“My hair?” said Dad. “Didn’t I tell you about that? I was hiking in the forest and I came across a wolverine. He was a monster, claws as big as dinner knives. He took a swat at my throat, but I ducked sideways. Unfortunately, he caught the end of my ponytail.”
In this version of the story, Mom fought off the wolverine with a pool noodle.
“A pool noodle!” I shrieked. “Mom, is that true?”
Mom smiled and shrugged her shoulders and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Of course it’s true,” Dad insisted. “Your father wouldn’t tell you a lie, now would he?”
Good question.
We left the hoop-snake tracks behind and continued up the mountain.
The mist thinned out, and a ghostly curtain of rock appeared above us. Dad wiped the sweat off the back of his neck. “This is the same trail we’ll follow in the Shin-Kicker,” he said.
“Is Chimney Top really the hardest part of the race?” I asked.
“No, not really,” Dad said.
“What’s the hardest part?”
“The trail demons.”
“Trail demons?” I asked.
Dad leaned against a boulder and took a sip from his water bottle. “When you run long distances, your brain gets really tired and it plays tricks on you to stop you from running.”
“What kind of tricks?” I said.
The mist rolled back in, pressing against the granite cliffs like rumpled bedsheets. “You’d think that your brain would be on your side in a long-distance race,” Dad said. “But it isn’t. Your brain is your worst enemy when you run long distances. Your brain is on your body’s side, and believe me, after your body has spent eighteen hours running up and down mountains, it just wants to go home, lie down on the couch and inhale a bag of barbecue chips.”
He squirted water into his baseball cap and put it back on his head. Streams of water dribbled down the back of his neck.
“Oh sure,” he went on, “every now and again, your brain will play nice. It’ll say something optimistic like: ‘The bath you take after this race sure is going to feel good!’ Or, ‘It sure is great, being outside in the fresh air!’ But most of the time your brain just lobs grenades at you. Things like, ‘You’re stupid for trying this; you should drop out and go home.’ Or: ‘NO WAY can you run a hundred miles! What are you, crazy?’”
It began to drizzle. The mist was whiter than snow. I had no idea how close we were to the top of the mountain.
“But always remember,” Dad said, “the trail demons aren’t real. It’s just your mind, trying to get you to stop. Don’t fall for it. Don’t let anything stop you. Nothing is impossible. You’ll be amazed what you’re capable of.”
We climbed for another hour, and then, quite suddenly, we popped through the roof of the cloud. The sun shone down and heated our faces, and steam rose off of our arms and legs. Chimney Top’s flat peak was straight ahead. It looked as though someone had sliced the top off the mountain with a bread knife.
“Don’t lean forward so much,” Dad told me. “Just imagine there’s a huge magnet at the top of the mountain and you’ve got a band of steel wrapped around your chest. Imagine that the magnet is pulling you up the hill. There you go. We’re almost there. Keep going!”
Eventually we reached the summit and stared down at an ocean of grey. Red-tailed hawks flew in circles, and between the breaks in the cloud, I could see the long silver finger of Hither Lake.
Dad opened a bag of trail mix and a carton of chocolate milk, and we ate and drank and didn’t say much.
“This is a beautiful place where we live,” Dad said at last. “Of all the places I’ve been, this is the nicest.”
He used that word, nicest, but I knew he was thinking safest. Dad liked Canada because it’s safe. He was always talking about that.
“You’re so serious,” he said, turning to me. “What are you thinking about?”
I looked up at him and smiled. “I’m thinking … I just climbed a mountain!”
BEWARE THE CHAIR
Mile 22
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: That surprised you? That you climbed up the mountain?
QUINN: Totally. It was the first time I did something that I thought was impossible. It was the first time I really felt proud of myself.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Most of us only dream about doing the impossible. But you’ve actually gone and done it. What was the best thing about the 100-mile race?
QUINN: The food.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: The food? Seriously?
QUINN: For sure! I don’t know if you know this, but long-distance running is probably the only sport in the world where the athletes get to eat piles and piles of CRAP. Well, aside from bowling, anyway. Ever watch bowling on TV? Those people aren’t eating salads.
Anyway, here are the foods I normally eat in my real life:
Salmon and trout
Chicken
Brown bread
Broccoli and kale
Corn
Asparagus
Bean salad
Water
MILK!
Almond butter
Low-fat yogurt
Beets and yams
Lentil soup
Disgustingly healthy stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. My mom’s into healthy eating, what can I say? Now, check out what they feed you at 100-mile races:
Chocolate-chip cookies
Salt-and-vinegar chips
Baked potatoes
Pretzels
Hamburgers and burritos
Candy bars
Root beer, ginger ale, cream soda
Chocolate- and yogurt-covered raisins
Pizza
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: Why so much junk food?
QUINN: When you run 100 miles, you need LOTS of energy. And the fastest way to get energy is from fatty foods and sugar. Salt’s important too, since it keeps your muscles from cramping up. That’s why they feed you potato chips and pretzels.
Anyway, when I got to Silver Valley, there was all this awesome food spread out on a table. Unfortunately, my stomach was feeling pukey, so I didn’t feel at all like eating.
SYDNEY WATSON WALTERS: You keep talking about these rest stops. Can you describe what Silver Valley looked like?
QUINN: It was like a movie set in the middle of the forest. Music was pounding, and little kids were running in and out of tents. But the thing I remember best are the volunteers. They were amazing. They cheered as I jogged into the clearing, as if I’d won Olympic gold. That bald guy in the kilt was flipping burgers over a firepit.
“Hey there, Lucky Number Thirteen!” Bruce shouted. “What can I get you?”
I looked at the burgers sizzling on the grill. They were shiny with grease. “Nothing right now,” I said.
Bruce cracked open a can of cherry-flavoured Perk. “Don’t tell me,” he said, “you’re a vegetarian, right?”
He took a sip of his drink and slid a tray of baked yams across the table. The ropes in my stomach tightened. “Pass,” I said.
“Ya gotta eat something,” Bruce said. “You’ve got seventy-eight miles left to go.”
I shook my head. “No thanks,” I said. I walked over to a camp chair set up beside the clearing.
“Don’t sit in that,” said Bruce.
I looked up. “Why not?” I said.
“Beware the chair,” Bruce said.
Beware the chair?
“If you sit down, your muscles will tighten up,” he said. “You might not get up again. It’s happened to a lot of runners over the years.”
I stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out if he was serious. He was, so I walked over to the picnic table.
I refilled my water bottle and my hydration pack — a mix of half water, half sports drink. I took a long drink and reholstered my bottle, then looked around for Kneecap and Ollie. The hatchback wasn’t in the parking lot, so I figured they were still on the road. I walked back to the food table.
The
re were bowls full of peanuts and jelly beans, and plates filled with those weird cookies with the red jam in the middle. Who eats those? I wondered.
Bruce put his spatula down and walked over. “How much have you had to drink?” he asked.
“Lots,” I said.
“Mmm.” He picked up my hands and inspected my palms. He pressed each of my fingers and then he did the same thing with my wrists. “Any stomach problems?” he asked.
“No,” I lied.
He let go of my hands. “What colour is your pee?” he asked.
He might as well have been asking about the weather.
“I’m not sure,” I stammered.
“Keep an eye on it,” Bruce said. “You want it to be clear. If it’s dark yellow or brown, you need to drink more water.”
I nodded and looked up at Chimney Top. A thin white line — a river — was carrying fresh rainwater down from the top.
“Follow me,” Bruce said suddenly.
He led me to the side of the medical tent and made me stand on a scale. The digital read-out blinked for a second, and then a number popped up: 106. “You’re down a pound from when you started,” he said, squinting at his clipboard. “That’s not bad, but you need to keep drinking. We’ve got water, apple juice, Perk and ginger ale. Which do you want?”
“Perk please,” I said.
Bruce shook his head. “Try some ginger ale.”
He slopped some into a paper cup.
“Could you stir the bubbles out of it?” I asked.
“Sure.”
He stirred it with a spoon and handed me the cup. He watched as I drank it, stroking his sideburns with his fingers. “I’m sorry that your dad isn’t running this one,” he said. “We always had a good time when he was around.”
Bruce looked at me expectantly, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t feel like talking about my father.
Something exploded in the trees behind us. It was as loud as fireworks. A brown ball of feathers skittered this way and that.
My heart raced. Bruce burst out laughing. “It’s only a wild turkey,” he said. “Right there, see?”
He pointed at the bird, which had come to a sudden stop a few metres away. It was grey and black, and nearly invisible against the dead leaves on the forest floor. It was three times as big as a pigeon.
“Those stupid birds don’t budge until you’re right on top of them,” Bruce said. “Then they make all that racket. Gives me a heart attack every time.”
Someone shouted from the far side of the clearing. “QUINN? NO WAY! Hey there, Q-Tip!”
Kneecap rushed over and gave me a hug. Instantly, she sprang back. “Yuck!” she cried. “You’re slimy!”
“Sorry,” I said.
She grinned. “Jeez you’re fast,” she said. “How long have you been here?”
“About five minutes,” I said. “Where are Ollie and Mom?”
“They spun down to a bakery in Torrance. We weren’t expecting you for another hour.”
“But I told you I’d be here by ten,” I said.
“I know,” said Kneecap. “But we didn’t believe you.”
I didn’t know whether to be pleased by this or not.
Kneecap looked me up and down. “You’re looking strong, tiger,” she said. “What place is he in, Bruce?”
Bruce ran a finger down his clipboard. “Quinn Scheurmann, let’s see …” He flipped back a page. “Actually, he’s sixth.”
Me? Quinn Scheurmann? In sixth place?
Bruce held the clipboard out so I could see. He’d been placing check marks beside the names of the runners as they passed through the rest stop. So far there weren’t very many marks.
“That’s got to be wrong,” I said. “I can’t be in sixth.”
“Why not?” said Bruce.
“Because I’m a kid,” I said. “And my legs are shorter than everyone else’s.”
A burst of applause erupted behind us, and another runner staggered into the camp. The new arrival raised his fist in the air and then promptly lay down on the ground.
“Check out those socks,” Kneecap whispered. “Hoo boy, that is some stylin’ toe-wear!”
It was the creep who’d told me to drop out of the race.
Bruce walked over to meet the new arrival. I watched him offer Mr. Dirt Eater a burger.
Kneecap peeled a banana. She was wearing her Raptors T-shirt and a pair of puke-green flip-flops.
“Thanks for inviting me out here,” she said. “It’s good to be hanging out with you again.”
I picked up a rope of red licorice and took a bite. Of all the food I could see, it was the only thing that appealed.
“How long do you think it’s been?” Kneecap asked. “I mean, this is the first time you and I have hung out in months.”
I chewed the licorice for a long time before swallowing. It went down okay. I took another bite.
“You know I got suspended, right?” she said.
Mom told me you should chew each mouthful sixty times. Chew, chew, chew. Kneecap was staring at me.
“You didn’t call,” she went on. “I thought you would, but you didn’t.”
“I meant to,” I said. Chew, chew, chew.
“Yeah, but you didn’t.”
A metal flavour filled my mouth. It tasted like I was sucking on a penny.
“You know,” said Kneecap, “those doctors say you have a big heart. But you never use it for anything but running.”
A muscle in my right leg started twitching. There were tears in Kneecap’s eyes. She was close to crying.
“I invited you to come to this race,” I muttered.
“I know,” said Kneecap. “And I’m glad you did. But seriously, Quinn, you can’t keep icing me out. Not if you want us to stay friends.”
That hit me like a punch in the stomach.
Kneecap wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m glad you’re running this race. I know you’ve had a cruddy year and everything. But it’s about time you cleaned yourself up.”
I looked away. People shouldn’t tell people to clean themselves up. It’s a mean thing to say, even if it’s true.
“Oh, come on,” said Kneecap. “Don’t get mad at me again. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
I didn’t answer. The ropes in my stomach were knotting up.
“If you want to hang on to your friends,” Kneecap said, “you can’t hide in your bedroom and not talk to anyone. How many of your friends have stuck by you this year? Just one. Me. And sometimes I’m not sure why.”
A tornado was swimming up my throat. It was coming out. Sweat poured down my face.
I dashed into the woods.
“Quinn, what’s wrong? Quinn? QUINN?”
There wasn’t much food in my stomach to throw up. Licorice, ginger ale, a couple of litres of water. On the bright side, I got a good abdominal workout.
“You all right?” Kneecap shouted.
“Yeah,” I managed to choke out.
I rinsed my mouth with a squirt of water. Then I walked back to the picnic table and stood close to Kneecap.
“Toss your cookies?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I hung my head between my knees. It took me a minute to get my breath back.
“Sit down,” she said.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because I might not get up again.”
Kneecap rolled her eyes.
“Seriously,” I said. “Bruce told me to beware the chair.”
“This isn’t a chair,” Kneecap said, “it’s a picnic table.” She yanked me down onto the bench beside her.
“Feeling better?”
“A bit.” It felt nice to sit down. Really nice. Amazingly, I was feeling a bit hungry. I grabbed a handful of potato chips. I wanted salt. “Did Bruce see me puke?” I asked.
Kneecap looked over at the firepit. “No, he’s been talking to the old guy in the socks,” she said.
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The Dirt Eater was standing on the scale, holding on to Bruce for support.
“He doesn’t look too good,” said Kneecap. “A hundred bucks says he won’t finish the race.”
“He probably won’t leave this rest stop,” I said.
A bead of sweat dripped off my forehead and landed on the wooden seat between my legs. I reached down and traced a figure eight in the tiny puddle. It dried almost instantly in the sun.
“Uh, Quinn … I’m sorry I said all that stuff,” said Kneecap. “Not exactly good timing, is it?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I only brought it up because I miss you, you know?”
For a while we didn’t say anything to each other. A purple butterfly fluttered around us and then landed on the middle knuckle of Kneecap’s right hand. I watched as it stretched out its wings.
“I better get going,” I said finally.
“But you just threw up.”
“I feel fine,” I said. “Everyone throws up in these races.”
I stood up. For a moment, the world went black, and tiny white comets flared past my eyes. When the world reappeared, I stumbled across the parking lot and made my way over to Bruce. The Dirt Eater was sitting in a camp chair, staring down the hill toward the lake.
“Seriously, didn’t you see it?” he was saying.
Bruce shook his head. “No. I didn’t.”
“What about you?” Dirt Eater said, turning to face me. “Did you see it?”
“See what?” I said.
“The school bus,” he said. “It just drove across the lake.”
I looked out at the lake. It was robin’s-egg blue.
“I don’t see anything,” I said.
“Wow!” the man shouted. “There it goes again!”
Bruce and I squinted at the lake. I saw whitecaps, green hills, but — surprise surprise — no school bus.
“Why don’t you lie down for a while, Ted,” Bruce said.
Dirt Eater scowled. “I don’t need to lie down,” he said.
Bruce shook his head. “Just for a while,” he said. “Just until we can get your blood sugar up a little bit.”
The Dirt Eater glared at Bruce, then threw his water bottle down the hill. “It’s this kid you ought to bench,” he muttered. “He’s way too young to be running this race.”
Ultra Page 4
