Pinprick

The show must go on, they say. Out there on the track, the fans, cameras, your trainer, announcers, they don’t see you as a life; you are a commodity. People don’t invest in losers; your existence becomes solely dependent on your performance.

At the peak of my career, I was winning races relatively easy, granted it was just local races, not that big league stuff. But it was the best times of my life. The team was having fun, I was taken care of, and the locals seemed to really take an interest in me and how I was doing.

Locals being a relative term, I wasn’t originally from East Rutherford, New Jersey. Born and raised in England, just a bit east of Nottingham. I was born into a racing family, and when I was young took the trip to America to pursue a racing career. America was where the big money races were, and the team thought that was the best course of action to take. We took a supply ship since money was tight, and that was the cheapest option. I don’t remember much of the voyage, other than looking out the porthole and seeing England fade away, slowly and gently, it disappeared.

As soon as I arrived in America, training began. Whether it be raining, cold, or blazing hot, I was out there taking laps. The other competitors at the training center endured the same grueling schedule. Some of them moved on to bigger and better things, I assume, as they would disappear from the center without notice.

As I moved up in the ranks, and finished better and better, the popularity came. A blessing and a curse, to be loved for winning. Not a lot of wiggle room. Training was harder, the schedule was more taxing. Eventually, the endless training, physical and mental stress reached a breaking point. For months, and multiple races I never finished anywhere near the top, my body just couldn’t perform.

The team trainer called in a physician to see if there were any medical reasons for my lack of performance.

“Hello there! I hear you’re feeling a bit down?”

I grunted a bit, not too in the mood for light-hearted banter as my career and favor with the crowd was tangibly declining.

The doctor prodded around, poking, and grabbing my ankles, moving my joints.

“Can you show me where it hurts?”

Where? Everything hurt. All I had to do was make eye contact with the doctor and the message was received. The doctor shuffled off to the team trainer in the corner, mumbling, pursed lips, looking at the ground and a single nod. Not the most optimistic body language, if I ever saw.

The doctor came back with a kind smile, we walked out with the team trainer to the field behind the training center.

“Ok now, I can ease your pain”. Finally. “Just a little pinprick”

The syringe injected something, the pain dimmed, and faded away. I imagined being in England, standing at the shore. A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon, the one that took me to America. The relief was so inviting, so soothing. I could make out a faint voice, maybe the team trainer?

“It was that damn mud race, the farrier never changed his shoes, messed up his ankles for the past few months. Too bad, he had such potential, shame to put him down, better than a shotgun I suppose.”

It was that mud race that ruined me, but that didn’t matter now, the pain was gone, and everything was fading. I was going home.