It's the winning that counts
I was never any good at team games, what with my misanthropy peaking earlier than my coordination skills but my spindly frame and experience escaping beatings made me a natural at middle distance running.

My hard work coupled with the lack of competition meant that I became the top 1500 metre runner in the school and was chosen to represent the school at the interschools tournament. This was a big deal for me as I'm about as successful at sports as Stephen Hawking is at limbo dancing.
That week my dreans were filled with visions of being lifted off the podium in celebration and Hayley Price finally noticing what a stud I'd become and inviting me to feel the tissues stuffed in her bra.

On race day I was feeling quite good, non of the nerves or jelly legs I'd expected I even managed a cheeky wave to Hayley at the starting line. Things started well I was tucked into 3rd place, keeping up with the main group while as usual some idiot had sprinted off at full speed to get first for a while.
The second lap was the same and I started to get a good feeling, all I had to do was hold on while the guy at the front tired and then make a break for it.
Then it went wrong, at the start of the third the group started to jump forward and I was passed, dropping to 4th then 5th and finally managing to hold onto 6th. There was no way I was going to win this and I wouldn't be able to live with the shame, what I needed was a miracle.

I made up my mind and was rewarded with a rush of adrenaline. Coming to the home strait I gave it everything, running like the wind from Zephyrus's lactose intolerant arse. Then when I heard the bell for the last lap and in full view of the crowd and Hayley's chartaceously enhanced bosoms, I took a dive.

I dropped to the floor and grabbed my calf and writhed in mock agony as I'd seen Italian footballers do. I looked around but everybody still seemed to be watching the game. It was only after the race had finished and I had failed to cross the line that someone came over to help me to the first aid tent.
An Oscar winning performance later I walked out with an ice pack loudly muttering how I was "just getting into my stride" and "shouldn't have pushed myself so early". Cue lots of sympathy and a week off PE to recover. I decided to end my running career soon after.

Ashamed, yes. Beaten, technically no.
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Mon 23 Nov 2009, 21:55, 2 replies)

I did something very similar in the 1500 meters.
The only difference being that I couldn't be arsed with it. I was in second place and had noticed someone in the 800 meters earlier fall over and get carted off with lots of sympathy.

So, I too fell over and thrashed around for a bit. No-one came to help me so I had to get up and walk the final lap after everyone had finished the race. It was slightly humiliating.
(badger of doom http://www.trendingtracks.co.uk, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 9:58, closed)

You only did it once?
There was one lad at my school who did it year in, year out. Yet nobody ever seemed to cotton on. Mugs.
(Neddy Nedson is nice really, Tue 24 Nov 2009, 9:58, closed)