'. . . atmosphere is electric. . . probably tens of thou-sands along the route. . .'
  The voice disappeared: Cameron cursed, and toyed with the dial until the imbecilities 
reappeared.
  '...been called the race of the year, and what a day it is! Isn't it, Jim?'
  'It certainly is, Mike -'
  'That's big Jim Delaney, who's up there in the Eye in the Sky, and he'll be following 
the race along the route, giving us a bird's eye view, won't you, Jim?'
  'I certainly will, Mike -'
  'Well, there's a lot of activity behind the line, the competitors are all loosening up 
for the start. I can see Nick Loyer there, he's wearing number three, and I must say he's 
looking very fit. He said to me when he arrived he didn't usually like to run on Sundays, 
but he's made an exception for this race, because of course it's a charity event, and all 
the proceeds will be going to Cancer Research. Joel Jones, our Gold Medallist in the 800 
metres is here, and he'll be running against his great rival Frank McCloud. And besides 
the big boys we've got a smattering of new faces. Wearing number five, the South African, 
Malcolm Voight, and completing the field Lester Kinderman, who was of course the surprise 
winner of the marathon in Austria last year. And I must say they all look fresh as 
daisies on this superb September afternoon. Couldn't ask for a better day, could we Jim?'
  
  Joel had woken with bad dreams.
  'You'll be fine, stop fretting,' Cameron had told him.
  But he didn't feel fine; he felt sick in the pit of his stomach. Not pre-race nerves; 
he was used to those, and he could deal with the feeling. Two fingers down the Throat and 
throw up, that was the best remedy he'd found; get it over and done with. No, this wasn't 
pre-race nerves, or anything like them. It was deeper, for a start, as though his bowels, 
to his centre, to his source, were cooking.
  Cameron had no sympathy.
  'It's a charity race, not the Olympics,' he said, looking the boy over. 'Act your age.'
  That was Cameron's technique. His mellow voice was made for coaxing, but was used to 
bully. Without that bullying there would have been no gold medal, no cheering crowds, no 
admiring girls. One of the tabloids had voted Joel the best loved black face in England. 
It was good to be greeted as a friend by people he'd never met; he liked the admiration, 
however short-lived it might turn out to be.
  'They love you,' said Cameron. 'God knows why - they love you.'
  Then he laughed, his little cruelty over.
  'You'll be all right, son,' he said. 'Get out and run for your life.'
  Now, in the broad daylight, Joel looked at the rest of the field and felt a little more 
buoyant. Kinderman had stamina, but he had no finishing power over middle distance. 
Marathon technique was a different skill altogether. Besides he was so short-sighted he 
wore wire rimmed glasses so thick they gave him the look of a bemused frog. No danger 
there. Loyer; he was good, but this wasn't really his distance either. He was a hurdler, 
and a sometime sprinter. 400 metres was his limit and even then he wasn't happy. Voight, 
the South African. Well, there was not much information on him. Obviously a fit man to 
judge by the look of him, and someone to watch out for just in case he sprung a surprise. 
But the real problem of the race was McCloud. Joel had run against Frank 'Flash' McCloud 
three times. Twice beaten him into second place, once (painfully) had the positions 
reversed. And Frankie boy had a few scores to settle: especially the Olympics defeat; he 
hadn't liked taking the silver. Frank was the man to watch. Charity race or no charity 
race McCloud would be running his best, for the crowd and for his pride. He was at the 
line already testing his starting position, his ears practically pricked. Flash was the 
man, no doubt of it.
  
  For a moment Joel caught Voight staring at him. Unusual that. Competitors seldom even 
glanced at each other before a race, it was a kind of coyness. The man's face was pale, 
and his hair-line was receding. He looked to be in his early thirties, but had a younger, 
leaner physique. Long legs, big hands. A body somehow out of proportion to his head. When 
their eyes met, Voight looked away. The fine chain around his neck caught the sun and the 
crucifix he was wearing glinted gold as it swung gently beneath his chin.
  Joel had his good-luck charm with him too. Tucked into the waistband of his shorts, a 
lock of his mother's hair, which she had plaited for him half a decade ago, before his 
first major race. She had returned to Barbados the following year, and died there. A 
great grief: an unforgettable loss. Without Cameron, he would have crumbled.
  Cameron watched the preparations from the steps of the Cathedral; he planned to see the 
start, then ride his bike round the back of the Strand to catch the finish. He'd arrive 
well before the competitors, and he could keep up with the race on his radio. He felt 
good with the day. His boy was in fine shape, nausea or no nausea, and the race was an 
ideal way to keep the lad in a competitive mood without over-stretching him. It was quite 
a distance of course, across Ludgate Circus, along Fleet Street and past Temple Bar into 
the Strand, then cutting across the corner of Trafalgar and down Whitehall to the Houses 
of Parliament. Running on tarmac too. But it was good experience for Joel, and it would 
pressure him a little, which was useful. There was a distance runner in the boy, and 
Cameron knew it. He'd never been a sprinter, he couldn't pace himself accurately enough. 
He needed distance and time, to find his pulse, to settle down and to work out his 
tactics. Over 800 metres the boy was a natural: his stride was a model of economy, his 
rhythm damn-near perfect. But more, he had courage. Courage had won him the gold, and 
courage would take him first to the finish again and again. That's what made Joel 
different. Any number of technical whizz-kids came and went, but without courage to 
supplement those skills they went for almost nothing. To risk when it was worth risking, 
to run 'til the pain blinded you, that was special and Cameron knew it. He liked to think 
he'd had a little of it himself.
  Today, the boy looked less than happy. Women trouble was Cameron's bet. There were 
always problems with women, especially with the golden boy reputation Joel had garnered. 
He'd tried to explain that there'd be plenty of time for bed and bawd when his career had 
run out of steam, but Joel wasn't interested in celibacy, and Cameron didn't altogether 
blame him.
  
  The pistol was raised, and fired. A plume of blue-white smoke followed by a sound more 
pop than bang. The shot woke the pigeons from the dome of St Paul's and they rose in a 
chattering congregation, their worship interrupted.
  Joel was off to a good start. Clean, neat and fast.
  The crowd began to call his name immediately, their voices at his back, at his side, a 
gale of loving enthusiasm.
  Cameron watched the first two dozen yards, as the field jockeyed for a running order. 
Loyer was at the front of the pack, though Cameron wasn't sure whether he'd got there by 
choice or chance. Joel was behind McCloud, who was behind Loyer. No hurry, boy, said 
Cameron, and slipped away from the starting line. His bicycle was chained up in 
Paternoster Row, a minute's walk from the square. He'd always hated cars: godless things, 
crippling, inhuman, unchristian things. With a bike you were your own master. Wasn't that 
all a man could ask?
  '- And it's a superb start here, to what looks like a potentially marvellous race.