It’s athletics season. I know this because hurdles are sprouting from the soggy turf around school ovals. Long jump sandpits are raked and crunchy with wet sand. I see girls with stilts-for-legs limbering up for the high jump. And I feel a wave of relief that my sports carnival days are behind me.

When I was a child, running races was an exercise in humiliation. I was gifted with neither speed nor endurance. At the crack of the starter’s gun, I would jump in fright while the other kids charged out of the blocks. My swifter classmates would become a blur as they streaked away from me. I’d command my legs to accelerate but already, the gap between me and them was widening. By the half way mark, my screaming lungs would overrule any fantasies about finishing in the top eight. I knew I was going to come a pink and flustered last. Again.