Losing Is Not an Option

by Rich Wallace

He’s reached a flat stretch of the path now, about two hundred yards of straight firm ground. He sprints down the center of the path, the sun warm on his legs, a gentle breeze at his shoulders. He reaches a curve and slows down and circles back to his starting line.

  And he hammers down the stretch again, this time in the lead, Daniels and the others on his heels. Steady and fast, holding off his rivals and easing into a decisive, killing sprint.

  Again. The bell sounds for the final lap. He digs down, in control, ready to fight off any attack.

  There’s a puddle that covers half the path at the turn, and he pushes through, beyond it, before slowing to a jog and turning back. His vision is blurry but everything is coming around. He takes a deep breath, extending his arms at his sides and lightly shaking his wrists. He’s sweating good now; he’s ready to work. He wipes his hair away from his eyes and yanks his shirt out of his shorts.

  He envisions Daniels moving past him, so he tucks in behind, following the steady, even gait as they accelerate toward the finish. Ron pulls even with fifty yards to go, then shifts to another gear and sprints through the tape.

  Twenty-four times he runs that straightaway, cursing himself as he works to complete exhaustion. No kidding around anymore, he thinks. He drops to the dirt and does sixty push-ups.

  He goes to bed at seven that evening and sleeps for twelve straight hours. He can feel himself growing inside.

  Monday he’s stretching by the bleachers before practice and Darby comes walking up, looking a little shy. “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you doing today?”

  “Some distance,” he says. “Eight or ten miles in the woods. I did a killer workout yesterday.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I came here,” she says. “Did fifteen quarters. I was so pissed about Saturday. I didn’t sleep at all that night.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She laughs gently, shakes her head. She’s wearing a light blue T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Good definition in her upper arms. “I sprinted my ass off on every one. I could just feel her coming up on me, you know?”

  He nods. “No kidding. I did the same thing.”

  She looks surprised. “Nobody even pushed you Saturday.”

  “No, not directly. But there are fast people out there, Darby. Those guys who beat me in the states last fall; some kid out by Pittsburgh who’s been running low nines.”

  “Guess we’re in the same boat,” she says. “I’ve gotta beat her at the districts or it’ll haunt me all year.”

  “I know the feeling, believe me. Every run I take I see those two guys going past me in that cross-country race.” He stares into the distance, out over the track, where people are jogging and stretching and setting up hurdles on the straightaway.

  “Think we’ll get ’em?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

  “That’ll be something to celebrate.” She smiles, looks at him sort of hopefully. He doesn’t take the hint. He swallows hard.

  “I better get started,” he says. “Have a good one.”

  Five circuits through the woods: an easy one, a hard one, a moderate one, and two kick-ass, balls-out, suck-it-up maniacal ones. Guts. Have guts. When it hurts, push through it. When you need to rest, run harder. Know that when you come off that final turn, at least two other runners will be in position to blast by you. Don’t let it happen. Work so hard that no one can beat you. Lift your knees. Pump your arms. Raise that pain threshold so you can handle anything.

  And then, when you’re done for the day, when you’re spent and you’re thirsty and aching, think a little harder about this: Find some way to stop your voice from catching in your throat. A little more faith. A little less memory of earlier failures. She’s waiting for you to ask her. It’s no harder than sprinting through the forest.

  Sports had always been the strongest connection that Ron and his brother had with their father. From first grade on they’d been encouraged, some would say pushed, to get out there and play YMCA soccer and T-ball, then progress to Biddy Basketball and junior football and Little League. Their dad coached the sports he considered tough enough to mold his little men, keeping the whistle close to his mouth during basketball practice, shouting, “Gotta box out” and “Fight through those screens” to third-grade Ron and his teammates. “Losing is not an option.”

  Two years of football were enough for Ron, and he turned to cross-country in middle school. By then Devin had been through the circuit—four years of junior football, a terrific year as the quarterback of the freshman team, a season on varsity special teams as a sophomore, and a growing distaste for the whole thing that made him walk away after three days of practice as a junior. It took a long time for his father to forgive that, and the resentment lingered. Devin stayed with track—sprints and jumps—but did a lot of smoking and drinking and only trained when he had to. His father couldn’t comprehend that. “You’ve got talent,” he said a thousand times. “You’re wasting it.”

  “I don’t care,” Devin said a thousand times in return. “It’s my life, Dad, not yours.”

  That was four years ago. They’d slowly noticed the change in their dad’s behavior, the growing frustration. Not about Devin, that was just an excuse. Work at the factory was not very meaningful, supervising a handful of guys, dealing with petty hierarchies and paperwork and edicts from above. Getting paunchy and losing hair and working too late and needing to reshingle the house. The garage was a mess, stacks of boxes and tools and a busted lawn mower and an old sofa he needed to get rid of; no room for one vehicle, let alone two. Little Ron running cross-country; why not soccer, at least, if he didn’t have the balls to play football?

  And his wife. Out in the evenings, taking aerobics at the Y and doing volunteer work for the library. Staying up to watch the news when all he wanted to do was get to bed. That was what his life was about? He and Devin had the all-time fight and Devin left home for two years; didn’t finish high school. Dad got real quiet. Finally he moved out, too.

  Devin came back a year ago; got his equivalency diploma. Now he’s a freshman down at Kutztown and Ron crashes there now and then on the weekends. Devin and his dad spent a couple of days in Philadelphia back in March and took in the regionals of the NCAA basketball tournament. Some of the family fractures are healing.

  The Jordan Relays, in Scranton, are an enjoyable late-season meet. The dual-meet schedule is behind the athletes, and the relays are a low-pressure, Thursday-night meet the week before the districts. It’s a chance to maybe try a different event, get in a tune-up race, blow off some steam and experiment.

  Ron anchors the sprint medley, getting a chance to team up with Gene for the first time in a relay. The first two runners run 200 meters, the third runs 400, and the anchor leg covers 800.

  Gene is fourth as he comes racing down the straightaway on the 400 leg. Scranton Prep has a slight lead over Hazleton and Meyers, and Ron is bouncing lightly at the finish, aware that he has work to do to win this thing. He’ll have ten meters to make up. He’ll need to get out fast.

  Here comes Gene, face in a grimace, extending the baton and forcing out the word “Go.” Ron reaches back, grabs the stick, and moves.

  Two guys on his back. Get away from them quick. Run down those two ahead of you on the backstretch and ride in their wake for a while. The pace is very fast, way faster than in his usual races. The 800 is like an extended sprint; you never let up. The trick is to stretch out what you have, ration it over the full two laps till there’s nothing left in the tank.

  Around the second turn now, onto the straightaway. Gene and the others shouting, “Come on buddy, get by these guys!”

  Moving out to the second lane, charging into second place, the guy from Prep a couple of strides ahead, looking fast and efficient and experienced. Taller than Ron, broader shoulders. He’s run 1:55 already this season.

  The bell for the final lap.
This guy placed in the state meet last spring; he’s tough as hell. Ron moves up on him, right off his shoulder as they barrel down the backstretch, bumping elbows as they move into the turn, both guys breathing hard, shoulders starting to tighten. Off the turn now, a hundred-meter sprint to the finish. The Prep guy veers away from the rail, forcing Ron out to the second lane.

  “Lift, Ron! Lift!” he hears. And he feels it now, a bit more strength than he’s had in the past, a little more fuel than he expected. And he’s past the guy, an inch ahead maybe, both of them straining and groaning and on the edge of stumbling forward.

  There! The tape across his chest. He beat the guy. He out-sprinted the sprinter. Gene and Aaron grab him, fists in the air. “Way to go, buddy. Way to go!”

  He turns, sees the rest of his teammates celebrating in the bleachers. Raises the baton toward the crowd. His coach points to his watch and nods approvingly. Had to be 1:55 or faster.

  They make their way through the gate and up to join the team. Ron shakes his coach’s hand, then his father’s. “One fifty-four seven,” his coach says.

  “Beautiful,” Ron’s father is saying. “Tough as nails, kid. Tough as nails.”

  The coach pokes him on the shoulder. “Sweats on. Jog. Get yourself some fluid. Stretch very lightly.”

  “Got ya.”

  “Hell of a race, buddy. You’re ready for anything.”

  Anything.

  He caught up to her as they approached the team bus outside Scranton Memorial Stadium. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hey,” she said, stretching out the word. “Great job.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  “That was the most fun meet of the year,” she said.

  “I know. Not so much pressure.”

  “Yeah. Next week, boy. That’s the one.”

  “Right.” It wasn’t next week that concerned him; advancing past the districts would not be a problem. The one after that; the state meet. But after tonight, well, he felt great.

  “Sit with me?” he said.

  “Sure.” She took a seat near the front of the bus and scooted over to the window. “Whew,” she said. “First time I’ve relaxed all spring.”

  “Really?”

  She shrugged. “Kind of.” She giggled. “You know what I mean. Lately I’ve been so focused on running.”

  “We gotta blow off some steam,” he said. “I’m taking tomorrow off. Blowing off school. Go hike in the woods. No stress; no hard work. Good set of intervals on Sunday afternoon, some light distance work on Monday and Tuesday … then the districts.”

  “Sounds great. My parents would shoot me if I cut school.”

  “I can get away with it,” he said. “My grades are decent this semester.”

  “Mine, too. But they’d still kick my ass.”

  “Strict, huh?”

  “Sort of. My father’s a lawyer. They want me to go to Princeton.”

  “Princeton. They got a track team?”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Duh.”

  He felt his face start to glow a little and leaned back in the seat. She turned sideways to face him and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms over her shins. “So …,” she said. “What about Saturday?”

  “What about it?”

  “You didn’t say what you’re going to run on Saturday. Coach said there’s no practice.”

  “I know,” Ron said. “He told me to run some easy circuits in the woods. Five or six miles.”

  “Oh.… I mean, I know I couldn’t push you or anything, but if you’re going easy …”

  “You want to join me?”

  “Yeah. Okay?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Definitely. Great.”

  “Like when?”

  “How about ten? I don’t want to get up too early.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He turned and looked toward the back of the bus, where a rowdy celebration was ensuing. He turned back and she was looking at him. She squinted slightly and cocked her head, a tiny smile on her lips.

  “You busy tomorrow night?” he said.

  She shook her head and her smile got brighter.

  “Will you go out with me?” he asked.

  “You got it.”

  Ron had written it all on an index card, everything he needed to know.

  —Daniels: takes it out hard. Long, driving kick; 9:02

  —Lancaster guy: likes to throw in some spurts, shake things up; X-C winner

  —Pittsburgh guy: 9:05

  —X factor: everybody else in the race has nothing to lose

  —Me: Don’t be a chickenshit. Have GUTS you son of a bitch.

  Driving down here in the van yesterday, the small handful of Sturbridge qualifiers; holding hands with Darby, going over this race for the millionth time in his head, he’d written those notes, putting in ink exactly what he’d been telling himself all week. She leaned into him, just watching him write, no need to voice what he was feeling, wanting it more than anything. She nodded. He stared at the card.

  Today was warm, sunny, perfect weather for racing. He was the only finalist of the Sturbridge athletes; Darby’d been fifth in her qualifying heat of the 400 meters.

  Race time was approaching. His last high school race. The Pennsylvania state championships. His parents were here, having driven down in separate vehicles, and Devin. A carload of his teammates had driven down as well, Gene and others. They were all sitting high in the bleachers.

  “I gotta warm up,” he said, his voice just barely above a whisper. His coach just nodded; they’d been over his strategy already. Ron dug in his gym bag, pulled out his spikes. Darby took his face in her hands, said nothing, kissed him lightly on his forehead, his nose, his lips. He stood and inhaled deeply, shut his eyes and opened them. Nodded in her direction and walked away.

  Eight laps. Nine minutes. Who would he be when he reached the other side?

  He’d won a lot of races. The league, the district; first team all-state in cross-country. That was a lot to be proud of, a lot to fall back on if he lost. And he knew that was bullshit; he hadn’t proved a thing. This race would define him.

  He sat on the pavement outside the locker room, stretching and staring at his training shoes. The laces were fraying; the uppers were dotted with mud from the trails behind his school, a sign of all the work he’d put in.

  He got up to jog, one shoe in each hand, and saw himself fading, dropping off the fast early pace and shrinking away from the challenge. The leaders were pulling away and Ron didn’t have the tenacity to stay in the hunt, didn’t have enough to climb back into contention.

  “Bullshit,” he said aloud, quickening the pace of his warm-up. “This one is mine. I am ready right now.”

  He slowed to a walk, looking at the sky, letting out his breath in a huff. The kid from Council Rock was jogging nearby in a Penn Relays T-shirt, looking angry and focused.

  “I’m scum if I can’t handle this,” Ron muttered. “I suck.” He dropped his shoes, punched at the air a couple of times. “Shit,” he said. “Piss. I am ready right now.”

  He knelt in the grass then, hands over his eyes. “Calm down, man. Save your energy. You need every bit of strength you’ve got in you.” He opened his eyes and took another deep breath, then slowly straightened up and extended his arms above his head. He exhaled fully and slowly. It felt good to stretch his arms and shoulders; there was new muscle there. He was strong. The sun was getting warmer. It made him looser.

  “Shit,” he repeated softly, picking up his shoes. He began to run slowly, his skin shining with sweat. No way to rationalize a loss in this one. It was all up to him, and nothing had ever been so clear. This was no make-believe race in the woods behind the school. This was everything he’d worked for. Everything he needed was right there inside him.

  And then he saw it again. The Lancaster kid slightly ahead as they came off the final turn; Daniels coming hard on the outside. Ron, in second, digging even harder, drawing on the rese
rves that he hadn’t quite depleted.

  He turned and walked toward the track to check in for the race. He’d never felt better about anything. He loved to run in the heat.

  “Report to the start.”

  Ron checked his spikes, the laces double-knotted and tucked in. Sixteen runners funneling toward the starting line, stripping off T-shirts, spitting toward the infield. He’d drawn lane three; he’d have to get out fast or be trampled.

  As they broke from the start Ron twisted slightly to avoid the inevitable bumping. He quickly moved to the front of the pack as they came off the opening turn and into the backstretch. He knew this pace was too fast to sustain, but he wanted to stay clear of the jostling. And he wanted to set the pace, he wanted to control this one from the beginning. He felt light and strong as he led the pack.

  The air was warm, each step felt good. Still a little fast, but he was finding his rhythm. His arms swung easily; each step brought him closer. Who’s with me? he wondered, hearing the gnash-gnash-gnash of fifteen pairs of spikes behind him, feeling the steady breathing of the runners just off his shoulders.

  “Sixty-three,” yelled the timer as Ron finished lap one. Fast, but not too fast. Enough to string out the field, not enough to break anyone.

  Daniels came up beside him late in the second lap and moved into the lead. Fine. Second place was far less frantic. Daniels’s ponytail swished side to side across his shoulders; Ron could have grabbed it, they were that close.

  Seven runners stayed tight through the midway point, passing in 4:26. Ron was still second. Daniels was forcing the pace, spurting now and then to thin out the pack, daring anyone to challenge him. He was nearly sprinting now, moving smoothly down the backstretch and opening a three-yard lead.

  Ron opened his stride to match Daniels’s speed. He felt calm and steady but was pushing near his limit. The kid in front of him looked strong as hell. Three and a half laps to go.

  Daniels was five meters up at the end of the lap, and the chasing pack had dwindled to four. Ron held on to second, hurting himself with a spurt of his own but hoping to hurt the others even more. The move strung out the pack; only the black kid from Pittsburgh and a guy Ron didn’t know stayed in contact. It hurt; he wanted it to. Ninety-nine percent wasn’t good enough.