Jonathan Gibbs. He’s so fast. He never slows down. One thought follows another, and another and another until - swish swish - he’s on the second lap; overtaking the first bunch which he now leaves far behind. We are left breathless and exhilarated.
The flag falls. It is over so quickly! And we are lost to excitement and confusion. The stadium empties; we sit and compose ourselves alone amongst the silent seats; our thoughts slowly settling like the dust on the racetrack. Coolly we relive the race; slow it down, freeze frame it section by section; thinking about each one as we go. Raymond Tallis. Jonathan Gibbs. They are, we come to realise, talking past each other - we recall that rough swerve that dodged an elegant but too stately chariot. Tallis driving after our sense of aesthetic form; Gibbs carried along on hyperactive feelings; no wonder he came first. But as our thoughts return to the starting flag we begin to believe that both have entered the wrong race…both, it seems, have confused the artist with the audience. The guard shouts to us. It is late. It is time to go, mate.