Running Full Tilt

by Michael Currinder

  “Easy, Leo,” Curtis said. “Let ’em run. We’ve already put in plenty of miles to get here. We’re going to walk today.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Stay relaxed,” he told me. “I’m going to need you to focus now.” We walked over to the starting line, a long white line of chalk dust across the fairway. Curtis stood behind the left side of the line and pointed toward the first portion of the course, a level fairway that extended about seventy-five meters before curving into a steep ascent.

  “This is a par-five hole. It’s the longest hole on the course. That hill up ahead is almost four hundred meters before it crests, and it gets steeper as you ascend. Four hundred meters,” he repeated. “That’s a monster. It’s how the race begins, and it’s how this beast ends.” He pointed at a funnel of red and white flags leading toward a tent on the far right side at the top. “That’s the finish line up there.”

  He then directed my attention to a small sign and a line of yellow flags opposite the tent. “When the gun goes off tomorrow, it’s going to be chaos. There will be plenty of fools chasing early glory. By the time you reach that sign up there, I want you to be in the top five,” he said. “And if anybody is trying to open up on you, go with them.”

  I thought it was a pretty hefty challenge, but I played it cool and said nothing.

  “That’s going to take a little bit of work on your part, but if you’re careful and alert and don’t fall down in the first seventy-five meters, you’ll be fine.” We walked down the fairway toward the first hill. “Just be careful,” he told me. “And be aggressive.”

  As we walked the course, the map we’d reviewed in Gorsky’s van came to life. Curtis was certainly right about one thing: there wasn’t much flat ground. He reminded me to allow my body to roll with the terrain and let gravity do the work.

  I would let my body fall down the hills with quick, light steps and have momentum carry me upward until I naturally felt the moment my muscles needed to respond and propel me upward. If I didn’t, he said, this course would beat the living crap out of me.

  “Keep your arms pumping, Leo. Short, quick strides when it’s steep, lengthen when the hills begin to open up,” he reminded me. “Running is nothing but leaning forward, eyes and nose over your shoelaces, just letting gravity do the work. Racing is nothing but running full tilt, leaning a little farther forward, and moving your legs fast enough that you don’t frickin’ fall down. It’s a balance between running with reckless abandon and staying in control. If you find that balance, you feel like you’re flying.”

  “I got this, Curtis. Just win the damn race.”

  Still walking the course, Curtis began pointing out the guys I had to manage. “Keep an eye on that dude,” he said, pointing to a tall, lanky runner in a black sweat suit. He mentioned names and pointed out a few more notables, but I was no longer listening. I’d already decided I was simply going to take the lead when the gun went off and hang on for as long as I could.

  That night Gorsky took us to Bones, this little place a few blocks from the old Missouri State Penitentiary. “All that nonsense you hear about carbo-loading before a race is bunk,” he told us as he marched ahead of us. “You’re running three measly miles—not a marathon. Now’s not the time to fool with your body. Eat what you normally eat.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I agreed.

  “He just wants to have a steak,” Curtis mumbled.

  The place didn’t have much in terms of pasta or pizza, but Curtis caved and ordered their burgers and fries, which Gorsky promised were legendary. We settled into a booth, and Gorsky and Curtis got into a lively debate about whether America should get out of Iraq, while I zoned out to a Seinfeld rerun playing on this rickety old television dangling from the ceiling in the corner. It was a quick dinner, as Curtis mandated that lights be out by nine.

  I was wide awake as I lay in bed that night. I couldn’t figure out if it was because I was actually nervous about the race or because I generally don’t like hotels or if it was something else. The hotel room smelled funny, and it always creeped me out being in a bed that’s been slept in by God knows how many strangers. So I slipped out the door to the hallway balcony overlooking the hotel’s empty kidney-shaped swimming pool.

  Staring at the pool, of course, made me think about Caleb. I was happy to be away from him for the night. He was really starting to scare the crap out of me, and that pissed me off. Then I felt guilty for feeling that way, because I knew he couldn’t help it. Just a year ago things were fine between us, but now I was beginning to wonder if he wanted to kill me. I tried rewinding the year, searching for the turning point, a pattern, the trigger that flipped some switch inside him, but came up empty. I was left with just my gut feeling that he was getting more and more frustrated and angry that his younger brother was leaving him in the dust.

  It was past midnight and I figured I’d better go back to bed and try to fall asleep. But my mind wouldn’t shut down. I wondered if I was destined to never get a good night’s rest. As I lay awake listening to Curtis snore, I thought about how I might become a better brother.

  24.

  GORSKY KNEW CURTIS WAS AMPED, so he kept the pep talk simple. He just gripped him by the shoulders, looked him in the eye, and said, “Kaufman, you know what you need to do. Just stick to your plan and go get the damn job done.”

  Curtis nodded and climbed out of the van with his bag and I followed, but Gorsky tapped me on the shoulder. “Leo, wait a moment.” I waited until Curtis was out. “Leo, you know you’ve got a shot at this too today. You can win this thing as much as he can,” he told me.

  “Coach,” I started.

  “Leo,” he said. “You ran the race of your life last week. All I’m saying is, if he doesn’t have it in him, don’t be afraid to think that this day could be yours.”

  —

  The individual qualifiers were positioned to the west side of the starting line, separate from the qualifying teams. As we did our final strides, I spotted Dad, Mom, and Caleb coming toward me. Caleb was carrying a short stick in one hand and twirling it furiously. Dad read the tension in my eyes, gave me a thumbs-up, and guided Mom and Caleb up the hill away from the start. He knew by now that I liked to be left alone on race day.

  Curtis stepped beside me as the race marshal announced last-minute instructions. I realized it was now my turn to calm him.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  He tried to laugh. “That’s my line.”

  The marshal sounded the bullhorn and made the final call, and we lined ourselves up behind the white line. It was cold and still, and in the final seconds there was a pure silence that allowed me to center myself. I looked straight up the long hill where Curtis said I needed to be leading in only a minute’s time.

  We were given just one command: “Runners to your mark.” The pistol blast pierced the silence, and we were off.

  Curtis gave me a strong nudge from the back as I sprang from the line. I propelled forward quickly and angled my way toward the center of the course and the continuous white line marking the race route. I breathed deeply, and the air seemed to seep right into my lungs and legs. I felt light but strong, and after the first two hundred meters I was already positioned in the top five. The sound of the spikes of two hundred runners pounding the hard turf, our collective breathing, and the spectators’ cheers all gave me a burst of adrenaline. I stayed focused, eyes intent on the crest of that hill, my chest and arms strong. I relaxed my shoulders, tilted my torso forward, and pumped my arms toward the target.

  Running beside two runners I didn’t recognize, I suddenly panicked that maybe I was going too fast, amid a few fools who had no business leading. Then Fox, Fromm, Newcombe, and Palermo settled in beside me, and I knew I was in the right company. At the crest of the hill, Fox took the lead and I went with him. Now it was nothing but three rolling hills leading to a narrow bridge and a trail skirting golf fairways bordered by forest.

  The pace was furious,
and I couldn’t afford to look back to see where Curtis was; I had to wait until the course turned. The thunder of footsteps diminished after the first eight hundred meters as the throng of runners thinned out.

  Fox opened up a few meters on me, but his pace felt fast, so I let him do the work. I knew even he couldn’t maintain this pace forever. I decided I would wait until we reached the first-mile mark at the lake before I took over.

  Webster, Newcombe, and three other runners pulled up beside me as we descended the hill, and Fox, sensing a growing pack creeping up from behind, couldn’t help himself. He tried to push the pace even faster. It was early in the race, so I stayed patient. I opened my stride on the downhill, breathed deeply, and said a quick prayer that I would have enough strength for when it was time to do the real work.

  We crossed a cart bridge at the bottom of the hill, our spikes making the wood planks thud and echo in the still morning air. The white chalk line stretched in front of us in the direction of the lake, where two lines of flags formed an enclosed alley skirting the banks. Spectators were sparse at this position on the course, but a small crowd of the devoted had gathered a hundred meters ahead at the first-mile mark, eager to catch our splits. The lead pack had grown to about seven guys, and I wondered if it was time for me to make the move.

  Where the course curled around the lake, I caught a glimpse of the runners behind us. Curtis was a good fifty meters back. I glanced at the clock when we passed the mile mark: it read 4:46, by far the fastest split I’d run this season. It was suicidal, considering the terrain we’d covered, but I wondered whether it was good enough, since I was still surrounded by seven runners.

  Fox continued to lead as we circled the lake and made our way toward the tree line on the eastern portion of the course. The trail bent south there and made a two-hundred-meter steady climb, then turned west onto a long fairway and into yet another series of rolling hills.

  When Fox hit the tree line and began the first uphill, he tried to increase his gap. I shot away from the pursuing pack and joined him, fearing he was about to make a break and possibly slip away. As we climbed the hill, I sensed we were breaking from the pack.

  Before the descent I glanced over my shoulder and saw Curtis beginning to close in. He was just thirty meters back, exactly where he needed to be. So I continued to trail Fox over this series of hills until the two-mile mark, where the race truly began.

  The initial adrenaline rush was now long gone. I breathed heavily, the searing beginning to creep into my lungs, but my legs still felt strong. This was the most challenging part of any race: I had to focus, concentrate, and remind myself that each stride was taking me one step closer to the finish.

  On this brief stretch of the course, the runners were alone. Fox accelerated once more and opened up his lead by about five meters, but I remained locked in and maintained the gap. We passed the two-mile mark in 9:40. A quick calculation: we’d covered the second mile in just over 4:50, eight seconds slower than our first mile, but well ahead of course-record time. Fox was still rolling, still looking strong.

  The terrain relented at this point and flattened for the next five hundred meters before we’d be descending a steep ravine with an equally sharp ascent. The course would then level briefly and circle back toward the starting line and the final deadly climb toward the finish.

  I spotted Curtis over my shoulder, now twenty meters back. He appeared strong and poised to make his move, and I knew it was time for me to execute. I surged hard and attacked, but as soon as I overtook Fox, four guys closed on us out of nowhere so we were now running in a tight bunch. I had to make the next two hundred meters painful, because we were all about to get a breather when we hit the descent.

  Just five hundred meters earlier I’d felt awesome, but now the race was starting to take its toll. My breathing became labored and my shoulders grew heavy, but I could tell the others were struggling as well.

  A runner in purple and gold pulled beside me and I surged once more, imagining the crest of that ravine as my finish line, and the completion of the mission I needed to accomplish. If I could force the pace to that point, I would be able to use the descent for one final push. The five guys with me were content to let me lead the pack, most likely reckoning that any pace faster would be too costly, given the energy that would be necessary for that final ascent. I was too tired to look over my shoulder for Curtis. I trusted that he would be true to his word and close the gap.

  We made a sharp turn before descending. I spotted my father waving and yelling, but I no longer heard anything except for my own breathing. I leaned forward as I made the descent and ran down that hill as fast as I could, my arms paddling at my sides like windmills and causing me to nearly lose my balance twice. My reckless abandon somehow allowed me to hold my lead, and momentum carried me halfway up the steep incline aptly nicknamed “Manbreaker,” its pitch so steep that I had to reach down with one hand to steady myself and keep from collapsing. When I looked over my shoulder, my surge had put fifteen meters on the pack, and now there were four guys in a panic trying to pursue me before the final five hundred meters. Curtis was one of them.

  I made it to the top of Manbreaker in the lead, but after ten strides my shoulders seized and the blood in my legs began to turn to slush. Three guys went by me in a tight pack, and I felt like I was moving backward in slow motion. Then I felt a strong tap on my shoulder, and Curtis flew by me, sitting just five meters behind the pack. He looked strong and relaxed, but I didn’t have an ounce of energy left in me to even offer a word of encouragement. If I knew him, he would press the pace at the base of the hill as much as necessary to weaken them, and he’d be wise enough to save something in the tank for the final kick.

  I was dying. Another runner passed me, then Fox, and then another. The next two hundred meters were an eternity, but I continued to simply focus on breathing, take one stride after another, and try to maintain some semblance of form. A few more streamed by me, but I began to regain a bit of strength. At the base of the final hill, I saw Curtis now with the leaders, with just two hundred meters to the finish.

  The spectators lining both sides of the final stretch were screaming, and the cheers gave me one final shot of adrenaline. I was out of contention, but I began kicking, mostly because I wanted to see the outcome of the race. Curtis and one other runner now separated themselves from the third with under seventy meters left. Then Curtis unleashed that final gear and opened up a ten-meter gap in what seemed like a second. I saw him clearly now up the hill. With twenty meters to the finish line, he was pumping his fists outward with both arms in celebration.

  My last two hundred meters were not pretty, but I managed to pass a few guys on that beastly hill and cross the finish line in tenth place—good enough for a medal.

  Curtis met me with a rib-crushing bear hug as I staggered from the finish chute. “I owe you, Coughlin” was all he told me.

  “You owe me nothing,” I gasped.

  “You keep logging the miles and get more base under your belt, you’re going to lead this race start to finish,” he promised me.

  Our postrace celebration was a slow jog, a repeat of the race loop. We went over it together step-by-step from start to finish, both of us boasting about executing our mission exactly as planned. While the moment was past, neither of us would ever forget it.

  25.

  MOM DROVE SEPARATELY AND HAD TO cut out before the awards to make her shift at the hospital. Dad insisted on driving me home from the meet.

  “Tell me something, Leo,” Dad asked me. “Where did that performance from Curtis come from?”

  “Dad, Curtis is a damn good runner,” I told him.

  “Yeah, but you kicked his butt just last week,” he said to me. “Do you think maybe you went out a little too fast?”

  “Today went off exactly as planned,” I assured him.

  “I’m not sure I get it, Leo.”

  “Let’s just say Curtis gave me my moment of glory last week, a
nd today I returned the favor.”

  “Whatever you say. I may not know much about this sport, but I’m very proud of you. I can’t wait until next year.” Dad was looking through the windshield with a little smile on his face. Caleb was quiet in the backseat, still twirling that stick. I sensed he was working himself into a very foul mood.

  Dad said he knew about this great burger joint called Lester’s at the next highway exit, and he wanted us to celebrate. Everything was going fine until Caleb found out Lester’s was out of fish-and-chips. Then all hell broke loose.

  “MENU SAY FISH-AND-CHIPS!” he screamed.

  “They ran out, Caleb,” Dad whispered. “If I could make fish-and-chips appear out of my ass, I would.”

  “FISH-AND-CHIPS!” Caleb screamed.

  “We’d better beat it,” Dad said. He grabbed Caleb by the wrist, and we scrambled out of that restaurant before he was able to make more of a scene. The rest of the way home, Caleb was kicking the back of my seat, pounding the windows, and screaming bloody murder about fish-and-chips. Dad flipped on the radio, clenched the steering wheel, and tried to tune out. When Caleb delivered a donkey kick that jolted my seat toward the dashboard, I just focused on the white lines of the highway in front of me and pretended I was somewhere else, too.

  “Damn it, Caleb,” Dad finally said. “What do you frickin’ want me to do?”

  “FISH-AND-CHIPS, DAMN IT!” Caleb screamed. “Long John Silver’s fish-and-chips restaurant!”

  “Frickin’-A!” Dad yelled.

  I thought for a moment. “Well, the way I look at it, Dad, you can either drive him to the Long John Silver’s, or you can drive him to Children’s.”

  Dad smacked the steering wheel before finally caving to the absurdity of our situation. “Jesus,” he swore, laughing quietly, “it’s never a dull moment.”

  It was a zoo inside our car until Dad pulled into the parking lot of Long John Silver’s, our old standby whenever Caleb needed a guaranteed fix of fish-and-chips. Dad brought Caleb here almost every other week because of some television commercial Caleb became fixated on seven years ago. The place was always empty, and I feared the day it would eventually go out of business.