Cracks in the Pavement

When I was at primary school, I loved to run. I loved it so much that I took every opportunity to indulge in this passion. I ran to school. I ran in the playground. I ran to class, ran out of class, and then I ran all the way home again. I ran everywhere, and I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do otherwise.

In those days I lived in Sunbury-on-Thames, where the pavements were made of concrete slabs. They were easy enough to lay, and even easier to dig up again if repairs were needed. But they had one great flaw: they cracked. Walk through any town where those slabs were used, and you’ll see it for yourself—cracks everywhere.

Most people never gave them a second glance. If they noticed them at all, they saw only small imperfections beneath their feet.

I, however, saw something else entirely. To me, every crack was a golden opportunity—a test of skill, a chance to run with the precision of an Olympic sprinter.

I can hear you laughing already, thinking how ridiculous it sounds. But allow me to explain.

One of the highlights of our school year was Sports Day. To be chosen to represent the school was an honour every child dreamed of. I was no exception. I still remember standing at the edge of the field, watching the hundred-yards dash, imagining the glory of being out there.

When one of our boys came second, the delight on his face was unforgettable. And I thought: If second place can make him that happy, how must it feel to win?

That very moment I made a vow: next year, I would be out there representing the school. I needed training, but I had no coach. So I invented one—the cracks in the pavement.

From then on, I ran not just with speed but with purpose. I still ran to school, of course, but now I had a rule: never step on a crack. At full tilt, this was no easy feat.

My brother Tony thought I was mad. He would watch me hurtling along, head bent, eyes scanning the ground like a hawk, legs aching from the awkward stride. And sometimes I almost agreed with him. But I persisted. Day after day, winter into spring, I dodged and leapt, and little by little I grew faster, stronger, sharper.

One Friday I tested myself.

“Tony,” I said, “you go on ahead. I’ll give you a head start, then try to catch you.”

“How long a start?” he asked.

“Ten minutes. Run as fast as you like.”

He trotted off—not running, never really running. Tony had no love of speed. I waited, closer to fifteen minutes if truth be told, before I set off. Feet flying, eyes fixed on the cracks, I sprinted down the familiar pavements, wondering if I’d left it too late.

But soon enough I found him, doubled over with a stitch, loitering by the toyshop window.

“Did you even try?” I asked, disappointed.

“I trotted, like you said,” he groaned.

“From trotting you got a stitch?”

“I didn’t ask to be in your stupid race!” he snapped, turning back to the toy display.

From that day on, I relied only on myself.

Through the dark winter mornings and brighter spring evenings, I trained alone, dodging cracks with a zeal that would have impressed any true athlete. Mum worried at first. I told her I was preparing for Sports Day, and she shook her head with a smile.

Finally, the trials arrived. It was a hot June afternoon, and the air seemed to buzz with expectation. I ran like the wind. I won three races, came second in two, and tumbled miserably in one.

When the adjudicators read out the names of those chosen, my heart hammered in my chest. Then I heard it—my name. I had done it. I was on the school team. Not just for the hundred yards, but for the relay too.

The big day came in July. All my classmates were there, cheering. I crouched on the starting line of the hundred yards dash, nerves jangling, then the gun fired.

I flew. For a moment I was in the lead, until the boy beside me—tall, with legs like stilts—streaked ahead and claimed victory. I finished second, but the thrill of it was extraordinary.

Later came the relay. We had a fine chance, but a fumbled baton cost us dearly, and we only managed third place.

Was it worth it? Was all those months of running, all those cracks avoided, worth it for a second and a third place?

You can bet your bottom dollar it was. It remains one of the most wonderful experiences of my life.

These days I ignore the cracks in the pavement—well, most of the time. But whenever I happen to notice one, I smile, remembering the boy who once saw in them not flaws, but stepping-stones to glory.

THE END