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Race day is finally here. Our runners arrive a couple of hours early while it’s still dark to sneak in the coolers and the fruit juice thinned with water and the bananas. We also take some time to get all our newbie workers in place and go over again what each of them will be doing. Not too difficult. Stand here, flag people down this direction. At the end of the cleared trail, flag them to turn around and make sure they go back on the other side of the course. Hand out paper cups with water or our fruit juice mix and pick up the cups after the runners are done. Easy peasy. While I’m chatting with Sue, who will be our official starter, the Norwegian and his runners show.
The members from the two clubs greet each other like long lost friends. This is a happy day when we get to share the joy of running with each other. I know how sappy that sounds, but it’s like I’ve been telling Amy for the last two weeks, there’s just something about the act of running together that brings out the best in people. Usually.
Everyone seems happy enough and we are half an hour away from start time. Except for the Norwegian and me as we spot each other across the grass. Something about our rivalry makes it uncomfortable to be next to him. I’d like to think that we respect each other as runners and have more in common than we know. I know at least I respect the guy’s skill and his obvious dedication, but I’m not sure the feeling is mutual. Both of us look to be two of the fittest people on the course today. He may be white as bone, but his leg muscles are unmistakably those of someone who has logged some serious mileage, and his arms look like he runs with full water bottles in each hand.
He’s just a guy, but I’ve heard stories about him. How he used to run in the cold landscape of his home country with no shirt even in the dead of winter. How he never gets sick and has a stomach of iron. Some of his club members told some of our members that the Norwegian once ate a box of donuts and then ran a five mile PR. Supposedly, he runs only three times a week, never times himself, and has never been injured. I’ve run against the guy for several years now, and although he’s pretty closed about himself, I have a feeling that not all of these tales are untrue. Best I can tell, my opponent is an accountant for some telecom giant and likes to dress in very nice clothes, when he’s not running at least. My intel also says that by day, he wears a tie, has a family, and is a polite member of society. But by night during the week, he sometimes runs for two hours or so at a time with no fuel. No matter what’s real or unreal, one thing for sure is that he’s a monster runner. He knows this, and I know this.
Despite our obvious tension, we are the presidents of our respective clubs, and so we greet each other like brothers. Brothers who can’t stand each other, but brothers nonetheless.
“How’s it going, you old Norwegian bastard?” I say.
“I am doing OK, Runner. How is the pharmaceuticals business?” he replies in his gentle Norwegian accent.
I just sneer. I can’t help it. It’s a fair question, given my occupation, but I still hate when he brings it up. And he brings it up every time I see him.
“What happened to the other 5k course?” he asks. “I heard you guys got busted.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Not sure how they found out, but a Helmet Head chased me down and nearly cut my running career short.”
He seems to flinch almost imperceptibly when I say this.
“Oh, now you’re going to tell me you outran a hoverbike?”
I start walking back to Amy and the group of newbie race volunteers.
“Naw. He caught me, but I got away! Guess I was just lucky!” I yell over my shoulder.
“Must have been real damn lucky. A Compliance Officer caught you, and he just let you go?”
I stop walking and turn around into the sun as it starts to rise.
“Hey, man, I don’t like what your tone is implying. I got caught, and if you must know, a few bikers were feeling generous and helped me bring down the guy’s hovercycle. The Helmet Head wasn’t so tough without his bike it turns out. Oh, and my club spent a lot of energy clearing out this new path just so we could all have this hallowed race today. Just remember that before you start talking again.”
“Whoa! Easy, Runner. I didn’t mean any offense. I am just happy you managed to get away, that’s all.”
I turn away again.
“And thanks for clearing out a new course,” he says to my back. “We’ve been looking forward to this all year. Looking forward to seeing what you’ve got for me this time, Runner.”
And with that, at least things are back to normal between the two of us. I catch myself as I almost smile.
I walk over to the newbies and make sure that I’m the one to run Amy to her station near the turn-around point at the end of the course. I use my run with her as my warm-up, so that I’m loose and ready when it’s start time. She looks a little more nervous than she should be for a race that she’s not even running in, but sometimes new members get anxious about running with such a large group of people outside. She half smiles, touches my arm lightly and wishes me luck, but avoids my eyes. Something is going on with her, and I make a note to check it out after the race.
That’s when I see her hand for the first time. She’s got a fresh scar that’s forming on her right hand from what looks like a pretty big gash. I cock my head slightly, trying to figure out why I care about this as I take off to get back to the start of the course.
I go at a pretty leisurely pace until the last bit where I get in some strides, picking up my speed for short, sustained bursts that prep my system with the right hormones to run fast. Once I arrive and catch my breath, I pull a small bundle out of my bag. Inside are my antique cross country spikes, and I handle them like they’re some sort of magical talismans.
Running shoes off. Half-inch spikes on. Now I’m ready to run.
Ever since I found these in my size at that antique store in Oregon, I’ve been dying to try them out, and today is their day as much as it is mine. I put my foot down in the grass and feel the four spikes on each forefoot dig in deep. I gotta be honest. I feel a little bit giddy as I call everyone to the line.
Finally, it’s time to race.
Our club secretary, Sue, makes the announcement. She talks about how it’s great to see everyone out today and how we’re lucky to have this chance to run, and on and on. At this point, I can’t really hear her. All I hear is the blood rushing between my ears like it’s my own private surf. The only thing I’m thinking about is defeating the Norwegian. My heart is beating fast and my breathing is already getting a little pronounced. My blood is being naturally doped with high levels of adrenaline, and I am ready to go. My mind clears of everything.
And that’s when it hits me.
Amy’s scar is on her right hand. Her gun hand. That’s the same place I tore into the Helmet Head’s hand. Could be a coincidence. What are the chances that a cute runner girl is actually an armored police officer for the Healthcare Compliance PD? Slim. OK, what are the chances that a cute runner girl joins the club with a scar on her hand in a suspect place right before the big race of the year? And what is the chance that this same girl is into me without ulterior motives? Even slimmer. Shit.
As I’m still trying to sort things out, I’m thinking there is no way this race is going to go as planned. Runners are traditionally a little superstitious, and I’m no different. Before I can finish worrying, the crowd pushes me forward and my toes are on the starting line and Sues says, “Go!” And we do.
Despite my worries, I take off like a rocket, getting the best toe-off I’ve ever had in my life because of my spikes. Maybe I’m just imagining things about Amy. Or maybe not. But if they’re going to catch me today, I’m at least going to run a great race. As I ease up to the front of the pack, I look around to my left and my right, waiting for a bunch of Helmet Heads to jump out at us from the woods. So far, nothing.
The Norwegian and I are right behind another one of his runners who is setting a breakneck pace, but whose breathing is telling
me that there’s no way he’ll last the entire race at that speed. I’m gliding along pretty well, but decide to pull back on my pace just a hair. I’m more amped up than I’ve ever been, and I’ve got a fight or flight thing going on that is drawing heavily on my adrenaline factory. But I need to have enough energy to either finish the race or to run away from more hovercycles if the need arises. Going out strong is good, but I can’t ride an adrenaline wave for the full 3.1 miles. My plan is to strike a fine balance between cutting myself loose and keeping everything in check, until I get closer to the end. Then, I can go full out and run as hard as I can until I have nothing left to give.
I look over at the pale fluid form of the Norwegian. He looks like he’s jogging in slow motion, like he’s in one of those old cartoon chases. His cadence isn’t that high, but his strides are like those of a giant. I hate that it’s true, but I’m amazed every time I watch him work.
As we come up to the first mile, the three of us are still in a close pack with the other runner in the lead. I’m burning at about a six minute pace which I hope is not too fast to sustain. That’s when I see something strange. Something that really messes with my stress hormones. I notice that the Norwegian is looking back and forth at the tree line like he’s expecting something to happen, too.
It’s not like him to be paranoid during these open-air runs, and his anxiety is spreading to me, because he definitely knows something that the rest of us don’t. I surge and pass him and the other runner, not out of spite, but out of my instinct for survival. If something goes down, I want to make sure that I’m in front of the Norwegian. I see his eyes bulge a little as I sweep on by, and I hear him curse in his native tongue. Me being in front of him offends his dignity, and it’s also probably not part of his plan.
I hear his breathing get harsher and his footfalls grow louder as he tries to overtake me. His form is breaking down a little bit, even though his pace is not. I remember a parable about how a rabbit always wins a race with a fox because the fox is running for his dinner, but the rabbit is running for his life. As I stay ahead of the Norwegian, barely, I remember thinking that the rabbit story is utter bullshit. Rabbits just aren’t as fast as most people think they are, and unfortunately in this scenario, I’m definitely the rabbit—not the fox.
Just then, the woods behind and on either side of us open up with the deafening whir of a dozen or so hovercycles spitting up grass and sticks and flashing their red and white lights. I slow just a little and hazard a glance behind me long enough to see all the runners scatter like cockroaches when a light is turned on. I want to do something, but my insides know I can’t help them. I send my fellow racers all the best vibes I can muster and then turn back to assess my own situation. The heavy-breathing runner, the Norwegian, and I are still running three strong. The Norwegian doesn’t even look like he’s lost a single stride, like he wasn’t even surprised by what just happened. And that’s when I start thinking that the Norwegian has been turned. Who knows what they have hanging over his head to have him betray the thing he loves so much. The legend himself is working with the Helmet Heads. Maybe even working with Amy. Maybe I’m completely paranoid at this point, but if what I suspect is true, I am. Totally. Fucked.
The heavy breather looks properly confused and more than a little scared, so I tell him to make a break for it into the woods where he’ll have a better chance at escaping. He doesn’t need convincing as he takes off into the forest. Then it’s just the Norwegian and me. I am so incredibly pissed at this point, I have extra fuel to burn, and the sub-six minute pace I’m sustaining feels like a walk in the park. For now.
I look over at my pale adversary and he looks back with a smirk. Way back behind his eyes I can maybe see a tinge of regret, but the overall sentiment he throws at me is “not-giving-a-shit,” and he moves into the lead as we approach the turnaround point.
That clinches it. I’m about to tackle the bastard in mid-stride when I hear a couple of hovercycles getting nearer from behind me. I reluctantly decide that survival is more important than revenge for the moment, and I do the only thing I can. I crank up the speed and cut in front of the Norwegian at the last minute, hoping to trip him up. He has to take a quick double step to keep from falling over his own feet, but from the sound of his stupid shoes flapping on the ground behind me, I know he didn’t take a fall.
It no longer seems like we’re racing each other. Now it just feels like he’s chasing me. And I’m about to run out of racecourse. Up ahead about 100 meters I see the end of the cleared trail and a few of the volunteers who look confused as they half raise their little orange flags and stare at the hovercycles gaining on us with every passing second. I wave my hands and yell something in a slurred voice that is hopefully close to “It’s a trap! Get outa here!”
Two of the newbies drop their flags and are gone in an instant into the woods. Amy just stands there. And she doesn’t look terrified.
Did I mention that I am completely fucked?
Amy in front of me. The Norwegian right on my heel. And two hovercycles coming my way. I tense my body, getting ready to dodge left at the last moment to dart into some of the heavier tree-dense forest. The hovercycles will be useless there, and the pines are high enough that I’m not sure they can get over the top of them the way Amy did last time I found myself in a similar situation. Just as I’m about to execute my riddled plan, my knees buckle forward as the Norwegian tackles me and I go sliding face first into the grass and dirt. Before I can even try to get up, the Norwegian is on me, slugging my jaw hard with his big bony fist. I don’t want another one of those, so I hit him with my most powerful weapon—my right foot. In his kidney. I hope. He rolls away, clutching his side and moaning. But the hovercycles have arrived, and Amy is moving in closer.
She opens her mouth, about to say something, but I bolt right past her and hit the tree line before she can speak. There’s no real trail here, just a bit of cleared path where animals march, but I’m doing OK, dodging and weaving through trees while keeping my forward momentum. I’m not really sure to where I’m running, but I know if I can lose everyone, I can come out to the power line trail again and follow it back to civilization. And then I hear Amy’s voice behind me shouting for me to let her catch up. I look over my shoulder and see her coming on strong. Stronger than I would have imagined she could pull off.
I sneak another look a little further back while I’m dodging through trees, and there’s the Norwegian. He’s running strong, catching up with Amy, and looking mightily pissed. This is when I should be the most stressed out—the most fearful and the most panicked. Instead, I feel perfect. Like a human running through the wild, flowing with everything around me. My legs, my feet, my arms, my breath, my heart, my eyes—everything is working as one. I feel human again. And it feels amazing despite my situation.
I forget the race we started a few minutes ago. This is the race that counts now. And, they can’t catch me because today I’m fast. Today, I’m like the wind.
And then I trip over an exposed tree root.
I don’t fall all the way, but my left leg feels like it’s jammed up into my hip. I somehow keep running through all of that and turn around in time to see the Norwegian pass Amy. The little shit has almost caught up with me. I speed up again as best I can while still dodging trees and looking out for more roots. I’m fast, but my hip isn’t working correctly, and the Norwegian is getting closer.
I decide that I’m not going to let him tackle me again. That hurt way too much last time. I wait until I see a good sized stick on the ground and then stop suddenly, scoop it up, and turn to face the Norwegian just as he is about ten or so feet away. He skids to a stop. Both of us breathing hard, trying to replenish the oxygen debt we’ve just incurred.
The Norwegian is looking around for a weapon as I rush him, moving in fast and swinging my stick that’s about as thick around as the chubby end of a baseball bat.
He goes to block my stick with his arm. Stupid
. I feel and hear his arm break. And it feels good.
Now he’s in some serious pain, and I step back just as Amy skids to a halt a few feet away from the both of us. The Norwegian isn’t even looking at her, which tells me that they know each other. I see Amy bend down to pick up a stick similar to the one I have, but a bit knottier and jagged at the end. She walks toward me slowly, and I can see that she’s sporting a Healthcare Compliance PD badge slung around her neck. Now I have two people to worry about. One is a rabid Norwegian howling obscenities in his native tongue with every shuffle, and the other one’s a cute blonde Helmet Head who’s probably still angry about her hand. I figure my situation can’t get much worse than this.
“I know why you did it,” I say, pointing my stick at Amy, “but what the hell made you turn, man?”
The Norwegian stops where he is, holding his useless arm, his nostrils flared and his eyes throwing real honest hate at me. For the first time, I can see where I kicked him in his kidney, and it looks like he’s bleeding pretty badly. That’s when I allow myself a little smile as I remember my cross country spikes. God, I love antiques.
“Fuck you, Runner. You could never beat me in a fair race anyway,” he says.
There’s no way this is about who wins the race. This is about more than that. They probably busted him and threatened to take away his health insurance unless he rolled on some more runners. He was probably hoping to sacrifice just me, but when I got away from Amy that night, he had no other choice but to let the Helmet Heads have the whole lot of us, his team included. And the race was the perfect occasion. Of course, this is all speculation, and frankly, I really don’t care why he did what he did at all. My only concern is that he knows too much about me, and could easily help these healthcare weenies ID me in real life, if he hasn’t already. I look at the stick in my hand, and I ask myself whether or not I have what it takes to end him. To go all the way and then to eliminate Amy as well. That last one, I’m not sure about. I may just have to deal with losing my health insurance, despite how much she’s betrayed my trust. Whatever I do, I know I have to hurry. I can only imagine that there are several healthcare cops crashing their way through the forest even now, getting closer with every second.
While I’m still trying to get my nerve up, Amy lifts her stick above her head, getting ready to swing. I brace myself for her attack. But instead of coming after me, she lands the stick dead center into the back of the Norwegian’s head. His eyes go suddenly vacant as the knotty end of the club sticks and stays in the back of his head, even as Amy lets go of the other end. I lower my own stick and just look confused. I’m not sure if I’m turned on or horrified by how little emotion seems to pass over her face as we watch the mighty Norwegian fall flat onto the leaf-covered ground.
She walks over to me calmly, and I swear the birds stop chirping, and the insects stop ticking, mainly because we’re all scared shitless of this woman. And then she kisses me. Square on the lips and long. My brain and body are so confused right now, it’s not even remotely funny.
She pulls back and with her nose just an inch from mine, she says, “Run.”
I step back a few paces, still looking at her. Beautiful and deadly. Then I turn and start running, leaving her with the Norwegian’s body to explain.
As much as I hate to do it, I stop for a second to take off my spikes, which have been tripping me up ever since I entered the woods proper. I run barefoot as I stay inside the forest and follow the tree line for another mile or so. Some noises spill through the trees in the direction opposite of the power lines. I walk over, and I see a park with a few artificially thin couples playing with their artificially thin kids. There’s even a dog chasing a flying disc. Everyone’s enjoying the early morning, but not too strenuously, of course.
It’s a little hard to force myself not to run, but I try to walk slowly as best as I can and to blend in with the rest of the early morning strollers. I don’t hear any hovercycles or angry Norwegians, or crazy blondes coming after me, and after a few minutes, my heart rate slows, as my self-made drugs leave my system, and I feel heavy and exhausted. I want to ditch the bloody spikes, but my DNA is all over them. After a while, I catch a working class bus, where manual labor servants don’t care at all that I’ve been for a run or that I have a pair of bloody cross country spikes hanging over my shoulder. I pay for the ride with my fingerprint-linked debit card, and make my way back to my car, about a mile away from the entry point of the race.
Running Club Page 7