Learning to Fly: A story about overcoming depression

by David E Forrester

  32

  The mile

  Pete stood at the start-finish line, looking up the concrete pathway that formed the final straight of the Bloomberg Square Mile Relay’s street course. As they came around the bend, the competitors were running onto a well composed promotional photo shoot for the race: a cheering crowd pressed up against a logo-laden barrier on the right and a reflection of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel on the surface of Marina Bay on the left, with the actual hotel forming the back drop.

  A well thought-out finish, Pete mused as he shuffled to one side to get out of the way of another team’s baton pass. It was one of the teams trailing the field and about to be lapped by the front-runners. The bank’s team was amongst the front-runners.

  Pete saw a runner emerge from the final bend into the straight in a familiar black and white running jersey. Pete glanced up at the leaderboard and confirmed his suspicion, it was the leading team. The runner’s teammate nudged past Pete to get into a better position for a clean baton pass. Pete looked at him a little annoyed, but before he could tell him to take it easy, the baton pass had taken place and he was off on their team’s last leg.

  Pete glanced back up the track and saw another two runners come into the straight. He glanced up at the leaderboard and saw that they were from the second and third-placed teams. Their teammates jostled past Pete and began nudging each other, vying for the best position to receive their batons. Through the jostling, Pete quickly looked back up the track to see Jeff from Private Banking round the bend. Wow, fourth! Pete edged towards the other baton recipients, his left hand outstretched in readiness.

  Pete began to breathe deep, calming breaths as he kept his eyes on Jeff, the incoming runner’s face grimacing in pain as he pushed his body’s limits in the last ten metres. Pete ignored the jostling and yelling as the quartet of other runners executed their baton changes. He homed in on the baton in Jeff’s right hand as he came barrelling into the changeover box. Pete felt the baton slap into his left palm and he drove his right foot hard into the ground while switching the baton to his right hand. ‘C’mon Pete, run us onto the podium!’ he heard.

  Why did I choose to run last? Pete lamented. Oh, that’s right, because I thought we’d be no hopers right now and so no one would be paying any attention to my leg. With a lopsided grin, Pete quietly said, ‘This is gonna hurt,’ and accelerated. It was a phrase Pete used to mutter at the beginning of his races at high school and university. The phrase and his current circumstances caused his mind to flash to a memory from his adolescence – the under-sixteen New South Wales state final of the fifteen hundred metres. Pete had also been running for a podium finish back then as it would have qualified him for the national championships in Canberra and given him another week’s break from the farm. It would also have justified to his father the expense of sending him to Sydney for the race. Pete had put down his guitar for six months to clear time to train for the race.

  ‘All that way just to run fourth,’ Pete’s father had said.

  The disappointment had given the Monster its strongest ever hold on Pete’s psyche in his short life. Even going for a run only allowed it to tighten its grip as it whispered to him and reminded him of his failure. It was then Pete had picked up his guitar and written ‘Sammy the Blackbird’, which had freed him to run again. And, if the Monster started whispering to him again about his failures, he would simply hum his song.

  To his surprise, Pete found himself humming a few bars of the song in his head. He pushed the memory away and focused on keeping his shoulders down and relaxed, his gaze ahead and his strides even. As he negotiated the bends around Customs House, Pete heard the cheering of the crowds in the bars that lined that section of the course. It reminded him of the final pass of the grandstand in the race all those years ago. Back then, Pete had been sitting in the middle of the field, saving himself in order to unload his trademark kick on the last lap to give himself a chance at the podium. He also remembered the regret of having left his run too late and the feeling of having more to give at the end of the race.

  Fatigue began creeping into Pete’s legs, which told him that the halfway mark was coming up. He hooked around the turn that would take him back towards the finish line and then spied one of the runners from the baton change. The runner appeared to be fading and was only ten metres in front. There’s the hurdle to the podium, Pete thought and marked the runner as the target for his kick as he began patiently reeling him in. No holding back this time.

  At the twelve-hundred-metre mark, Pete had closed the gap between himself and the other runner to just a few metres. The fatigue in his legs had intensified, but had only just started tearing at his lungs, which signalled to him he still had more to give. Time for the kick.

  Pete put on a spurt and his legs burned in protest, but he ignored them as his respiratory rate picked up to take in more oxygen. He pulled up onto the runner’s shoulder. Just two hundred metres to go now.

  Pete glanced sideways and saw a slight nod of respect. He returned the nod and the runner picked up his pace to match Pete’s as they squared off to race for the podium. One hundred metres to go now.

  They rounded the final bend locked together. Their teams had come out to the edge of the course near the finish line and were cheering them on. When the crowd saw them neck and neck, there was an explosion of yelling. Fifty metres to go now.

  Pete felt the shoulder of the other runner move just in front of his, the death knell of defeat this close to the finishing line. Twenty metres to go now.

  Pete looked deep inside himself, but where he normally found more, he found only emptiness and then the pain of disappointment from all those years ago came flooding back into his mind. He felt the leer of the Monster and heard it hiss, Yes, just like before, loser. Ten metres to go now.

  I do not lose! Pete gritted at the Monster in his mind, which gave him a little more. His shoulder came back to level with his opponent’s. Pete then reflexively dipped into his practised finishing posture: chest forward, arms back. In the corner of his eye, Pete noticed the other runner had stayed upright, and he smiled inwardly as they crossed the finish line.

  Pete’s teammates were all laughing heartily while Pete was lying on the ground still unable to get up. He finally managed to get his breath back. ‘What the hell are you guys laughing at?’

  ‘Moggy that was an awesome effort, mate,’ Jeff said, reaching down to shake Pete’s hand and then pull him to his feet. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone hurt so much.’

  ‘It was worth it. I just hope I have the energy to make it up the steps to the podium,’ Pete replied.

  The men exchanged knowing glances and laughed loudly. Pete was becoming annoyed. ‘OK, would someone tell me what’s so damn funny?’

  Jeff put a hand on Pete’s shoulder and then took the baton from Pete’s hand. ‘Sorry to break it to you, Moggy, but that little professional pose you did at the finish cost us third place.’ Jeff held up the baton. ‘You see, the times are recorded in the microchips in the relay batons. So, while you pushed yours back, the other guy held his out in front, so his baton crossed the line first. Third, I mean,’ Jeff corrected himself.

  Pete bit down hard on an explosion of expletives. His teammates laughed, and the Monster stirred. See loser, they’re laughing at you, it sneered.

  No they’re not, they just find the whole situation funny and they’re not taking it seriously. And fourth out of over a hundred teams is nowhere near losing.

  Well your stupidity cost the team the podium and a lot of extra money for charity, the Monster countered.

  It was a winner-take-all race, so finishing third wouldn’t have made any difference in terms of the prize money. And, we’ve raised a lot of money for charity anyway. Running third instead of fourth would’ve raised only a little more. And in terms of being stupid, my arms were likely shorter than the other guy’s, given his height, so holding the baton out in front of me probably wouldn’t have made a difference anyw
ay. But next time I’ll know better.

  Pete recalled the feeling he’d had after the state final, the feeling that he could have done better and that he had something left to give. And, this time I didn’t have anything left to give, so I know I left it all out there on the track.

  The Monster was silenced, and Pete joined in his teammates’ laughter. After shaking hands all round he said, ‘C’mon let’s all go get a drink to celebrate.’

  33

  The mile relay, part 2

  ‘Hey guys, can I do the morning call today?’ Pete asked Johnno and Luke.

  ‘Sure,’ they replied, surprised. Pete usually didn’t like doing the call.

  Pete put on his headset and pushed the button on his dealing panel to open the line to the call. ‘Good morning everyone. Pete from Trading here. Things were quiet overnight as investors are staying square ahead of the US non-farm payrolls data release tonight. Like the market, we’re square and we’ll trade the event if the number’s away from the consensus and exciting.’ Pete paused briefly before adding, ‘On another note, I would like to thank all the participants in the Bloomberg Square Mile Relay team here in Singapore. We managed to finish fourth out of one hundred and fifty-nine teams, which I think is a great effort. I would also like to thank the salespeople who helped with the fundraising for our chosen charity, the Singapore Red Cross. The team raised just over twelve thousand dollars, which is more money than if we’d won and taken home the ten grand prize money. So, well done everyone and thanks again for your support.’

  As Pete put down his headset, he heard gentle applause around the trading floor and some people calling out their congratulations. He stood up gingerly as he was still sore and gave a modest wave. As Pete sat back down, Johnno said, ‘Well done, Moggy, but don’t get too comfortable. Here comes Whitey.’

  Pete could hear the Imperial March from Star Wars playing in his head as he stood up to greet Whitey. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Derek also standing up.

  ‘Hi Pete. Fourth? A very respectable finish,’ Whitey said.

  Pete was a little surprised. ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘What time did the winning team do?’ Whitey asked.

  ‘A bit over fifty-one minutes,’ Pete answered.

  Whitey rubbed his chin. ‘Hmmm, so each person averaged a bit over five minutes. How far were we behind?’ Whitey probed.

  ‘About three minutes. We clocked a bit under fifty-four minutes. Some of the young guys from equities got us off to a good start, but we sagged a little in the middle,’ Pete said.

  ‘How did you do?’ Whitey asked curiously.

  ‘Pretty good actually. I managed five minutes fifteen seconds, which was a bit better than I was aiming for,’ Pete said proudly.

  ‘Well done,’ Whitey said with genuine admiration.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Whitey frowned. ‘So, we raised more money from pledges than if we’d won? How’s that work?’

  ‘I designed a donation scheme where people pledged a multiple of where we finished in the race. There were one hundred and fifty-nine teams and we finished fourth, so people donate a multiple of one hundred and fifty-six of their pledged amount. So if they pledged ten dollars, they owe us one thousand, five hundred and sixty dollars,’ Pete explained.

  Whitey chuckled, which surprised Pete as he had never seen him laugh before. ‘I like it. Tell you what, I’ll pledge twenty five dollars. Email me the details for making the donation.’

  ‘Wow, thanks Whitey, that’ll be one of our largest donations. I really appreciate it,’ Pete said earnestly.

  ‘Thanks for organising the team and the fundraiser. I hope you’re up for it again next year, because you did a great job this year. Well done,’ Whitey said, shaking Pete’s hand. He turned to leave the floor then stopped and added, ‘I’ll start training now to make the team next year. It sounds like fun.’

  ‘It was. And it’d be great to have you,’ Pete replied.

  Whitey waved and headed off the trading floor. Pete glanced over and saw that Derek had already sat back down.

  Nick walked over to Pete. ‘Does he even know what fun is?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Probably not,’ Pete said, chuckling.

  ‘By the way, were there any cases of the runs last night?’ Nick asked.

  Pete looked at Nick confused before he understood and answered, ‘Oh, no. Everyone ran better than their submitted times actually.’

  ‘Good, then Whitey really doesn’t have anything to complain about. I have to say, Pete, I knew you were up to the task of pulling the team together, but the fundraiser was over the top, mate. So, well done,’ Nick said, patting Pete on the shoulder. ‘And that handshake from Whitey, that sort of thing goes a long way in terms of your credibility with Management,’ he added.

  ‘Thanks, but I didn’t do it for the handshake.’

  34

  Harvest

  Like he had done every year since leaving the farm, Pete had come back to help with the hot and tedious work of the harvest. He was driving the family’s combine harvester with his brother, Tom, following behind at four o’clock in the bin truck collecting the grain.

  Bobby was sitting in Pete’s lap keenly watching him operate the harvester. Both of them were bobbing their heads in time to the music Pete was playing over the harvester’s sound system, Cold Chisel’s classic live album, Swingshift.

  Bobby spied Liz waiting with the family ute a couple of kilometres ahead at the end of their run. ‘Hey, there’s Mummy,’ he said. ‘Quick, let’s go faster!’ He leaned over and pushed a button marked with an up arrow.

  Pete heard the horn from Tom’s truck and gave him an apologetic wave, then quickly pressed the button marked with a down arrow to slow the harvester. ‘Hey Bobby, don’t touch those buttons without Daddy’s permission, OK?’ Pete admonished Bobby.

  ‘OK,’ Bobby sighed.

  Pete looked over at the small screen with an image of the harvester running between two parallel lines and slightly turned the steering wheel to make sure that the harvester was driving straight. ‘It’s OK, Bobby, just be a little more patient and you’ll be with Mummy soon,’ Pete said softly to him and kissed the back of his head.

  Pete’s iPhone buzzed and he glanced down at it. Johnno? That’s odd, it must be something big for him to call me on holiday, he thought. ‘Johnno, hold on a sec mate?’ he said loudly over the sound of the music and the harvester. He signalled to Tom and dialled back the speed of the harvester to zero. It ground to a halt and Pete pulled on the hand brake and turned down the music. ‘Hold on, Johnno, I can hear you, but you keep cutting out. Give me a minute and I’ll get better reception.’

  Hmmm, what to do with Bobby? Pete asked himself. It’s really hot outside, so he’ll be more comfortable in the cabin with the air conditioning. He lifted Bobby off his lap and placed him in the slightly lower instructor’s seat then buckled the seat belt. ‘Just wait here a minute please, Bobby. Daddy has to talk to work.’

  Bobby scowled at Pete and grabbed his forearm. ‘You’re not supposed to be working, you’re on holiday,’ he said forcefully.

  ‘Bobby it’s very important and I’ll just be a few minutes, promise.’

  Bobby crossed his arms. ‘Mummy’s waiting,’ he said, jutting his chin towards Liz, ‘and I’m bored, so hurry up.’

  Pete shook his head ruefully then jumped out of the cabin on the opposite side to where Tom was following with the grain bin. He jogged away from the harvester and its GPS, which he guessed was interfering with his iPhone reception. Pete pressed the phone to his ear, but still had trouble hearing Johnno. ‘Johnno, just hold on a second more mate,’ he said and dug into a pocket to pull out his bud earphones. He pressed their jack into the iPhone and screwed the earphones into his ears. That’s better, Pete thought. ‘Hi Johnno, what’s up mate?’ he asked.

  ‘Hi Pete, sorry to disturb you on your break, but I thought you’d like to know that the Bank of Japan just increased their asset purch
ases and the Yen’s taking a beating. The guys here on the Desk wanted to use all of our trading limits to go long Dollar–Yen, but Nick said we should run it by you first.’

  Another test from Nick to see if I’m up to being Head Trader, Pete thought. ‘That is big news. Thanks for the call. What does Research say?’ Pete asked as he wiped some sweat off his brow and looked off into the distance. Crap it’s hot out here, he thought as he listened to Johnno.

  ‘They say Dollar–Yen’s rally has got legs. The market didn’t expect this at all and the amount of bond buying’s going to be massive,’ Johnno answered as the harvester jerked into motion and set off down the field, Tom dutifully following in the grain truck as if nothing were amiss.

  ‘Johnno, you’ve got my go ahead mate. I think it’s a good bet. Just do me a favour and keep your stops tight, OK?’ Pete said.

  ‘Will do,’ Johnno answered, his voice edgy with excitement. ‘How’s the harvest by the way?’ he asked.

  ‘Boring but bountiful mate. Sounds like you’re having more fun there,’ Pete said feeling envious.

  ‘We’ll see how this trade works out,’ Johnno responded.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. Just let me know if you guys get stopped out,’ Pete asked. ‘Otherwise, I’ll talked to you in the office in a few days.’

  ‘Thanks again, Moggy. Have a good one,’ Johnno said.

  ‘Will do mate. You too,’ Pete replied and ended the call. He turned back to where the harvester had been and saw it further down the field, picking up speed. Oh crap. Liz’s going to kill me, he thought as he ripped the ear buds out his ears. Now he could hear the growl of the engine. Gripping his iPhone like a relay baton, he took off after the harvester.