Brie always starts her morning jog at the fence buried in Honeysuckle. She’s convinced its caramel scent is the magical energy boost that makes her run so hard. She’s off as fleet footed as Forrest Gump. She breaks the speed of light. She’s at her first ‘marker.’ On either side of her are Myrtle trees so towering, she looks like an ant. The wind jostles its Chinese Good Luck red flowers. They look like flashing lights. There are countless white cockatoos. All squawking their cheer. Brie can’t help but get a second burst.
Grinning, she pretends she’s a rabbit that spots a carrot patch ahead. Turns out they’re piles of fluffy Button Grass. Who cares? Her pretending makes her sprint as fast as any rabbit. The Finish is still three miles ahead; but she already hears it. It makes a roaring noise, like spectators cheering. That gives Brie a third burst.
She sees the Finish—the roaring river. She watches the six tall Race Officials--starched Poplar trees. They don’t even so much as twitch. No doubt nothing gets passed them. They’ll make their uncompromised decision—whether she has beat her time.
She ploughs into the shallow of the river! The crowds go wild! Kookaburras laughing! Cockatoos squawking! The river roaring. Brie beats her time!
Just to show those Officials she is a champion, she runs a few more minutes. She tells herself she will not stop until she no longer hears all that cheering.
She reaches a silent spot. Not even a slight breeze in the Birch trees. No boisterous birds. Just two parent ducks and their six ducklings, gliding on the smooth part of that river. Their long, drawn out quacks sound like, “Brie, you’ve won a race against yourself. Well done. Bet you do it again, tomorrow.”