(Final Extracts, London , St Ethelbert’s Square)
Late night, outskirts of London
We entered the capital like a knife slipping through steak,sudden, unavoidable. The Bentley grumbled at the stop-start traffic, eager to sprint, but London does not permit sprinting. She crawls, she coils, she waits.
Simon sat rigid beside me, his case balanced on his knees, jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might crack. “Nearly there,” he said, though whether to me or himself, I could not tell.
St Ethelbert’s Square, midnight
The Bentley rolled to a halt before the Spenserian Club, our official finish. Pimlico Wilde had assembled the requisite gaggle of onlookers: art dealers, journalists, people in overcoats pretending to understand horsepower. They cheered as though I’d conquered continents. Champagne corks popped, flashbulbs fired.
And the Blue Train? It had arrived only minutes before,or so they claimed. There was muttering, rumours of timetable “flexibility.” Did the driver cheat? Perhaps. But I had not, and that was enough. Honour intact, if not victorious.
I stepped from the car, gloved and smiling, as though I’d planned to be second all along. One must always play the gracious loser,it is the last refuge of the proud.
After the finish
Simon slipped away almost immediately, murmuring thanks. No handshake, no flourish, just gone into a waiting black cab. He left his pastry wrapper under the seat, a small proof that he’d ever been here.
Later, I walked past the church where his funeral was held. Black coats gathered, faces turned to the pavement. For a moment, I thought of going in, though I had not been invited. Instead, I lingered at the edge, watching Simon stand near the door, case at his feet, shoulders bowed. He looked both free and burdened.
Closing thoughts
So here I am, back in London. I raced a train, lost with honour, and carried a stranger to the source of his grief.
Was it worth it? The sleepless hours, the toll booths, the pastry crumbs? Yes. Because the Bentley and I proved something,not about speed, nor victory, but about persistence. We chased steel across countries, and though we did not catch it, we did arrive.
Perhaps that is the truest race of all: not against trains or clocks, but against the temptation to stop.
I will sleep now, and dream of roads.
