The Great Race
Every Boxing Day, for as long as anyone could remember, there was a sled race down a steep embankment at the back of the old pickle factory. The locals had nicknamed it Vinegar Hill and the race had become known as ‘The Great Vinegar Hill Annual Sled Race’.
A good portion of our town’s population would assemble to watch the children race. There were a few rules, like no one over the age of fifteen was allowed.
There was also large trophy that my father’s store had donated some twenty years earlier. My name had yet to grace it. I was determined to make my family proud and remove the smirk off Charles Barns face. The bully had won two years running.
Now with my new sled, I might just dethrone that braggart and see my own name proudly displayed in the window of dad’s hardware store.
The surface of the hill had a light powder of snow coating a hard-packed base. It was perfect for a sled race. There would be a total of four races to crown the champion. The first three being elimination rounds, well sort of. The Judge, Mr. Ogilvy, who by the way was a real Judge, explained the rules and procedure.
It left most of the participants and audience scratching their heads. The Judge swore he had worked out the formula and it was a fair way to give everyone a fair shot at being champion. Nobody argued, after all he was the Judge.
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