In reply to The New NickB:
Years ago I was a geeky teenager with ginger hair. My skills at school lay outside the usual sports and I was teased accordingly.
One summer, I inured my knee in a freak body boarding accident on holiday and returned to school with a hugely swollen knee and a note from my mum to get me out of PE. Well I loved PE, not that my teacher believed me as he was new, thinking instead that I was a skiving git.
After a few months of physio and gentle running as per the physio's orders (to strengthen) I was fit again. I'd grown to love running now and went out of my own accord training, so come the new school term I was raring to go and fighting fit.
I went out on cross country and handed the PE teacher's favourite his arse on a plate only to be bollocked for cheating and sent on another lap. I finished last, still teased and desperate for recognition.
The next week, furious, I went out again sitting with the leader all the way around so he could act as my witness. As we reached the home straight, in site of the teacher I kicked on, propelling myself to glory and accolades. Around 100m from the line I turned to make sure the poor boy and ex-favourite wasn't gaining on me. I wanted to ensure nothing could prevent my rise to heroism. He was metres behind and had given up...
...I turned again, facing forwards to search for the adoring eyes of my teacher. All I saw, too late, was the looming image of a lamp-post, inconsiderately placed directly between me and the finish. Too late to swerve, stop, or even protect myself with my hands, my face made friends with the hard, cold concrete.
My nose exploded spraying blood all over my shirt, the lamp-post and the floor. I lay prone as I was overtaken and suffered the total indignity of being sent to the first aid room to sit with a tissue on my face, head down over a bucket waiting for my mum.
I've still never won a race.