Author's note: This story fits in with my stories 'Ordeal/Getting there' about Gordon's accident and rehabilitation. I know nothing about competitive swimming, but fortunately for me, Kaeera, Purupuss and Tikatu do, and were willing to share their knowledge. Thanks, friends!
Disclaimers still apply from previous chapter.
Gordon
A cheer goes up as we file into the main arena. I look up at the crowds and wave. I know my family are up there somewhere, on the west side of the stadium, Scott had said, but I can't make them out from here. They wouldn't want to miss this. This is what I've been working towards for all these years - the finals for the Olympic 400 metres butterfly.
I dump my gear on a chair There's only a few minutes to go before the start of the race. Everyone is going through their own pre-race routine. Petrov, the Russian guy, is sitting, muttering to himself – I think he might be praying. The Romanian, Rubescu, is doing some stretches.
I wander towards to pool edge and crouch down to dip my hand in the water. I like to get the feel of it before the race starts, gauge the temperature, the hardness of the water, so I know what to expect when I dive in. It might seem odd to an outsider, after all water is water, isn't it? Especially in an indoor pool where the temperature and chlorinity are carefully regulated. But it isn't. Just like a skier can feel differences in the snow, or a pilot in the air, that's how I feel about the water.
I walk back to where I left my kit, shaking my arms and legs gently to relieve the tension. I'm feeling nicely warmed-up. I had a good session in the practice pool and my body feels finely tuned, like one of Alan's racing engines, raring to go.
I'm in Lane 3, one of the favourites. In a few minutes it will all be over – all that work, all those hundreds of hours of training, all working towards this moment. I know I'm lucky to be here. Hell, I'm lucky to be alive, walking around and compos mentis. Less than eighteen months ago there was a big question mark over all three, after I crashed my hydrofoil at 400 knots.
I glance round at my competitors. I know they've all had to train hard - you don't get to be an Olympic standard athlete by being a couch potato, but when I think that just over a year ago I couldn't even sit up without support or hold a glass of water, I think I've had to work even harder than most.
Mind you, I couldn't have done it without help. I send a prayer of fervent thanks to the staff at Kane hospital, especially those in the physiotherapy department. I wonder if they're watching the race on TV today.
My thoughts go back to my last week under their care. I had spent four months at the hospital as an 'in-patient' but another month living out and attending for physio as a day patient. Boy, I don't think I've ever worked so hard in my life. My days were filled with exercises, massage, hydrotherapy, Faradism, occupational therapy. One thing I wasn't was bored!
When I had been discharged from the orthopaedic ward, Dad had arranged to buy the ward a more up-to-date version of the Possum machine that I had used to enable me to read or watch TV when I was in the body brace. Virgil designed and had made a little brooch in the shape of a mermaid that I had given to each of my nurses as a 'thank you' for their care. So when I was coming to the end of my final therapy session I asked Frank, who was giving me a massage, if there was anything he would like for his department.
"Yes, Gordon," he had said, "there is something you can get for me. I'd like a photo to hang on the wall, just there." He pointed to a blank space, at eye level for a patient sitting on the couch.
"A photo?" This seemed a strange thing to ask for.
"That's right. A photo of you, holding the Olympic medal you're going to win next year. I want to be able to point to it to show other patients what can be achieved, if you are determined enough. Will you do that for me?"
As the announcer calls my name I take up my position on the starting block. I feel keyed up, like a coiled spring ready to be released. The starter gun goes and I hit the water in a smooth dive. I surface and take a lungful of air as I make my first stroke. The crowd are roaring, but I'm not listening.
I've got a promise to keep.