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She falls among the lead group of five, and the rest of them stretch out, up to maybe twenty-five meters in front. When she gets back up, it reminds me of that bit in Chariots of Fire when Eric Liddell falls over and runs past everyone to win.
There are two laps to run, and she's still well behind.
She gets the first two runners easily, and she's running like she does in the morning. There's no strain. The only thing you can see on her is the feeling of freedom and the purest sense that she's alive. All she needs is the hood and the red pants. Her bare feet carry her past the third one, and soon she's up alongside her nemesis. She goes past her and holds her with two hundred to go.
Just like the mornings, I think, and people have stopped to watch. They saw her fall and stand and keep going. Now they watch her out in front, beyond everything that's ever been done on a normal weekend in this town. The discus has stopped, and the high jump. Everything has. All there is is the girl with the sunshine hair and the killer voice breathing and being in front.
The other girl comes at her.
She pushes for the lead.
There's blood on Sophie's knees, from the fall, and she also got spiked, I think, but this is how it has to be. The last hundred meters nearly kill her. I can see the pain tightening on her face. Her bare feet bleed on their way across the balding grass. She almost smiles from the pain--from the beauty of it. She's out of herself.
Barefoot.
More alive than anyone I've ever witnessed.
They run at the line.
And the other girl wins.
Like always.
As they go over the line, Sophie collapses, and down there, on the ground, she rolls onto her back and looks up at the sky. There's ache in her arms and ache in her legs and heart. But on her face is the beauty of the morning, and for the first time, I think, she recognizes it: 5:30 a.m.
Sophie's father claps, like always, only this time, he's not alone. The other girl's father claps now, too.
"That's a hell of a daughter you got there," he says.
Sophie's father only nods modestly and says, "Thank you. So have you."
I throw my Styrofoam coffee cup in the bin with my sausage-roll wrapper and begin to walk away. As usual, I've got sauce all stuck on my fingers.
I can hear her feet behind me, but I don't turn around. I want to hear her voice.
"Ed?"
It's unmistakable.
I turn around and smile at a girl who's got blood on her knees and feet. From her left knee, it runs crookedly down her shin. I point to it and say, "You better get that looked after."
Calmly she answers. "I will."
Some discomfort stands between us now, and I know I don't belong here anymore. Her hair's out and it's beautiful. Her eyes are worth drowning in, and her mouth speaks to me.
"I just," she says, "wanted to say thanks."
"For getting you spiked and hurt?"
"No." She refuses my lie. "Thanks, Ed."
I give in. "It's a pleasure." My voice sounds like gravel compared to hers.
When I step closer, I notice she doesn't look away from me now. She doesn't tilt her head or send her eyes to the ground. She lets herself look and be with me.
"You've got beauty," I tell her. "You know that, don't you?"
Her face goes a little red as she accepts it.
