A sign from a kid.

Last Tuesday, I hauled out the wheels and managed 10x200 in 30.ish, with an easy walk across the soccer field for recovery. I had an interesting, perhaps defining moment...

During the second 200, this kid pulls up beside me on a bike. He's got a kid's racing helmet and fake racing number on his little dirt bike--he must be around 9 or 10 years old? Anyway, he's out in lane 4 and I'm in lane 1, just doing my 200, so I'm going as fast as I can, pretty much. He beats me to the line and then kind of peals off. Whatever, it was helpful: I had someone to aim at. After I do a couple more, he comes over to me on my walk across the field. He's not shy at all, this kid.

"Hé monsieur, veut-tu faire une course?"

I tell him, sure, but it's got to be 200m, that's it. I tell him we can even do a couple, if he wants. So he scoots over to the start line, and waits. I get there, finished my recovery, and ask him if he's ready to go. He nods, so I take off. The kid doesn't budge. Now, I don't want to interrupt my workout, but I don't want to have an unfair race, so I look over my shoulder and shout: "Come on!" He finally gets going, but he doesn't manage to catch me (I had a good head start, and he had me running scared, I'll give him that!). So as I'm leaned over, heaving after another 30.5, he wheels up to me.

"Y parrait que t'as gagné."

So matter-of-fact, les Québecois. I feel bad. I think of the scene in Without Limits where Prefontaine is running around Hayward Field with the little kids, and when one kid sprints ahead, Pre doesn't let him win. Of course, the girlfriend gets mad, says he should have let the kid win. Pre says: "You can never let a losing attitude creep in." So I think of that, and realise of course in my case it matters little, but then again, maybe I need as much help as I can get, and if crushing one 9-year-old's soul (really though, he was on a bike!) might get me a PB, maybe it would be worth it. The kid speaks again.

"Ça't tente-tu'd faire une course à vélo?"

A chance at redemption, perhaps. I had biked to the track, so I did have my bike there. I tell him, sure, but wait until I'm done running. So I polish off the rest of my 200s. He joins in for the last 50m of one. It helps. On my recovery he tells me, that in case I was wondering, he got the bike a couple of weeks ago, but the helmet and the racing number he got yesterday.

"C'est ben cool, ton bike." I tell him. He thanks me earnestly.

When I'm done, I walk over to the start finish where he's waiting. We're going to race one lap, 400m. I change out of my spikes and into my regular running shoes, and wheel myself over to the start/finish line. I let him say go. He says go and we're off.

I put my bike in the lowest gear so I'm spinning like crazy and not going anywhere. I'm in lane 1 again, and he's in lane 4 again. He puts on a little surge, but then coasts so that I catch up. I keep the gears low and just pedal steadily. He keeps looking back as if he knows I'm letting him win. I could change gears and take off any time I wanted. But he keeps surging and coasting, surging and coasting, all along the back straight and into the turn. I get the feeling he's toying with me, rather than the other way around. I wonder if I'd be better off hammering, giving him a race. Maybe he wants me to try harder.

We head into the final 100m and I change gears, pick it up a bit. So does he, staying just ahead. He doesn't coast. I am steady, working, but not going out of my way, yet. He pushes it again, and I catch up a bit. 20m to go, he's still in front. He starts to coast, I surge, then he surges one last time for the win.

Post-race, I shake his hand.

"Merci mon homme. Bonne course."

I walk my bike back to the fence. I realise that I know have to leave. So instead of doing my warmdown, I just hop on my bike and go home. It had to be done, though I felt it for three days. No warmdown after 10x200 in 30. Ouch. Good thing I had a massage on Wednesday.