R.R. Gall's Blog
September 27, 2019
The Relay Race
The Relay Race
Imagine you are in a relay race. Let’s say it’s a running race. The 4x 400 metres. One lap of the track. You are on the line, waiting. The incoming runner approaches, puffing hard. You get ready, arm outstretched. Then you’re off. For a moment, as the baton passes over, your team-mate travels with you. He is at your side, until you find your full stride, and you’re away.
You take the first bend, in pursuit of the other runners, or, perhaps, in the lead, trying desperately to stay there, trying to do the best for your team. Soon the pain of the exertion will bite, and your limbs will become heavy. But you must keep going. You are part of something. You mustn’t let anyone down.
It has been noted that certain runners perform better under these circumstances. They respond, push themselves harder – achieving better times than in individual races. Of course, there are a few reasons why that should be, but one of them, surely, is that they become more competitive, driven harder, giving everything, forced to the limit, collapsing in a heap when finished, because they do not want to let their team down.
There is a moment, in my latest story, Two Tides To Turn, when something similar occurs, yet in a completely different context. It is when Patrick Merse stands at his grandfather’s grave and, for the very first time, reads the inscription on the headstone.
Patrick has travelled from Glasgow to the countryside of South-West Scotland to delve into his family’s history, specifically the life of his grandfather, John. He wants one niggling question answered – why was never allowed to meet his grandfather? Why were they kept apart? Was it merely done in a fit of pique? Was there a silly dispute, a trivial row that split the family? Or is there something more sinister at the heart of it?
(By the end of the story, Patrick will have an answer. Whether it is correct, is another matter.)
At the graveside, Patrick studies the headstone. He sees that John was born in 1901. He knows John was a farmer. It must have been a hard life, a tough graft, with the added menace of the First World War hanging over.
All of a sudden, Patrick is struck by a strange, emotional connection to his grandfather. For the first time, he experiences a fierce bond with the man he never met or knew. He senses the effort, the struggle made by John – and to what end? What has he, Patrick, done with his easy, sheltered life, other than divorce the only woman he ever loved and still loves?
Brought into this world on the struggling backs of his ancestors, he must justify their strife. That is only fair. He is part of a team. The line passes through him and he has the baton now. But what to do with it?
Perhaps, every now and then, it might be an idea to think this way.
Imagine you are in a relay race. Let’s say it’s a running race. The 4x 400 metres. One lap of the track. You are on the line, waiting. The incoming runner approaches, puffing hard. You get ready, arm outstretched. Then you’re off. For a moment, as the baton passes over, your team-mate travels with you. He is at your side, until you find your full stride, and you’re away.
You take the first bend, in pursuit of the other runners, or, perhaps, in the lead, trying desperately to stay there, trying to do the best for your team. Soon the pain of the exertion will bite, and your limbs will become heavy. But you must keep going. You are part of something. You mustn’t let anyone down.
It has been noted that certain runners perform better under these circumstances. They respond, push themselves harder – achieving better times than in individual races. Of course, there are a few reasons why that should be, but one of them, surely, is that they become more competitive, driven harder, giving everything, forced to the limit, collapsing in a heap when finished, because they do not want to let their team down.
There is a moment, in my latest story, Two Tides To Turn, when something similar occurs, yet in a completely different context. It is when Patrick Merse stands at his grandfather’s grave and, for the very first time, reads the inscription on the headstone.
Patrick has travelled from Glasgow to the countryside of South-West Scotland to delve into his family’s history, specifically the life of his grandfather, John. He wants one niggling question answered – why was never allowed to meet his grandfather? Why were they kept apart? Was it merely done in a fit of pique? Was there a silly dispute, a trivial row that split the family? Or is there something more sinister at the heart of it?
(By the end of the story, Patrick will have an answer. Whether it is correct, is another matter.)
At the graveside, Patrick studies the headstone. He sees that John was born in 1901. He knows John was a farmer. It must have been a hard life, a tough graft, with the added menace of the First World War hanging over.
All of a sudden, Patrick is struck by a strange, emotional connection to his grandfather. For the first time, he experiences a fierce bond with the man he never met or knew. He senses the effort, the struggle made by John – and to what end? What has he, Patrick, done with his easy, sheltered life, other than divorce the only woman he ever loved and still loves?
Brought into this world on the struggling backs of his ancestors, he must justify their strife. That is only fair. He is part of a team. The line passes through him and he has the baton now. But what to do with it?
Perhaps, every now and then, it might be an idea to think this way.
