‘Orright everyone, listen up,’ Mr Petrich called. The kids shuffled into a scattergram group in the middle of the school oval. ‘We’ve got the cross-country in half an hour, for those of you willing to give it a go.’
There was 360-degree groaning and Leon pulled his cap right down so his eyes were covered.
‘Mate, you can’t block it out, you know,’ whispered Charlie through his hair.
‘Boys!’ Mr Petrich pointed at the three of them. ‘You three will all be running, I take it?’
Spencer and Charlie nodded.
‘Leon?’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t “sir” me, Leon Wilkes, just pull your hat up and pay attention, okay? I’ll be looking to you today for a personal best.’
Spencer’s torso rocked with silent laughter as Mr Petrich described the course.
‘Shut up,’ Leon muttered.
‘A personal best, mate, you got that?’
Sunscreen was passed around and kids sucked down last drinks before moving towards the start of the course. Five or six kids headed back to the classroom for private study instead; the cross-country wasn’t compulsory.
Spencer really enjoyed the run, mainly because it didn’t involve sprinting, and it got them out of normal school grounds, into a bushy reserve that backed onto the school. Running around and around and around and around and around the oval till he couldn’t breathe just bored him. He loved the surprise elements that a cross-country offered: logs across the path, uneven ground, branches at eye-level.
‘All right everyone. On your marks. Set. GO!’
Mr Petrich really got into the athletics season. Towards the end of races he could be heard shouting himself hoarse at his students. Apparently he’d been a pretty good runner in his day. The kids thought he was a bit of a legend ’cos he drove a lime-green Charger with black GT stripes. He actually drove it as his car—to work, to the shops, wherever. It was awesome to see it in the staff carpark, in between the white Camrys and the banana-coloured Getzes. Spencer’s dad used to call micro cars like Getzes ‘lunch boxes’ when he got stuck behind them on the freeway, and would overtake, mumbling grumpily about being able to go faster on a ride-on lawnmower.
Spencer watched his feet now as they landed strongly after each stride. He leapt over fallen branches and crunched over sticks. He could see Charlie just up ahead, and he didn’t need to look back to know that, taking his own sweet time, very near the back of the group was Leon. Priceless.
‘Pick it up, Spencer,’ Mr Petrich yelled from the first of two drink stops. ‘Stay close to the leaders.’
Spencer pushed harder against the ground. He adjusted his breathing, and pulled air in through his nose. He could finish in the top five if he paced himself; if he pushed himself.
He imagined he was in the Drifter, ascending. The pain in Spencer’s legs was just thermal power; it wasn’t pain at all. He thought of all the flights he and Dad had done in the last few months, joyrides around Skippers Cove, taking in the views, flying the blue-yellow divide of the coast before swinging back and lining up the tarmac. He was almost getting used to it, the feeling. But you didn’t get tired of it, ever.
He was tired now; tired, but fired up too. Run, Spencer, run!