Eight Hundred Meters

I have never been raped, have never (to my knowledge) raped someone and never known anyone who was a rapist. So from the outset, let me say I understand the poorness of my unfortunate choice of analogy...

But the 800m race is a lot like being raped. Years after the last time I competed in it, it still haunts me. Even when you are 'married' to the event, it is certainly still capable of raping you.

The year was 2001, at the house athletics day meet we were all bussed to a professional like athletics track where I owned the 1500, 800, 400 and 4 x 200 relay.

So under the right circumstances the 800m can be enjoyable, when you are doing it with someone you trust and can maintain a feeling of control. But then you are married to it, beyond the honeymoon phase and suddenly it demands your efforts when you just aren't feeling up to it.

You see inconcievable though it may be to some, many of the top sprinters of the world don't even breath during the 100m sprint. There is enough oxygen in their intial takeoff for their muscles to survive and power them through to the finish line over the course of 10 seconds or less.

The 200m is probably stretching that, I imagine the athletes do their breathing around the curve then open up on the straight into an earth shaking charge to the finish.

It is even possible to maintain a sprint quite easily when you have the fitness and strength up to run full tilt for a whole 400m or one lap of your standard athletic track.

The 400m doesn't afford you the luxury of hanging back in the pack watching the other competitors pace and then making your break to take the chocolates. Chances are if you hang back for a second you've probably already missed the time when you need to start breaking.

Conversely the 1500m gives you 2-3 laps of the track to see both how you are feeling and an educated guess on how everyone else is. You can put yourself in the position to hang back as long as possible before exploding away from the pack whilst also being confident that if somebody else goes you will be able to go with him.

The 1500m in other words is a cross country race that fast forwards early to the sprint finish.

The 800m is though, a different matter all together. It is too short to pace, like the 400m but unlike the 400m it is too long to sprint. You have 4 bends to attack, not 2. You have 4 straights to open up on, not 2. You do not have the opportunity to see where the pack is at, you do not have an opportunity to see where you are at.

You can sprint out chasing the leader, hoping to put yourself in a position to win, one lap later the bell is ringing in your ear and you know suddenly you have pushed yourself too far, suddenly the guy you followed out and kheels over and dies. Not figuratively, literally - athletics volunteers leap out to the track to pull him out of the way before they start futilely performing CPR on his burst mince meat heart.

That's when you realise you are on the razors edge, between humiliating defeat or death. Winning is not an option. Humiliated you cower and drop back to a cross country 'race pace' that is not even competitive hear. Then the mob take you from the rear, violate you and leave you in their dust as they spur on to glory.

OR...

You merge in on the first bend, happy with the 4th place. The pack thins out into single file and you realise you have already lost, you can't catch the leader, his canter is as fast as your all out sprint. The guy directly infront of you spontaneously combusts, not figuratively, literally his brain overloads his fragile nerve endings and the friction of his cheep school uniform catch on fire and he starts flailing going up in a ball of fire until he eventually manages to leap into the raked sand of the long jump event.

It happens all the time, you force the smell of roasting human flesh out of your nostrils and you vear out on the straight attempting to overtake him, maybe, just maybe you can put yourself in contention for third place, or at least qualify for the state heats...

...you look around and discover you are all alone not in the blessed Samsara sense that you achieve on the cross country run, but in the cursed sense of the traveller realising they are but a stranger in a strange land.

They bloodthirsty mob watch you, silently, raping you with their eyes, their gaze penetrating you from every direction. As sure as the sunrise, the field passes you whilst the mob degrades and humiliates you. You had come to the meet a champion and go home a soiled and sullied loser.

In some divisions it is customary to take the 7th place recipient only ahead of the inevitable 'DNF' fatality that comes part and parcel with the 800m and cut out their eyeballs with disposable plastic cutlery available from the kiosk, then everyone takes turns pissing into your eyesockets and shitting into your mouth until they drag you to the maintenance shed, hose you down with cold unforgiving water as you try to scratch yourself clean and then the pissing and crapping begins again.

I know, for it has happened to me several times.

But this year, this year I refuse to be a victim. It is time to get my self respect back. Look this event in the eye, and say to it 'I will not be violated by you! Ever, EVER again.'

Some people tell me just to let it go... that the best revenge is living well, well I can gauruntee these people with their liberal 'wisdom' have never had their ventricles burst, spontaneously combusted or had their eyes dug out and their sockets used as public toilets.

It isn't about letting go, as Machiavelli said 'Fate is a women and needs to be beaten if you want it to be submissive'. I will sprint a full 800m, I have no idea how but that has not stopped me yet. I'm going to make it a personal little project of mine.

It's every move I will be watching from now on. When it turns around I'll be there. When it farts I'll know. When it thinks it is safe, I will strike.

I will rip it's larynx out with my bear hands, stuff my arm in the cavity up to the sholder and grab onto it's beating heart and just squeeze. I will break it's knees and grab it's hair and drag it across the arena where regardless of the Emperor's will I will proceed to fucking eat it's living flesh.

I will do whatever necessary to run the 800m, I will not be a victim. It has been warned.