CROWDS come to tangible hush, tension rises like bile in the throats of the runners, and the chosen five take a stance of readiness as they grip the handles of their frying pans in nervous anticipation.

A distant mayoral voice exclaims the word ‘go’ and they abide – cutting up Parsonage Street in a blur of colourful motion.

In amongst the blur you can make out a Lion. He’s on a lead. He crouches to retrieve a pancake from the floor. Passing him at speed is a bank manager in trainers.

I am talking, obviously, about Dursley’s annual pancake race, a tournament of strength, agility and determination that took place at midday today.

Scores may turn out to take part but there can only be one winner – and I wasn’t about to put in several months of training to aim for second place.

The competition was fierce. Three heats decided who placed in the final five.

The runners had to flip their pancake once before starting off then a further six times during the course of the race.

My own cake – made ingeniously with self-rising flour for a thick, American finished product – flipped like a dream. After soaring through my heat like a majestic eagle I was ready for the final.

Do you remember when Usain Bolt won his first gold in the 100 metres?

As Dursley’s mayor Jane Ball gave the word – flip – I left the starting line like a pinball – flip – and as the soles of my work shoes slapped on the concrete of Parsonage street – flip – and all I could hear were the shouts and cheers of the gathered crowds – flip - I saw – flip – just ahead of me – flip – two young men – flip – glide across the finish line to take gold and silver.

Flip.

Yes, alas, I returned to the Gazette office with my head bowed and bronze medal around my neck, pathetically excusing myself with comments about my work shoes.

The better man – or rather, better men – did win.

My pancake, in pan, sits at the end of my desk as I write this – and while it could, to some, be a reminder of loss, to me it is something else.

That proud pancake, to me, is a reminder that in just twelve months I can take to Parsonage Street again and flip my way to victory.