Oh Henry!

Chapter Six. Marathon Boy.

Chapter Six 

Marathon Boy 

It was the summer of the Swarthmoor Olympiad. Whilst Fanny Blankers Koen was thrilling the crowds in London, the boys of the village were simultaneously competing in their own version of the Games. Each day the organizing committee, which included Uncle Steve, attempted to hold their own version of events being held in London. Most of the school age boys in the village participated but the older boys dominated the competitions.  

After my experience at school, it was no surprise when I didn't make it past the preliminary heats of any of the sprints, and was lapped several times by the lead runners in the middle distance races. Embarrassingly I had to withdraw from the hurdles, or more precisely, the pews. The discarded benches from the church hall, used as barriers in these races, reached my chin. In the high jump, I had failed at three feet. I couldn't clear one hurdle, never mind eight or ten.  

The strength events were also improvised. Uncle Jimmy, the village blacksmith, provided horseshoes for the discus event, a flat iron for the shot putt, and a forge hammer for the throw. I couldn't lift the hammer, the flat iron slipped from my grasp as I attempted the putt, and one of my horseshoes nearly decapitated a nearby spectator.  

"Chin up Henry, we should do better tomorrow." 

"That's a fine thing for you to say P.C.. You're doing way better than me, and you have asthma. Look how well you did at Grange baths." 

"I don't seem to have trouble breathing when I swim, but I would never have had the nerve to do what you did." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Well entering the diving competition when you swim like a stone." 

I chuckled at the memory. "I made quite a splash didn't I?" 

"Quite! Anyway, tomorrow they have scheduled the fencing and archery contests. We should have a chance at these events because of the practice we get each summer." 

"Are the swords and stuff provided?" 

"No we have to make our own. But not to worry, my Dad said he would help. Just meet us at the top of Rufus about six o'clock." 

It was widely rumoured that Les Constable, P.C.'s father, was a poacher. I didn't know whether it was true, but had to admit that he seemed to know everything about the surrounding countryside. That evening he led us almost directly to a yew tree in the densest part of the local woods, then selected and cut two outer branches which proved ideal for bows. He also rapidly located an ancient oak that provided the lumber for our swords. He then left us to make our final preparations. 

This was no problem. We had several flightless arrows remaining from the gang wars of the previous summer and we were quite adept at stringing bows. The yew bent prodigiously under stress and when we attached the string, it was taut. Test firings were highly successful and we thought archery success the following day might be possible. 

Traditionally we made wooden swords by leaving the bark on the handle and shaving off the rest to make the blade, tapering the end to a fine point. I was not too adept with a penknife but I had learned, at the expense of a scar on the knuckle of my index finger, to always cut away from the body. No blood flowed this time 

All our preparations came to naught. The next day dawned to slate grey skies heavy with moisture. On the opening shot in the archery contest the heavens opened, the deluge began and continued well into the night. There were no sites available for indoor competition so the committee cancelled the day's events.