The Tortoise and the Hare

A classic tale told in triplicate.

The tortoise was late to the starting line.

If the hare were racing anyone else, he would have called for a disqualification and won the race by concession. But the hare knew quite well, as did the fox who was judging the race, as did the motley assortment of forest creatures which had assembled on an otherwise dull afternoon; the tortoise was simply slow. He would always be slow, and it would be a disservice to penalize him for failing to reach the starting line, when his failure to reach the finish line would soon follow. The tortoise would arrive. With time.

And so he did. He apologized for the delay, and plodded foot and toe onto the crooked line of twigs drawn across the forest path. The fox raised the starting flag, then with a flap and a shout, the race began.

Now the hare had done some puzzling over the past hour, ever since the tortoise had brought up the foolish proposition of a race between the two. Of course the hare would win the footrace, that much was obvious. But in accepting the tortoise’s challenge, the hare had soon come to realize that none of the forest creatures particularly liked him for doing so. Anyone could beat the tortoise in a race. If the hare won, no one would be impressed. There was nothing to gain from showing off his speed while racing a tortoise. So the hare opted for a different strategy.

Quick as a bolt, the hare dashed from the starting line, leaps and bounds ahead of his competitor. His stride was long, his turns were sharp, and at the midpoint of the track, at the crest of a hill where all could see… He stopped. The hare yawned, lazily stretched out on the grass, and went to sleep.

The trouble with the race was, everyone was too focused on the hare. They needed to look at the tortoise, long and hard. They needed to recognize how slow he truly was, and chide him for putting forward such a silly challenge. A quick race would be the ruin of the hare, and he would be bothered and nagged to no end about how mean he was to the poor tortoise. But if he handicapped himself, and shifted the focus onto the foolishness of his opponent, then the hare might just make it through this race with his pride intact.

And so, the hare slept. He slept as the tortoise made pendulous hairpin turns. He slept as the tortoise crested the hill. He slept as the tortoise inched closer, and closer, and closer to the finish line.

The tortoise had been racing for weeks. After observation and consideration, he picked an opponent who was proud, a little boastful, and very fast. A hare who cared more deeply than he would like to admit about the opinions of others. The tortoise needed a race that he was certain to lose, and an opponent unwilling to take a win without its accompanying glory. An opponent who would handicap himself as a gesture of mockery, not kindness. So the tortoise waited for a day when the hare had bags under his eyes, challenged him to a race just prior to naptime, and took his time arriving. Even if he lost, it was no great trouble. But if he won…

The hare awoke with a start. What was that he just heard? Paws clapping together? A shout of some kind? Where was the tortoise?

He glanced at the finish line, and felt the pit of his stomach fall out. He started a mad dash towards the finish, tripped and rolled down half of the hill during the rush. He leapt, dove, twisted and spun in an attempt to cross the finish line in the precious few seconds he had before the tortoise could claim victory.

In the end, it wasn’t enough. The tortoise took his place as victor, among the cheers of the surrounding crowd. Just above the din, the hare heard the tortoise say:

The tortoise had not won the race.

It was a close thing. The hare had almost thrown it away, with his prolonged nap. But in the end, the hare was fast and nimble, and the tortoise, well. The tortoise kept moving.

The tortoise looked past the finish line.

Perhaps.

Perhaps he should keep moving.

There were a few subdued murmurs from the crowd, as the tortoise pushed his way through their midst. He stepped past the finish line, then past the onlookers, then into the forest beyond. The hare called out mockingly from behind, trying to muster up some courage after his near loss. The tortoise ignored him, and trudged on.

The hare was shaken. He had almost lost everything, thanks to his own hubris. Nearly become the butt of every joke that the sparrows twitted out at noontide. He looked back over the track he had just traversed. One slip, and that would have been it. He had to be better. He had to do better.

The tortoise had started climbing a mountain. It was slow going, but he was persistent. Every so often he would glance over his shoulder and look back at the path he had traveled. Off in the distance, he could usually make out the hare, bounding along the race track. Sometimes with a competitor, sometimes alone. Then the tortoise would return his head to the fore, and wonder at all the interesting new things he found. With each step forward, he found strange new plants, new creatures and beautiful patterns. He would often slow down and stare, soaking in something new and trying to find out how it fit in to the world around him. But he never stopped moving. There was always one more step to take. He made sure to savor each one.

The hare knew the track better than he knew his own burrow. Each day he would run it, dawn to dusk, faster. More perfectly. He had always been quick, but now he was, unequivocably, the fastest. No one else could come close to out-racing the hare. He felt each bump and turn in his sleep. Knew exactly which spots would muddy in the rain. With practice he became lean and strong. Singular. Every day was the same, only faster. Better. He had long since moved past any worry of humiliation. The tortoise was the last thing on his mind. The track was his. The race was his. His only competitor was himself. He counted the heartbeats it took to reach the finish line. Down by two. A new record.

The tortoise looked down from the mountaintop. He had been looking at the stars for so long, he’d almost forgotten what the ground looked like. The wind was different up here. Always new. Not that he planned on staying. There was so much more to see. Sandy dunes to the east. Rolling blue hills to the north. Great craggy ruins to the west. Strange structures which he could not have even imagined, years in the past. But now he could. He was getting much better at imagining, he found. Before descending, he took one last look at the forest he had come from. He saw the hare, on the same track, running the same race, faster than the tortoise would have ever thought possible. He seemed happy. Driven. That was good. As he took another step forward, the tortoise said bemusedly to himself:

Slow and steady doesn’t win the race.

The hare wanted revenge.

Another race! Another race! I’ve been robbed! I’ve been robbed! Day after day, month after month. All the forest creatures were quite sick of it. Initially, the race had been all in good fun. The tortoise had beaten the hare in such a way that gave everyone a nice chuckle, and the hare received many a good ribbing for his unusual racing tactic of “going to sleep”. Then one day, the tortoise had mysteriously disappeared.

Of course, this wasn’t something which the hare could abide. He was entitled to a rematch, and his opponent had up and left without a trace. He fumed and he steamed, muttering to himself for hours while running up and down the race track, before loudly venting his frustrations on whichever animal dared to cross his path. He needed to prove he was faster than the tortoise. He was obviously faster than the tortoise! But now the coward had tumbled away, all to deny him his right to re-challenge! It’s an outrage! An outrage I say!

It took some time, but much to everyone’s relief, the tortoise returned. He had been wandering around, seeing the world with not much goal in mind, at a pace which suited him. He seemed better for it, with glossy skin and a bright shiny shell. The hare wasted no time in challenging the tortoise to a rematch, and the tortoise, much to everyone’s surprise, was quick to accept.

This time, the hare wasn’t playing games. As the fox waved his flag, he was off like a shot. He nailed every turn. Scaled the hill effortlessly. He was two-thirds of the way to the finish line when he lost the race.

The tortoise glanced sideways at the fox. Hey. You know what this is? The back hatch of his shell popped open. Dual chambered Px2000, Mark III. Four exterior nozzles, rotating air compressor. Lateral vents for style. With a brisk click, two slim wings popped out to either side. Oh yeah. The tortoise revved his jet engine. My boys in Santa Monica did a bang up job, yeah? R&D’s been trying to miniaturize this baby for years. I knew they’d get there. You just need a little patience and persistence. Or as I like to say… Well, you can read, can’tcha? The tortoise flicked his sunglasses down. Mind the distance, bud. The back end gets hot.

The tortoise achieved lift off within five seconds. He crossed the finish line within seven. By the minute mark, he had become the first tortoise in the northern hemisphere to break the sound barrier. In a daze, the hare watched as the tortoise flew by, two thin streams of smoke tracing his path across the sky. If he squinted, he could just make out a decal, emblazoned on the tortoise’s newfound wings: