Plastered to my face, the shock of hair continuously greased the oily surface. Looking upward, all legs were heavy, so were breaths. Around 30 more steps to the red pole, the sign of victory.
Between the hazy breaths, a croaky cough violently crawled to the lead. We looked at the white cuboid, stained with stripes of burgundy, and simply paused. The frontline turned backward, at the long chain of humpbacked figures, stationing, and gave a good-humoured laugh. We all did, actually, though at the back, it was more like a brief exhale.
To our right, few orange silhouettes were making their best efforts. We scampered forward, our bodies sideways, shouting,
‘Break your neck! Break a leg!’
And they raced as if they would, really, confronting the wind, all the way to the sky…
The red pole was blocked, so were they, disappearing behind the white block, until it visualised again, against the green, complementing the orange.