-hop--step-hop-step. I looked down. A friction fire had started where my pants rubbed against Edgar's. "Fire," I yelled! "Don't stop! Keep going! We can break the Olympic record!" Through the acrid smoke, I saw the tears in Edgar's eyes. I couldn't tell if he was emotional, or just feeling the effects of the smoke. I kept runnin' But, the smoke and heat was getting worse. As we headed into the last turn, it was impossible to see. We missed the apex. I heard Edgar cough -- "I'm losin' it!" We spun to the right, over-corrected, headed blindly for the chain-link fence, bounced sideways and ended up two feet short of the finish line...in a heaving, panting pile of smoking pants. EPILOGUE Not long afterwards, IOC eliminated three-legged racing. I never saw Edgar again. I heard he had tried to start a professional three-legged racing league back in the 70's. But, I guess a complete lack of interest by anybody you can think of killed the idea before it had a chance to blossom. As for me, my brush with greatness taught me an all-important lesson I carry with me to this day: When you're going for the gold...you're playing with fire. |