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There is no medal for that, but I won the under 18 age class.” This brings a whole new wave of cheering, hugs and kisses. The local news is filming the entire thing.Thankfully, Grandpa had the presence of mind to move one of the trailers to the finish line. I quickly put my bike in it, and we head to the 100km finish line.We get to the finish line in time, but at first, we can’t get a good vantage point. There are too many people here. When they see it is me trying to get a better look, people start giving me some room. I’m affiliated with most of the sponsors and a healthy portion of the riders, so people show me the respect of letting me see the finish line.Word of my victory reached this crowd moments after I arrived, and everybody is congratulating me and patting me on the back.A few of the over 18 men are trickle past the finish line. I am anxious to see the first of the women.When I see the leading pack come around the final bend, they are still too far away to see who it is,. Looking back, it seems ridiculous to me that I didn’t realise what was causing the noise. At the time, the bestial grunts and shrill screams suggested that someone was being attacked and as I approached the slightly open door I braced myself for what I was about to see. But nothing prepared me for the sight that met my eyes as I peered through the gap.The bed was a frenzied mass of bodies. So intertwined were they that they were scarcely recognisable as individuals. I stared in disbelief and as I did, the fleshy mass started to resolve itself as separate people and I realised that at the centre of the heap was a woman’s body - a very familiar looking body. Helen was naked and lying on her back. Her legs were raised up in the air and were draped over the shoulders of a large, muscular man who was vigorously pumping what looked to be an obscenely fat cock into my girlfriends stretched anus, while simultaneously fisting her pussy with a powerful looking arm. The man timed his thrusts.
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“I can use this paper again next year” she had said from her marriage bed. John’s shrivelled mother, her body a mere husk, had died three days later. She had refused to give up or say goodbye. The liver cancer didn’t give a shit about her resolve or courage. John’s father would die two years later in the same red-stained maple wood bed. He also died from cancer, but bone cancer this time. John’s mother had come from poverty. A family where “stretching a dollar” was a necessity, not affectation. Perhaps that’s why she had a fascination her whole life with things luxurious. She had never had them as a little girl. John imagined how she must have dreamed of them. She had told stories of how she and her sisters would look through the magazines and dream of another life, a more glamorous life. John wished he had given her more. These regrets haunted him. John’s dad had been in intense pain in the end. The patches worked, but dulled his reality. When his father was finally gone it had.

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