Biscuit Race

A random memory crossed my mind the other day. Seemingly lucid at the time it actually presented itself with a very important life lesson.

When I was about five years old our parish organised a little Christmas get together or was it Easter? My memory fails me there. A get together it was, and like most of these events there were various activities for all age groups. For that age I was a pretty athletic being and running races was a matter of sheer delight. So when I heard that the event for my age group was a race of sorts I could have fist pumped the air. I should have paid attention to what sort of race it was though because that was going to be the beginning of my dismay. It was a ‘biscuit eating’ race. One of the most ridiculously juvenile races and I don’t say that out of contempt. This was the only race where at the start line you saw the fat kid smiling. To analyse the objective of this race, what do you intend to tender upon the young and impressionable minds? That apart from the major rat race you are eventually going to be part of you must also learn to gulp down your meals. Whatever happened to chew you food slowly and then swallow. It is important that as mature adults we rethink a lot of hand me down ideals.

Ceasing to whine about the race and getting back to the events that transpired or rather that did not transpire that day. It was at the start line the ground that played host to the race was a rectangular one with a polished tiled surface. I cannot begin to evaluate the things wrong with the arrangements. Firstly it we were made to stand along the length of the floor instead of the width which by virtue of geometry meant lesser distance to run, secondly it was a POLISHED TILED SURFACE. At the end of the race or rather an insult of a race was plastic chairs upon which sat plates and in them clumps of biscuits. From that distance and with my eyesight it was pretty clear what biscuits they were. The worst kind. The kind you see your grandparents dip into a sugarless cup of evening tea. I hated those biscuits from the bottom of my heart. Naturally I panicked. All the same when the whistle blew I darted towards the finish.

As I approached the plate the biscuits grew larger and larger. Their dry surface searing into my skin like blisters on a cold day. With an absolute heavy heart I lifted one and stared at it. Mustering all the courage I had I bit it. Dry and tasteless the biscuit crumbled in my mouth sending smaller pieces flying into the air. I chewed and chewed for what seemed an eternity. Then with a life long struggle I swallowed it. The next thing I did surprised everyone watching and continues to surprise me to this day. I gently put the biscuit down and walked away.

You see I clearly hated the biscuit. I knew I was a good athlete so winning was of no dire consequence. Whatever the prize at the end of the finish line, it could not have been worth the price to pay. So it has been with life no matter what the end result I have tended to avoid things that don’t suit my sensibilities. It has been tough sometimes and like that day the onlookers gasp in wonder as they try to comprehend why or how I would just walk away. I could try to sit and explain but that would ruin the whole thing really. There is hard work and there is passion, hard work got somebody the prize that day passion gave me the courage to walk away.