Coach Fitz

by Tom Lee

  The session was six by one kilometres, each kilometre about two-and-a-half laps of the oval. Despite the surface looking impeccable from a distance, closer inspection revealed some variation, with lumpy patches and less cover in some areas. A young family was playing in the cricket nets on the edge of the field, so we had to adjust our loops to accommodate them.

  I started out strong, settling about five metres in front of Morgan. I felt a regained sense of rhythm. It was invigorating to once again feel the density and texture of the ground and a sense of my body accumulating distance as it moved. I held my lead for the first kilometre and rested immediately with my hands on my knees. Morgan wandered around, breathing deeply, hands on his head. We ran on every five minutes. With the first lap taking three minutes and forty seconds, we got about one minute twenty rest. I started strongly again, but I could hear Morgan closer behind. With more effort I managed to keep a similar pace and still finished narrowly in front. We followed the same pattern for the next repetitions, though each became harder and the rest time seemed to finish as soon as it began.

  Things changed for the last two reps. I shot out at the start each time, but at about the 300-metre mark Morgan reeled me in and continued to increase his lead by increments until we finished the kilometre. He rested in the same way, standing tall and wandering in spirals. I wanted to lie on the ground after the fifth rep but managed to stay upright, albeit bent over and puffing heavily. You’re going strong, I managed to gasp.

  Morgan took the lead from the beginning of the final rep. I attempted to stay on his heels and just enjoy the run, the dew on the edges of my feet, the tilt and thrust of my body rounding the bend, the open encouragement of the straights. I watched Morgan’s back, watched him stride out as though a small engine was situated just behind his body, pushing him forward with a hidden extra charge. It seemed less like he was fighting the air with his style, more like something splashing and collecting itself at the same time.

  We lay on the grass together, bodies propped on our hands in the grass and heads tilted up to the sky. The calls from the boot-camp group could still be heard over towards the small grandstand: Keep it going, Jenny, now knee-raises. You’re going well, I said to Morgan again, what are you eating? Mainly oats, he said, and lots of cheese in the evenings. No different really. Chocolate. You’re doing something right, you ran through those nicely. Are you feeling better? he asked. Much, I said. Still a bit dusty towards the end but I’ve got my body back. Ugh, being sick is a nuisance.

  I walked with Morgan back up to Edgecliff Station and said goodbye: I might see you again before the race but otherwise I’ll be in touch. Say hi to Graham, I said, hoping to sense whether Morgan had also resisted sharing the coincidence with his father as well.

  I bought a grapefruit from Harris Farm and walked up Edgecliff Road to where I had sometimes parked the Odyssey to sleep. As I walked I thought about the memories distributed across this area and the sense that if I paid attention to them I possessed a kind of map, which animated the place and gave me a kind of special access. I thought about the apartment where my friend once lived and where I purposely burnt myself on a pair of metal scissors that I had heated in the oven, to bring myself out of a patch of tiredness that was making going to the pub a less appealing prospect; about the birthday party in one of the larger houses where I worked as a waiter, the birthday girl and her family encouraging me to work with my shirt off for an extra fifty dollars. I thought about the cricket nets in Cooper Park that were just down the hill behind the houses on the left side of the road, about the various now forgotten houses where I had washed windows: a temporary trespasser speculating about the lives of the inhabitants based on glimpses of family photographs and other fragments of life seen while cleaning the inside glass.

  By the time I got to where I used to park the Odyssey I had peeled and eaten my grapefruit. I remembered the smells that permeated the car and the deposits of paraphernalia which gave some vague indication of my routines and preferences: little collections of tissue paper, paperclips, coins, apple cores, stray almonds, bottle caps and dried citrus peel in its various pouches and holders. I felt an enduring sense of satisfaction at Morgan’s progress. It was pleasing to know the competitive spirit didn’t only hinge on beating an opponent. I shared in his potential in a way that was similar to the warm feeling I got thinking about certain racehorses I admired. The mere thought of it, the turning over of his capacity in my mind, seemed to fill the future with a sense of possibility, and blotted out the importance I had previously placed on his association with Alex.

  I wandered back down Edgecliff Road thinking about what I might cook my flatmates for dinner: perhaps something with eggplant, maybe a curry? I could make fresh naan bread. What about pasta? Or Mexican beans? I could still make a naan bread and have it with beans? But pasta is very good. This line of thinking seemed to occupy me for the entire trip back until the desire for pasta grew to occupy such a large space in my mind that I found myself in the kitchen making the sauce.

  The Day Before

  I picked up my bib from the Carrington Hotel in Katoomba on the Friday before the race. The Carrington was a majestic nineteenth-century hotel overlooking the rest of the town. There was an atmosphere of excitement at the venue, with runners milling about the veranda enjoying beers and chatting about past events and race strategy. This little pre-race-day ritual made the run a reality in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I looked through the race list and found the number associated with my bib and name: 396. I checked to make sure Morgan was on the list and then, after hesitating for a while, checked the last name Fitzgerald. Her name wasn’t there: Fenton, then Fynch. The man behind the desk said, Make sure you check both columns, and then I saw that the column of names on the right-hand side of the page proceeded alternately in pace with the left – something that for some reason I wanted to tell the man was counter to what people would expect and should be remedied next year. Fenton in the left-hand column, then, on the right, Fitzgerald. I felt an immediate sense of apprehension, which quickly transformed to a feeling of conviction tinged by apprehension. Coach Fitz would be joining us on the starting line. I speculated about her condition, what kind of training she would have been doing, whether she’d focused enough on hills and off-road running, or if she had managed to include more fast downhill-track sessions, which I’d started to believe was the glaring absence in my program with Morgan. Should I ignore her, or act in a sporting fashion and wish her well? Should I make it a race about Coach Fitz, or treat her as just one other runner in a race more about myself, Morgan and the particular challenges of the track?

  I checked into my strange little motel on the highway, thinking of American films involving criminals, guns, listening through thin walls and hiding important items in places around the room. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at my feet and the bad carpet they were resting on. The word pedestal echoed through my head: these poor little buggers on which my entire posture depended, even an injured toe would be enough to entirely transform my gait. My little toes were peculiar-looking things. The toenail was more like a retarded claw. My dad had exactly the same deformity. It looked like a little cartoon composed from rudimentary lines and facial features: Hello little fellow, you and I will take on the Coach. What’s that? Yes, I agree, she is an embarrassment and she will hopefully succumb to the pre-race-day excitement at the Carrington and destroy herself with drink.

  Morgan and Graham were in an Airbnb in Katoomba. We met for dinner at a place called The Garage and shared a huge platter of figs, cheeses, smoked trout, roast vegetables, seasoned chickpeas, some kind of avocado-based dip and crackers. I also got a serving of chips and aioli. I mentioned several times over the course of the evening that some crusty bread would have been the only improvement possible on an otherwise perfect meal and pointed out the awful clock tower that extended from a blond-brick building on the other side of the road. It is an abomination, I said, enjoying the measure of hyperbole in the
word. Graham was looking forward to getting in some birdwatching after he watched the start of the race, and said they’d already seen a lyrebird not far from their house. He would then drive to Jenolan Caves to meet us, and had kindly offered to give me a lift back to Sydney. Sadly Morgan’s mum, Cynthia, was away for work, as often seemed to be the case.

  Morgan seemed focused, perhaps a little nervous, and very hungry. I resisted the urge to share my news about Coach Fitz and instead observed father and son devouring their meals. It was an enthralling spectacle. I imagined the unseen metabolic processes by which the food Morgan ate would be converted into energy that would be expended during the run, and the other processes, dissipated in time yet still persisting, that allowed Graham and Cynthia to produce Morgan and Alex. I was overcome by a deep need to cook for them all, to source ingredients which I would subject to the influences of heat and various techniques of pulverisation, before serving a great meal to the family, and as they ate I would sit and watch contentedly, at once part of the spectacle and yet distinct, watching the food I had prepared become incorporated into their metabolic processes and perhaps even their dreams, as they lay in bed at night, shreds of consciousness still flickering in their otherwise dormant bodies.

  Would you like some of my dip? asked Morgan. The two of them looked at me while they chewed. No, no, I’m fine, I said, scraping the last of the aioli with a chip and turning to look up at the clock tower.

  Sleep like a log, said Graham, as we parted. Yeah, sleep well, said Morgan. You too, I said, and walked with a rare sense of purpose into the rapidly cooling, unmistakeably autumnal evening.

  I prepared my race-day kit back at the motel, exorcising my anxiety through folding and placing my clothes in different locations, pinning my bib to my singlet and laying out breakfast things for a quick meal and tea before the run. I decided on a light meal of rolled oats with milk and sultanas and a cup of black tea. I prepared my race-day playlist and checked the various apparatuses, such as the waterproof sleeve for my phone and my tiny backpack in which I placed several sesame bars and some cash for coffee after the race.

  I’d picked up a book about the 1970s from a stack on the side of the road, and lay in bed reading about the fraught making of Apocalypse Now. I couldn’t help composing an alternate narrative that ran alongside my reading which featured Coach Fitz as a combination of Colonel Kurtz in the film and the overweight and cantankerous Marlon Brando. I imagined Coach appearing on race day with a freshly shaven head, globs of sunscreen around her ears, her bird-like body darting swiftly through the bush like one of the bush turkeys that were beginning to appear more frequently in the parks around Sydney. We faced each other partially submerged, in the brown, sandy water of a river, Coach’s eyes just above the surface.

  I was disappointed to wake in the night after another subconscious ejaculation. I traced back through the contents of my dream, perplexed such imagery could stir this kind of physiological response. I had been teaching Morgan how to shoot a bow and arrow. The arrows were transparent, made of perspex or glass and filled with water. We grappled with the weapon together. He guided me through the appropriate poses, wrapping my body in his as we looked down the arrow together, out over the gentle swell of some anonymous beach. Satisfied that I had now learnt the art, Morgan began to walk away, and as he did he transformed into a somewhat feminine boy from my high school who matured rapidly in the later years while still retaining some of his feminine traits like smooth skin, large eyelashes and a high-pitched voice. I aimed the arrow at his body and shot, the arrow lifted on its trajectory and struck him in the back of the head, breaking in two and leaking its fluid out onto the ground. The front half of the arrow was fixed in the back of his skull. He reached up to it with his hand and turned to face me in disbelief. The dream then transformed unaccountably into another sequence of events related to the first only by the beachfront setting, involving the dislodging of a great whale wedged into a gap between some rocks deep beneath the ocean.

  Race Day

  I woke at 5.50 a.m., had my breakfast and began the short jog along the highway to the start line at the Explorers Tree. It was still dark at the beginning of the jog but by the time I got to the tree the first of the daylight revealed runners emerging from houses and cars around the area. A great variety of styles of sportswear, body type and equipment was on view: some runners with multiple tubes spraying out from the sides of their backpacks and drink bottles tucked into any spare patch of cloth, while others wore nothing but a light singlet and cap.

  A dirt trail led from the highway through the bush to the marshalling area, where a crowd gathered beneath a large banner. A man on a microphone talked continuously and music played in the background. I looked for Morgan and Graham but couldn’t find them so I pushed my way through the crowd towards the starting line, ready to start the race solo if necessary. The gathering of bodies in the bush bounced and stretched, at once unified and multiple, producing a palpable elevation in temperature and a vaguely detectable moistness. The surrounding movements induced a sense of shared agitation and I couldn’t help but look for Morgan in a frenetic, distracted fashion. I closed my eyes and attempted to compose myself in the crowd. The man on the microphone said we were inside a minute. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned. It was Coach. She waved in my face, Good luck in the run, Tom, the Six Foot Track! I nodded and said good luck, turning again to the front, my nerves edging from a pleasant sense of anticipation towards nausea. I felt another tap on my shoulder and turned to find Morgan, face glistening with sunscreen and sebum, hair tucked behind his ears and eyes partially shaded by a blue baseball cap. I smiled and pointed to Coach, who looked at Morgan and waved. Morgan looked at me, then I saw him lean across a couple of bodies in-between, grab the front of Coach’s shirt and say, with a smile which conveyed a great certainty, I’m young and I’ll eat you alive, then a pause, take it with grace. And Morgan returned to his upright position in the crowd, leaving Coach to compute the significance, not so much of the meaning of this interjection, but of what might have driven Morgan to make it. Or at least this is how I imagined things in the peculiarly fleeting and yet elongated period that at once seemed to dissipate and extend in the final countdown. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one and we’re off.

  The first part of the run was particularly hairy, a steep, muddy downhill, some parts with stairs, others with loose vines. The track was only wide enough to run in single file, with a small space for overtaking if the front runner moved to the side. There was plenty of chat about people running slower than each other’s grandmothers, and sometimes compelling, sometimes desperate expressions of camaraderie. I quickly lost any sense of where Morgan or Coach were.

  The slick, narrow trail opened up onto a wider, sandy track where I felt more comfortable. I picked up the pace and found myself sailing past a few runners. I wondered at this point whether I was pushing it too hard, thinking I was running at about half-marathon pace. I wanted to capitalise on the speed afforded by this type of terrain, and yet I was aware it was all about keeping it together on the ‘back nine’. I kept up the pace, buoyed on by the feeling of passing other runners with relative ease.

  The terrain opened up even further and I went from being a runner who was part of a pack to a runner alone, facing the persistent internal analysis of my mind: was my state now a good indication of how I would feel later? Were the two unrelated? How do I feel now compared to other runs I have been on? Would I continue to feel more limber? Or was this the peak, the best it was going to get?

  I was now running through what were more or less paddocks. I could see the runners in front of me spaced out on the coming hills and valleys, almost as though they occupied an alternate reality, a picture on the page of a book. There were always footsteps and breathing behind me but I never looked around. We went up and down hills and valleys, across small streams, the track bent tightly around rocks and roots, smells emerging of smoke and the refreshing cinnamo
n-citrus of eucalypts as they began to dry out in the day.

  By the time we got to the Coxs River the seeds of doubt that I’d been able to repress earlier in the run were now starting to flourish. I waded across the river, annoyed by its wetness and by my sloppy, heavy shoes for the run up the steep mongrel of a fire trail to come.

  Every three kilometres there was a drink station with surprisingly enthusiastic and encouraging firefighters pointing out the different kinds of refreshment and nutrition on the fold-out tables before them: water on this side, sports drink on the other, banana, watermelon and lolly snakes. You’re going well, mate! I looked up at the climb before me, legs oddly immobile, as though some toxin had begun to crystallise in the muscle and I was now, as I began the ascent, starting to turn to stone.

  Runners went past, one, two, three, four, moving slowly but with comparative ease. At first the sight of the constantly growing gap they opened up in front of me added to my suffering, but before long it didn’t bother me and I came to the decision I must run my own race. The course itself was my competitor.

  The sky became more prominent as I trudged onwards: the clearest and most striking blue, about as dark as a blue sky got, but bright. The trees thinned, the ground became lighter and eventually I reached what appeared to be the ridgeline. I heard steps and breathing and put my head down to ignore yet more salt in my wounds. Give us a smile, cobber! It was Coach, her stride still long, legs moving smoothly. The punishment of the run had lulled me into a volatile combination of obsequiousness and frustration. I yelled good luck, concerned more by my own plight and the twenty-odd kilometres I still had to run than by Coach’s seeming success. I watched her gradually gap me until before long she disappeared altogether.