The brisk air stung his face, but he glided along on the steady feed of adrenaline from the soap opera he had witnessed a few moments prior. As he passed the first mile marker in 6:04, Liam realized that he had let the moment get the best of him. He could not sustain 13.1 miles running just a shade slower than his 10K race pace. After consciously slowing his breathing and moving his arms more purposely, Liam began to settle into the rhythm of the race.
The course started amid the shuttered pageantry of the Coney Island Boardwalk, with the Cyclone and the roar of the ocean as a powerful backdrop. After the second mile, the race moved through a long stretch of dreary parkway. For seven miles, Liam watched as the avenues moved down the alphabet—“U” to “T” to “S”—at glacial speed. His eyes welled as the wind smacked from side to side through the flat, treeless stretch of paved highway. To ensure he stayed hydrated, Liam grabbed a Dixie cup from one of the volunteers at mile five and a ridge of ice broke against his lips, causing all the water to cascade down his chest. Feeling miserable, Liam directed his attention to the mathematics of the race. He hit mile 5 at exactly 31 minutes, or a 6:12 pace. After taking it out too fast in the first mile, Liam had now reclaimed his confidence, knowing that he could force his body to churn out 6:15 miles for the rest of the race. “Focus,” he told himself as he watched the monochromatic apartment buildings pass by in a mural of concrete and brick.
Liam’s thoughts turned to Gary and Mitch. Had they just dissolved into a lovers’ quarrel? Mitch’s face had contorted upon hearing Gary’s indignant pleas, which made the likelihood of a romantic connection tenuous. Ever since Ben had planted the seed in his head at Sugarland, Liam questioned the boundaries of their relationship. If Mitch had no interest in Gary at all, why did he allow him to fawn and goo and crumble to pieces around him? Maybe they had slept together once and Gary wanted more out of it than Mitch? Or maybe Gary just needed someone to ogle and Mitch just needed to be admired.
As he weighed the possibilities, Liam noticed a runner springing by him. By keeping metronome-like precision to his racing, Liam had managed to run without anyone passing him for the last three miles. Now, someone was clearly gearing up to glide right in front of Liam, and he was not certain whether he had the energy to speed up with the seven toughest miles of the race still ahead.
Once the racer pranced by gazelle-like, Liam knew he had to at least muscle a little to stay abreast. Didier did not even turn his head to acknowledge Liam as he passed by. Liam knew this did not bode well for him. Didier probably had twelve Urban Bobcats ahead of him, and here Liam was hoping to be one of the top three finishers for Fast Trackers. At mile seven of the half-marathon, Didier ran unencumbered, perhaps knowing that the Bobcats had it made in the shade—that they couldn’t lose no matter how resurgent and plucky Fast Trackers proved itself to be.
The thought enraged Liam, and he notched up his effort to stay one stride behind Didier. No matter how little consequence his effort would make in the overall challenge, Liam decided in that moment that he was going to beat Didier. Just past mile nine, they veered up a slight hill that curved away from the parkway and onto a rotary. Liam could see the entrance to Prospect Park off to the right and knew that once they passed through the gates, the final 5K would be underway. His speed training on the track would have to kick in. His legs were more muscular than the toothpicks that moved Didier along.
Prospect Park presented itself immediately in a series of rolling hills. Liam did not push the pace; instead, he waited patiently behind Didier. If the race came down to the final quarter mile, Didier did not stand a chance. In the middle of a relentless climb, the sign for the eleven-mile mark stood beside a huge race clock. The time read 1:08 even. What time had the previous clock reported? The ten-mile marker had come immediately after the park entrance, and the excitement of a small group of spectators had diverted Liam’s attention so that he missed the time. Were they still speeding up? The pace now had to be smack-dab at six minutes per mile. Liam’s legs suddenly twinged. His breathing careened as he fought for air.
Didier glanced quickly over his shoulder as he broke away from Liam. Feeling his resolve dissipate into the frosty air, Liam bowed his head and felt his feet slow to a shuffle. As he crested the next hill, he could see Didier just 100 yards ahead. They were well into the thirteenth mile, and Liam reminded himself that the race was not yet done. Zane always told him that anyone could do anything for a minute. If Didier stayed within striking distance, then Liam could simply will his body to race full throttle and best him at the finish line. Liam knew he needed to be smart. His stomach heaved, and his lungs burned with each stride. Once more Didier turned to assess the competition. Liam could tell that Didier had planned on coasting through to the end of the race and was annoyed that he needed to stay mentally and physically sharp. Didier had just passed the sign noting there were 800 meters remaining when Liam decided he could wait no longer. Closing his eyes, Liam leaned forward and concentrated on raising his knees in a sprint. Didier still appeared to be a full ten seconds ahead of Liam. The thirteen-mile marker came at the beginning of an uphill overlooking a placid lake that must have been Prospect Park’s answer to the Central Park reservoir. There was only a tenth of a mile left now. Liam pumped his arms as quickly as he could, but his legs felt as though they were battling quicksand. He did not know how much ground he could cover on Didier in the distance that remained. Barely able to keep his head up straight, Liam leaned further into his stride just to do something different, to mix things up so that his body could persevere through this race. One more quick turn and the finish line was only meters away. Within a few seconds of glimpsing the finish, Liam saw Didier’s bony limbs thunder across it.
Liam completed the race in an exaggerated tumble of tired steps. Unable to fully control the momentum of his body, he collided sloppily with Didier, who was standing in the center of the finish line chute collecting his breath. Looking like a deer caught in headlights, Didier grabbed a hold of Liam by the shoulders to help steady his gait. The two stood for a few seconds, caught in this unexpected embrace. When they disengaged, Liam took his wet hat off, shook out his hair, and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“You ought to have a license to carry around weapons like those,” Didier said, looking directly at Liam’s legs. “They seem to have a mind of their own and a desire to attack people.”
It took Liam a moment to collect himself and take register of Didier’s tone. He definitely did not sound vexed, the way he had when he scolded Liam at the finish line in Van Cortlandt Park. Liam wondered if there was something vaguely flirtatious in Didier’s voice.
“Well, this isn’t the ladies’ mah-jongg table, my friend. You stand around here at your own risk.” Liam felt sick to his stomach but managed to smile as he spoke.
“Fair enough,” Didier replied. “Maybe I am putting myself in the line of fire. I should thank you then for not completely knocking me off my feet.”
“I would say that I’m saving something for next time around, but you do understand that the next time it’s going to be me waiting to congratulate you for the solid effort.”
“I’d be a fool to underestimate you.” Didier extended his hand to rub Liam’s shoulder comfortingly. “You made me work harder than I ever had to work out there today. Thank you for making me dig so deep.”
A few more finishers now buzzed over the timing mats and were funneling through the chute. It was clear that they would need to move along so as not to hamper everyone else’s race. Liam and Didier began to walk toward the vans that had transported their baggage from the start of the race in Coney Island. As they approached the area where the vans had parked, Didier pointed to his race number and noted that his baggage was at the opposite end of the field. He thanked Liam again and said good-bye.
“You know, if you don’t have any plans, a bunch of Fast Trackers are having brunch at a member’s apartment. He lives somewhere right off Prospect Park. The address is in my backpack.”
It was a bold and impulsive move, and Liam immediately questioned whether he was going to get in trouble for it. The members had thrown the gauntlet down with the Urban Bobcats and now here Liam was inviting the nemesis to brunch. And judging from the scales that seemed to balance in Didier’s eyes, there was the equal possibility that this straight runner bemoaned the fact that his cordial exchange of pleasantries had been reciprocated with a come-on.
“You’re sure it isn’t a members-only kind of a thing?” Didier asked, surprising Liam with his shyness.
“We’re friendly people, Didier, and there’s always a sense of community when you’re around fellow runners.”
“I am starving. Let me get my bag and meet you back here in a minute.”
Liam stared at the thin straps of Didier’s singlet, which jostled up and down with his stride as he jogged toward the baggage van. From the other direction, someone shouted his name. Liam spun around to see Zane suited up in his post-race outfit with his backpack on, ready to leave the park.
“I’m Popsicle city over here.” Zane’s lips had chapped and salt stained his face in zigzags. “I feel like I was waiting for you forever.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel just wonderful.”
“You know what I mean. It’s just cold. What was your time, anyway? Did you break 1:23?”
“I broke 1:22. I had a huge PR today. I think it was a 1:21:15. And you?”
“I managed a six-minute pace. A 1:18 something or other. You know I hate these long-distance races. I only did it because of that dreadful challenge that Gary got us into.”
“So what was the team order? Was I second to you? Did Marvin end up running?”
Liam had been so caught up in getting to the start of the race because of all the drama and then in staying neck-and-neck with Didier that he had forgotten about his goal of beating Marvin.
“He beat us both, my friend. He looked fully recovered by the time I dragged my sorry ass across the finish. He thought his time was 1:16 flat. He already scooted out of here to meet up with the new BF. Talk about a short chain.”
“I totally pushed myself and he beat me by five minutes—that’s a fucking coffee break!”
“Look, this is his specialty. You are built for speed. Pick a 5K or a 4-miler to beat him. It’s never going to happen on a 13.1 mile course. I am in your corner; we just have to be smart about what’s real and what’s not. Hurry up and get your bag, I want to jog over to Craig’s.”
“Okay, but we have to wait for someone before we leave.”
“Someone? All the Fast Trackers know where to go. No one needs an escort.”
“This isn’t a Fast Tracker.”
“Don’t tell me. Did you really invite that closet case from the Armory? You do realize how seriously Gary & Company are taking this competition bullshit with the Bobcats?”
Liam got his bag and hoped that Zane underestimated the warmth of the club. Would Gary even be there, he wondered, after the huge scene he had caused with Mitch? By the time Liam returned, Didier had joined Zane and the two were making small talk about their respective races.
It took less than five minutes to jog to Craig’s apartment. Standing tall right on the edge of Prospect Park, the pre-war building had a regal façade of clean red brick and oversized windows. Craig’s living room faced the park, directly at the treeline level. With all the fauna still leafless, the view had a certain enchantment. It made Liam feel as if he could hop right out the window and swing from tree to tree through the park.
Because they had rushed out of the park after the race, Liam, Zane, and Didier arrived at the brunch a full twenty minutes before anyone else. Craig must have been up for days preparing his apartment for this feast—every brunch food imaginable had been placed strategically throughout the kitchen, dining room, and living room. Craig kept a meticulous home and his placement of each food matched its likeliness to spill or stain. His trays of pancakes and waffles, browned perfectly and accompanied by little pots of blackberry, raspberry, and grape jams, had been safely lined up in the tiled kitchen. Foods that did not beg for gooey toppings but could still stain if dropped on the floor, such as the trays of scrambled eggs and the mushroom, spinach, and artichoke quiches, sat on the dining room table. The dry bagels, bowls of almonds and cashews, and piles of cereal and energy bars—a race had just been run, after all—were artfully displayed on the end tables and ottomans, far enough from the sofas and settees, in the expansive living room.
Didier ate a banana and a piece of quiche while standing uncomfortably in the kitchen, explaining to Liam that he had to go meet weekend guests arriving later in the afternoon. Zane scurried around Craig’s apartment helping him tend to the final touches—placing sprigs of fresh flowers in little bud vases and napkins with inspirational quotes etched in gold script along the edges. Liam’s noted that “a journey of ten thousand miles begins with one single step.”
As Liam apologized for the low turnout and explained that people must have lingered at the finish, the door to the apartment opened and a huge group—easily two dozen people—entered. Mitch and Ben were among them and immediately stormed over to Liam in uncharacteristically urgent form. Mitch’s face was flush and his hands gesticulated wildly.
“Can you believe that queen?” Mitch yelled the words at Liam more as an assertion of fact than as a question. “After all we’re doing for the club, he shits on us like that.”
“Mitch and Ben, this is Didier. I don’t know if you know him from the Urban Bobcats. He trains a lot at the Armory.”
“Oh, I thought you looked familiar. Hope you don’t mind hearing me bitch about the president of our club. He’s been having Royal Diva Syndrome recently and every single one of his subjects has been in the line of fire.”
“I don’t know, Mitch, maybe he was just having a bad morning.” Liam needed to defend Gary, not so that the president of the club would look normal in front of the competition but because he felt that Gary was being victimized for his kindness. While he had no iron-clad evidence, Liam sensed that Gary would give anything to be at the center of the club—and that there were plenty of people willing to take whatever goodwill he dispensed.
“Please, he gets off on the drama. If it isn’t there, then he creates it.” Ben stepped forward, speaking with command. “Who would think someone could have a hissy fit over dropping off race numbers? Would anyone on the Bobcats do that, Didier?”
“Dealing with big personalities is probably something you don’t have to worry over, Didier,” Liam interjected. “At Fast Trackers, it isn’t all about the running unfortunately. But we can move this conversation along so that it returns to the running, right, Ben?”
Liam searched Ben’s eyes to see where he was going with this line of questions.
“No need to protect me, Liam.” Didier laughed, and Liam realized that it was the first time he had seen his gaunt face with anything other than a deadpan expression. Didier’s smile dimpled his sunken cheeks and threw a mischievous sparkle into his chocolate eyes. “I’ve been around the block a time or two myself.”
“So where do you get all those fast runners?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know, really. We don’t do any outreach or marketing, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I guess it’s our reputation.”
“But I’m curious,” Ben continued. “Why did you join there, for instance? Is it because there is superior training?”
“I knew someone from the gym and when he heard that I was competing in the marathon, he told me I should run the race under his team’s name. It was word of mouth. People like being around people who are like they are—fast people want to be part of the fast team. Surely you can understand that? All your runners want to be part of Fast Trackers because they’re gay, right?”
“So how do the fast gay runners choose, then?” Ben asked beguilingly. “What would you do if you were both fast and gay, Didier?”
Liam realized that when Shakespeare coined the saying “Hell h
ath no fury like a woman scorned” that the famous bard must not have had the pleasure of witnessing a jilted gay man in action.
Didier swallowed the last forkful of quiche on his plate and used his napkin to wipe the crumbs from his face, which had started to redden slightly.
“That would be a quandary, I guess. I would love to entertain more of these questions, but as I just explained to Liam, I need to straighten up my apartment for some house guests who are traveling in this afternoon. I’ll see you boys at the track. Thank the host for me. And Liam, would you take this plate for me. Everything was delicious.”
Didier disappeared within seconds. Liam took the plate to the garbage can in the kitchen. As he used the napkin to dust off the crumbs, he saw ink scribbled under the gold quotation (“To thine own self be true”) on the edge of the paper. It said, “Call me if you’d like to run sometime. It’s good to have someone chasing you,” with Didier’s phone number jotted down below.
MILE 14
Down the hall someone hollered something about the number of pepperoni pizzas that should be ordered. It was Loretta, the summer temp on break from Swarthmore, making her Thursday night rounds and demanding everyone report the status of their articles for the magazine’s close. It was seven o’clock and copy had to be fact-checked and ready for the senior editors by 7:30 or else heads would roll. In just a few short weeks at the magazine, Loretta had canoodled her way into the front pocket of the executive editor and several features editors. Just this afternoon a rumor circulated through the Entertainment Weekly cafeteria that she had convinced an editor to run her article on celebrity pet collagen and Botox treatments.
“So what’s the status, Walker?”
Loretta tapped her pencil officiously against Liam’s desk as she waited for his response. Normally, Loretta would engage in “Little Ivy” banter about whether Amherst or Swarthmore would be at the top of the U.S. News & World Report ranking of liberal arts colleges, but today she was all business. Liam ignored her icy power plays by reminding himself that she had been drinking cheap beer in the quad less than six weeks ago.
The Miles Page 13
