“Go ahead, Liam.” Monroe waved him along. “I’m going to be fine. You shouldn’t ruin your workout. Seriously, I’m fine. Appreciate all your help tonight!”
Liam took his friend at his word and headed over for one more interval. That meant one interval closer to the finish. To rest. To burgers and beer. Just eight more times around this tiny track, Liam thought as Fabio whistled to command the group to begin its third interval. But after the third lap, Liam began to heave and wheeze.
“Control your breathing!” Zane didn’t look back as he shouted over his shoulder. “Never let the other guy know you’re feeling weak.”
On the fifth lap, Liam fell a few steps farther behind Zane, and as his friend (and new mentor) exhorted him, Liam wanted nothing more than to slow down even more. His body felt wrung out; his mind had turned to putty. In one final attempt at jolting Liam awake, Zane turned around fully and waved to him, yelling: “Bye, bye, Liam! Wave good-bye to Marvin now as he’s passing you by!”
Feeling even more despondent, Liam looked over his shoulder and noticed that Riser trailed by only a dozen or so feet. A pack that included Matthew and Mitch followed closely behind Riser. To salvage his pride, Liam buckled down and staved off the pounding footsteps coming up now behind him. He knew his fellow teammates had sensed his vulnerability and readied themselves for the pounce. Even with his breakdown in form and composure, Liam still clocked a 5:49, which was a completely respectable per-mile pace in a 10K—or any other race—as far as he was concerned. But Zane looked on disapprovingly as Liam crumbled by the finish line, whimpering with just under thirty seconds left to the start of the 200-meter sprint.
“You should have stuck with me until your legs fell off,” Zane whispered into his ear. “People always slow down when the pain sets in. The body can always perform through pain. Remember that. Don’t teach your body to slow down when it’s tired—teach it to speed up.”
Liam did not have the energy to raise his head and look at Zane. It was less than ten seconds before Liam had to walk back to the starting line and complete his one-lap sprint. A 200-meter lap was something that he could muscle his way through no matter how tired he felt. As everyone in the group assembled at the starting line, Liam stared at Riser for a moment. When did he become so feeble, so hollow-cheeked and withered? Remembering the ominous conversation that he’d had with Riser the night of Zane’s birthday—all the talk of weight and unhappiness over his physique—Liam resolved to check in with his friend after the workout. Matthew and Mitch kept their heads hung, perhaps to avoid processing and acknowledging Riser’s skeletal frame or maybe simply to shut out everything around them and focus on the task at hand. Ferdinand stretched out a cramp in his abdomen in the seconds before Fabio signaled the group to run. Annoyingly fresh-looking, Zane sprang up and down in place as he waited impatiently for the start.
Liam zoomed out at full speed, dashing in front of Zane and not looking back over his shoulder. It was full steam ahead. His muscular arms propelled him, their motion forcing his legs to rise up and speed through the finish. As he crossed the finish line, Liam felt a flush of cold sweat trickle over his brow. He knew his body was revolting against the strain and the stress, but he ignored the sensation and kept repeating to himself that he had fewer than six minutes of running left. The faster he ran, the faster this workout would be over. And the sooner he would be able to enjoy a cold draft beer and an oversized hamburger and fries.
The three minutes of rest time vanished into these thoughts of escape. Liam nodded at Zane as they positioned themselves on the track, and Fabio whistled to start the last mile interval. Hugging close to the interior of the rubber track, Liam slid behind Zane within the first fifteen seconds of the mile and struggled to stay there through the first four laps. Fabio shouted, “2:45” as Liam and Zane passed the half-mile mark. Immediately, Liam had thoughts of failure. We went out too fast for the first 800 meters and now I am going to pay dearly for the mistake. There is no way on God’s green earth that after all the fast running I’ve done tonight I can pull out a 5:30 in the last mile. As his breathing heaved, Liam noticed Zane glance over his shoulder, but this time Zane chose to remain silent. Focusing on correcting his posture and on swinging his arms freely, Liam managed to stay directly behind Zane for two more laps. Fabio called out a time of “4:10” at the 1200-meter mark, and Liam felt a clamping down on his chest. Zane now turned his stride over faster and faster. The pain writhed down Liam’s shoulder blades into his spine; he felt a spasm through his abdominals. He attempted every visualization scheme and magic trick he had read about—imagining himself light as air and flying to the finish, barking orders to himself that he simply had to stay with Zane or else he would be lost in the wilderness, and repeating the simple mantra of his high school coach: “Run, run, quick, quick, step, step, fly, fly.” Gulping like a drowning man being pulled from the ocean, Liam crossed the finish line in 5:28. Staggering off the side of the track, Liam found a garbage can where he wretched a clear acidic liquid that came from somewhere deep inside. He couldn’t even remember the last solid food he ate.
Despite Monroe’s minor calamity and the rigors of the workout, the evening felt like a success. Liam had achieved a victory of will. He wanted to smile but was aware that he needed to wipe the spittle from his face. As he picked up the edge of his shirt to clean his face off, Liam felt Zane’s hand on his shoulder and wanted to turn around and hug him. He wanted to thank his friend for forcing him to finish strong.
“So we’re not done,” Zane said matter-of-factly. “Aerobic cooldown to keep our bodies trained to running fast when tired.”
“Wasn’t that the point of the whole workout? Isn’t there such a thing as too much?”
“You need an edge, Liam. Edges distinguish the angular among us from the round ones—remember that.”
“Yeah, right,” said Liam. “Look at how much of an edge Riser has achieved for himself. He’s got toothpicks for arms, and he’s practically catching me in workouts. I guess we’re in anything goes territory now.”
“Don’t get off topic. I have Ferdinand and Matthew checking on him to make sure he’s eating. Those three are as tight as Junior Vasquez and the turntable. But what I want you to focus on, Liam, is that edges are mental as well as physical. It’s the mental ones that can be a lot harder to sharpen, and standing around like your trick stood you up after last call never helps. So let’s hit it. A 6:20 pace for two miles.”
They ran along the interior of the track as everyone else chatted and laughed in the stretching circle. After the first half mile, Liam heard a light trot from behind and the familiar sound of supple, near effortless breathing. He turned his head though there was no need for confirmation.
“Do you mind if I join you guys? I need to run a little while longer at a good clip, and my team members have all left for the night.”
Liam had been so focused during the night’s intervals that he had not seen any Urban Bobcats—let alone Didier.
“Sure, we all like company—and a steady pace.” Liam knew he had managed to strike just the right tone of nonchalance. Though the workout had left him depleted, Liam felt stronger and more limber as soon as Didier joined the cooldown. The truth was that a 6:20 pace was now a bit of a cakewalk for Liam, sufficiently slower than his interval training pace and seeming easy even after the pounding of a tough workout.
As the managers of the Armory announced the close of the facility, Didier peeled off and thanked Liam and Zane for the solid run. Liam could not help but follow the arc of his exit in the hopes of seeing the square line of Didier’s jaw, the sculpted concavity of his cheeks.
“Sleeping with the enemy?” Zane looked at Liam incredulously.
Liam flinched and pivoted his shoulders away from Zane, knocking the quip somewhere up into the bleachers.
“Don’t trust those guys, Liam.” Zane pulled Liam close as if to reveal a deep secret. “The hot ones are always trouble.”
“Please, Zane
! He just wanted to run a cooldown. Why does there always need to be such drama?”
“Life is drama. Don’t kid yourself otherwise.”
“So what, we’re going to be a self-contained, doesn’t-trust-anyone-unless-they’re-gay team? What’s the point of acceptance in the athletic community if we’re only going to ghettoize ourselves?”
“No, Liam. Actually, you’re going to fall in love with Didier, and he’s going to join our team, and the Urban Bobcats and Fast Trackers are going to host a picnic every year in honor of both you and Didier.”
“I want a dinner cruise, not a picnic,” Liam said, smiling at Zane’s sarcasm. But Liam couldn’t help noticing the other Fast Trackers heading out toward the exit, and he wanted to snag Riser before the evening devolved into the chaos of the post-workout dinner scene. Matthew had his arm around a snowy-haired man about a foot shorter than himself, which seemed to corroborate the gossip Liam had heard about Matthew’s age fetish. Gary lifted an invisible mug to his mouth to get Liam’s attention, and Liam nodded in his direction. Riser trailed behind, putting some sweaty clothing in a Ziploc bag and fumbling with his belongings. An oversized backpack towered atop his bony shoulders, making Riser look as though he would topple over if he took a turn too quickly or if the slightest breeze shot up.
Liam excused himself, telling Zane he needed to ask Riser something and would rendezvous at the restaurant.
Riser seemed flustered as Liam approached, as though zippering his parka had taken any energy he had left. Liam rested his hand on Riser’s shoulder briefly to get his attention and then Liam’s jaw locked when he considered which words to choose to express his concern. Remembering how touchy and self-flagellating Riser was at Zane’s birthday celebration, Liam knew he needed to be gentle so as not to come across as criticizing his friend. Liam had read that people with image issues or eating disorders tended to distort any concern or commentary that came their way.
“Great workout tonight!” Liam offered, looking his friend directly in the eyes. “You gonna come out to eat with the rest of the crew tonight?”
“Think I’ll skip it,” Riser said. “It’s already so late.”
“They know us at the bar around the corner so we get served really quickly. And it’s so much better than eating alone.”
“I am not really hungry, Liam. I had a granola bar before coming to the workout so I’ll probably just go home and crash.”
“Riser, you burned like 1,000 calories during this workout tonight. Your body needs to refuel. It needs some protein. Plus, there is always hysterical karaoke at this place. Truly tragic. If we’re lucky maybe some drunk chick will attempt ‘Express Yourself’!”
Out of nowhere, from behind, a presence popped up. It was Zane bounding along. He must have gone to use the restrooms. Riser quickened his footsteps to get ahead of Liam and Zane and opened the doors to the Armory, folding his arms against his chest to warm himself against the chilly night air.
“I bet that Didier may have been eavesdropping on us tonight, trying to find out inside information about our strategy for the race on Saturday.”
Zane continued the earlier thread of conversation as if no time at all had elapsed.
“Excuse me, guys, I am going to run to get the subway home.” Riser had already begun to cross the street toward the subway. Liam waved and said good night to Riser as his friend blew like a wraith across the busy intersection and disappeared down into the subway terminal. Liam hoped that Riser might grab a yogurt or have a piece of toast or something before bed but somehow doubted that would happen.
Zane prattled on about Didier and the logistics and machinations surrounding the team competition; Liam had trouble believing that Zane could possibly think that the Fast Tracker–Urban Bobcats rivalry ran so deep. If the last five-miler were any indication, the Urban Bobcats did not need to plot a strategic attack against the Fast Trackers at the Brooklyn Half Marathon this weekend to secure a victory. The Bobcats just had to show up. Wouldn’t it be less painful for Fast Trackers to accept that now than to fight uselessly for the whole year?
Liam and Zane entered the noisy restaurant and spotted the Fast Trackers at a table far in the back of the establishment. On karaoke nights, the owner took pity on the running club and seated them as far away from the makeshift stage and blaring microphone as possible.
“Better watch out … ” Liam said, teasingly, and patted Zane’s bottom. “I’d bare all our club secrets for fifteen seconds on those Parisian lips.”
MILE 13
The warmth of the teeny booth lulled Liam into a half-sleep. His heavy eyelids shut and then opened quickly in a baffled start. Someone was pounding on the door. Liam felt embarrassed and hopped up, pulling his tights in a single tug from his ankles to around his waist. How long had he been inside? It didn’t matter. He would have to skulk out now, and whoever was waiting would know that he had taken refuge from the elements inside a smelly Portosan.
As Liam blew his nose one last time, he readied himself for the outside world. The temperatures shivered in the low twenties, but it was the wind skimming off the breaking waves that made the prospect of standing on the boardwalk without shelter unbearable. Glancing at his watch, Liam noticed that there was still half an hour to the start of the race. In a few minutes, he needed to meet Gary at the baggage check to pick up his number.
Liam had initially felt guilty for relying on Gary so routinely. But being taken care of proved to be an easy habit to fall into. Gary made it seem like the least-consequential favor in the world—he lived inches from the New York Road Runners Foundation where runners picked up their bib numbers and chips, and he planned on going for his own purposes anyway. Liam had heard from Ben that Gary only pampered the young, fast, and cute runners—a rumor whose truth was borne out over time. If Liam were being completely honest with himself, he would admit that he was flattered by his inclusion. Gary’s coterie was small.
The waves surged in a procession of grays. One after the other they came, more forceful and dogged against the shoreline. The Coney Island morning provided a study in contrast as the serene blue sky belonged to some coastline in the Aegean, or so Liam liked to imagine, having never been. A sprinkling of nimbus clouds painted wispy eyelashes on the beautiful, fat face of the late March sky. Not a soul was on the beach, and there was neither a kiosk nor a storefront to hide in. Liam’s face and neck burned as the wind lashed every inch of exposed skin. He decided to do a quick warm-up sprint to the baggage check area where Gary would be handling the bib and chip exchange.
Approaching the small roped-in area where a dozen or so well-insulated volunteers collected bags and placed them inside vans, Liam noticed Mitch, Matthew, and Ferdinand waiting impatiently. He had heard that Riser was fighting off a flu and would not be racing but had wondered whether maybe Riser’s body had simply weakened from the recent weight loss. Liam had emailed and called to check in with Riser, but he just underscored that he had some seasonal illness that had made its way through the office.
Everyone stood silently to conserve their warmth. After several minutes and one megaphone warning from the officials, Mitch rolled his eyes and searched out Liam for some decision on a course of action. What choice did they have but to wait? Without bibs and chips, none of their times would be recorded, and the team would suffer in the standings against the Urban Bobcats. Liam was not about to race a half marathon solely for his health and amusement. Waiting for Gary was the only choice.
Ferdinand rubbed his face and walked nervously in a circle before announcing that he had to go take a pill in the Portosan. As he jogged away, Liam looked to Matthew for an explanation.
“You ride the Escalator up, and you’ve got to ride the Escalator down,” Matthew reported mysteriously.
“He’s coming down off Ecstasy.” Mitch sounded annoyed as he answered Liam’s confused expression. “Where in the hell is Gary?”
As if on cue, Gary’s car screeched to a halt right by the baggage check. After pa
rking illegally in front of the vans that were transporting the runners’ baggage, Gary stormed from his vehicle through a thicket of iced-over bushes. His face was eggplant against the fire-engine red of his eyes. Gary threw the plastic bag with Mitch’s bib number and chip onto the floor and stamped on it. He remained scarily silent.
“What the fuck? We have like three minutes to get to the start, Gary. Where are your running clothes?”
Mitch had regained his composure as he fixed his own race number onto his shirt and told Gary to hurry along.
“A half hour!” The veins in Gary’s neck bulged at Mitch’s nonchalance. His whole body now shook. “I waited outside your apartment. Rang your bell. Phoned you. Texted you. Worried that you overslept!”
“Liam, you better lace that chip on and bolt out of here with me if you want to get to the start on time,” Mitch said, remaining completely calm. “There’s been enough drama this morning without us missing the race, Gary.”
“You selfish fucker!” Gary dabbed tears from the sides of his face as his voice quivered. “You couldn’t give a shit about me … you did not return one of my messages last night … And I come here anyway, like a fool.”
“Gary, this is about the team. Get it together. Liam and I are running for the team … Matthew and Ferdinand, if he ever makes it back from the john, are running for the team. It’s all about the challenge that you asked each of us to take up. It’s about Fast Trackers. You go feel sorry for yourself. We’ve got a race to run.”
A final indiscernible rant faded out as Mitch forced Liam along in a light jog toward the starting line. Matthew would wait for Ferdinand. The racing officials announced that three minutes remained until the gun would go off. The knot of runners along the Coney Island Boardwalk attempted to stop Mitch and Liam from moving toward the very beginning of the line, but Mitch slalomed through the bony runners like a seasoned mogul skier. The horn honked to start the race, and Liam jostled along with the pack until a moment came when he could break free.
The Miles Page 12
