Running Full Tilt

by Michael Currinder

  “Get over here, Itchy. Now!” Glusker barked. “You heard me! Get your sorry ass over here!”

  I figured Itchy was probably just some dude from their football team with ringworm or a bad case of jock itch. If Itchy was going to take the seat closest to me, I was going to scram. But when I snuck another glance, I realized Itchy wasn’t their buddy. He was a custodian.

  Itchy was a scrawny guy with slicked-back dark hair and small, deep-set eyes rimmed by dark circles. He pushed his damp mop around in jerky crisscross patterns over the cafeteria floor. The guy walked with a gimp, pausing every few seconds to feverishly scratch at a bald spot behind his right ear. After a few seconds of scratching, he stopped, shook his head, slapped his hand, and mumbled something to himself before resuming mopping.

  “Itchy,” one brute yelled. “Tell us about your summer.”

  “What did you do with all that extra cash you pocketed last year?” another said, laughing. “Take your girlfriends to Vegas?”

  “I missed you this summer, Itchy,” Glusker yelled. “It’s hard to find cheap entertainment when you’re not around.”

  Itchy continued to push his mop, his lips twitching like he was attempting to smile, but the expression on his face made me think he was confused and becoming agitated. I had nearly finished my sandwich and was about to bolt when one of Glusker’s goons took a nickel from his pocket and tossed it on the floor near Itchy. The poor guy dropped the mop, got down on his knees, crawled on the floor, located the nickel, and put it in his pocket. Within seconds, another guy at the table started flicking pennies on the floor so that now Itchy was scrambling around searching for them.

  Bullying was bad enough, but hounding some poor guy who didn’t even realize he was the victim of a cruel joke was as low as you could go in my book. There were kids in the old neighborhood who sometimes made Caleb do stupid stuff like that just for kicks.

  Pennies, nickels, and dimes were flying off the table at Itchy like a Fourth of July bottle-rocket attack. Confronting Glusker and company would be suicidal, but I had to do something. So I took advantage of the fact that their undivided attention was directed toward Itchy. I pulled a nickel from my pocket and slid it inside Glusker’s greasy hamburger bun as I slipped away. Near the garbage bins, I dumped my milk on the floor, then tapped Itchy on the shoulder and guided him to the puddle I’d created.

  I threw my sandwich bag in the bin and was about to make a safe getaway when I felt a hand touch my shoulder. “I saw what you did,” a calm, soft voice informed me. It was a girl. Thank God.

  I turned to face her. “Saw what?” I mumbled defensively. She had slightly mussed-up long blond hair that fell to her shoulders, and these round, glassy green eyes that looked through me. She was wearing tight black jeans and a white button-down shirt with a tank top underneath. Amazing.

  At a loss for words, I offered her an awkward dumb smile, but she crossed her arms and gave me a harsh stare. “I saw what you did,” she repeated. “He could choke on that.”

  Part of me was totally unsettled by this girl’s looks, and part of me was thrown off balance by her giving me crap for taking on those pricks. “Are you kidding?” I finally asked. “Did you see what those morons were doing to that guy?”

  She glanced back and forth between me and Glusker. I seriously thought my time was up, but she suddenly smiled. “Nicely done,” she said. “What those idiots were doing was wrong on so many levels.”

  At that moment a loud howl of pain sliced through the cafeteria. “Holy shit!” Glusker yelped. “There’s a frickin’ nickel inside my cheeseburger! I think my tooth is chipped!”

  I turned and looked at the girl. “Well, at least he didn’t choke,” I offered.

  Glusker was close to completely losing it by now, glaring wide-eyed at each member of his posse. “Which one of you guys did this?” he yelled.

  “It might be a good time to make your escape.” She laughed. “You’ve probably used up all your good karma for the day.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” I agreed.

  She turned, then glanced over her shoulder once more and flashed that sweet smile. “By the way, I’m Mary.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but my tongue got all swelled up and nothing came out. Maybe I was focused on making a quick exit? Or maybe I was just chickenshit? I had to face the fact that I’d had enough guts to take on those dudes but couldn’t find the nerve to tell this girl my name.

  4.

  BY LAST PERIOD, ALGEBRA 2, the novelty of the first day at a new school had worn off. I was restless and just about crawling out of my skin. My elementary school teachers had told my parents I was hyperactive, but my parents had scoffed. Compared with Caleb, I was a sloth.

  After I finally located my gym locker and got dressed, I headed outside and made my way to the track. The football players were already on the inside field in full combat attire, doing drills to the beat of claps and shrill whistles. Even for late August, it was still blazing hot. Blanketed in pads and helmets, they barked the number of each and every jumping jack and push-up. Coaches stalked the chalked lines and got in the grille of anyone slacking. That sport wasn’t for me.

  I’d decided I was going out for cross-country this year.

  Looking across the football field I spotted a group of scraggly, undernourished-looking guys in shorts and worn T-shirts clustered in a section of bleachers lining the sidelines and track. Behind the railing, they looked like those POWs you see in old World War II movies. I figured they must be the cross-country team, so I threaded my way across the field, climbed the bleachers, and tried to drift in without being noticed. Some guys were doing some light stretching, but most were just sprawled out across the empty benches.

  “You new here?” The voice came from behind me.

  I turned and faced a tall guy with long blond hair pulled back with a headband stretching his hamstrings on the top guardrail. Compared with the others gathered around, this guy actually resembled an athlete, like he could be a wide receiver on the football team. He looked like a runner—lean but strong, with these thick veins in his arms and legs that swelled under his skin.

  “I’m Leo.”

  “Curtis,” he said, extending his hand. “What’s your story, Leo?”

  “Just moved from Parkway Central. I’m a junior.”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he looked me up and down. “And what makes you think you have the talent to join this elite group of athletes?”

  “Uh…,” I stammered, unable to read the guy. I wasn’t quite sure if he was some smart dude who actually spoke this way, or if he was just messing with me.

  He nodded toward a scrawny guy curled up in the fetal position in the shade below the first row. “Lighten up, Leo. I’m just giving you crap. I’m captain of this pathetic outfit,” he told me. “Ever run before?”

  “Not cross-country. Played soccer until now. I just started running this summer.”

  “How much?” He grabbed his ankle and contorted his leg behind him.

  “Every day. Not sure how far, but every day.”

  He glanced at the other guys. “Well, you’re way ahead of these buffoons,” he said with a sweep of his hand. “Some of these athletes,” he shouted, pointing toward two, “like Rosenthal and Rasmussen, could be respectable runners if they possessed even a shred of discipline.” He then nodded toward the others. “The rest of this sorry lot,” he said, shaking his head, “also have potential. Maybe if they’d put in their summer miles like they were supposed to, this team wouldn’t be such an embarrassment.”

  “We prefer to come into the season well rested,” Rosenthal replied calmly. Rosenthal was a tall, ridiculously thin guy with a mop of black hair. He was wearing long black basketball shorts and an oversize tank top that left every bone in his rib cage visible. Rasmussen was shorter, with slightly more muscle on his bones. He had buzzed blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Both appeared unfazed by Curtis’s insults.

  “You gotta b
e a glutton for punishment if you want to excel at this sport!” Curtis shot back.

  “That sounds unhealthy if you ask me, Kaufman,” Rosenthal said.

  “I think warped and twisted are better words for it,” Rasmussen added. “Burpee, Stuper, and I prefer to follow Rosenthal’s summer training regimen,” Rasmussen continued. “Twelve hours of sound sleep, two daily servings of Imo’s pizza washed down with Coke, and a minimum of four hours of video games. Call of Duty, Madden, Grand Theft Auto, Resident Evil—we encourage variety.”

  Burpee and Stuper, I assumed, were the two guys seated next to Rasmussen who were slowly nodding their heads, perhaps too wiped out by their day to engage. Like Rosenthal, they were tall and gaunt and looked like they hadn’t seen sunlight in months.

  “Pitiful!” Curtis muttered in disgust. “You must embrace the monotony!” he screamed before pointing across the field. “Gentlemen, at attention! Our fearless leader has arrived.”

  A gray-haired hulk of a guy was marching toward us, carrying nothing but a clipboard. He was over six feet tall, with a thick neck, a barrel chest, and calves the size of bowling balls.

  “Leo,” Curtis said, “allow me to be the first to introduce you to Coach Archibald Gorsky.”

  The guys rolled up from their lounging positions and sat up straight.

  Gorsky came to a halt at the foot of the bleacher stairs and scanned the group. “Gentlemen,” he bellowed, before looking each of us in the eye. “I hope you’ve all had a restful summer and you’re now prepared to get back to work.”

  He proceeded up the stairs, the bleachers shaking and rattling with each step.

  “Gorsky’s a good guy,” Curtis whispered. “He actually has a degree in engineering, but he chose to apply his science to athletics. He’ll give us a five-minute speech, send us out for our workout, then head over there and toss his shot and disc,” Curtis said, nodding opposite us toward a large fenced-in field beyond the track. “If he’s not there, you’ll find him in the weight room pumping iron.”

  Gorsky covered all the typical first-day-of-practice details—attendance policies, deadlines for physicals, practice times, reminders about diet—and then gave a lengthy lecture about hydration and monitoring our urine for color and clarity. His clipboard circulated and we wrote down the usual crap.

  Finally, Gorsky announced the day’s workout: “Today we’ll begin with our standard distance run.”

  A few guys groaned.

  “That’s correct, gentlemen. We’ll start with the superblock.” He laughed. “For those of you new to the team, I advise you to pair up with a veteran so you don’t get lost. When you’re done, meet me over there,” he said, pointing to the shot put and discus rings. “I’ll see where you’re at and tell you what’s next on the menu.”

  Guys stood up slowly, shook their legs, and made their way down the bleachers, past Gorsky. “Get a good drink of water before you head out,” he yelled.

  I followed Curtis down the steps. Gorsky placed his hand on Curtis’s shoulder and stopped him. “Are you healthy, Kaufman?”

  “Better than ever,” Curtis told him.

  “Didn’t overdo it this summer?”

  “Relax, old man,” Curtis said, laughing. “I stuck to the plan.”

  Gorsky released his grip on Curtis’s shoulder and gave him a pat on the back. “That’s my boy,” he said.

  I followed Curtis along the track circling the football field. “Superblock?” I asked.

  He broke into a slow jog. “The superblock is a running route you will soon learn to love and appreciate if you decide to pursue this fine sport,” Curtis explained.

  I looked back and saw the rest of the guys lingering at the water fountain, pretending to stretch. “Do you mind if I run with you?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well, young grasshopper, that depends if you can keep up.”

  By the time we left the parking lot, Curtis had already picked up the pace. “To tell you the truth, most of the time I go solo. The rest of the guys don’t train during the summer,” he informed me. “I live for this, Leo.”

  His pace was quick, but I kept up.

  “Run with me as long as you can,” Curtis said. “If you get tired, you can wait for those guys to come along, and they’ll show you the way back.”

  We ran another two hundred meters before I looked over my shoulder and saw nobody in sight. Soon enough Curtis and I ascended the first hill and coasted the descent. I loved my solitary runs, but it was kind of cool running beside another person and talking.

  Curtis told me about some of the guys on the team, what the season would be like, and Gorsky’s typical workout regimen. “He’s pretty old-school,” Curtis explained, “but his stuff works.” Curtis signaled with his hand to turn at an intersection. He also increased the pace.

  We approached another hill, one of several he had promised. “Tempo okay for you?” he asked.

  I was pushing, but it felt manageable. “I feel all right.”

  He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled. “Do you mind if we pick it up a notch?”

  “I can try.”

  Curtis increased the pace even more, and I felt myself start sucking desperately for air, but I hung with him. He asked why I came out for cross-country, and I made up this load of bull about how I was tired of playing on lousy soccer teams.

  “Wise man,” he said. “It’s not like we’ve got a great cross-country team here, but aspects of this fine sport can still allow one to thrive as an individual.”

  Though I had put in some miles this summer, Curtis was on a different level. The hills and pace began taking their toll on me, making my legs burn and become heavy. By the time we made the turn onto Price Road, my lungs were screaming for more air.

  “What’s your last name, Leo?” he asked me.

  “Coughlin,” I gasped.

  “Okay, Coughlin,” he said casually. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  He started hammering. The next hill nearly finished me for good, but I had a slight downhill to recover. “That hill’s a beast,” he confirmed. “I’m impressed.”

  When we made the turn onto Clayton, I spotted a gas station up ahead. “I think I need to stop for water,” I panted.

  “No water,” he told me. “You’re going to feel this same way toward the end of a race. Ten more minutes and you’re done. Now’s the time you need to embrace the pain.”

  “I think I embraced it a couple of miles ago,” I gasped.

  The next ten minutes were the longest of my life. “This is it,” he assured me as we ascended another huge hill. “Once we get over this baby, it’s over.”

  It hurt, and when we got to the bottom of the hill, it sure as hell wasn’t over. We turned right onto Warson Road and still had another half mile he’d forgotten to mention. It was flat, but it was an eternity. That’s where he left me in his dust.

  I staggered back to school a minute behind him, bent over in pain.

  “Stand up and put your hands above your head,” he encouraged me. “It will get more air into your lungs.” He helped me stand and patted me on my back, and I started to feel a little better.

  “Mind if I get some water now?” I asked.

  We stopped at the drinking fountain outside the gymnasium, and I gulped until my insides cooled.

  “What do you think, Leo?” Curtis asked.

  I lifted my head from the fountain. “I’m wrecked,” I huffed, then continued guzzling water.

  Gorsky was retrieving his discuses and shots when we returned to the track. He looked at us and flashed a smile. “What have we here, Kaufman?” he called out. “Someone who can finally keep up with you?”

  “This is Leo,” he told Gorsky. “The guy can run. At least, he could today.”

  “Leo,” Gorsky repeated, studying me a moment. He turned and walked back to the shot ring, glancing over his shoulder this time at Curtis. “Kaufman, I don’t suppose the rest of your teammates ran this summer?”

  Curtis s
hook his head.

  Gorsky nuzzled the shot against his bulging neck. “How many times have I told them: cross-country is a summer sport. Unless you train in the summer, the season’s pointless,” he said to us as he positioned his massive body to throw.

  We watched the small cannonball explode from his body and land with a thud in the grass. He chucked it pretty far for an old guy. “I tell them, but they never listen.” He sighed.

  Gorsky launched two more shots while we stretched against the fence, and then he trudged out to retrieve them. With his back to us, he issued final instructions. “Run eight strides at three-quarters sprint speed,” he ordered. “Then call it a day.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow,” Curtis yelled.

  “Lift those damn knees on the strides, Kaufman,” he ordered. “And remember to drink plenty of liquids.”

  After we’d finished I was walking like a zombie toward my bike, wondering how I’d ever make it home, when Curtis pulled up beside me in his car. “You’re telling me that you never ran before this summer?” he asked me.

  “Not really,” I told him.

  “I call bullshit, Coughlin,” he said, smiling. “We hammered today, and I can sense you’ve definitely run.”

  When I finally got on my bike, my legs could barely crank the pedals. That workout had nearly killed me, but I loved the intensity and could feel myself craving more. If that was a typical workout, I could hardly imagine an actual race.

  5.

  I DIDN’T EXACTLY LIE TO CURTIS—I actually had started running that summer—but I didn’t tell him the whole truth, either.

  As it turned out, Caleb wasn’t crazy about our new house at first. Shortly after the move his temper tantrums escalated to a whole new level. And he began directing them at me. His violent outbursts had me running out the back door on almost a daily basis.