BY NICO PARKES BROWN, YEAR 8, SOUTH NEW BRIGHTON SCHOOL
A blast of the salty easterly hits me in the face. My competition ring their bike bells. My bike, it doesn’t have a bell any more. Uncle Trev took it off before he fixed my chain then forgot to put it back on again.
I check my brakes.
The posh voice comes on the speaker announcing the race will begin in one minute. A big cheer goes up from the people on the pier behind me. Through their loudness I hear the waves boom onto the wooden pillars at the far end of the pier. Someone behind me sneezes, I can feel wet on my neck. The posh voice tells me thirty seconds to the start. I put my foot on the pedal so I can do a rolling mount. I scoot to the front of the pack.
“Ten seconds to go.” My cardigan feels as though it is made of tissue paper.
“8,” I only hear the blood in my ears.
“7," I taste my lunch, the cold egg sandwich in the back of my throat.
“4” I roll forward, “3, 2, 1." The horn blares, I trundle forward. Sand crunches underneath my tyres....
This story is a part of the Beca Christchurch Heritage Festival series, for those pieces of writing created in the workshops sponsored by the Christchurch Heritage Festival and Tūranga.
© Write On: School for Young Writers and the writer, 2019