Out of the Race

By Phoenix Vaiotu

I can no longer distinguish the days from nights nor can I remember how many years I have spent in the dark.

Cold and damp, pieces of lace and fabric, worn once by a champion, I now find myself lying behind an old rusted shelf, jammed between bottles of coolant, transmission oil and what smells like a tin of acrylic paint. I have become one of the many forgotten things in the cemetery they call a garage. So long now since I have seen the Spring sky, smelt the Summer grass or felt the warm touch of synthetic tracks.

If you look a little closer, you will see the marks upon my sides that once represented a proud house; the colour of orange. You will see the scribbles of a thousand cheering fanatics, adoring admirers who dared not blink whilst I carried my master. Though I was not made of gold, or silver, together we shined brighter than the sun.

I attempt to remember how he looked sometimes, his face remains a little blurry, though his slim and tall figure float somewhere within my memories. Those days are beyond gone, and I am no medal, no trophy. I have no glass case, no place on his highest shelf. I am forgotten.

As time has passed, an occasional hand has reached behind this shelf in almost what appeared to be searching for me, but it has never been the case. I hear the sound of the family car coming in and out, the voices have aged a little over time, but the laughs of his family never cease to treat. It has always been the same, and I have always been here, but for some reason today, this day feels different.

There is a sound in this garage that I can hear among the sifting and moving sounds occurring. It seems one sound in particular reminds me of something, though I cannot quite remember what it is. It is a voice, rather different to the others I usually hear, yet very familiar.

A hand greets me and like metal studs entrenched in mud, it pulls me from the darkness. It is the hand of a man, chubby and unshaven. Like an alien from another planet I look at his figure and he is not a member of this family that I have seen before.

He raises me a little closer to his eye for inspection and I can see his face properly for the first time. Then hits. Like a gush of wind, as if his face was standing at the finish line of a sprint track, the clarity of his familiarity races towards me. This man, this strange looking man, is my master! He has aged some, and his features have changed immensely, but I have no doubts, this is definitely he.

It has been so long since I carried my master, so long that I no longer have the same smell. Mice have chewed off the tips of my laces and my heel is stained brown with petrol.

He examines the state of me and sniffs my side; he discharges a confused expression as if to smell something unexpected. Upon his face is a soft smile, perhaps reflecting at a life he once knew. He sits on the inner garage doorstep and tries to slip on his old sprinters, but it does not feel quite the same. His weight has changed the fit of the foot and he seems faintly disappointed with the discomfort. I am taken off and tossed to the ground. I suppose this is it.

He has one more look at me lying on the floor of his garage; but he seems willing to try again. Under his feet, he allows me to carry him once more. He raises his heel up and down while still sitting in an attempt to break his old sprinters in one more time. With a final inspection it seems his mind is made up. Off his feet I come, however he does not toss me to the floor. Into a box he puts me, and into a car, perhaps our time in the sun may come once more. He is taking me home.