Image by Andreas G from Pixabay
As he passed the 30K marker, Hare felt good—no, not good, great. Nothing stood between him and the finish line and a glorious victory.
Toot! Toot!
Hare turned around and saw a speeding car coming towards him. What now? he thought.
Toot! Toot! The car approached and swerved at the last moment as it passed him and came to a skidding halt. The door burst open, and the driver jumped out. Doe.
‘Harey! Harey!’ she shouted, rushing towards him whilst waving a thermometer. ‘Harey! Harey! I’m ovulating!’
‘What?’ Hare said.
‘I’m ovulating. It’s time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘Time to mate.’
‘Not now, sweetie, I’m mid-race.’
‘No, you don’t understand. I’m down to my last egg. It’s now or never, or we’ll never be parents.’
‘Never?’
Indecision tugged at Hare’s mind. What to choose? Parenthood? Or glorious victory? God, life sure threw up shit sandwiches at times. He looked back down the race road, and then at the thermometer in Doe’s hand. Surely he could have his carrot and eat it, too.
‘Did you pass Tortoise?’ Hare said.
‘Yes,’ Doe said. ‘Five minutes ago. He was having a cigarette with his nephews at the 27K marker.’
3K back? Hare thought. Enough of a gap to spare five minutes for Doe and her egg. But what of the golden rule? There’d been consensus about abstaining from sex before racing, but no such guidance about sex during racing.
‘OK, Doe. Let’s do it. But it will have to be a quickie.’
They rushed behind a bush and peeled off their clothes and embraced. Buck teeth met and tongues entwined.
‘Oh, Harey. Take me.’
‘Oh, Doe. You feel wonderful.’
Oh God! Hare thought, sex with Doe felt so good. Unbelievably good. Mind-blowingly good. How in the hell had he abstained from this for two decades?
‘Oh, Harey. Don’t stop.’
‘Oh, Doe. I won’t.’
And Hare became the Duracell bunny.
‘There! There! Oh, Harey. Oh God! That’s the spot. Oh, Harey … don’t stop! Don’t stop! Oh, Harey! Oh, Harey, the earth’s moving … the earth’s moving … the earth’s … mmmmmoooooovvvvvvviiiiiiiiinnnnnnnggggggg!’
Boom-boom.
Boom-boom? Hare’s ears pricked.
Boom-boom.
Hare’s flushed face appeared above the bush. Tortoise! he thought. Approaching.
‘Oh God, Harey! Don’t stop. Don’t stop!’
A paw rose and guided Hare’s head back below the bush. And the Duracell bunny bonked faster, and the bush swayed.
‘There! There! Oh, Harey. Oh God! That’s the spot. Oh, Harey … don’t stop! Don’t stop! Oh, Harey! Oh, Harey, I can hear fireworks … I can hear fireworks … I can hear … fffffiiiiirrrrreeeeewwwwwooooorrrrrkkkkksssss!’
Boom-boom.
Boom-boom? Hare’s ears pricked.
Boom-boom.
Hare’s flushed and panting face appeared above the bush. Tortoise! he thought. Passing.
‘Oh God, Harey! Don’t stop. Pleeaasseeee!’
A paw grabbed Hare by the ear and dragged his head back below the bush. And the Duracell bunny bonked flat out, and the bush shook.
‘OOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHH!HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
By the time the bush stopped shaking—and a spent Hare and Doe lay back and shared a cigarette—the distant boom-booming of Tortoise had faded to silence. Hare released a smug chuckle. Given he’d fallen behind earlier and still caught Tortoise and regained the lead, his little dalliance with Doe had been worth the stop. But now he’d best get moving. He stubbed out the cigarette, kissed Doe on her cheek and went to rejoin the race, but Doe dragged him to her and said, ‘Just one more time, Big Buck.’
And the Duracell bunny heeded the call to arms.
On and on Hare bonked.
On and on Tortoise plodded.
And wider the gap between new leader and newly last became.
***
Hare rushed from behind the bushes and, with his jackstrap around his knees, shuffled back onto the race road. He’d fallen asleep! Succumbed to post-coitus drowsiness! And God knows how far Tortoise was in front! All because he’d been weak and succumbed to the cunicular curves of a concupiscent coney.
He hobbled on until he had pulled up his jackstrap, and then he tried to burst into a sprint, desperate to catch and pass Tortoise. But his legs would not respond. He wobbled. He buckled. He fell to his knees. ‘Oh God!’ Hare cursed. He’d legs of Jell-O. Damn Doe and her lust. He’d broken the golden rule. The new golden rule. No sex during racing.
Still Hare rested on his knees, willing his legs to rise and run. Right! he thought, this is where the carrot-nibblers separated themselves from the parsnip-munchers. Use your mind, he implored himself, and will yourself across the finish line. And he cleared his mind of Doe and her doey bits, cleared his mind of all the fame and adulation that lay ahead for the victor, cleared his mind of the shitload of cash he would get for winning and, later, celebrity endorsement, until his mind contained but a single image of a ribboned finish line and a buck-toothed wonder breaking the tape with arms aloft.
‘Hare,’ he said, ‘look within. Feel the force. Rise, go forth and win.’ And grim determination filled Hare’s legs, and he staggered up on one leg … and raised himself up on the other … and hopped a pace forward … and then another … and then … and then … and then he sank to the ground. ‘Yes,’ he shouted heavenward to the sporting gods, ‘I know, I know. I’m a weak-minded bastard of a buck.’ And he buried his face in his hands and wept the tears of a loser.
‘Hare!’ a voice shouted from behind the bush, startling him. ‘Move your bunny-tailed, jackstrapped arse!’
Doe emerged from the bush with a scowl on her face and wielding a clenched fist.
‘You better not lose this race, Harey, or I’ll divorce you. And, given the fruits of our recent conjugal labours, I’ll take you to the cleaners for alimony and kitcare.’
‘Doe, I can’t. I just can’t. I’m legless.’
‘Legless, my arse! Get up and get going, or so help me God, I’ll … I’ll …’
‘Or you’ll what?’
‘I’ll … I’ll … I’ll run away and live a life of sin with that tortoise.’
Up Hare jumped, and off he sprinted upon reinvigorated legs, desperate to avoid defeat, divorce and the sight of his Doe wrapped in the libidinous legs of a triumphal Tortoise.
At the 32K marker, Hare sighted the glint of Tortoise’s shell under the sun as he meandered onwards ahead. Hare rushed forward and caught and surged past his shelled opponent. ‘Farewell, Sucker,’ he said, and he left Tortoise covered in dust.
‘Supercilious shit,’ Tortoise said, and he lumbered on.
On and on Hare ran.
On and on Tortoise plodded.
And wider the gap between leader and last became.
***
At the 34K marker, a motorcycle roared past Hare, only to brake and swerve and settle at Hare’s pace five metres in front of him. The pillion passenger sat with his back to the driver and pointed a large TV camera in Hare’s face.
‘Where the hell have you lot been?’ Hare said.
‘Covering the Great Race,’ the cameraman said.
‘But the race is three-quarters run, and this is the first time I’ve seen you.’
‘Sorry about that. We’re beaming the race worldwide, and, well, to be honest, there is more interest in the undertortoise than the red-hot favourite. Viewers just love those against-all-odds stories. Hey, give us a grin for the camera.’ Hare raised his head and flashed a toothy winners-are-grinners smile. ‘But we’re going to follow you now, champ, every single hop from here to the finish line.’
‘I should bloody well think so.’
A truck behind Hare tooted its horn, and the motorcycle veered to the side of the road and let the truck pass. Hare coughed and spluttered as dust filled his eyes and mouth.
As the dust settled, Hare looked ahead and saw the truck stop at the next marker—the 35K drinks station. A hand reached out, paused and then withdrew back into the truck, which then sped off.
What with marathon running, dust swallowing and Doe bonking, Hare arrived somewhat relieved at the drinks station. As he slowed to a jog, he sought his bottle to quench his parched throat, but, to his angst, his bottle was not there. Only Tortoise’s bottle stood upon the table. What the bloody hell? Hare thought. He stopped and searched behind and under the drinks table, but still he could not find his bottle.
‘Any problem?’ the cameraman said.
‘Umm … no,’ Hare said. He eyed Tortoise’s bottle and said, ‘I say, is that Tortoise approaching?’
The camera swivelled back down the road. Turning his back to the cameraman and his driver, Hare uncapped Tortoise’s bottle, raised it and downed its contents in three gulps. He smacked his lips and shivered a shimmy.
‘Ewwww,’ Hare said. ‘Tastes like pickle juice.’
‘Pardon?’ the cameraman said, swivelling back to Hare.
‘Nothing,’ Hare said as his eyes watered. ‘Well, best push on. The finish line awaits no hare.’
Hare resumed his onward shuffle before the lens of the camera and the eyes of the world. Best put on a good show for my sponsors, he thought. He straightened his back, lifted his head, raised his knees and pumped his arms. Yep, he thought, bet those commentators are saying Hare looks every inch a winner.
Guuuurrrrrgggggllllleeee!
Hare looked down at his stomach as he ran on.
Grrroooooowwwwwlllllllllll!
Hare placed a hand on his abdomen and slowed his pace.
Ruuuummmbbblllllleeeee!
Hare cupped his hand under his bunny tail and clenched his buttocks and slowed to a stiff-legged walk.
Pppppppfffffffffffffffffffffffffff!
Oh God! he thought, he’d broken the golden rule. The new new golden rule: Never steal another competitor’s drink. And now he, the world’s greatest runner, leading the world’s greatest running race, had the runs.
‘You OK there, buddy?’ the cameraman said.
Hare responded with a watery fart and beat a hasty retreat into the bushes on the side of the road and ripped his jackstrap down and squatted.
Prtrtrtrgurtrufnasutututut! And Hare’s face paled.
Flurpppppppppppppppp! And Hare’s eyes watered.
Plllllllliiiiiiiiippppppp-plooop! And Hare’s legs shook.
On and on he squatted, squinted and squirted, oblivious to all and sundry. Every time he went to rise and resume the race, his bowels betrayed him.
Amidst the liquid explosions, he heard the boom-boom of Tortoise approaching, of Tortoise passing, of Tortoise leaving. Oh God! Hare thought, the leathery bastard’s hit the lead. And he, Hare, couldn’t run because of the runs.
On and on Hare squatted and squinted and squirted until at last his bowels called a truce. He released a sigh of relief and looked up … straight into the lens of the race camera.
‘Hey!’ Hare said, placing his hand on the camera lens.
‘Hey, nothing,’ the cameraman said. ‘Shit that was good. No, great. Great television. And to think we caught the whole thing live and commercial-free. Pulitzer Prize, here we come.’
‘Hey, what happened to professional ethics?’ Hare said, standing.
‘Just doing my job, pal. Like I said, we and the world are going to follow you every plop—sorry, I mean hop—from here to the finish line.’
Hare shook his head and pulled up his jackstrap and waddled his way back into the race. Having lightened his load, he soon caught up to Tortoise, and as he jogged past his shelled opponent, Hare left Tortoise gagging in a headwind of not so pleasant fumes. ‘No catching me now, slowcoach,’ Hare said.
‘Mephitic miscreant,’ Tortoise said, and he lumbered on.
On and on Hare ran.
On and on Tortoise plodded.
And wider the gap between leader and last became.
***
At the 40K marker, Hare reached the top of the last incline and looked down upon a sleepy valley. In the distance he saw a long, long stretch of green bordered by stands, and at its end, a marquee and a throng of dotted bodies. The home straight! Within his sight and his grasp. He looked back and saw neither Tortoise nor his lorried nephews. Just daylight. Oh God! He was going to win. He’d talked the talk. He’d walked the walk. And now he was going to get to dance the dance. The Victory Dance. He allowed himself a fist pump.
‘Still 2.2K to go, champ,’ Hare said. ‘Focus!’ He picked up his pace and surged down the hill. ‘Just need to round that bend up ahead, and I’ll be on the home straight.’ Hare raised his triple chins, pumped his arms and lifted his knees as he sped towards the bend and victory.
Ahead, an engine groaned and changing gears clunked, and a truck swung around the corner and, with a couple more clunky gear changes, accelerated towards him. Hare hopped to the left to allow the truck to pass on his right, but the truck veered towards him and, with another grinding gear change, surged forward. Hare jumped to the right, but again the truck swerved so that its path realigned with Hare. ‘What the hell’s this idiot’s game?’ Hare said. He raised his arms and waved to get the driver’s attention. And then he saw them. Four masked teenage tortoises sitting across the bench seat of the truck, all leaning forward with mischievous grins of murderous intent.
‘Holy Lepus shit!’ Hare said, closing his eyes and bracing himself for impact and death. ‘This is it. Death Day. My parents always said I’d end up roadkill, pancaked to the bitumen on a busy highway. Oh God! To think I was so close to vic—’
A screech of brakes and a squeal of tyres drowned out his last words. He braced and waited and … well, nothing came.
He opened his left eye and looked around him, and his eye and gaping mouth filled with dust. Beyond the dust storm came the rev of an engine and a grinding of gears, and a quartet of voices shouted, ‘Cowabunga, you conceited coward! Bet you shit yourself.’ And the truck roared away.
Hare waved a clenched fist and shouted, ‘Fuck you, you little shits! After I’ve won, I’ll make sure you never, ever, ever work in the removalist industry again.’
As the dust settled, Hare checked himself for bumps and bruises and soilage, and relieved he had emerged unscathed and unsoiled, he turned and started hopping forward again. An arrowed sign signalled the bend ahead, and Hare put his head down, gritted his teeth and leant forward and right as he swung into the home straight. ‘Easy as—’
Bang!
Hare came to a sudden stop and crumpled to the ground. ‘What the hell?’ he said as he held his head. The dust settled, and he looked up and before him stood a bricked barrier.
‘Oh God! I’ve hit the wall,’ he said. ‘What idiot builds a brick wall in the middle of a road?’
A glint of light caught Hare’s eye, and he crawled over to the wall and knelt before a small brass plaque and read: Brick Wall. Another facility proudly sponsored and constructed by Testudinal House Removalists.
‘Those little shits. I bet their uncle put them up to this.’
Hare scrambled to his feet, and grunting and groaning and huffing and puffing, he scaled the brick wall, jumped down the other side and began his sprint down the final straight.
He reached the stands filled with cheering spectators. ‘Hare! Hare!’ they chanted. Clap, clap. ‘Hare! Hare!’ Clap, clap. Amidst all the adulation, Hare smiled and waved and blew kisses. He stopped, signed autograph books, kissed kits and posed for selfies. And the crowd roared and—
Bang!
A truck struck Hare from behind and knocked him to the ground. Crrruuunnnccchhh! Hare’s left leg flattened as the truck’s front wheel rolled over it. Crrraaaccckkk! Hare’s left arm snapped as the rear wheel followed. Oh God! Hare thought, I’m hit. With the finish line just twenty metres away. Using his good arm and leg, he dragged himself to his good foot, and with his left arm hanging by his side and his left leg dragging behind him, Hare put his head down and limped on with grim determination towards the finish line.
‘Stop! Stop!’ a voice from within the truck said. ‘I think we ran over someone.’
The truck stopped.
‘I don’t think so,’ another voice said.
‘I’m pretty sure we did,’ a third voice said.
‘We’d better go back and check,’ a fourth voice said.
Gears clunked, and the engine revved, and with a groan, the truck reversed and—
Bang!
The truck struck Hare from in front and knocked him to the ground. Crrruuunnnccchhh! Hare’s right leg flattened as the truck’s back wheel rolled over it. Crrraaaccckkk! Hare’s right arm snapped as the front wheel followed. Oh God! Hare thought, I’m paralysed. I can’t move my arms and legs. He looked up and saw the finish line. Just ten metres ahead. Move! he willed himself. He was still in the lead. Surely he could drag himself across the finish line. Let the salve of victory heal his wounds.
Hare raised his head, opened his mouth and brought his head down so his buck teeth gripped the moist turf of the final straight. He writhed his body and dragged himself forward. Again! he willed himself. Raise, open, grip, drag. Again, he inched forward.
As Hare raised his head for a third time, a voice from inside the truck said, ‘See, there’s nothing there.’ Gears clunked, and the engine revved, and with a groan, the truck moved forward. Towards Hare. And—given the alignment of its wheels—certain to complete its roadkill.
But Hare completed a full roll to his right, and as the truck passed over him, he lifted his head and attached his buck teeth to the undercarriage. And the truck dragged him forward. Towards the finish line. Towards victory.
Five metres to go. Tears welled in Hare’s eyes. He was going to win! Four metres. Three. Two. One. Oh God! Eternal glory was his.
The truck stopped.
Oh God! No! Hare thought. Not here. Not now. Not less than a millimetre from the finish line. Not less than the skin of his buck teeth. Indeed, not a hare’s breath from victory.
The truck door creaked open, and with much grunting and groaning, a grey, stumpy, scaly leg stepped down. Three other legs and a shell joined it. Tortoise.
‘Thanks for the lift, boys. You’ve been a great help today.’ The truck door slammed shut.
Tortoise squatted and looked under the truck and into the whites of Hare’s disbelieving eyes. ‘You all right there, champ?’
‘Cheat!’ Hare said.
‘As I said at the starting line, all’s fair in love and war and competitive road racing, you obtuse oaf.’ And Tortoise gave Hare a wink, rose on his hind legs, pirouetted several times until his back faced the finish line, and with an outlandish moonwalk, he backed through the finish tape.
Victory!
The crowd roared. Cameras clicked and flashed. A band fanfared. Confetti, balloons and streamers dropped from the sky. Officials rushed forward and draped a medal around the victor’s neck. A flushed-faced Doe cosied up to Tortoise’s side and whispered sweet nothings in his ear. And four ninja tortoises raised their uncle on their shoulders, and Tortoise waved to the crowd and blew kisses and thumped his clenched fist to his chest.
‘Nooooooooo!’ Hare said. ‘I should be the winner.’
A pot bellied man with a misshapen head and a snub nose and swarthy, dwarfish, bandy legs and short, flabby arms and a squint-eyed, liver-lipped face stood at a podium and raised a megaphone to his mouth, and after the crowd hushed to silence, he said, ‘What a day! What a race! What a loser! I think we can all agree on the moral of today’s event: Better to savour the present than seek to redress the past.’
‘Bastard,’ Hare gurgled with his last breath, and he closed his eyes and the race of his life was run.
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