Ever watched the hurdles? Think of them as deadlines.
You’ve got your sprinters with incredible focus who effortlessly straddle them, dip and come up smiling with medals around their necks.
Then you’ve got your runners-up, who jostle together to claim a meaningful position.
After them at some distance comes the pack, a jumble of contributors, each with some problem, hindrance or other that has made them give up on a podium position.
Behind them come the trailers, those who told you they had difficulties and hobble past the line pointing to their twisted ankles and therefore can’t be blamed.
There’s a gap.
And then come the stragglers, crashing through the hurdles as if they were falling vertically to the ground from a very tall building.
Some are sweaty and bloody, claiming heroism.
Others are cool; they never meant to finish the race in anything other than their own sweet time.
Then there’s one (there’s always one) who enters the home straight when the lights are out and the audience has gone home, resentful rather than apologetic that no medals can be confirmed until every one has passed the finish line.
And finally there’s the lost one, last seen heading towards the sandpit, never to be heard from since.
Right now, we’re counting home the pack.