The Front Runner

by Patricia Nell Warren

  "Are we going to live like this from now on?" he asked me.

  "I hope not," I said.

  "You know," he said, "I'm dying for that race on Sunday, but I'm also dying to go home."

  Right there at the Games, he received two lucrative film offers. One was from M-G-M, to do a feature film about an athlete. The other was from European di­rector Luigi Servi, to do a feature film about gays. The M-G-M offer he turned down immediately—he couldn't do it and stay an amateur., Two book pub­lishers wanted to bid for his memoirs. He put all these people off, saying he needed time to think about it. And he and Armas Sepponan received a $100,000 offer each from the International Track Association to join the pro tour. Both he and Armas said flatly, "No."

  In the 5,000-meter heats, Billy and Armas quali­fied easily for the final. Bob Dellinger made the final too, but Mike Stella missed.

  All around us, you could hear people talking up the

  5,000 final on Sunday like no other event. Even the glamour of the 1,500 event was being eclipsed.

  Some incredible bets were being made. Steve Good­night had recklessly bet a rich conservative American track buff $10,000 that Billy would win the 10,000 meter. "Good thing I won," he told me, "because I didn't have $10,000." Now they were renewing the bet—$5,000 for the 5,000 meter.

  On Saturday, when I saw Billy, he was oddly sub­dued and tense.

  "I'm going to come out tonight," he said, "and we'll spend the night together. I really need you. I didn't sleep good last night. Another night like that and Armas will blast me off the track tomorrow. Everything is getting to be too much."

  Early that evening, John cleared out of his room and I waited for Billy there. The bodyguards and Vince brought Billy to the hotel, and we all searched the room for bombs, and then the bodyguards left and camped in the corridor outside.

  We locked the door, and were alone for the first time in more than a week.

  Billy was curiously quiet and keyed-up. He slipped off his brown split-suede jacket and prowled around the room, stopping to look out the big window. Eve­ning was just coming. The sky was rose-red and the city lights and smog of Montreal spread out to the horizon.

  I just watched him, waiting for him to unwind. He was dressed up a little for once. He had on a soft blue silk shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and gray knit slacks with flared cuffs that showed off his long legs and small rear end to perfection.

  It struck me how much he had matured in the twenty-one months we'd known each other. Love, strug­gle and hard work had burned all the last traces of coltishness out of him. A certain blurred youthfulness was gone from his face, leaving it defined, burnished, expressive. He was twenty-four now, or would be on September ninth. He was very much a man, very much my peer.

  As he moved around the room, I couldn't take my eyes off him, loving his quietness, his hardness, his seriousness.

  "Foxes," he said. "Rubbing up my thigh all week."

  I laughed a little. "Has that got you bothered?"

  "It makes me remember what I really like."

  We stood by the window a little, looking out at the lights. He pulled the gold medal out of his pocket and put it in my hand. "It's yours," he said. "Keep it."

  I laid it on the dresser.

  "I keep trying not to think about tomorrow," he said. "I have to do it again, and I don't know if I can. When I came out of the last turn in the 10,000, I was dead. I reached down and there was nothing. Good thing he was dead too."

  "You've got one up on him," I said. "He's thinking about how you beat him once, and how you might do it again."

  We talked for a while about the race, and slowly his apprehension eased. We decided that he wouldn't try to run away this time. He'd set a slower pace at first, but fast enough to drain Armas steadily. Then starting at 3,000 meters he'd stage a long drive to burn off Armas' kick in the last half-mile.

  Finally, wordlessly, he kissed me on the mouth. Then he moved away from the window, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. Shrugging it off, he threw it over a chair. In the soft lamplight, he was a living anatomy lesson.

  "You're in a heavy mood," I said, taking off my tie.

  "I've got a real load on," he said. He smiled a little, with that seductive ruttish look in his eyes. "If we don't get it off me, I'm gonna be like with five pounds of lead in my jock strap tomorrow."

  He stripped off his slacks and his snug, white cotton briefs. Jerking the bedcovers all the way off the bed, he lay down on the sheet. To tease him a little, I took my time, taking off my own trousers and under­pants. He lay there propped on one elbow, twitching pleasantly with impatience, running his free hand up and down his flank.

  "Come on," he said. His eyes were level and hot as two blue-gray flames of pure oxygen.

  "Coming," I said, trying not to smile.

  He kept caressing himself, rolling his head back and forth, and his body flexed and writhed a little on the sheet.

  I stood naked at the foot of the bed, lifted one of his bare feet and inspected his sole. "How are those blisters? Hm, they look pretty good. Parker takes good care of you."

  He laughed with exasperation and jerked his foot away from me. Rolling over on his stomach, he rubbed and writhed himself into the sheet. Then, with a lithe, slow twist, he was over on his back again, his whole body wringing with need and life. He seethed with that effervescent peak that would last maybe two weeks more before going flat, like a living champagne. I just stood there admiring him, making him admire me, play­ing with myself to tease him more.

  "They mixed up your birth certificate," I said. "You're a flaming Scorpio."

  "Astrology is a lot of crap," he said.

  I lay slowly down by him, and we embraced with an exhalation of relief, rolling slowly this way and that, our thighs tangled and gripping. We made love with slow, deliberate, obscene tenderness. There was the sureness of the thousandth time we had done these things. There was even something of the sharpness of that first time eighteen years ago, in the theater with the youth in the red jacket. Slowly we doubled and twined and kneeled and slid on the bed. We didn't speak ex­cept to whisper some request. My whole life was in every touch of his mouth or hands on my body. Just his warm hair brushing my thighs made me shake all over. At first our bodies were dry, but shortly an iri­descent sweat came out on us. We kept looking at each other. His face was grave, absorbed, alight.

  Finally, when we'd prolonged it till we hurt, we let ourselves get frantic. We lost control then. I remem­ber, with a terrible clarity, the heat of his driving body on my back, and the low gasping animal cries that he gave as he came, and his weight on me for a long time after, lips against my neck, hair falling forward on both our heads.

  Finally he drew a sigh. "That was worth waiting a week and running a world record for."

  We took a shower together and horsed around a little, laughing. Then we pulled bathrobes on, and I phoned down to order our dinner sent up.

  Billy ate hungrily, going heavy on potatoes and other carbohydrates to finish the glycogen-packing. He was now his usual relaxed self. We talked as if we were home, about the plans we had for the gay studies pro­gram, about how we'd defend our privacy, about things we'd like to do.

  "Steve wants us to come out to Fire Island before the seasons ends," I said. "You've never seen it in the fall. It's beautiful."

  "I'll bet," he said, his eyes sparkling. "Are there big storms in the fall too?"

  He took off his robe and slipped the chain of the gold medal over his head. It looked indecently beauti­ful on his bare chest. He walked around a little with macho seductiveness.

  "I never knew you were so perverse," I said.

  He laughed. "Neither did I." He took the medal off.

  We went back to bed and had another mild one. Then we lay together talking, the blanket over us. He was deeply relaxed now, his eyes soft and vague. Our conversation turned to the direction his next few years of running would take.

  "I'd like to try the marathon again," he sa
id. "I ran a 2:22 that summer with Vince, in the Golden Gate. With the speed I've got now, I ought to be able to do a 2:12 right off."

  The vaguest unease crossed my mind. It was one of the rare occasions when he mentioned those years with Vince. As always, I asked myself if they'd been lovers, and then asked myself what difference it made—except that Vince was still around and could conceivably someday take him away from me. His friendship with Vince had outlasted any of his loves, including (so far) his for me.

  Out loud, I agreed about the marathon. It's axiomat­ic in running that the outstanding 10,000 man is often outstanding as a marathoner, because the same type of training works for both.

  I teased him a little. "You just want to run mara­thons because it's more miles."

  He laughed, warm against me. "You should have seen Vince and me. We were a couple of nuts. Vince had never ran farther than fifteen miles. The most I'd done was about twenty. But we were very sure of our­selves. We went out at a 5-minute pace and we were just having a ball. We were in second place, running to­gether. Then along about sixteen miles, Vince's knees started hurting. I think his knee troubles date from that race. Anyway, he couldn't hold the pace and he told me to go on. So I did, and I thought, this is a snap. I was on for about a 2:16. Then the guy in the lead, Gerry Moore, eased up a little and I passed him. Gee wow, I thought, I'm gonna win this thing. And then about the 22-mile mark, I just fell apart."

  We were both laughing, in each other's arms.

  "That man with the hammer really knocked me on the head," said Billy. "So of course I had to ease off, and Moore passed me, and a couple other guys passed me. I came in fourth with a 2:22.35, and I felt so bad after the race that I couldn't eat. Poor Vince walked in, I think he got a 2:50. That was his last marathon. He says the marathon is too goddamn far."

  "Well," I said, "you've been a good boy, so I'll let you run a marathon or two, and we'll see how you do."

  "Maybe you could run them with me. You could run unofficially. I'd like that."

  "I couldn't stay up with you. I could do a 2:45, maybe."

  He was gazing softly, getting sleepy. "We have to start thinking about 1980. We could double in the 10,000 and the marathon that time."

  "You're going to be a busy father by then," I said.

  "Yeah," he said. "We have to start fox-hunting when we get back."

  I gave him a massage. He kept saying it felt so good.

  "Poor Vince," he said softly, his eyes closed. "He ought to find somebody. He's so alone."

  Suddenly he was asleep, breathing slowly and shal-lowly like a child. It was about quarter of ten. Quietly I turned out the bedside light, and lay down by him carefully so that he didn't wake up. Sleepy and relaxed myself, I drifted straight off.

  How many more times would I have embraced him that night, how many more times would I have kissed him, if I had known the name of that stranger lover who was already in Montreal, who had already bought his stadium ticket from a scalper for the 5,000 to­morrow?

  That implacable lover who was going to turn Billy's eyes away from me forever.

  18

  It was just a few minutes before the 5,000 final began.

  Those minutes, plus the thirteen-odd minutes that the race would last, and another day, and we could all go home.

  The twelve runners were jogging up and down the track, keeping warm and loose until the moment the officials told them to go to the line. In the infield, the high-jump finals were going on. The marathon was out being run on its 26.2-mile course through Montreal, and would finish up here later. Right after the 5,000 the 1,500 final would be rap—the race that Vince should have been in, and wasn't.

  The murmur of the stadium spilled down onto the track. Nobody was watching the high jumpers. They were all watching the two slender runners jogging around, Billy and Armas Sepponan. I knew that the eye of the TV cameras would be fixed on them. Via satel­lite, their image would be flashed to millions of viewers in dozens of countries. It was safe to say that the entire civilized world was looking at Billy at that moment.

  He was unaware, inward, alert, as he jogged along the straight; then wheeled gently and came back. His number 928 was pinned to his breast. Dellinger passed him jogging the other way, but they didn't look at each other.

  Vince was by me, wearing his sleeveless jerkin. Next to him was Mike Stella, who had bombed out in the 5,000 heats.

  Vince looked at me. "Harlan, right now he's not even thinking about you." He smiled a little.

  "I hope not," I said.

  The crowd's murmur grew. The officials were motioning the runners to the line. They stood there in a ragged little row, loose, doing their final psychs, hands on hips, looking around a little. Then their line straightened, crisp, military, each man bent and toe­ing the mark.

  We scarcely heard the starter's pistol as the crowd yelled them off.

  I sat there keeping track of Billy's laps. This time around, I was a bit more relaxed. Possibly, as I looked back on it, it was the months of fatigue setting in. Even if he loses, I was thinking, he'll still have the gold from the 10,000. Very likely he'll get a silver or a bronze here. It won't be a great tragedy, really. He will have made his point.

  With his usual cheerful willingness to be the guinea pig, Billy had put his body up front. He was clipping along at a near-world record pace. He wasn't running away this time, just teasing them on at that punishing tempo. The field went with him, Sepponan running in next-to-last place. They were nicely bunched. Billy purled them through the first 3,000 meters, averag­ing 62 seconds a lap.

  At 3,000 Billy shook up the field by accelerating sharply. They started stringing out behind him. The next lap he gave them a 58.1. Doggedly, Bob Dellinger had moved into the No. 2 slot, and Seppo­nan was forced to start moving up.

  "Here we go," said Vince. "The show's on."

  In the next lap, Billy raised the ante to 57.3. With the runners well into the last half of the race, the crowd noise was swelling. So intense was their concen­tration that you didn't feel the usual "dead space" that the crowd sometimes feels in these long-distance races on the track.

  The field, a little shaken by his display of confidence, was really stringing out now, and Sepponan moving up on the outside. Billy led by thirty yards. Dellinger struggled gamely to stay ahead of Armas, then let go, and Armas was in the clear.

  The crowd had surged to its feet and the yell had risen to its Olympic shriek—that massed yell of humanity that you hear only at the Games, high-pitched, deafening as the keening of a hurricane wind.

  They went into the next-to-last lap. Now it was Billy and Armas's race, with the rest trailing and shat­tered. Armas was kicking, rapidly closing the gap be­tween himself and Billy. Vince had his hand clenched on my arm so tightly that it might have hurt had I been more aware.

  Through my glasses, I watched that distant pale figure, stretched out in full flight, with his long hanging slow stride. His sweaty face was as calm as if he were swinging along a trail in the woods. Mike was yelling hoarsely and jumping half out of his seat. Betsy was shrieking on the other side of me.

  They came streaking down the straight and into the final lap. The bell clanged. Their long legs were de­vouring the track. Armas was now fifteen yards behind Billy. Billy had forced him to start his kick early, but still ... I started wondering. It was possible that we had gambled wrong, and that Billy should have tried a runaway after all. He possibly was going to kill himself with this last blazing lap, and fade near the finish, let­ting Armas gun him down.

  Billy turned his head quickly and saw Armas haul­ing him down. Incredibly he accelerated again. Every­one around us seemed to be going berserk.

  Vince and Mike weren't yelling any more, just sit­ting and staring.

  "This last lap," said Vince, "is going to be murder. They're sprinting."

  "Yeah," I said numbly, "it looks like it's going to be under 50 seconds. The last mile is going to be under 4."

  I thought distracted
ly of the rare occasions when a last lap like this was run. Juha Vaatainen in the Hel­sinki Games 10,000 meter in 1971. Marty Liquori and Jim Ryun in the Martin Luther King Games.

  The two of them swept into the first turn of the last lap. In the infield, the high jumpers had knocked off because they couldn't concentrate. For a few moments, all I could see through my glasses were the two men's sweat-soaked backs. Annas' hair flopped wetly, and ahead, Billy's curls lifted moistly.

  Then, as they rounded the turn, their profiles came into view. They were both hurting now, and both blocking that hurt. Armas' face was twisted into a gri­mace. Billy's face was still smooth, but the pain was in his eyes, in his open mouth with the teeth showing slightly, in the slight rhythmic jerk of his head.

  They stormed into the backstraight, Armas now five yards behind.

  I felt that deep prickling rise of my hackles, as al­ways on the few occasions when Billy really awed me. Actually, they both awed me. We were watching some elemental force of nature, a storm at sea, a volcano erupting, an earthquake.

  So much history, so many lives, went into each of their strides. From centuries of genes and family affairs to the last red corpuscle crammed in at high altitude. In Billy's case, I knew the factors more intimately: the clash about his training, the hills on the Prescott trails, the kiss in the movie theater, my efforts to shield his peace of mind, right down to the tender loving and the massage last night. Even the people who'd hassled him had helped forge his stubbornness. It was all being put together now.

  As his great strides gulped up the backstraight, I could see him again on the Prescott track that first morning, reeling out those beautiful 60-second quar­ters. I could hear him saying, "I'm thinking of the Olympics," and myself saying, "That's a big order."

  As they went into the last turn, I stood dead silent, with chills running up and down me. They were both splendid as the sun, terrible as an army with banners. There was no doubt in the mind of anybody in that stadium that this was going to be one of the great runs, and a record at the end of it that would stand for a long time.