Rafik stood near the start line, behind two taller runners. He wore a light cotton singlet in the cold drizzle. He swung his arms and rubbed his hands to stay warm.
Most of the others were clad in long-sleeve woollen pull-overs. Rafik had always worn singlets when he ran in age group races in Aleppo. Perhaps the familiar feel of the cotton straps on his shoulders would bring him luck.
Rafik had never competed in a race of more than 1,500 metres. This December morning he would run 10 kilometres on a hilly course of narrow country roads near Rosenheim. The race had more than 400 entrants: mainly Germans but also Turks, Austrians and foreign students.
The supervisor of Rosenheim’s refugee placement service had pressed Rafik to register for the race after the official had seen the slight young Syrian run, lap after lap, on a local high school track one evening. His thin, muscular legs had swung like a metronome over the cinder surface of the track.
Rafik had enjoyed these runs, away from the confined space of the refugee reception centre. He felt his anxiety and frustration dissipate as he strode alone through each 400 metres.
Today would be different. He would have to compete. The other runners, lean and broad-chested, intimidated him.
Just before the race was to begin, a heavy-set, grey-haired man stepped forward and spoke through a megaphone.
“We are honoured to have a fine runner in the field today. You may have heard of Nabiat Selassie, the bronze medallist in the 10,000 metres at the 2011 European Championships. Mr. Selassie was born in Eritrea but now lives in Munich. He may give a few of you a run this morning. Best of luck to you all.”
Rafik stared at the short, stocky man who grinned at the spectators. He had seen other Eritreans run in the Damascus Marathon years earlier, before the civil war had ravaged Syria. He suspected that Selassie had once been a refugee to Germany.
A race official with an umbrella in one hand and a pistol in the other, positioned himself at the side of the road. The drizzle had turned to rain and puddles formed on the gravel shoulders of the pavement. The official held up his pistol and fired.
Rafik was drawn forward by the surge of runners who jockeyed for position on the narrow road. He allowed himself to be boxed within a tight group. Now was not the time to make a move. He would watch, as the race unfolded, for the probable winners.
He thought of his wife, Samar, as the runners began to shred into a line on the first steep hill. He could imagine her on their tiny farm outside Aleppo, holding a woven basket with dates to be sorted and then stored in wooden bins. He thought of her dark brown eyes and small, heart-shaped face, her slender frame and little, calloused hands.
Samar had helped Rafik to escape from Syria six months earlier. She had sold her jewellery to pay for his boat ride to the Greek island of Lesbos. He had travelled by bus with her and Wafa, their four year old daughter, to the Turkish border. He had then made his way to the Aegean coast where a night voyage carried him to the north shore of Lesbos.
Half way through the race, Rafik saw a group of runners break away from the pack. Selassie lingered at the back of this lead group. The former European medallist talked with a younger man who struggled to stay with him. Rafik picked up his pace.
The race leaders turned at a crossroads to begin the three kilometre return to the Rosenheim. Rafik had closed the space behind the leaders to 50 metres. He pressed harder and managed to join the group at about two kilometres from the finish.
Selassie made his move. He burst forth at the foot of a long hill and extended his lead during the ascent.
Rafik felt the strain of the new pace. His breathing became forced and his legs ached as he struggled up the hill behind Selassie.
At the top of the hill, the race froze for an instant. The foothills of the Alps were sugared by a recent snowfall. Churches in Rosenheim stood like bulbous beacons, with the figure of Selassie in full stride on the approach road. A solitary swan floated on a pond near a traditional Bavarian farmhouse. Rafik was aware of the exhaustion of his body, his pounding heart. He felt sweat and rain on his chest and arms. There was no sound.
Then the race began again for Rafik. He plunged down the hill in pursuit of Selassie. The distance between the two runners shrank they approached the city. Selassie glanced back as he crossed the bridge to the main square where the race ended. He managed a final sprint to the ribbon and into arms extended from the the crowd.
Rafik fell to his knees after he crossed the finish line. He felt relief and an endorphin-laced euphoria. Selassie left the crowd to stand over Rafik.
“Good race my friend.” Selassie said in German. He leaned closer and whispered “You will do well in your new life here.”
Rafik received the runner-up prize of 100 Euros. He sent the money to Samar. A few months later, she would put it toward the cost of her voyage with Wafa to Lesbos.
Judges’ comments
Dave Obee
This is cleanly written and provides a good feeling of the physical setting. However, it’s missing the essence of story: What does the protagonist want and why? What obstacles are in his way? What does he do to overcome them? (In the race itself, I don’t get a sense that it is any tougher than any other race he has done, even though the distance is much longer that usual.) This is simply an account of a race, with not much in the way of dénouement, no new understanding.
Yvonne Blomer
The writer of The Race has woven in some lovely details, from why Rafik wears a light singlet to run, to the details of the bronze medalist and the background of Rafik’s leaving Syria. Also, the language and metaphors are rich: “His thin, muscular legs had swung like a metronome” is superb, as is “the runners began to shred into a line.” That word “shred” carries a suggestion of violence, of where Rafik has come from.
My concern with this piece relates to Rafik’s memories of Syria and his wife and daughter. It’s not clear why he fled and they didn’t. The image of her with baskets of dates seems unsettlingly stereotyped. The description of how he thinks of her strikes as not quite believable.
Some sentences could be tightened and clarified. “At the top of the hill, the race froze for an instant,” though I get the idea and feeling of this, I think it could be clearer — the beauty of the Alps freezes everyone or just Rafik? … just a little tweaking there and in a few other places.
That said, I enjoyed reading this story, I like the descriptions, the short conversation with Selassie and the details of the setting and the sensation of running.
Dave Wilson
Suffers from: too much telling “Rafik felt the strain of the new pace” or “He felt relief and an endorphin-laced euphoria”; repetitive sentence structure; stuck in had-past (but I do give props to the lack of -ings, the lack of to-be verbs — over time, this writing will only improve).
Part of me worries about authenticity. I’m not sure I feel or see or smell or sense the world around him, and I’m not sure that the story of his flight from Syria is unique enough to not stumble into the realm of cliché. It needs more specific verbs, more specific nouns, a real sense of place. There is a good mirroring of his wife getting him there and he bringing her there, but it’s never made clear to us that this is the reason for his running the race. Why is this withheld? Better to lay it out at the beginning, to use it to raise the stakes and the tension. What is at risk of being lost? His family’s chance to come to Germany. That’s pretty big, and we, as readers, should get the opportunity to see the protagonist struggle through this as he goes.