Fierce as the Wind

by Tara Wilson Redd

  Everyone crowds around me. They’re all eating barbecue, and the smell makes me sick.

  “You’re at 5:53,” Rei tells me. “You’re doing great.”

  5:53. That means my bike time was, what, 4:40 or something?

  I’m doing freaking amazing.

  But things are going south.

  I am walking, still walking, back to transition. I finally make it.

  “Give her some room,” X says, shooing everyone away. My neighbors ignore him as I’m putting on my socks and shoes.

  “You can do it!”

  “You are so fast!”

  “Do you want a beer?”

  “No!” X shouts. “Uncles!”

  “Get out of the way,” Dad scolds them.

  X sits down next to me, and I consider asking him to help me with my shoes. But I can do it. I have to do it myself. I take a sip of water, then dump the rest of the bottle over my head.

  My hands are shaking.

  Tie these shoes. I’m losing time.

  One foot. Just do one foot.

  One foot done.

  Now the other.

  Done.

  Now stand.

  I get to my knees, and my legs will not get up. I biked too hard. I’m screwed.

  X stands up as my dad comes over, and then it’s just me and Dad. It’s eerily quiet over by the barbecue, and I know everyone is watching. I put my face in my hands, but I’m too dehydrated to even cry.

  I try to pull myself up on the pole of the tent.

  It’s not happening.

  “Dad, I can’t. I can’t do it,” I say. I’m frozen.

  “Drink some water,” he says. “Take a minute. I’m watching the time. I’ll tell you when a minute is up.”

  I sit there for a full minute, but it feels like an hour.

  “Now try,” he says. I get to my knees. I wobble. I stand.

  “You’re wearing your nice leg,” I say.

  “I don’t usually wear this one because it’s for running. Let’s go,” he says. “We can start with walking.”

  “You can’t run a marathon,” I say.

  “No,” he says. “But I think you can.”

  Run

  We walk for a mile, and then the walking becomes a jog.

  “When did you start running?” I ask.

  “You said I should try. And I thought maybe you were right.”

  “How often?”

  “Only a few times a week,” he says. “Just a few miles. I’m old. Start slow.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because sometimes when you’re old, you’re embarrassed to try. I say to you, ‘Just try college.’ How can you listen to that when I won’t try either? And you were right: I can do it.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I say.

  “Well. All you can do is try.”

  We run quietly for two more miles, counted out on the pavement in spray paint. At first I was dragging behind him. Now he’s lagging behind me.

  “You good?” he asks.

  “I’m good,” I say. I am. I’m running smoothly, if not fast. “Thank you. For everything. I know you don’t get it, but I need this race.”

  “Do you remember? You said that when you started,” he says, and we slow to a walk. “You said you needed this race like the wind needs the trees. And it took me all these months you’ve been doing this to figure out what I want to say to you.”

  He stops completely, panting and out of breath. I’m okay. But I stop. I need to hear this.

  “I thought I’d tell you after. But I will tell you now,” he says. “You are wrong about the wind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think the wind needs the trees to show people it exists? The trees are how we see the wind. The wind doesn’t need them at all. The wind is free.”

  “You’re right.”

  “You are so like the wind. Wind is created by change. Hot to cold. Wind is affected by everything on this planet. And you…you feel so much. You love so much. I don’t understand why, but it’s true. You don’t need to see it in the trees to know that. You don’t need to see it in this race to know that. You know it because that’s who you are.

  “But you do see it in the trees. And you do see it in this race. And I’m glad, because now I can see it too.”

  “Dad,” I say. X pulls up on Lani’s scooter and stops a respectful distance back. I wave at him and he rides up.

  “My dad needs a lift.”

  “You okay?” X asks. I look at the ground. I’m standing on the marker for Mile 3. I remember when I couldn’t even run this far, that day on the track.

  “See you at the finish line,” I say.

  * * *

  Mile 5. I’m fine. Mile 6. I’m okay. Mile 7. I’m dying. It’s Lani’s turn again on the bike, and she peps me up with water and energy chews, but I can barely swallow, and the idea of eating or drinking makes me nauseous. I know I have to. I take a water bottle. I’ll carry it. I put snacks in my zipper pouch. Butt snacks. Technically lower back snacks, I hear Rei say in my head. Mile 8. I’m fine. Mile 9. I’m okay. Mile 10. I’m going down again. I have no idea how long it has been, but I’m basically walking with a half-hearted bounce. I hear my shoes scraping the pavement with every step. I can’t get enough air.

  My friends buzz by more often on the bike, but I wave them off every time. I don’t need anything but a new pair of legs. I screwed myself by getting mad on the bike. My time is going to be terrible.

  I refuse to get upset. I keep going.

  * * *

  I reach 13.1, which Wyatt has painted in pink on the sidewalk. I stop completely and look at it as I catch my breath, hands on my knees, which feel like they are full of water. There’s a smudged-up drawing all around the number. My friends must have come out here with chalk last night. It’s a little messed up, but I can read it. It says “You can do it.” There are a few messages in languages I can’t read. Uncles? I’m guessing they all say something encouraging. Mr. Kalani drew a beautiful sunflower. I hope they took a picture.

  Someone, probably Trinity, drew a bunch of stick figures who appear to be running, and one lagging way behind. There’s an arrow pointing to it that says “you.” I laugh.

  Rei drew a trophy and wrote “Cutest kit on the course award.” Lani drew a cat saying “I can haz snickers?” X wrote “World’s Best Talented Amateur.”

  I look back toward camp. I can do this.

  * * *

  Mile 15. Trinity delivers my special needs bag. I take everything out of it. Food, Band-Aids, everything. Then I look at it, because I don’t know what I actually need. It just seems like something in there must be able to help me.

  “Okay?” asks Trinity.

  “I’ll take this,” I say, grabbing a hair tie. I have five more around my wrist. I hand everything back. At this point, my brain isn’t functioning well enough to get my shoes off and on again. If my feet are bleeding, I’ll have to let them bleed.

  Trinity speeds off.

  I hope that wasn’t a mistake.

  * * *

  Mile 21. I have no idea where the miles in between went. My knee is bleeding. I must have tripped. Did I get more water? I don’t remember. Did I eat? So much for a fueling strategy. Someone must have come by. My legs are on fire and yet feel heavier than lead. My mouth is full of scum, thick mucus I can’t spit out.

  But I’ve been here before, and pushed through it before. I know there’s a place past this, and I’m strong enough to get there. I don’t think I can. I know I can.

  I can be here and miserable and in pain as long as I need to be.

  It’s okay. I am okay.

  For the first time, I realize I’m alone.

  There’s no one here with me, in my h
ead. There’s nothing I’m keeping out, because there’s nothing there. Some miles back, everything fell away. I didn’t even notice. The thing I thought I was racing toward is gone. It isn’t him.

  And it isn’t college, it isn’t being a painter, it isn’t traveling.

  What I’m looking for isn’t at the finish line. It’s here. I’m looking for here, right now, feeling this strong. Feeling complete. I’m not racing toward anything. I’m just racing. And it’s perfect.

  I can do this. I will.

  The hills around me are painted in brushstrokes that are mine. The road I see is not a dead end but a beginning. My wheat fields are around me. My crows are flying. And I’m the wind, making it all come alive.

  * * *

  My legs are heavy. I can’t hear anything but my own breathing, nearly gasping.

  I see X and Rei holding either side of the yellow finish-line tape. Wyatt is looking at his watch, swinging his arm wildly. Lani and Trinity are jumping up and down. My neighbors and Tua are applauding and shouting. Dad is standing with his arms crossed, watching me, back in his duct-taped plastic leg. Stubborn, I think.

  It is a quarter mile. My legs are quaking. It is yards. My heart hurts. It is feet.

  It is mine.

  Recovery

  I thought I’d pass out two feet past the finish line, but I need to move. My adrenaline is so high I know I’ll never sleep again.

  11 hours. 14 minutes. That’s me. I am 11 hours and 14 minutes and all the work it took to get there and so much more.

  I’m wearing the yellow finish-line tape around my neck. I am soaked. Trinity needed to dump an entire container of Gatorade over my head, so I let her. I drink so much water. Then, even though I can barely stand, Dad hands me a bottle of André “champagne” and helps me up onto the bed of the truck. I turn around and look down at our group.

  “What do I do with it?” I ask.

  “Shake it!” he says. They’ve all got waxy blue cups courtesy of Tua, hopefully full of something better than this.

  “To Miho!” Dad says. And they all cheer.

  I shake the bottle and it sprays everywhere.

  “Can I get down now?” I ask.

  “You may, but can you?” X asks.

  “I’m…not sure.”

  X helps me down. It’s amazing that I can still walk. I feel so awake. All those miles haven’t caught up to me yet.

  And then my knees buckle. Wyatt grabs me before I hit the ground, and Rei pulls me back to my feet.

  “You need to sit down,” X tells me.

  “I need to eat all the foods,” I say. “And take all the showers.”

  * * *

  I’m in dry clothes at last: lavender joggers and a brand-new Almond Blossom hoodie. Perfect post-race power costume. Rei had to help me change; I couldn’t get my sports bra over my head. Having your best girlfriend help you put on underwear in the not-remotely-private cab of a pickup is a new bond that can’t be broken.

  As my friends break into my dad’s barbecue and what they assure the grown-ups is their very first beer ever, I check my phone. My lock screen is overflowing with notifications, messages from friends I didn’t know I had. The women from the tri club. The boys at the pizza shop. Kids I hardly know from school. A cousin in California texted to say they were following the live-tweet of my race.

  What live-tweet?

  I search online. It’s easy to find: the first annual Miho-man. Updates, pictures, video. A ridiculous number of likes and retweets. I got a mention from the woman who won the world championship last year. All these people were cheering for me, and I didn’t even know.

  “Are you mad about the Twitter?” X asks, peering over my shoulder.

  I take a piece of Hawaiian roll off his plate. I chew the tiniest piece. I put it back. Not happening. So nauseous.

  “I’m not mad,” I tell him. “It seems like it’s about someone else.”

  “But it’s not. You did all those things. And, one more thing…don’t freak out, okay? This one is totally private,” X says, handing me his phone.

  “What is it?”

  “We made an Instagram account when we first started and shared the username so we could show each other pictures. It’s yours now. You can delete it or whatever, but you can also keep it and use it. If you want.”

  I scroll through the account they made. It’s locked, and my only followers are my friends. It’s moments I don’t even remember, all those training day memories, snapped when I wasn’t looking, my head down and sweat dripping off my nose. It’s my graduation, my birthday hike, my dog being genuine internet gold. It’s me wearing my very own Pipeline Tri Club hoodie in this giant shaka-throwing group melee around my bike. It’s today. My friends with signs, the pig in the pit, Dad toppling the grill, my uncles. My family. Kyle, who changed the chalkboard sign at the shop to congratulations miho on her first miho-man. It’s me in the water, on the bike, running. My finish line. The last picture is me and X, his arm wrapped around me, my shoulders draped with yellow tape, the perfect Hawai’i of postcards beyond us.

  “It’s all phony, like you always say. But it’s also all real. So it’s all as real as anyone else’s phony,” he says. “We thought you’d like to remember.”

  “Thank you,” I say, giving his phone back.

  “Does it feel real?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, laughing. I gesture to my legs. “It feels real bad!”

  “And Scumbucket?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did winning fix your broken heart?”

  I smile. “I don’t really believe in fixing anymore. I believe in change.”

  For a second I wonder what Scumbucket is doing. It doesn’t hurt. It’s something I can touch, pick up, and put down without falling down that hill of despair. The baby must be due soon. I wonder who he became this summer. I wonder if he’s happy. He’ll always be out there, but it doesn’t matter to me anymore.

  The wind picks up and starts blowing tents away. We rush to help secure hot dog buns and loose beer cans.

  * * *

  “The time has come to reveal the bets,” Wyatt says. He hands Rei a sealed envelope, which she looks through. She smiles and clears her throat.

  “Bets were closed this morning before the race began. Shall we begin?”

  “Yes!” we all shout.

  “Mr. Oshiro. Fifteen hours. Mr. Bu. Fifteen hours. Mr. Kalani. Fifteen hours.”

  “Hey!” my neighbors shout.

  “Uncle Tua. Ten hours. Optimistic, Tua!”

  “I’m putting ‘Pizzas delivered by the winner of the first annual Miho-man’ on the door,” he tells me.

  “Please no,” I say.

  “Oh yes. We can put ‘Official pizza of Miho-man’ on the signs too.”

  “Ahem,” Rei says before I can protest. “Mr. Miho’s Dad. Eleven and a half hours.”

  “Close!” I say. “That’s gotta be the winner.”

  “Well, let’s see. Lani. Fourteen hours. X. Twelve hours. Rei. Thirteen and a half hours. Kyle. Thirteen hours. Oh, shoot, can someone text Kyle? He asked me to send him the finishing time.”

  “What about me?” Trinity asks impatiently.

  “You bet nine hours, you psycho.”

  “Obviously, I believed in you the most,” Trin tells me. I want to hug her, but the thought of standing brings tears to my eyes.

  Rei continues. “And Wyatt. Sweet Wyatt. What was your bet?”

  Wyatt unfolds his piece of paper with a smug grin and shows it to me.

  “Are you serious?” I hold it up so everyone can see.

  “Eleven hours and eleven minutes,” Wyatt says. Everyone applauds.

  “He was off by three minutes,” I say. “That’s bananapants. How is that even possible?”

  Wyatt shrugs. �
�Statistics, bitch.”

  * * *

  My friends head home as they start falling asleep, first Wyatt and Rei, then Lani and Trinity. I watch as Lani and Trin walk toward Lani’s scooter. Lani slides her hand into Trin’s back pocket, and Trin puts her arm around her waist, and it’s…perfect. Exactly the way Lani wanted it: no big deal. X stays until the bitter end, when my dad sends him home with a stern warning to stay awake at the wheel. I try to help clean up, but I can barely walk, and my brain is loopy. All I can do is eat. Now I’m starving. Tua keeps dishing up plate after plate while everyone cleans.

  Soon it’s just me, Dad, and Achilles on the beach. Achilles puts his nose under my hand, and something in his mouth squeaks. I take his toy from him. It’s a pink rubber pig that makes the world’s worst noise when you touch it.

  “What’s this?” I ask. I toss it away with what’s left of my upper body strength, and it squeaks every time it hits the ground, then screams as Aki snaps it out of the air.

  “Aki’s new favorite toy,” Dad says. “I gave it to him this morning to keep him away from the barbecue. Hasn’t put it down yet.”

  Aki brings it to Dad, who throws it. I can hear Aki joyfully chewing it all the way down the beach, each chomp making it squeal.

  “Ready, my flower?” Dad asks.

  “Coming,” I say, holding my bike and looking out over the ocean.

  “Bring your bike,” Dad says. I want it to be the last thing to go into the truck.

  I am standing absolutely still, my bike in my hands, and the world is there. I can’t see it, but I know it. It feels like anything is possible.

  I’m sad my race is over. But a race is more than a day. It didn’t start today. It won’t end with this perfect night.

  I grip my handlebars and stare out into the night. The wind sings in my ears and shows me the way forward.