The Short Handicap

New Zealand Listener, Volume 29, Issue 731, 17 July 1953, Page 8

The Short Handicap

by '

DONALD

YEATES

HIS is the way it is... The trouble with you, he thought, you're too old for. this. He tucked the thin track singlet into his woollen shorts, tugged on the protective leather mitts. The racing cycle was propped against the rough white-washed wall, ascetic in its lean nakedness. He slung it up: to his shoulder and tapped his way over. the concrete» floor like 4 dancer. Outside it was twilight. warm and dusky. He pushed through the gate on to the track and glanced sourly cver the scene. Some of the riders. were already rolling around, warming ‘up. Athletes in flannel sweat suits were jogging about and exercising on the springing turf in the centre, Officials. dark, overcoated, stumped about their preparations. Round the oval a necklace of floodlights flickered, then steadied, brilliant. He lifted the machine, spun the tinkling wheels and lightly, caressing, brushed the narrow tyres to remove chance flints. Two riders, talking loudly above the rush of air, went past with that lovely ping of tyres that never failed: to stir him. He swung his leg oyer the saddle, flipped toes into clips, firmed the straps. Head wind in the straight, he thought, that'll make the mile hard. He pushed off from the fence and cruised slowly round the track, looking for odd bits of glass. "Especially where you'll be," he said aloud. Hell, what a thought! You even know whereabouts on the track you'll be riding. Too many half-miles, you’ve riddenand he remembered them. : . English Park and old Mac, the sparse wartime crowds, sunshine, rain, wind, brown oilshining legs, the dressing room smells, Timaru with Max Gray, St. Andrews with Jimmy McDonald. . . His mind danced back over the years, over the winning and the losing and always the twanging tilting wind-roaring thrill of muscle-won speed-and the boys, the beloved, beautiful boys, some of them dead now. some ageing and fattening. Fourteen years, he said... BOY in a green and black jersey came up beside him. They talked in monosyllables. "Des here tonight?""No. He fell off, Saturday."-‘"At Wanganui?"-"Yeah. In the two-mile, just before the bell. He’s a bit sore yet..-(He thought of the bone-jarring hurt of falling and the strange quietness of everything afterwards, just before they come running towards you, Yes, Des would be sore.) "How’d you go?" he said. "Like a goat. They gave me sixty yards in the half-mile, too. . . Bunton’s flying. . . Got a spanner?" --So Freddie’s going well again. Well, he was certainly flying the first time you saw him. And he remembered the championship meeting of seven years before, the first held after the war, when Fred had won a title with his brilliant speed in the front straight. He’d gone off badly, after that. Yes, he was easy, the next season. .. More and more riders were on the track now, some riding fast and alone, ‘threading through and around the groups of slower ones who had joined up and were gossiping in the so-familiar language. In the back straight away from the stands the talk was bawdily uninhibited, but always it returned to

the underlying theme, that fascination which had held him for so long. He knew, and perhaps they all knew, how climbers feel about mountains. He caught up and tailed the biggest group. There was 4 soft warmth in the air, warm from young bodies, sweet with the scent of wintergreen. As he listened. to the talk he began to feel better. Secretly, he smiled. The tyrant of memory again pushed him back to the past... "Hell," he growled, "you’re always remembering . . ." and resisting, he rode up alongside, joining the here and now.

Young Peter was .#* holding forth, with great use of terse invective, on Z the crash at Wanganui A and the luck of his own ‘win. His eyes were gay, his laughter flashed; as he moved, his bare arms and legs showed, sharp and clean, the closeknit structure of bone and muscle-oh, but he was alive and beautiful, this boy, the breathing beating spirit of youth. -,.» Yes, he thought, Peter will be hard to beat tonight. HE first foot races were nearly over and one of the dark overcoats was waving the riders in at the half-mile start. He heard his race called, and listened for the names and handicaps. Yes, with Des away, Peter was the hard one, all right.

The riders, eight of them, spaced themselves out on the track; himself on scratch, Peter ten yards out, then the middle-markers and, far out, two youngsters on the limit. Already, as he settled himself on the pedals and leaned on ‘his pusher’s sturdy shoulder, he was going over the possible run of the race. He had to make up his handicap early, but not so soon that he would be forced into leading too far from the finish. These days, he couldn’t stand a long sprint. He looked around the five hundred yards of the track, brightly splashed

with light. In front of him the small movements of last adjustments steadied, the line froze to immobility. He spat thick saliva, answered the starter’s wave and dropped his hands to the taped grips. He breathed deep through his mouth; his heart was ready, beating, beating. The gun came up, the whistle shrilled its warning, the spear of light stabbed. The co-ordination of pusher and rider was perfect. Almost, it seemed, before the report came crashing, they had acted. He was free and moving-brain, muscle and will welded in a fierce concentration of effort. Slow, the first turn of the pedals, then fast and faster, the track spun to meet him, the line of bobbing, weaving backs started to come back towards him. The first curve came, with a little slither of sidestep and then the front straight, with the wind suddenly tearing at him. Peter was still five yards ahead when they caught and swept past the first two. The bell clanged, "Last lap! Last lap!" and now they leaned into the curve again, both riding wide round the field. A wild happiness filled him, a crazy, joyous anger. He was intent on the flying stocky figure ahead. He was up now and slipstreaming, a length behind the boy. "No easy ride tonight. It’s between you two," he thought. He eased for one, two, three strides and waited for the last effort, He saw the quick glance back and snarled to meet the challenge. There were three hundred yards to go, less than twenty seconds of time. "He’s going a bit too soon. You’d better have a go at him halfway round. You might just get him -not yet, not yet-soon now, soonyes! here! now! now!" And inside him a great call was made. for more speed, more speed, and more, as together they swung into the last blazing yards of the half-mile. You see? That’s the way it is.