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The day of the Run was sunny and clear. The hedges showed the green blush which in southern England I had come to expect within a day or two of March 25th. In School House lunch was over; we runners ate sparingly, believing that a big meal produced ‘stitch’. The sky was blue and cold; I felt taut in the pit of my stomach for I was expected to win. My rival was a sprinter, stories circulated about the high speeds he had reached in practice runs over the distance. They were faster than mine, but I judged it prudent to keep my mouth shut. It was time to line up. At last – the start. There were thirty or forty of us, too many for the lane to hold us conveniently, so I had to run faster than I cared for to avoid being held up half a mile from the start at the narrow gate at the top of the hill.
I was distressed by the sprint up the hill, as I knew I would be. Nevertheless it seemed more severe, more sinister than I had expected. I was first through the gate, my rival second. How smoothly and easily he ran ! I felt awkward, clumsy, laboured. The stitch had started; as we had drawn away from the others I felt sure he could hear my distressed breathing. I quickened my pace to draw away so he could not hear me. There was the Farm, sharp and bright in the sun. I was drawing ahead; the sound of his foot-fall was fainter. Long Meadow and the stitch gone at last; no more sound of feet to torment me. I was running easily when I saw the gate leading into the road in front of me. As I came up to it I had a sickening feeling that I had lost ground. A scrap of hedge enabled me to snatch a glance back without being seen by my rival from whom I wished to keep all knowledge of my fear of his success. He had closed right up; he must have seen my furtive glance, hawthorn hedge notwithstanding. I vaulted the gate though I felt I could hardly spare the effort. As I turned left-handed
on the other side I saw him check. I fancied he had been disconcerted and had fumbled the catch of the gat