St. Theresa of the Child Jesus Roman Catholic Church at 5188 Rt. 23, Windham, NY 12496 US - Triathlon on Tillman Street

I kept reading my book about horses.

“Ding-dong! Hail the Sport King!” Joe yanked my braids.

“Go away!”

Joe is one year older than I am and hard to ignore. He’s won trophies for baseball, football, hockey, even ping-pong. He hasn’t won any trophies for being humble.

“How about it, Mollywog? Do you dare challenge the Sport King?”

My cheeks burned. Joe knows I’d rather eat spider sandwiches than be called “Mollywog.”

“I’m reading,” I said in my you-are-as-interesting-as-a-slug voice.

“Mollywog is scared!” He bounced on the couch next to me. My book flopped over, and I lost my page.

Now I was mad enough to call Mom. But then…POP! An idea jumped into my brain.

Dad often says, “If you had a nickel for each of your ideas, you’d be a millionaire.” I knew if I rolled this idea around my brain, it could become a Victory Plan. With a Victory Plan, I would be Tillman Street’s Sport Queen, and I could finish my book.

“Triathlon!”

Joe stopped hopping. “What?”

My teacher, Mr. Garcia, ran a triathlon every summer. “The hardest race in the world,” he called it.

I put on my Mr. Garcia voice. “A triathlon is a bike race, a swimming race, and a marathon together,” I explained. “We could have a triathlon on Tillman Street.”

Joe scratched his head. Our bikes are Junk Day finds. Mine goes crooked, and Joe’s seat falls off when he pedals too hard. Joe runs cheetah-fast, but I swim like a fish. I might beat Joe if we ran a triathlon. Maybe he thought so, too.

“We can’t run 26 miles!”

“26.2 miles,” I corrected. “We can make a mini-Triathlon. Then we’ll know who’s Sport Queen, and I can finish my book.”

“Sport KING,” Joe began.

I interrupted. “Scared to race, Slow-Joe?”

“Let’s do it,” he growled.

“Stay in our neighborhood and be careful crossing Tillman Street,” Mom advised when we told her our plan.

“OK,” I said. Then I started thinking that if Joe really became Sport King, I’d look totally stupid. I hung a masking tape finish line between the dogwood trees by our driveway and worried about Joe’s bragging at me if I lost.

“Ready, Mollywog?”

Ooh, that name bothered the worry right out of me! I stuck out my tongue. “Ready, Slow-Joe.”

We changed into bathing suits and bike helmets. I slipped my purple goggles around my neck. Joe spread our construction paper map out on the curb. Green arrows pointed where we would ride, swim, and run. We studied the map and mounted our bicycles.

“May the best athlete win,” I said. We shook hands.

“I will,” Joe replied. His palm felt sweaty, just like mine. “My stopwatch will start us.”

My stomach gloobled. I wished I had thought out my Victory Plan better. If Joe won, he would never let me forget it. God, help me beat Joe, I prayed.

BEEP!

Joe flew out of the driveway before my feet touched the pedals. Down Tillman Street we raced. Joe got a big lead right away.

I tugged my handlebars to keep my bike straight. Joe’s legs were a blur.

As he skidded around the dead end on Ascot Street his bike seat fell off. I swerved to miss it.

“Get training wheels, Mollywog!” Joe yelled over his shoulder.

“Faster,” I begged my legs, but they wouldn’t go around like Joe’s.

Joe dropped his bike by the Zingels’ porch and tore into the backyard. Mrs. Zingel had told Mom that we could swim anytime; I wondered if we should have asked about having our triathlon in her pool. Too late!

I rounded the house as Joe hit the water with his helmet on.

“AACK, don’t splash!” yelled the sunbathing Mrs. Zingel.

My fingers fumbled with my helmet buckle. I needed speed here. Once we started running, Joe could blast by me. I pulled my goggles over my eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped into the pool.

SPLASH!

The cold water shocked the butterflies right out of me. Underwater I saw Joe’s feet tiptoeing along the bottom of the pool.

I’m a dolphin, I imagined. My arms and legs became giant fins, pushing me through the blue-green ocean. I wiggled past doggy-paddling Joe to the ladder.

“Woo-hoo!” I scrambled up the ladder.

“WALK by the pool, Molly,” Mrs. Zingel called. I speed-walked to the grass, then ran. Joe clambered out of the pool, his helmet tipped over his left ear.

The chlorine smell on my skin tickled my nose as I sprinted down the street. I raced past the schoolyard, past Sacred Heart Church, past our third base stump. My side ached; my arms and legs flopped like soggy Jell-O. Mr. Garcia was right: triathlon is the hardest race ever! Joe’s feet thwap-thwapped behind me, getting closer with each thwap.

I stumbled over the tree root bump in the sidewalk. The finish tape flickered into view. “I can win!” I panted. I imagined dancing a Victory Dance, but I could hear Joe close behind.

Thwap-THUD!

Joe’s footsteps stopped echoing mine.

Our driveway waited a block away. I could win, and Joe would have to stop teasing me. Still, my stomach felt funny, and not from racing. Joe pestered and teased me every second of every day, but I didn’t want to keep running if something had happened to him. I knew God didn’t want me to win that way.

I looked back. Joe lay on the sidewalk by the tree root bump, as still as a creek in summer. My heart froze.

“JOE!” I ran faster than ten cheetahs to my big brother. “Are you OK?”

“Wind…knocked…out…of…me,” he gasped. After a moment he groaned. “Stupid sidewalk! I cut my knee!”

I looked down the street. The dishcloth flag waved insistently, “Come on, Sport Queen.” I looked at Joe’s knee. I sighed.

“You need to clean that up.”

“What about our triathlon?”

My insides felt hollow. My Victory Plan blew away on the breeze that lifted our Finish Flag.

“Forget it. Mom will scream if you get infected.”

I tugged Joe off the sidewalk. He leaned on my shoulder, and we limped down Tillman Street together.

“Hey, Moll?”

“Yeah?”

“You would have won.”

For once no words wanted to jump out of my mouth.

We reached our driveway finish line.

“You should break the tape,” said Joe.

I put on my queenliest voice. “Let’s break it together—then I can finish my book.”

Joe grinned. “Deal.”

So we, the Royal Sport Family of Tillman Street, tore through the tape together.

As we broke the tape, POP! I got another great idea.

Maybe I could challenge Joe to a reading contest….