Once a Runner

by John L Parker

  “Good-bye, big cat.”

  “Good-bye, Allan.”

  As he slipped off and gathered speed, he looked behind every few yards to see the child still watching; finally he disappeared behind a curve of high hibiscus a quarter of a mile down toward the bridge. Wonder what he will think when the rest of them come clomping along, he thought. And although he really wasn’t in very good shape yet he turned a 4:45 for the last mile, changed from his racing flats and jogged across the bridge toward home before the rest of them got in. If there was a medal or something they would just have to mail it to him.

  For a long time after that he wondered what it was about that child.

  A shriek from the stadium brought him back. He braked his wildly skittering heart.

  CASSIDY SWOOPED INTO A STRIDER, held it until the speed built to racing pace, held it, held it, then eased off, slowed to a stride, then a jog, and finally to a walk a hundred yards away. He was on the flat grass in the field across the street from the stadium; other athletes flashed by in blurs of color. He allowed himself some excitement on one of the striders and instantly felt the goose bumps on the back of his neck. He hadn’t ever had it quite this bad before.

  The noise from the stadium across the street added to the growing roar in his head but it didn’t matter now; it was all right now. He allowed it to come, let it fuel his stride as he started up, slipped into it, and then built up speed until his legs seemed to come detached from him and he flew along without conscious effort. Other athletes were at it too, nervous, casting furtive glances at one another (never looking anyone in the eye). A lot of people talk themselves right out of races now, Cassidy thought. He looked at his watch: 7:38. The mile was scheduled for 8:20 but they were running behind. Still, a few minutes later he heard the call over the loudspeaker: “FIRST CALL FOR THE MILE RUN.” His heart twisted around in his chest like a wild animal; it was an absolutely wrenching shot of adrenaline. They were going to run it after all! He was going to have to go through with it!

  Then he got control again and steadied himself. Of course he was going to run this race. Take it easy. It was time to get into the infield and get used to being inside there, do the last touch-ups, put on the spikes: ritual, ritual, ritual. Then the last sprints, the final psyching. Jesus, he thought suddenly, why am I doing this? I ought to be in the three-mile. I’ve been doing all that bulk work and everything. I can’t possibly be ready for a mile…

  Then he steadied himself again; he thought of the last 220 the evening before and told himself: easy. He took a deep breath and walked over to pick up his bag. He had not spoken one word to anyone during the entire hour he had been out here. Runners flashed by. Everyone looked fast and fit as hell.

  Then he caught himself again. Any of these mothers runs 3:58 in a goddamn time trial in the dead of night and he’ll damned well deserve to eat my lunch. Again he told himself: easy.

  Inside the stadium a 178-pound lad who could bench-press 300 pounds planted a 16-foot fiberglass pole in a tin box, inverted himself, and was tossed into the air a little more than 17 feet, 8 inches. When the crowd reacted to this feat with a roar, something flipped in Quenton Cassidy: his heart jumped so hard he thought his head was going to pop right off. The tumult in his head was like the roar at the bottom of a waterfall. He walked to the competitors’ entrance and for a split second had a rush of ordinary civilian panic as well. He had forgotten completely about this disguise business.

  But the little round face looked up from the clipboard and the cold stump of cigar went round and round.

  “Well, let’s see here, 242, why, I guess that would be you, Seppo! Go right on in there, boy, and you have yourseff a good race, yuh hear? Say, that ain’t true what they say about you Finn boys drinkin’ reindeer milk, is it? Didn’t think so.”

  Cassidy heard Brady Grapehouse cackling behind him as he went into the stadium.

  How the hell had Denton arranged that? he wondered. But then he was on the inside and the special atmosphere, the blue-white lights, the wintergreen-laced, multicolored carnival that is a major track meet sent his senses reeling, just as it always did. God, he thought. Here I am again; here it all is and here I am with everything on the line one more time. He looked back uptrack to make sure it was clear and then jogged across the lanes to put his bag down. His heart skittered again, feeling for the first time in weeks the springy Tartan beneath his feet. Officials were running here and there, hurdle setters scurrying around, timers checking watches. No one noticed the tall runner in robin’s egg blue as he began the methodical jogging on the inside grass lane. The infield was a mass of motion. Javelin throwers were slogging back and forth in their strange sideways gait, hurling imaginary spears at their long-extinct enemies, broad jumpers bounded around, high jumpers took their run-ups, and the runners of all sizes circled the track in various stages of their warm-ups. It made a three-ring circus look like a quilting bee.

  “SECOND CALL FOR THE MILE RUN.” Flash went another shot of adrenaline through his veins—he took two gasping breaths that seemed wrenched from his body as if from one tossed suddenly into an icy sea. He got control again, this time with difficulty. Two laps, that’s what the ritual called for. The roar inside his head drowned out the crowd altogether, except when they went wild over some performance. But Quenton Cassidy noticed nothing; he moved inside his own box. His gaze was starting to take on the trance quality, so that when he ran by Denton without seeing him, the older runner was not in the least surprised.

  “Seppo!” he called. It took awhile to register. But then, of course it was all right. Denton would know an international runner, it would only be natural. Denton held out his hand when Cassidy circled back. He took it nervously.

  “Sorry,” Cassidy said. “He here yet?”

  “Nope. But he will be. Best get your spikes on. How is it?”

  “Banjo string. E-flat.”

  Denton nodded.

  “Bruce, I can hardly swallow.”

  “It’s okay. It’ll be like all the rest once you get moving. Beforehand’s tougher. I would jog with you but I don’t want to push our luck. Both Prigman and Doobey are here. Guess Walton’s a big enough attraction to draw even the football establishment. Anyone say anything to you?”

  “No. Guess it’s working. I’ll be all right. I want to do it alone anyway.” Denton noticed he was breathing fast, shallow, nearly gasping. It was not important, he knew, so long as he had not torn himself all up inside over it already. It would be all right soon. He gripped Cassidy by the elbow.

  “Cass, I…”

  Cassidy looked Denton in the eye very briefly, then smiled. He gripped Denton’s forearm and held it hard for a moment. Then he turned and ran off down the track. So, Denton thought. He had seen the look in Cassidy’s eye. So there it is after all.

  Cassidy finished the rest of the ritual lap. Then it would be off with the flats, on with the spikes, off with the damp T-shirt, on with the nylon racing singlet: ritual ritual ritual. He had done it exactly this way hundreds of times.

  A roar came from the crowd that he did not understand. Nothing was going on with the field events, and they were between races on the track. Then he looked over at the competitors’ entrance and understood. A knot had formed, a chancre of humanity around the gate that suddenly opened up and expelled in a burst the fastest miler in history.

  The crowd went crazy as he ambled easily across the track with a wan smile, giving the stands a little wave. But Cassidy could tell, even from where he stood, the kind of look in his eye as he glanced quickly around the stadium and with a shudder dropped his bag to tug up the zipper on his turtleneck warm-up.

  Little fluffs of hair on the back of Cassidy’s neck went prickly again as Walton began his striders.

  He was nearly two inches shorter than Cassidy but looked as if he could run through a wall. He already had his spikes on. Every eye in the place followed him as he began doing his sprints on the back straight. The black suit of New Zealand, Cassidy
thought, the silver leaf—Baillie, Halberg, Snell. His idols, his gods! And now Walton.

  Then he shook his head violently and swore under his breath at himself: goddamn you!

  The roar had gone! He had been watching Walton slack-jawed like some high school kid and the roar in his own head had just gone! He jumped up, spikes on, and sprinted around the first turn, ignoring (not really seeing) Denton’s bemused expression as he went by. When he slowed to a jog on the far side, calmer now, his jaw was set, his eyes fixed in a trance, and the orb rested inside a howling mindstorm. He did not realize that the figure flashing by on the turn had been Walton.

  Now Cassidy took off his sweat bottoms, jogged around and left them at his bag; he kept the top on and jogged on. This was the way he always did it. They were getting ready to run off the high hurdles, the last race before the mile.

  “THIRD CALL FOR THE MILE RUN. ALL MILERS REPORT TO THE STARTER.”

  The last leap of his heart jounced him as he heard the announcement but by now he was accustomed to the shock. He made no move for the starting line, nor did any of the other milers. The high hurdles hadn’t even been run and there would be several minutes of confusion afterward while the timers sorted things out. The milers knew all these ancient rhythms, so they kept doing their striders and jogging. The gun cracked for the highs and they looked across the track at the race with the mildest sort of curiosity. After the hurdlers had swept past the finish line the announcer was after them again: “ALL MILERS REPORT TO THE STARTER IMMEDIATELY. LAST CALL FOR THE ONE-MILE RUN.” It no longer jolted him because it was all jolt now. He barely heard the loudspeaker, such was the roar in his head. When he took off his sweat top he realized he had not put on his racing singlet. He was still in the wet T-shirt! Goddamn it! How the hell could I have…

  Then he got control again, jogged rapidly over to his bag and changed. There was still plenty of time even though most of the milers were on the track milling around. The timers were in disarray from the previous race and the starter was walking among the runners as Cassidy knew he would. “All right, gentlemen,” he was saying, “all right, listen to the starting instructions, gentlemen,” as the runners paced back and forth, jiggling and jumping up and down, avoiding eyes, gasping their little shallow gasps, shaking out legs that didn’t need shaking, and generally living their last few seconds of torment. Cassidy jogged out among them, feeling feathery light now in just racing nylon and spikes; he felt as though he weighed about ten pounds. He wore the white and blue Adidas 9.9s that had never been second.

  Cassidy too took up the jiggling and pacing. The announcer was making introductions, but no one seemed to be paying attention. Walton was in lane one, so naturally they started with the outside lane. All eyes were on just one person, the powerful-looking Kiwi in the all-black nylon with a little silver fern over the breast. There was polite applause for the Finn in lane three, but when the announcer started on the final introduction, he didn’t get to the gold medals, the world records, the endless titles, before the place was a madhouse. Everyone knew it all already. Walton jogged out a few steps and waved. Denton stood by the first turn in his navy blue USA team sweats, watching. You have to learn the little smile and wave, he thought, that’s one part of it maybe you don’t think about beforehand. I’ll bet that’s the last thing old John wants to be doing right now. Even before a race like this.

  Cassidy thought, Easy easy easy. Be careful through the turn and get through the first lap. Then start thinking. Easy easy easy. Save your goodies.

  “All right, gentlemen,” the starter was saying in his executioner’s tone, gun hanging down at the end of his fluorescent orange sleeve. “A two-command start, gentlemen, ‘take your marks’ and then the gun. Is that clear? All right, gentlemen, stand tall. Stand tall, gentlemen…”

  The crowd hushed suddenly.

  High up in the stands very nearly directly across from the starting post, Andrea sat beside the very excited umbrella man and thought, It’s him.

  The starter was backing out from among them now, still saying, “Stand tall, gentlemen, stand tall…”

  And Quenton Cassidy stood tall in the night as a very slight breeze brushed his burning face. At last, he thought, at last it is here. It is really here.

  The starter began backing off the track in quick little steps, raising his gun arm at the same time. For just an instant, Cassidy looked over to lane one and saw John Walton staring right back at him.

  “TAKE YOUR MARKS!”

  Cassidy’s heart tried to leap out through his thin taut skin and hop into his wet hands. But outwardly it was all very calm, very serene, just as always, and it seemed to last a tiny forever, just like that, a snapshot of them all there on the curved parabola of a starting line, eight giant hearts attached to eight pairs of bellowslike lungs mounted on eight pairs of supercharged stilts. They were poised there on the edge of some howling vortex they had run ten thousand miles to get to. Now they had to run one more.

  CRACK!

  There was the tiny little flutter during which he thought his legs were going to fail completely, but then they were away, out of their crouches and fairly bolting, bounding out and away, not even smoothly yet, burning off the first rush of excitement and fear. But here Cassidy found himself about two yards in front already and probably right on schedule for his maniac twenty-five-second 220. Standing on the inside of the curve, Denton flashed by and said quietly: tuck in. Cassidy tucked in.

  He didn’t recognize the green singlet, but it occurred to him that it had to be the runner in lane two. Walton was obviously behind them somewhere, unworried and unrushed. Then Cassidy glanced again and recognized the Irishman. Of course! He had hardly paid attention to anyone else in the race. The first 220 went by as always, giddily, and as they flashed by the white post someone gave them an unofficial split: 26.2 Yeeow! Too fast! No wonder Walton didn’t hop right on up there. But there was no chance to look around; Cassidy could sense runners on his outside shoulder and twice he felt someone clipping his heel. He was running almost abreast of the Irishman, sharing the lead actually, but the real truth was that he was more surrounded than anything else. As they came out of the second turn he dared a quick glance to the inside and saw Walton, striding comfortably, head down, watching the feet flashing by in front of him; all business. Okay, thought Cassidy, stay right there. Right where you are.

  It was an untenable attitude, he knew, but at this moment before it all got wild and bad it was easy to entertain such facile delusions of control. The crowd shrieked as they passed the starting post in a knot. But did he hear that? Probably not. He thought he heard one single shout: “Go Cassidy.”

  “…fifty-SIX, fifty-SEVEN, fifty-EIGHT…” They were going by the post. Denton, flashing by again on the inside, said quickly, “Fifty-seven five too fast.” Remarkable, he said it almost in a conversational tone, but Cassidy heard it distinctly. All right, Bruce, it’s too goddamn fast, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?

  The announcer was saying: “O’RORK, THEN KAITAINEN, HARRIS, AND JOHN WALTON OF NEW ZEALAND…”

  Then it started to come on him, as it always did here. He usually felt it in the gut first; a slow, acid kind of strain, systems beginning to panic down there; intestines, other organs closing down for the duration, preparing for whatever dire project was under way. And the legs now started to get the first wave of lactic acid numbness, the start of a deep ache that would all too soon become the ambulatory paralysis of the final straightaway. Even this early he was getting all the old feelings, thinking, God, here it is again! Back in it again and I had forgotten completely what it was like. Forgotten altogether. Shoulders and arms starting now. Pay attention, goddamn it!

  The orb bobbed gently, taking it all in, retaining it, keeping it quiet inside the steely interior and allowing him to think. He concentrated on his task.

  Even from the far straightaway he could hear the crowd grow uneasy and then erupt, but before he could react he sensed a body coming up
on his shoulder and then flinging by to take the lead. A roar came from across the field. Cassidy pondered calmly, Who was it? It wasn’t Walton. A short runner in all red. Wisconsin? St. Johns? He racked his brain, but came up with nothing. Was he a rabbit or just some guy looking for a few seconds of glory, leading John Walton in a mile? Cassidy hung where he was all through the turn coming into the home straight for the second time, then glanced back to the inside and saw Walton, this time a little more labored, but still running casually, eyes cast slightly downward, watching the feet in front of him. The roar was deafening as they went by, but this time he was sure he heard it, there was no mistake, several voices called out, “Go Cassidy!”

  “…one fifty-SEVEN, one fifty-EIGHT, one fifty-NINE…”

  Then two things happened almost at once. First Bruce Denton flashed by, said calmly, One fifty-seven good. And a split second after that the crowd erupted again as a black-suited runner bolted by in a savage burst of speed: WALTON! What the hell is he doing? Cassidy thought.

  The announcer, excited, came on: “AND NOW WALTON HAS TAKEN THE LEAD FROM HARRIS AS THEY WENT BY THE HALF IN…” Cassidy couldn’t hear the rest.

  Jesus, what is he doing? Cassidy thought as he watched the black-suited figure easily slide by the runner in red, and keep on, showing no sign of slowing down. Cassidy was really feeling it now, starting the third lap, the old intestine-sliding-down-the-leg extremis that comes at the precise middle of a race when it dawns on you that there is a long melancholy way to go. But there was Walton, pulling away.

  Quenton Cassidy did not know it, of course, but here was the decision for all time, the decision that would lead him up the path to the higher callings or off on a side road to end up in the bushes somewhere. There was really no thinking to it; his face now set firmly in the race mask, showing nothing more than a detached strained interest, he let out a surge and found himself fairly flying around the Irishman down the back straight. Red shirt was already fading badly from his burst and Cassidy was by him quickly too. He pulled into lane one and thought, That was too fast! You could have done that better. But it was too late for recriminations. He set about hauling in the black suit in front of him, even now blending into the night, spikes flashing in a blur ahead. And this: from across the field, the calls, more of them, louder, most positive, beseeching now: “CASSIDY! CASSIDY!”