Running Full Tilt

by Michael Currinder

  “Lucky for us, Fromm and Newcombe aren’t in our district. We’ll worry about them next week. Our biggest concerns are Palermo from Northwest, Snell from Lafayette, Webster from Lindbergh, and Fox from Kirkwood. They’re the guys most likely to place in the top ten and not be from an advancing team either,” he said with certainty. “The way I figure it, the other guys placing will be from the top four teams.”

  “Just remind me what to do again and keep it simple,” I said.

  “I know these guys well,” Curtis said. “Palermo, Webster, and Fox will blast their way to the front and form the lead pack as soon as the gun goes off. I’ll go with them, press the pace, and mess with their heads,” he explained. “You just get out steady and lock in.”

  I nodded. He made it sound simple, but my gut told me it was going to be a little more challenging than that.

  “I’ll be with them for the first mile, until that ascent to the bluff,” he continued. “I’m going to push the pace there, and I guarantee they’ll go with me.” He pointed at a redheaded guy in orange warm-ups running ahead of us. “That’s Snell. You hang with him. He’s patient and likely to make his move late in the race.”

  “What makes you so sure?” I asked.

  “Just stick with him, and he’ll eventually try to make a break for it. I’m betting that will be a little after the two-mile mark. Then it’ll be time for you to execute.”

  “How?”

  “Just draft off him. Let Snell go by us gradually and just hang a few meters behind. The other guys will try and stick, but they’ll be dead by then. When Snell takes the lead at that point, I guarantee he’ll be looking over his shoulder thinking he’s got this race” he said, laughing, “so do your best to grimace like you’re in serious pain.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “He doesn’t know who you are, Leo. Besides your fifty-sixth-place performance a month back, you’ve done nothing notable in the races. Nobody is going to take you seriously.”

  “You didn’t have to remind me about that.”

  “Are you kidding, Coughlin? That race was the best thing that could have happened to you this season. None of these guys are thinking about you. And today we’re going to take advantage of that.”

  I let his words sink in.

  “Wait until the final three hundred meters, then go strong for a two-hundred-meter surge,” he told me. “That should do it. Then settle in and maintain. It will be just you and Snell at that point. Stay with him and wait until the final thirty meters to kick.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That should do it,” he said with certainty.

  “All right, then.”

  By race time the sun had burned off the fog and the air had warmed slightly and was easier to breathe. Gorsky met us at the starting line and arranged the team in our narrow alley, placing Curtis and me next to each other. Our team squeezed in, and we shook and jumped in place to keep loose and calm our nerves. Gorsky tapped Curtis and me on our shoulders. “Get out quick,” he told us. “I believe that you can do this, but that’s not what matters. You must believe it yourselves. Be bold.”

  Curtis delivered a soft tap to my heart with his fist and nodded. I turned and got myself positioned on the line as the starter gave final instructions. Then it was silent.

  I looked straight out to where we’d soon be running and spotted Mom and Dad sitting on the hood of the car, side by side. Dad pumped his fist high, a gesture of good luck and strength. Behind him I saw Caleb continuing to test the limits of the swing set. He appeared at the crest of each swing, and still he pumped his legs to go even higher.

  Then the gun exploded, and we were off.

  Curtis did exactly what he said he was going to do: he blasted aggressively from the line into the lead. Palermo, Fox, and Webster were in a sizable group that took Curtis’s bait, running at a blazing pace. Just as Curtis predicted, Snell was more sensible, remained calm, and drafted a good distance off the lead. I caught up to him and we settled into a reasonable pace. Clearly this guy had confidence in his own strategy and abilities and was content with trailing the pack.

  The first mile was forest trail that circled back to the starting line and finish area. I hung with Snell, and we threaded our way through several runners who went out too quick but weren’t serious contenders. We came through the first mile in just under five minutes, which meant Curtis and the lead pack were flying. As we broke into the first clearing, I spotted him leading a group of eight runners. Snell and I were still a good eighty meters back.

  We passed the parking lot playground, where Caleb was still pumping his legs and buckling the chains at the height of his swing. Dad was standing on the hood of the car, but Mom was now atop the picnic table. Dad yelled, “You’re tenth, Leo! Run!”

  The second mile headed into another forest trail and led east toward a bluff that overlooked the river. As far as courses went, Macklin was the most beautiful one I’d ever run. The cool morning air, the colorful fall leaves, and the smell of damp earth and stone being crushed beneath my feet provided a rush, and I began to cruise.

  As we approached the pivotal hill where Curtis planned to break the race open, I remained patient and maintained a five-meter deficit on Snell. He pushed the pace a bit up the hill, but it was easy to stay with him. I wanted to take off more than anything, but I stuck to the plan and waited.

  Snell and I passed three guys on the ascent, and when we crested the hill I saw the lead pack. Curtis was still in front. I knew I was in the top ten, but the crucial portion of the race had yet to begin. Snell and I had closed the gap considerably and were now only thirty meters back. He pressed the pace once more, and we started closing in fast on the leaders.

  When we passed Curtis, I allowed a momentary gap between Snell and me. “How are you doing?” I asked him.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said. “It’s your turn.”

  I accelerated and pulled up behind Snell as we gained ground on Fox, Palermo, and Webster. Snell definitely knew what he was doing. He was cruising at this point, clearly relying on patience and his strength to eventually capture the lead. In fact, I sensed he was running too comfortably, so I knew I had to modify the plan. When we pulled beside the lead pack, I surged. It was earlier than Curtis anticipated, but I felt I had enough in me to deliver a quick burst of speed that was intended to be the nail in the coffin and enough to mentally bury them.

  Just as Curtis predicted, the three tried to counter with their own surge, but they started dying. Fox glanced over his shoulder a couple of times, and the look in his eyes told me he was hurting. I allowed him, Palermo, and Webster to battle it out with one another for another hundred meters, and then I kicked it up another gear and passed them for good.

  It was just me and Snell now. I followed Curtis’s instructions and let Snell pull beside me. I gasped like I was suffering, but I felt awesome.

  There were three hundred meters to go, and now I wondered if I’d gone too early and it was going to come back and bite me. I allowed Snell to open up a five-meter lead, and he casually looked over his shoulder a few times. I tried to pretend I was nothing more than an annoying pest, like Curtis had instructed, but I didn’t need to exaggerate my pain, because I was truly beginning to feel it. My shoulders were tightening and my legs were getting heavy. Snell believed he had a comfortable cushion at this point, and all he had to do was unleash his final kick. I couldn’t allow him any more of a lead, and I needed to prepare myself to pounce.

  The trail veered left and opened up, a slight downhill and final stretch of flat, grassy field that led toward the fifty-meter roped-off funnel and the finish line.

  Snell began his kick as we hit the downhill. I responded and began to gain ground. Not knowing whether this guy had an extra gear, I followed Curtis’s advice and waited until we were inside the funnel and thirty meters from the finish.

  The crowd was screaming, and he didn’t hear me coming. When he finally sensed I was on him, he glance
d back and tried to accelerate once more. I had him. I pulled up beside him and unleashed my final kick. As I flew by him, he let out a gasp. Seconds later, I broke the tape.

  I made my way through the chute, then dropped my hands to my knees for support. I felt a tap on my back and turned to find Snell with his hand extended. He was too exhausted to speak. He closed his fist and tapped his heart two times and gave me a thumbs-up. I shook his hand, exited the chute, and jogged back to where I could see the rest of the runners come in. Fox, Webster, and Palermo were approaching the chute, and Curtis was just a few meters behind them. Of the four, Curtis looked the strongest.

  Dad grabbed me from behind and tried to congratulate me, but I shook him off and watched Curtis come in. With twenty meters left, he clenched his teeth, pumped his arms, and elevated his knee lift and cruised past the three other runners to finish in third place. I circled back and met him as he exited the chute.

  “What place?” he asked, his arms on my shoulders, panting in exhaustion.

  “It was a close one,” I told him, smiling. “Got him at the finish.”

  “I told you so, Leo” was all he said.

  There was something utterly magical about executing a race exactly as we rehearsed it. Gorsky met us a few minutes later, lugging our gym bags, and he began barking orders. “Gentlemen, keep your celebration brief. Change into your sweats quickly, keep warm, and get in a proper cooldown.”

  He tossed our bags at us and finally burst out in a huge smile. “Kaufman, that was perhaps the most courageous race I’ve ever seen from any athlete I’ve ever coached,” he said. “And Leo, that wasn’t too shabby either. You won that race as much with your brains as you did with your body. Well done.”

  We removed our spikes, bundled ourselves in our sweats, and jogged back in time to cheer the rest of the guys to the finish. I could still feel the dry burn in my lungs from the race, but my legs felt light and strong. “You do remember what I told you was going to happen if we got to state?” Curtis asked.

  “How could I forget?” I told him. “You’re going to kick my ass.”

  “Yours and everyone else’s,” he reminded me with a sly smile.

  —

  “Wasn’t that something, Elise?” Dad asked as he began to recount the race at lunch. He had his sandwich in one hand and was waving a forkful of potato salad with his other. “He comes out of that forest and chases down that kid from Lafayette and then passes him right at the finish. Spectacular!” he yelled, pounding the table with his fist.

  “Could you please not talk with your mouth full?” Mom pleaded. “And could you wipe that potato salad off your chin?”

  Dad took another bite from his sandwich and smiled at me. “Honestly, that had to be one of the most exciting things I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Mom turned and smiled at me. “It was really amazing to watch, Leo. I’m very proud of you.”

  “It still really hasn’t quite sunk in yet,” I told them, trying to play it down.

  “You know,” Mom began, “my uncle George was a great runner when he was your age. My mother used to talk about him winning races all the time. I’ll see if Grandma has any of his medals.”

  “Your uncle George?” Dad blurted, his mouth still full of sandwich. “Your uncle George who had a heart attack when he was fifty? That man was obese. The last time I saw him, he could barely walk across the room. No way he could ever run even ten steps.” Dad emphasized the final words of his sentence by stabbing his fork in the air, this time in Mom’s direction.

  Mom got up and began doing the dishes. “He didn’t become obese until he became a chef, you fool,” she told my father. “Leo certainly didn’t inherit his talent from your side of the family, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “And why’s that?” Dad was yelling now.

  “As far as I know the only thing your mother and father were good at was—”

  “Let’s not start this game!” Dad yelled, holding his hands up to signal a truce.

  Mom turned and glared at him. “No. I don’t want to start this game. Let’s just call ourselves even.”

  I got up, placed my dish in the sink, and headed downstairs to my room. I could still hear them arguing, but I couldn’t understand what they were yelling about. I wondered if they even knew what they were arguing about anymore.

  22.

  “YOU’RE FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE, Coughlin!” Curtis shouted when he opened the door.

  “Got anything to eat?” I asked. “I’m starving.”

  He dismissed me. “Follow me!”

  Curtis’s parents were history professors at Washington University and on sabbatical for the semester. He explained to me that basically meant his parents got to go on a lot of vacations.

  I trailed him down a long hallway into his parents’ bedroom, where he led me toward an enormous walk-in closet and pointed at a large collection of suits hanging on the far wall. “Take your pick,” he said. It was more of a command than an invitation.

  I scanned the collection and selected a peach suit with bold brown stitching running along the seams of both the coat and the matching pants.

  “Excellent choice, Leo. The color combo is both thought provoking and revolting. I particularly like the slacks.”

  “What are these?” I asked. “And please don’t use the word slacks. It’s creepy.”

  “These, my friend, are my father’s leisure suits, a fine collection he obtained from his father and was wise enough to keep in the family,” Curtis explained.

  “They’re hideous,” I said.

  “Exactly,” Curtis agreed. “And one day I will inherit them, despite my mother’s fierce objections. Now put one on.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.

  “Coughlin, I take Halloween seriously,” he said with conviction, removing a pink jacket with purple lapels, the pants a reversal of the same colors. He held the suit up and considered his image in the mirror. “I think I’ll wear this provocative number,” he said.

  Curtis dropped his pants and put on his father’s suit. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped. “The party is already well under way.” He tossed me a garish orange shirt and tie.

  I shrugged and put on the suit. “We look ridiculous.”

  “Precisely,” he agreed. He was standing in front of the full-length mirror, squaring his tie knot.

  We were headed to an open party at some football player’s house whose parents were also out of town for the weekend. Apparently it was going to be a huge bash, with rumors of kids showing up from some of the Catholic schools in the area. I was still on a high from the district race that morning and in the mood to celebrate, but Curtis was stone-faced, like we were going to a job interview.

  “Now for a few finishing touches,” Curtis said.

  He selected a pair of white shoes and lobbed them to me. “See if these bad boys fit,” he said. They were shiny white slip-ons, and unfortunately they fit like a glove and were actually kind of comfortable.

  We moved next into his parents’ bathroom, where Curtis applied a thick layer of hair cream to our scalps. He spent several minutes styling my hair so it looked like a bad comb-over. He combed his own hair straight back. He worked with an intensity and attention to detail that bordered on disturbing. After adding the final touches to his hair with his father’s comb, he spoke to our reflections in the mirror. “Shall we be on our way?”

  “I guess.” I looked into the mirror and reminded myself that once again Curtis had managed to coerce me into something stupid that I’d probably regret.

  The party was not far from Curtis’s house, so we walked, hopping fences and cutting through a few backyards. A surly Rottweiler on evening patrol pursued us through the last yard and nearly took a bite out of Curtis’s leg before we scrambled over the fence to safety.

  “Clean living until after state,” he told me as we entered the party.

  I saluted him. “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “That mea
ns no booze, Coughlin.”

  “As you said, we shall treat our bodies as holy temples, Curtis, until our mission is completed next Saturday,” I assured him.

  “I’m serious,” he said.

  “You’ve made that very clear.”

  I followed Curtis as we threaded our way through a crowded backyard past clusters and cliques I recognized from school. We found Rasmussen, Stuper, Rosenthal, and a couple of other guys from the team gathered in a clump near a birdbath filled with ice and beer in the corner of the yard. Rasmussen and Stuper were wearing long white underwear tops and bottoms, swim goggles, curly black tails, and white capes. Rasmussen had a giant X spray painted on his cape, and Stuper’s had a Y.

  “Guess what we are?” Stuper asked proudly.

  “I’m going to take a wild guess that you’re sperm cells,” Curtis answered.

  “Correct!” Rasmussen laughed. “You’re the first person to figure it out.”

  “I think the X and the Y make it abundantly obvious. Do I need to remind you I took AP Biology?” Curtis answered.

  Burpee was in a Batman costume. Rosenthal had a potato dangling out of his fly from something that resembled a coat hanger.

  “I’m a dicktater,” he explained. “What are you guys supposed to be?”

  I didn’t have an answer, and Curtis was distracted. Some guy in a pretty good Yoda getup had arrived and was making a quick move toward a group of popular girls from school. Yoda paused and entertained them for a few minutes. He then removed his mask, whispered a few words to Missy Hamlin, took her hand, and led her away.

  “Unbelievable,” Curtis said. “Why can’t I do that?”

  “I think she’s already had a few,” Rasmussen said. “Just wait until Glusker gets here.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “Until last week she was Glusker’s girlfriend,” Rasmussen explained. He was the only guy on the team remotely connected to the social scene, so we hung on his words. “She dumped him, but he’s not over it yet. At least that’s the word on the street.”