A day to remember

The pale, puny youth blew the hottest breath he could muster into his chilled hands, as he worked dutifully to oil the axles and polish the wheels of the chariots before the start of the races.

It was a cold day and dreary, but the crowds were optimistic that spring was near and with it the official start of racing season. Today's contests would be mere exhibition, but with all the gods in attendance, no racer should take the event lightly.

The Roman chariot racers, though, were all around an unreliable lot (not nearly so dependable as the Greek racers, who all produced weekly top-notch performances, so long as their pubescent male lovers did not require extra attention that day).

Each showed up for his first contest of the day. Thick-chested young men with hearty laughs dared death as they chased each other around tricky turns behind horses running at full sprint.

December, a grizzled competitor with thick beard and back hair to match, growled at the speedy but less experienced May while he drove him into the outer wall of the track. Meanwhile, a cool, expressionless July --- well-tanned and bearing his signature sunglasses --- cruised to the inside track to take the lead.

Similar scenes played out throughout the afternoon, as competitors were defeated and downgraded to the losers' bracket. The Romans gods cheered raucously each time a competitor's chariot spun out of control, and each time eagerly watched to see if he would revive from the ground or lie prostrate to be trampled.

Eventually the hot-tempered August took top prize for the day in a bloody final matchup with December, and all that was left to see was the consolation race among the losers. The gods waited impatiently for the final race, as spectators began to slowly filter out of the seats to head home.

As the pale, puny helper lined up the horses and chariots for the losers-bracket finale, the gods grew restless, noticing that no competitors were in sight to drive the chariots. Race organizers scrambled.

April had gone missing, allegedly nursing a hangover from partying the previous night in the ancient coastal town of Panama City. July was being tended to by the medics for heat exhaustion, and January had gone home to sleep through his seasonal depressed state.

Not a racer remained in sight, save the recently triumphant August, who was still pounding his chest and taunting hecklers in the crowd who accused him of cheating against December.

In desperation, one race organizer whispered to his supervisor, "What about that kid?"

"Who? Which kid?" the supervisor looked around, puzzled.

"There, standing by the chariots," the organizer said.

The supervisor gasped at the idea when he saw whom the organizer had suggested. The organizer shrugged and motioned toward the gods, who silently demanded entertainment from their upper-deck suites.

Reluctantly, the supervisor approached the runt. "You, boy, what is your name?"

The runt looked up, terrified. "Me? Oh, it's February, sir."

"Have you ever driven a chariot, February?" the supervisor asked, leaning into the boy's face with an intimidating glare.

"Well, not officially, sir. But I drive to warm up the horses before the races every week."

"We seem to be a bit short of drivers for the losers bracket," the supervisor said. "Why don't you select a chariot and prepare to race?"

"Oh. Well, I'd be glad to, sir. But you don't think the other racers will be angry with me, do you?"

"I'll deal with them. For now, this crowd is waiting to see one last race."

"Yes, sir," February said with dutiful excitement.

The supervisor turned and walked back to the other organizers. "Poor boy doesn't stand a chance," he muttered. "He'll be killed before the first turn."

February took his stance in one of the vacant chariots and waited while no competition arrived. The organizers continued looking for other racers, until at last the hot-headed champion August stomped his way over to the starting line.

"What? This infant wants to race?" August shouted toward the gods' skybox. "I'll give him a race!" And the champion climbed atop the chariot platform beside February's chariot, leaning over to whisper to his small opponent, "Why don't you take a little headstart, sweetie pie? HA HA HA!"

February squinted against the spewing spittle from his overgrown competitor and shook his head slightly. With that, August aimed his whip and started February's horse off down the track. February stumbled about on the platform, not being prepared for the start, and grabbed the handles to regain his balance.

After giving his opponent a five second headstart, August shouted, "I'm coming for you, my dear," laughed a maniacal laugh toward the gods, and made a throat-slitting motion with his thumb as he whip-started his own horse.

February drove as fast as his beast would run, repeatedly checking over his shoulder for the murderous August. After about 30 seconds, he approached the first turn and looked back to find August had nearly completely closed the gap between them. February whipped the horse and held off his opponent until the start of the next straightaway.

Entering the back straightaway, August pulled even with the boy and again showed him his maniacal laugh, whipping February's horse in the front legs and steering his chariot to ram February into the inner wall.

February's chariot rattled, skidded out of control and tipped over, but managed to settle back upright and facing straight ahead. The boy watched his opponent speeding away, looking over his shoulder with a growl and a prominent display of his middle finger (despite its having no apparent meaning in ancient Rome).

February took a deep breath, leaned forward and whispered something to his horse. The horse stood quietly for a moment, before responding with a defiant "neigh" and raising up on its back legs. The beast hit an immediate full sprint and began to close in again on August and his chariot.

The crowd roared and the gods stood to their feet, trying to comprehend what they were witnessing.

"Ah, just in time," August shouted over his shoulder, as the competitors
entered the last turn nearly even. August growled and steered to ram his young competitor again, but at the precise moment February's horse sped up even faster and escaped the swipe.

"A little more," February shouted to his horse, which was pulling in front of the opponent inch by inch. Just as February passed the front of his opponent's chariot, August drew his whip and struck a lash across the boy's back.

February cried out and nearly crumpled under the pain of the blow. The crowd spotted the attack and responded with loud boos and cheers.

Holding on with the little strength he had left, February sized up the position of his opponent's horse and chariot. "A little more," he shouted again to his horse, and a short moment later added, "Now!"

Upon command, February's horse whipped its hindquarters to the right, steering the chariot sharply into the front legs of the opposing horse, which stumbled, fell and sent its chariot and rider crashing to the earth.

August bounced forward out of his crashing chariot with the heft of an oaf, avoiding a broken neck by the narrowest of margins. His momentary relief ended, however, when he looked back to see the chariot speeding toward him. As he scrambled, he managed to move every body part out of the way except one, which had flopped out from under his racing garb in the midst of the hub-bub and found itself castrated by a spoke of the wheel.

The crowd and the gods leapt in the air and cheered wildly as young February crossed the finish line, defeating the champion himself.

Rays of sunshine burst through the late-winter clouds and lit upon February as he waved happily to his new fans.

The race organizers hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him back and forth in front of the crowd shouting, "Hip hip, hooray."

Pretty girls waved coyly at him from the crowd.

The gods smiled.

August cried angrily in the background, as he searched the dust for his dismembered member.

Victorious-sounding music played.

And when all that requisite celebratory procedure was finished, the gods called young February up to their skybox and rewarded his valor in mindless, bloody entertainment with this time-honored declaration:

"30 days hath November, April, June and September. You, lad, may never grow to be a full 30-day month, much less a 31-day titan such as this you have just defeated. But you shall always be the reliable bridge between cold, depressed January and March's promise of springtime.

"And in honor of your valor here today, you shall receive an extra day, a 29th day that is, once every fourth year --- except not on the 100th year unless that's the 400th, yadda yadda yadda, you can read the fine print for yourself kid."

Congratulations, February. It's your big day.