Take Flight

I am forever being told to stop running my mouth. Mum, when she catches me and slaps me upside my head, says Reuben, you might be quick, but I am lightnin! Then the usual POW-CLAP and wet salt running down my face.

Its not my fault my minds always racing, turning on itself and chasing tail, over an over. Whenever Mr Freeburn in Engerlish pins me under his thumb and asks me some foolishness about what allegorical parallels there be between such an such, the answer always evade me, walking out the picture, winking over its shoulder. Cue har har from the rest of class and people hissing Rubens clothes don’t fit and he’s not the brightest bulb in the toolbox etc.

But I shrug it off all cucumber-like, because I know that when PHYSICAL EDUCATION rolls round, I will be the one teaching them sly whispers what, xactly, is what.

The following sports are within my dominion; football (strike with laces), rugby (embrace the blows), basketball (constant-shark-weave), netball (like basketball, but not as good), tennis (follow through, arm-like-swan), badminton (snap + flick wrist), hockey (guide puck with blind tenderness) and cricket (feet-planted-like-oak). But out of all these motions, athletics is my favorite. I am the bestest at every metric measurement and my limbs cover the green grass with ease – pump and dash automatic. No thoughts jostlin for space, just blood flooding void, tank filled to brim – heels connect with earth and spring – piston pins that know how to win. No one seems to know – but the trick is to keep breathing. What people also don’t realize, is that it is hard lonely pulling out in front. Sometimes I feel like an astronaut on the moon, each bound an leap loosing me from dirt underneath. I am so fast I don’t leave footprints.

But no matter how many occasions I cross the finish line with time heavy on my hands, the RIVERSTON RUNNING CLUB turns there faces away. I am disqualified for Unruly behavior and incorrect kit just because I punched Kieron in the ear for saying I did not possess a farther and because I always run in my school shoes. They are not quick, but there tongues are.

Since I struggled being a model pupil, I thought I could at least look the part. Like all good plans, this was born from Television. That square of light regularly taught me my dreams were within reach, fingernails bouncing on warm glass. The premium-super-brand Hermes flashed up on screen one night and declared TAKE FLIGHT WITH PEGASUS, THE NEW RUNNING SHOE BUILT BY GODS AND MADE FOR MEN. I was eager to bridge that gap. The sign off jingle and beating wings continued to flutter in my forehead when I booted up my Sega Mega Drive™. My favorite computer game was Sonic the Hedgehog – a robot-slave-liberating-mammal with a penchant for gold rings. Sonic did not stop running and took everything he touched, his speed making him untouchable. The two frames of electric promise overlapped. I knew that if I aquired a pair of PEGASUS, the Club would have no choice but to recognise my xcellence. Neither me nor my three brothers (Anthony, Pierre & Artemis) received pocket money, so saving was out of the question. The answer then, was relatively simple, even if it did make me blush from wickedness. Pluck the shoes from the store and turn to air post-haste. Because nice guys finish last.

So picture me if you please, stepping into the Hermes store, cock-sure and all canines (because confidence is key). Yes mam, I would very much like to try on the latest PEGASUS shoe, please and thank you. However…I was not prepped for the glory of those sneakers. Whiter than sun splitting behind eyes, white night, whiter than broken bones or the lattice skirt round a shuttlecock. When I slipped them on it looked like I was wearing two doves.

I was ready. Ready because I had rehearsed my xit stage right in detail, and also because the security guard was really very fat. Xcited muscles spasmed and sweat sheen all over. I inhaled deeply and allowed my lungs to get drunk. 5-4-3-2— disappearing out the door so swift I forgot my old shoes – but I was happy to say goodbye to tired-shabby-sellotape holding me up. I was going, going, gone. Legs obeying cruel brain, brain listening to hum of legs and going we can do more, tweak rhythm slightly, place weight here. Ploughing, pulling, flying, shouts receding, leaving no trace. Cutting through shoal of fish like a camera flash, scales blinking in amazement – a stellar volt – no more running solo, now I’m running with the pack, claim my place on the track. Set records, then break them. Sprint to the sky and back.

But Houston, I have a problem. I feel I am on a treadmill, rapidly going nowhere. Now all I see is mum in her dressing gown, cigarete ash on lap, saying How typical, that you would steal fire and not xpect to get your hands burnt.

I am sorry.