The Race.

My breathing was patterned: deep and fast. I steadied myself. My arms, both behind me, gripped hard onto the edge. The whistle sounded from far away and I plunged into the water, my head disappearing from the surface. My body shot through the water like a bullet, straight as a board; torpedo-like I flew away from the starting line. The water skimmed over my body like silk and as the pounding in my head became thunderous I withdrew from the water in a cascade of bubbles. The race had begun. I was propelled from the kicking in my legs and the pulling of my arms. Each time I drew breath I could see the blurred shape of the contestant beside me. The strain in my arms and legs began to burn as I ploughed through the water and the fatigue threw itself at me out of the blue. I was flagging but pushing forward, my mind on the goal, I reached the side and the race was over. Gripping the edge, the breath coming back to my lungs in quick sharp pangs, I looked up at the scoreboard: Second place. I’d made the cut.