The Race

The Race

I watched with amazement as the riders mounted their three wheeled machines. Their faces twisted with anticipation and determination. The day’s events were being held at the local park and I was lucky enough to have found a front row seat on a park bench near the starting line.

The course was a quarter of a mile long, and only wide enough to accommodate two riders at a time. There were several course hazards along the way; some were sand or loose gravel that would cause the riders to have problems with traction. The recent bad weather had created some uncommon mud hazards on one or both sides of several of the tracks hair-pen curves.

The young contestants had been tweaking their peddle-powered machines all morning. Each rider was properly outfitted with a helmet, and elbow and knee pads. This race was not going to be much different from any of the other varied contests that these three brothers often created for themselves. In every case, it was who was the fastest, strongest, quickest, or bravest. In all the years I have been watching them compete, I have never once heard them vying for who was the smartest.

Their sister drew a bright pink colored starting line with chalk on the glistening asphalt surface. Each rider’s starting position was staggered like the Olympic sprinters. With the toy cap gun held high over her head with her right arm, their sister squeezed the trigger - POP! And the riders shot across the starting line peddling as fast as they possible could.

As they pulled away from the starting line, Billy, the youngest and the boy with the inside poll position had the lead. As the riders approached the first turn, Billy took to the outside edge of the track. The oldest, Ray, who was also the biggest tried to pass him. Splish. Splash. Ray was down and out of the race in the first turn. He was flipping and flopping around in the mud like a fish out of water.

Jon, the middle brother, was now nearly on top of the youngest brother’s rear bumper. If Billy slowed down, Jon would run smack into him. If Jon sped up, or did not find a clear path to pass, then he would risk running up on Billy’s bumper, or snagging his rear wheel while attempting to pass.

Suddenly, only a few yards in front of the riders, a mother duck followed by six baby chicks were crossing the black asphalt path. In a split second, Billy swerved to avoid hitting the ducks. Jon was now the only remaining rider. I watched as he road his tricycle down the slippery grassy slope, directly into the nearby duck pond. Billy’s tricycle had gone into the sand where it instantly bogged down and Billy was thrown over the tricycles handlebars.

Their sister, Rae Lynn, was more than a little annoyed with me while I sat there calmly taking pictures. There was no way I could explain to her that I knew that her brother, Ray, enjoyed mud holes, and her brother, Jon, had been wanting to swim in the pond for months. My only real concern was for Billy. This tricycle race in the park was the first real chance he had of beating his two older brothers at anything.

Later as we were all walking home, I was relieved to hear them laughing, and good naturedly teasing each other, as brothers do, about who would have actually won the race. Seems that they are planning a rematch for next weekend.


Written for

FORUM

The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best poem or story in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPS! #333655 by Sophurky

Prompt: Write a story or poem involving a tricycle, a park bench, and a duck.