False Start

Yvonne MacMillan

Having watched the wonderful spectacle that was the Beijing Olympics and been inspired and uplifted by the incredible achievements of our athletes, it jogged memories of my own attempt at sporting glory many years ago.

It was about five decades ago, pre-logos, pre-brands, pre-sponsorships, pre just about everything, when I and other like-minded souls the length and breadth of the land, having trained and honed our bodies and striven for perfection, faced the ultimate challenge in the sporting calendar, namely, the Primary Inter-School Sports.

Now, to represent your school at the Inter-School Sports Day is a great honour and achievement and means you have reached the pinnacle of running/jumping/throwing or indeed all three. When you attend a very small primary school in a very, very small village you need only be okay at running/jumping/throwing to find yourself carrying the hopes and dreams of your alma mater squarely on your young shoulders.

There were a dozen or so in my class and by the time you separated the boys from the girls, well hey, if you stayed upright and finished you were in. I was selected. My particular forte turned out to be the hurdles, which didnt surprise me, as jumping was second nature to me. The Horse Of The Year Show was my favourite programme, David Broome my hero and I had single-handedly built a replica of the Horse of the Year arena in our back garden, jumps and all - ok, so I did have to explain what it was to the uninitiated but there you go. Excellent training strategy I thought. And me and my imaginary steed, Shadow, galloped like the wind all day, running for miles leaping walls, fences, ditches, felled tree-trunks, streams and for that extra little frisson of excitement - gorse bushes, guaranteed to put a spring in your step.

Of course I had to keep my eyes peeled at all times for, uh oh, up there on the ridge! Looks like a band of renegade Indians....and here they come! Their bloodcurdling whoops freeze the blood as I give a mighty Hi ho Silver! which confuses Shadow momentarily but then he wheels round and with hooves drumming and hearts pounding like Tam O Shanter and Maggie, we flee for our lives. That was another useful training strategy - Put the Athlete in Mortal Danger - and watch him/her perform. I recall on numerous occasions witnessing my brother running like the clappers the length of a field and then, without a moments hesitation, bounding cleanly over a great, massive wall thanks to the bad-tempered, evil-eyed, real flesh and blood horse thundering after him. I was impressed and my brother insisted those experiences made him the fast and fearless shinty player that he was.

Several weeks passed, I practised the hurdles technique religiously, skimming the lead leg over the obstacle and dragging the other leg over and down as fast as possible. My horse responded magnificently and we roamed for miles, far and wide, jumping over everything in sight and galloping all the way to school and the Brownies. And in my head Im running the race of my young life, flying over the hurdles, leaving the opposition trailing in my wake and storm over the finishing line to the roar of the crowd as I break all world records. I went to bed each night tired but happy, dreaming dreams of fame and glory, basking in the knowledge of being The Chosen One. At this point not a tad nervous, the Competition was ages away.

THE DAY DAWNED. Hey, whoa there -ulp, and the next thing I knew our little band of hopefuls was boarding the bus taking us to Dingwall and destiny.

I vividly remember an enormous building (Dingwall Academy circa 1963), a huge crowd, the first athletics track Id ever seen and feeling sick. As the timetable got underway I sat and watched with a mixture of horror and dread. Then my race was called, I cant stand up but Im helped by my team-mates and with several slaps on the back and a push they propel me towards the Changing Area. We then enter the arena like a scene from Gladiator, tall and proud, the watching hordes baying for blood (this is shinty country after all). I can smell the new-mown grass and sense the anticipation and the fear, my fear. An announcement is made which I can just about make out above the chattering of teeth (mine), and the knocking of knees (mine). Were being identifiedoh, cruel, cruel world!

A quick warm up at the Starting Line, well the rest warm up, I am in rabbit-in-the-headlights mode, my brain and body seem to have parted company and after that, its all a bit of a blur.

Somebody fired the starting pistol, the other girls hurtled off down the track like hares and I set off like the proverbial tortoise. I have the first hurdle in my sights and I lurch towards it, my brain starts yelling JUMP! JUMP! My body screams CAN`T! CAN`T! My brain replies O.K THEN, EXIT STAGE LEFT! And I stagger off sideways before falling full-length through the flap of the First Aid tent, my ordeal over.

I retired gracefully from athletics competitions after that, content to roam the hills and glens on my four- legged friend and take my chances with the Indians. But I cant help wondering what might have been.