The True Story of the Tortoise and the Hare

The race started at nine o'clock on a cold and crisp autumn morning. The opponents, a tortoise and a hare, stretched themselves flat across the starting line, eyeing each other warily. An excited silence fell over the attending crowd. The black and white clad official slowly raised his arm, the air brimming with electricity. Then, quickly, at the exact stroke of nine o'clock, the official slammed his arm down to his side, signalling the beginning of the race. The crowd roared; the tortoise and the hare exploded across the starting line, legs and hearts pumping furiously, blood racing in their veins.

Unfortunately, after this, the truth of the story was lost in the myriad of retellings. It was twisted and moulded until it conformed to an attached moral- one of consistency or procrastination. Through this process, a race that took a lifetime was condensed into matter of hours, and trivialised.

As a matter of fact, it was not merely at the end of the race that the tortoise and the hare exchanged the lead, but many times throughout. The main failing of the conventional story is that it does not tell of how the tortoise felt every time he was passed by the hare, and indeed, vice versa. Upon seeing the hare, distracted by cute bunny, or a luscious patch of grass, or whatnot, the tortoise was jubilant. Perhaps now was his time to win, he thought. Perhaps now he could put enough ground between himself and the hare so as never to be within reach. But as soon as he passed the hare, he noticed the damnable rabbit looking casually in his direction, chewing lazily on the tasty green grass. The tortoise was continually forced to look over his shoulder. He was anxious, feeling the hare's disinterested gaze at the back of his head. He waited for the hare as one waits for an impending hammer blow, where waiting is almost worse than receiving. His lead was perpetually small, made even smaller by the slightest effort on the part of the hare. Suffice it to say that even when he was in the lead, the tortoise's mental state was far from ideal.

If that was what he felt when he was in the lead, what he felt from behind was monumentally worse. The hare, at his leisure, could put such distance between them, that the tortoise's despair was unimaginable. It was a direct relationship: distance and despair, until even the shades of despair ended in the blackest of tints. But always he would close the distance, running as fast as possible for a tortoise- which indeed is slow and steady- only to encounter the hare, leisurely seated by the side of the road, calmly selecting from amongst many of the fruits of life. And then it would start again- the tortoise would pass the hare, and the single short moment of jubilation would again be replaced by the anxious glancing behind the back.

For the hare's part, it is doubtful whether or not he ever took the race seriously. Perhaps he did, at the beginning when the whole affair was announced. Perhaps he was caught up in the atmosphere of the situation: the excitement, the feeling of rivalry, and indeed, something akin to nationalistic pride; perhaps at the beginning he tried. He ran fast, easily out-distancing the tortoise. In fact, in the initial burst of enthusiasm, he ran so fast that he could no longer see his opponent. This excitement soon wore thin, and he slowed, and indeed stopped, waiting impatiently for his opponent to catch up. After all, a race by oneself is not entirely enjoyable.

In order to occupy himself, and to avoid the boredom of waiting, the hare partook in the joys of life. He had much free time, and occupied himself in many intriguing pursuits. But, as idleness breeds introspection, and as the hare was not immune to its clutches, he soon began to wonder about the point of the race, and indeed, about his motivation for even partaking in such a ludicrous endeavour. However, as it so happened, sometimes in the midst of these contemplations, and sometimes in the midst of enjoying life, the tortoise would amble by, his short legs working hard to move his massive body. There was something in the tortoise's look that tugged at the his heart. It was a look of determination, of renewed hope, and indeed, of joy. And every time the hare saw this, he realised that the race was the tortoise's life, and passing the hare was the sum total of his joys. The hare's heart would melt; any notion that he once held of calling it quits would dissipate, replaced by the charitable notion of pity. And so, for the tortoises benefit, the hare would pass him, leave him in the distance, and then occupy himself in some other endeavour until the tortoise would once again catch up.

This was the extent of the race.

Finally, on the last leg of the journey, the hare, ahead of the tortoise, noticed the finish line. It had indeed been a long race, and the hare was happy that it would almost be over. The hare sat down to examine the beauty of his surroundings. His accomplishments in life had been manifold; during his breaks he had managed to run for office. His ideas had been revolutionary and had led to profound social change. Many an individual hare had benefited from his policies. He had also learned to paint, and was quite adept. It was a personal joy to see his canvases hung in the local art museum. Indeed, he had many accomplishments of which to be proud in his long and fulfilled life. Always, however, the race had pulled him away, the tortoise had caught up, and it was time to move on.

Through the course of the race, the hare had settled on a notion to which he was now firmly decided. He would let the tortoise win. He had become, after all, through the course of his life and many contemplations, both an altruist and a philanthropist. His life had been varied and diverse, with many successes and failures, joys and heartaches. Conversely, the tortoise had but one goal in mind, a goal to which he was eminently unsuited. All his joys were derived in passing the hare; all his pains were through fear of losing the race.

And so it came to pass that, while the hare was, in satisfaction, contemplating the many trials and tribulations of his life, the tortoise passed him. The hare waited a sufficient time until it was clear that, even if he were to try, the tortoise would win. The hare began to sprint, with all his might, quickly closing the gap between them. The tortoise, for his part, redoubled his efforts, renewed in both vigour and spirit, though still slow and cumbersome. The finish line loomed ahead, merely paces away.

It was a photo finish; the hare easing back slightly at the end, the tortoise craning his neck with all his might, crossing the barrier...first. On ending, he collapsed, as marathon runners are apt to do, tears of joy running unabated down his face. Tears also marked the face of the hare, though not tears of pain or despair, but tears of joy also, shared with the tortoise.

It was not long after this that both of our heros were lying side by side on their deathbeds. The hare was calm and peaceful, enjoying the silence of his last moments. He was content. He had lived a full life, had denied himself no experience, had both loved and hated, felt both joy and pain. For the tortoise, his life had had but one joy, and much pain. He too did not regret the end- it was time to go, and life had been nothing but an endless and seemingly senseless race. Briefly, he felt a moment's pang, a slight ache in his heart, but only over one small incident. During the race, he had seen a bright red rose growing on the side of the road. A bead of water sparkled on its petal, breaking the sunlight into a myriad of colours. The green stem was luscious, the flower a bright crimson. All in all, the moment was sublime, creating in him something larger than himself. He regretted the fact that he hadn't stopped, that he hadn't taken the time to smell that beautiful flower. He could imagine it now, a tear falling slowly down his face; it would have been beautiful.