FAINTING ON THE TRACK

Shaded by our wide-brimmed cowboy hats, my husband and I sat in the bleachers of the Burger Stadium in Austin waiting to spur on our grandson in his 200 and 400 meter dashes.

We jumped up in our seats as the relay race of the seventh graders of the Austin Public schools was suddenly halted. A runner was on the ground and his teammates quickly surrounded him as help was summoned. Sirens were heard within minutes and soon the injured child was carried on a stretcher to the waiting EMS. As thereafter the ambulance raced away with lights flashing, silent prayers floated across the large Texas stadium.

Seventy years ago when I was fifteen I woke up on the rough denim trouser legs of a brawny railroad worker crouching over me. His helmet was pushed back from his forehead. I looked into an unshaven face whose eyes were steel-blue like the cast-iron clips and bolts he inspected for proper railtie alignment. He and his comrades had seen our track team exit from a nearby train and then took a break to watch our competition from an incline where they were working. The railway man steadied my head with his one hand and with the other dribbled a few drops of schnapps into my mouth from his hip flask. He brushed dust off my jersey and then picked me up as if I were but a sack of railroad tools and carried me across the field to a nearby parsonage. I had sunk down in the middle of a sprint onto the track where that morning my relay team had arrived for a competition. The railroad man raced down when he saw me collapse.

I had begun experiencing heavy periods and was featherlight. My nickname was Seelchen (tiny soul) but I was fast. Two years prior I had been invited by the SVL (Schneelaufverein) club to join their team. Originally they had sponsored skiers but then branched out into swimming and track. At an annual sports event in our school a coach had seen me run and approached me, “You’re fast. Want to become a member of our gang?” I accepted with delight. I loved my home team in Kirchheim, Germany. On weekends we competed in nearby towns.

It was a sultry warm July Sunday morning when we arrived at a village a short distance from our base. I was the first sprinter to pass the baton. There were no artificial tarmacs, nor fancy wooden or metal starting blocks. Instead we dug holes in the dirt to brace our feet for the start. We had brought our own trowels from home. I had my right foot firmly in position, wiggling it a bit so as not to slip. Both hands were curled into fists and planted on the ground beneath my elbows. My hair was tied back into a ponytail, and my sky-blue jersey bearing the large yellow lettering “SVL” stuck to my chest. I was all concentration with my eye fixed on the misty distance, awaiting the signal from the starter's pistol. I felt my vision blur and my muscles tense as I darted forward as if running for my life. Then I blacked out, only gradually regaining consciousness as I peered into the eyes of the railroad man bending over me.

As I fully awoke I found myself bedded on a plush brown sofa that smelled of stale pipesmoke. The pastor’s wife knelt next to me. Instead of schnapps she pressed a cool washcloth on my forehead. “You are alright,” she assured me. “You just fainted. You must have been a bit stressed.” The woman later brought me some light broth to sip. Then her husband drove me home.

How strange that I had never before recalled this experience, lying dormant in my memory until evoked by a similar event decades later. As the stretcher bearers carried the Texas boy to the medical transport vehicle, I hoped that the rescue crew would cover him in a warm blanket as cozy as the one I had lain on in that parsonage. I also wished that a reassuring hand touched the boy’s shoulder as even now I recalled being cradled in strong arms by a stranger and carried to safety. How comforted I had felt.

Ute Carson has been a writer since youth. She has published widely and was three times nominated for the Pushcart Prize. She lives with her husband in Austin, Texas. They have three daughters, six grandchildren and a clowder of cats. Please visit her website www.utecarson.com