There really are only two instances where the government permit me to use my bionic legs in public. The first is to catch criminals; I've a licence to run 'em down and run 'em in. The other time I can use them is for school sports days. That's allowed too.
So the other week at my daughter's school sports day when I lined up barefoot against other dads/grandads for the 100 metres, I naturally fancied my chances. One competing old timer in his seventies had a hip replaced a few years ago and uses a stick to get about. But sports day is no time for sentiment- you beat whoever they put in front of you.
As you know my legs can run up to speeds of mach 4 but unfortunately my upper half travels at speeds of up to mach 6 so by the time we were up to the 50 metre mark my legs were trying in vain to keep up with my stomach. I lost my footing and was flying through the air and thinking how best to land with some dignity in tact. Unfortunately my brain only works at .1 of a mach and I was on my arse and off the pace of the grandads in front. I grazed my knees, one was bleeding a bit and I remember thinking how I might need major reconstructive surgery.
Hang on, what's that? You reckon I had no chance of catching them? Is that what you think? Is that what you really think? The race is over for me?
I don't know the word 'defeat' (although I must do as I've just written it) but I don't know the meaning of the word 'defeat' (although I do) and as soon as the gasps from the crowd had died down I was back up and bombing along again, the wind burning my face as I cut through the G-Forces. I overtook one grandad and then another and another (whipping his stick away from him as I left him trailing in my wake) and then I lost my footing again and flew through the air again and landed on my arse again as the crowd gasped again and I came last again and I'm not ever taking part again. I had to roll over the finishing line, clutching at the grass, pulling my sorry self along.
Then, just when I thought my humiliation was complete I looked up to see a little boy looking down at me shaking his head. "You should have worn trainers, fat boy!" he said.
So the other week at my daughter's school sports day when I lined up barefoot against other dads/grandads for the 100 metres, I naturally fancied my chances. One competing old timer in his seventies had a hip replaced a few years ago and uses a stick to get about. But sports day is no time for sentiment- you beat whoever they put in front of you.
As you know my legs can run up to speeds of mach 4 but unfortunately my upper half travels at speeds of up to mach 6 so by the time we were up to the 50 metre mark my legs were trying in vain to keep up with my stomach. I lost my footing and was flying through the air and thinking how best to land with some dignity in tact. Unfortunately my brain only works at .1 of a mach and I was on my arse and off the pace of the grandads in front. I grazed my knees, one was bleeding a bit and I remember thinking how I might need major reconstructive surgery.
Hang on, what's that? You reckon I had no chance of catching them? Is that what you think? Is that what you really think? The race is over for me?
I don't know the word 'defeat' (although I must do as I've just written it) but I don't know the meaning of the word 'defeat' (although I do) and as soon as the gasps from the crowd had died down I was back up and bombing along again, the wind burning my face as I cut through the G-Forces. I overtook one grandad and then another and another (whipping his stick away from him as I left him trailing in my wake) and then I lost my footing again and flew through the air again and landed on my arse again as the crowd gasped again and I came last again and I'm not ever taking part again. I had to roll over the finishing line, clutching at the grass, pulling my sorry self along.
Then, just when I thought my humiliation was complete I looked up to see a little boy looking down at me shaking his head. "You should have worn trainers, fat boy!" he said.
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