Chapter One

Fire in my Soul

Paul Corbet-Singleton

He loves racing almost as much as he hates it.

He is the best distance runner in the whole club. No-one can get near him. He wins, he breaks records and he loves it. But sometimes – like now when he’s waiting for a race, unable to talk, to sit still – he hates the whole thing. 

‘How do you feel, James?’ his mother asks.

‘Fine,’ he snaps. It’s the first meet of the season; he is a mess.

Fifteen years old; he feels a little embarrassed having her there. When he was younger, her presence at the track helped steady him; now he wishes she would just drop him and leave. 

‘Good luck,’ she adds. As if luck had anything to do with it.

He says nothing. The unbearable wait – for that moment when he steps onto the track – has begun. 

It’s not easy being good at something you fear. To train every day with the little doubts at the back of your mind. To wait all season for the state titles, telling yourself that this year is going to be different, that you’ll prove what you’re capable of. This year, you won’t be afraid of failure – or success.

He lives for running. Pure, fast, lonely distance running. Running through the bush, out of sight, alone. Pushing through the different levels of pain. His favourite sport, his first love. He loves running. And a girl named Alison Burroughs.

Alison is one good reason to come to the track, to put himself through the agony of competing. But he knows that when his turn comes to step into the spotlight, she won’t notice; she doesn’t even know his name. For Alison Burroughs has never spoken to him; to her, he is nobody. 

This year, he tells himself, things with Alison Burroughs will be different, too.

He watches her jogging around the track, but she doesn’t notice.

Alison: the emotions that name stirs in him. How many times has he heard it spoken? ‘Go, Alison! Come on, Ali!’ 

Everyone in the club worships Alison. He lives in awe of her, intimidated by her confidence and her complete disregard for him.  

He smiled at her once – she looked right through him, jogged away in her trademark prance. Moving effortlessly on tippy toes, the long ponytail bouncing. Black tracksuit with orange stripes, running spikes flicking flares of red. She looked like she should be somewhere else, on a bigger, grander stage. Not this hick club in the hills.

Alison was a state champion sprinter, good sport, and – on those rare occasions when she didn’t win – a gracious loser. The one who would go on to the Olympics. Rumoured to be already talking to sponsors. The perfect athlete. Unchallenged as the club’s best sprinter.

Then James arrived at the club. He had tied with her for Athlete of the Year. There was a stunned silence on presentation night. ‘Do a re-count!’ someone muttered. ‘There must be a mistake.’ James grimaced; they really knew how to make him feel like an outsider.

There was only one trophy; both their names were on it. Even on the stage, standing next to him, she never spoke, wouldn’t look at him. The club president tossed a coin to see who would take the trophy first. To his dismay, James won that too. Alison didn’t look happy. 

Six months later he went into the general store in South Belport, owned by her father. Mr Burroughs was behind the counter. He was a giant, thin and long-legged like his daughter. He was quietly supportive of Alison, and warmed up with her before races, their striped tracksuit pants striding in tandem down the back straight. 

He had glanced at James over the shelves of chips, chocolates and lollies:  ‘Yes?’

James put the trophy on the counter. Mr Burroughs took it with a grunt. They stared at each other, then James muttered ‘Thanks’. And then he stumbled out with burning ears. It was easy to see why the kids of the district feared him.

Ethan Hall had told James a story about a kid Mr Burroughs had caught shoplifting. He had chased the thief, who favoured quick getaways, to the outskirts of the village. He dragged him back by the ear. No-one dared steal anything from the store after that.

‘He can run alright,’ Ethan had said. ‘Just like his daughter.’

Nervous. Nail-biting. Impatient. Impossible. That was James on race day. 

The eight hundred metres – his race – is second-last on the programme. That means over two hours to kill. He can hardly stand it.

All this drama over a club race. A little club at the foot of the hills; for most of the athletes, victory here meant little more than defeat. Not him – he took it seriously. Each club race was a rehearsal for the real thing – the big city races, championship events. And that is where he always faltered. The word was ‘choke’. The inability to perform under pressure. It didn’t matter if your name was in the local paper every week, or if everyone at your school knew you as ‘the runner’. If you couldn’t produce the goods when it counted, then you were a nobody. You were in fact, a ‘choker’.