As the Current Pulls the Fallen Under

by Daryl Sneath

  I’ve often wished the high stakes races unfolded this way. I’ve tried more than once to set such a tone at the big meets and I’ve been called things for it by the media and other runners: arrogant, suicidal, flippant, selfish. So be it. I can’t change what people think of me, and I don’t care. Not really. But just imagine for a moment something like the Olympic final being contested by twelve men at their absolute peak who run from the gun like they had nothing to lose, like every stride was their first and their very last. Unadulterated effort, untinged by tactics and politics and individual dreams of Olympic gold. Imagine the paradoxical beauty of a race that has to, by definition, be won by an individual but is run by twelve who care only about pushing every single moment as hard as their minds and bodies will let them, who collectively do not care, not in the slightest—and not because of indifference but because of their utter devotion to making the thing which is bigger than they are, of which they are each a single but collective and vital part, as good and as true and as beautiful a thing as they can—which of them crosses the line first. Imagine.

  At the end of the first lap the clock read :53. On pace to take down the world record which surely none of us was in shape to do. The crowd stood and ushered us on with a roar. It might as well have been forty, fifty, sixty years ago, harkening back to the glory days of distance running. It might as well have been the Olympic Games. Flags of all nations undulating in the wind. The eternal torch burning. The rings in all their symbolic unity emblazoned around the field. The hearts and minds of those bearing witness filled with hope and uncontainable excitement, ­willing the athletes on to greatness.

  As we crossed the line and saw the time the three of us out front glanced at one another, eyes wide, as though to say, ‘We keep this up, it’ll be our death.’

  On we went, around the first bend, down the back straight, around the second bend, and home again. Full of running. Hearts thumping, muscles beginning to burn, not yet at the point of begging the heart to send more blood but letting the mind know, like soldiers at the front, reserves would soon be needed.

  At the line again and the clock read 1:51. Five seconds slower on the second quarter but still on pace at the half for the world mark. I felt the tension rise in my face and I had to force myself to relax. Keep the shoulders low. Maintain cadence. Keep the rhythm. Clear the head. Fend off the negative.

  Third lap. The far reaches of hell for any miler. Alone together and too far from home to return, too close to the end to concede.

  Then came the pain. An onslaught of it. Indescribable. Body-wide. Impossible to defend against. A matter of survival. The morphine of giving in—of stepping off the track and dropping to the cool grass, of lying back and sinking into the earth, eyes half-open and skyward, arms flopped out to the side, chest heaving but slowing with every desperate breath of soothing sucked-in air, inebriated by absolute inertia, the deep sweeping pleasure of moving not one single muscle—is right there, always.

  Above the sound of the bell tolling, an official called out the elapsed time—2:52, 2:53, 2:54—as the twelve of us, packed and pushing one another on, approached and passed the line for the penultimate time. Ten seconds slower than our opening effort but it felt even slower. The stands were filled with arms overhead and open mouths screaming. I could make out none of the individual calls the way I used to think I could hear Rayn, singled out and willing me on, and although I knew it to be close and thunderous the noise of the crowd, as ever at this point in a race, sounded ­distant, like I was under water and looking up, eyes wide open, desperate but unable to breach the surface.

  I was out front as we entered the final push but not by much and everything in my body was pulling me down. The month off and six weeks of long easy running was upon me and there was nothing I could do. Every stride felt exponentially slower. When I went to drive my knees it felt like they were being knocked down by a circus strongman’s bell-ringing hammer. Swing, thwump. Swing, thwump. The sound of spikes smacking and ripping at the track behind me summoned the last drip of adrenaline. I was filled with the rush of it.

  On we went again—one final lap—through the bend and down the back straight. At the top of the homestretch someone recorded our 1500m splits. I went through in 3:38 and change. Only two seconds slower than my effort three months prior at Nationals when I was apparently at my peak—whatever that says—and still with a hundred and nine metres to go.

  Two others had pulled up alongside me and so there were three of us now in front. Shoulder to shoulder. Stride for stride. Like we’d planned it. Like someone had choreographed the final hundred metres and we were the dancers dancing it out. Well beyond the point of running with purpose and poise and measured, thought-about rhythm, our bodies were at their ends. Nothing drawing us forward but the magnetic pull of the relief and elation that lay like a terra firma heaven one single step beyond the finish.

  As we fell across the line, the crowd again on its feet and roaring, it was in absolute unison. We stopped the clock at 3:53:53. Three torsos bent at exactly the same angle at exactly the same place at exactly the same moment. To the hundreth. To the thousandth. The odds were like those that put any of us on this earth in the first place. But it happened just the same.

  It was fitting. No clear winner in a race that meant nothing to the individual.

  In the end, no one in the field ran slower than 3:55.53. The fastest collective mile in history. Twelve men within two seconds of one another. Held together by shared experience, by indescribable fraternal pain, by inarticulateable understanding.

  We jogged a victory lap together, side by each, and waved to the crowd. In front of the stands we turned and draped our arms about one another’s shoulders again, as we had before we’d started—our nations’ emblems like flags on our chests—and held for the flashes of the photos that would, despite their digital resolution, resemble the wartime images of boys who’d come home.

  Above the dying noise of the crowd I heard my name.

  I scanned the crowd for the voices and located my two groupies amidst the throng. They saw that I’d seen them and they waved. Despite myself, I smiled and waved in return. What else could I do? What else would any man do?

  EAST 19th STREET CAFÉ: EUGENE, OREGON

  I wore a rust-coloured long-sleeve running shirt with a white Nike swoosh on the left chest and on the back, spanning the shoulder blades, were the words ‘What God left out,’ an em-dash and Bowerman’s name below the quotation. It was autumn in Oregon and I liked to dress, when I could, for the occasion.

  I had said five on the note. It was now seven. There had been duties (interviews, more photo ops, autographs) I hadn’t expected following the race. ESPN did a bit they said would run as a headliner the next day. They dubbed us ‘The Twelve Apostles’ but I was certain no one involved in the segment could tell us what we were supposed to be the disciples of.

  When I walked into the pub I spotted my two fans across the room in a booth facing the door. They grabbed each other’s arms as I walked toward them. I staved off a grin. I hadn’t much experience as a celebrity. To say the least.

  I sat and looked at a menu, made a show of flipping through it. ‘What’s good?’

  They touched foreheads and whispered something I couldn’t make out.

  A waiter came by, a pencil behind his ear, arms crossed. ‘So—you’re the one.’

  He was about my age. The look on his face was a mixture of deference and disdain.

  ‘What can I get you, I keep asking. Nothing, thanks. We’re waiting for someone. For two hours. At least six guys have sat down and tried their luck.’ He stared at me. ‘I thought Jesus himself must be on his way.’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t tell you for sure but my gut says no.’

  ‘So what are you then, some kind of actor? Singer? My interest is piqued.’

  ‘A miler.’

  ‘A miler.’

  I no
dded.

  ‘Like a runner.’

  I nodded again.

  The waiter turned and called out to the bar.

  ‘Guy’s a runner for Christ’s sake.’ He laughed but not insultingly. ‘You believe that?’ He looked at me again, took the pencil from behind his ear. ‘If that’s all it takes I’m going to start jogging between tables.’ Grinning, he looked at the girls. ‘Now, ladies. At long last. What’s your pleasure?’

  They were staring at me. One of them answered. ‘Him.’

  The waiter did a little bow. ‘Forgive me for doubting. You are Jesus.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘You must be thirsty. Heaven’s a long way from here.’

  I grinned. I liked him. ‘I’ll have a beer. Whatever’s cold.’ I toggled a finger between the two across the table. ‘Can I get you two something?’

  They spoke in unison. ‘You.’

  The waiter spun to the bar and held three fingers in the air.

  ‘Three Hammers. On the double. Christ is in the house and he’s here to heal.’

  In no time the waiter returned with the pints and set them on coasters. ‘Enjoy.’ With both hands on the table he bent down and looked right at me. ‘And I mean that on behalf of every man on earth who’s ever dared to dream.’

  He stood and I watched him go.

  Across the table my two fans were holding their pints in the air. I took mine up and clinked each of their glasses. We drank and one of them—which confirmed what I’d known in my gut, that they were indeed members of Valerie’s flock—said this: ‘To the Victor go the spoils.’

  . . .

  An hour went by in a snap and so far my two groupies—Jersey and Montana, I learned—had done most of the talking:

  ‘What’s she really like, the woman with the Silver Light ­tattoo?’

  They made her sound like a character from a Stieg Larsson novel, which she could have been to them I guess.

  ‘Is she smart?’

  ‘I bet she is.’

  ‘She seems smart.’

  ‘Wicked smart.’

  ‘Smart and wicked.’

  ‘You’re in love with her. We can tell.’

  ‘I bet you are.’

  ‘She makes it seem that way.’

  ‘I mean, how could you not be?’

  ‘God, if I were into women I would be, too.’

  ‘We’re dying to know what she looks like.’

  ‘I bet she’s beautiful.’

  ‘She must be.’

  ‘No one has a body like that without a face to match.’

  ‘She’s perfect.’

  ‘She really is.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So this is probably a stupid question, but do you ever see other people?’

  ‘We know she does, which upset us at first, but do you?’

  ‘I bet you don’t.’

  ‘Who would if you had her.’

  ‘Plus—you love her.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘He really does.’

  ‘But you know, people in love have open relationships all the time.’

  ‘You’re right. They do.’

  ‘You should think about it, Victor.’

  ‘Really. You should.’

  They looked at each other, then back to me. ‘God, what we wouldn’t do to you.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘You’d think you were a fucking porn star.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Shit, he is a porn star.’

  ‘For women, though.’

  ‘Which makes it not porn.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They both leaned in.

  ‘Listen. We have to know. Were you really a virgin before you met her?’

  ‘Or was that just for the show?’

  ‘You couldn’t have been.’

  ‘God, if you were you couldn’t tell.’

  ‘You don’t say much, do you.’

  ‘What would it take to get you to talk to us the way you talk to her?’

  ‘We’d do anything.’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘You could film it.’

  ‘Take it back to her like a little homework project.’

  ‘She could use it in an episode about your race today.’

  ‘Call it something like Victor Goes the Distance in Oregon.’

  ‘Think about it. Really.’

  ‘Really.’

  They both leaned back in unison and sighed.

  ‘We’re going to go freshen up, ’kay?’

  One pointed. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

  They smiled and left.

  I was beside myself.

  As though on cue my phone hummed an inch across the table.

  I picked it up and looked.

  —I saw you run. You were amazing. I had no idea. Really.

  For a moment I thought she must have come to Eugene without telling me. A stopover. Or maybe she cashed in some of her frequent flyer miles and flew down here off duty. Maybe she had another car in another building in another city where she owned another condo that was the site of another stream of Silver Light starring some other man-boy virgin she picked up in the grocery store or the gym or the library. How would I ever know? Everything she did she did in secret. Which is exactly what my two fans meant when they said she saw other people. Maybe it was some sort of competition.

  I read her text again and pictured her in the stands at Hayward Field, sitting there incognito behind her silver sunglasses taking mental notes on how she might use the experience in an episode, using her phone to capture raw, novice-seeming footage she could splice in during post-production to get that sentimental home-video feel.

  I did a quick scan of the bar. Maybe she’d followed me here. Maybe she was watching right now. Espionage another one of her myriad skills.

  I read the text again and responded.

  —You had no idea? That hurts.

  —Tell me where. I’ll kiss it better.

  —Don’t tease.

  —But I’m so good at it.

  —Yes. I know.

  —Tell me where you are.

  That was her tone. Right there. Tell me where you are.

  —The hotel. I’m beat.

  It was the first time I’d lied to her.

  —Better get your rest. You’ll need it.

  —There you go again.

  —You love it.

  —It doesn’t seem fair somehow.

  —What doesn’t?

  —Nothing. Nevermind.

  —You sound bored.

  —A little.

  —Up for a dare?

  I looked up. Jersey and Montana were at the bar collecting another round.

  —Shit. The pizza guy’s at the door.

  Another lie.

  —Ignore him.

  —I’m starving. I haven’t eaten since before the race. Hours ago.

  —Well. A man needs his strength.

  —He does.

  —I should go anyway. The bird awaits.

  —Where to tonight?

  —Montreal.

  —Tu me manques.

  —Cute. I’ll text you when I get back.

  She was always in control. Even when the effort felt collaborative, all she had to do was lift a thumb and I was reminded instantly of where I stood: on the dancing end of the strings. Jig, little man, jig.

  I set my phone on the table and watched it like a dead thing, willing it back to life.

  ‘We’re ba-ack.’

  I looked up and took the pint Montana offered me. I noticed her French manicure. The design was exactly like Valerie’s: two thin icing-like curlicues making a V from t
he cuticle to the cummerbund of white at the straight and perfectly sculpted tip. I glanced at Jersey’s hands and saw her nails were the same. They both wore silver bracelets, too. They may have been fans of Victor but there was no doubt who they worshipped.

  ‘Miss us?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  What redblooded man wouldn’t? Montana Blonde. Jersey Brunette. The very best the sweet and free US of A had to offer. They looked like they spent summer mornings contorted on benches and locked into machines, ass-flexing and ab-sculpting, twisting and tightening their taut little bodies into airbrushed quality shape only to let themselves come completely undone post meridian, sipping pink drinks through the lazy afternoon hours, floating on inflatables in crystal-blue pools, sunkissed all afternoon, eyes closed behind oversized fuck-off-and-don’t-even-think-about-it Oakley’s, dangling their fingers in the cool blue water. The kind of languor that inebriates. Unforgettable. Until they weren’t.

  ‘We saw you texting.’

  ‘Was it her?’

  ‘Did you tell her about us?’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Lemme see.’

  Montana grabbed my phone before I could stop her. Jersey huddled in and finger-scrolled through the texts.

  I leaned forward and made a lame attempt at reclaiming the phone.

  Jersey swatted my hand. I relented.

  I drank and watched their eyes scan the textlogue. What could I do?

  Montana looked up. ‘You lied.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Victor would never lie to her.’

  She said it like Victor wasn’t in the room.

  ‘Well. I did.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell her about us?’

  I shrugged. ‘What should I have said? Hey, guess what, I ran into these two superhot girls who happen to be members, not to mention big big fans—I mean borderline fucking fanatical big—and they were wondering if they could do a guest spot on the show. On me to be exact. What do you think?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘And what do you think she would say?’

  ‘I don’t know—let’s find out.’