by Deacon Rie
Runners crowded all around, many moving from side to side in a vain attempt to get past the people directly in front of them. This only caused others to sidestep in half successful attempts to avoid a collision. The result was the same as every major highway in every major city; congestion and frequent slowdowns resulting from everyone in the left lane wanting to be in the right lane and everyone in the right lane was simultaneously determined to be in the left. Stephen constantly found himself apologizing for bumping or elbowing the person next to him. After the fifth episode of incidental impact he was completely out of amends and resolved to offer no further concessions. Upon the next side swipe with another random stranger he didn't even bother to glance at the victim of his battery offense. Apparently, this was not rude as the runner said nothing to him either. After another half mile of feeling like a bumper car, he sensed he could have run completely over someone and would not have felt any obligation to apologize. Stephen was well beyond the starting line and while the density of the course had thinned a tad, the zigzag of the crowd was now stifling. Though they were moving faster, he was still perturbed by the feeling of being boxed in among the other sardines in shorts.
Mile 3
Stephen tried to distract his mind from the disorganized hoard by taking note of the personalities among the crowds they passed. There seemed to a complete disregard for any rules of engagement between the crowd and the runners. Sometimes an observer would play an odd game of chicken and dart across the road attempting to cross through a gap of runners without being leveled by oncoming foot traffic. Some of the observers would get most of the way across only to see the approaching crowd, give a bright eyed look of pure shock and then, like a squirrel caught in the headlights, dart back to their original position. Stephen found this particular distraction to be quite humorous; as if the person was suddenly surprised to see hundreds of people bearing down on them. One lady with a camera froze in the middle of the path as if to accept her fate and allow the runners to wash over her. Runners apologetically bouncing off her while she attempted to become the thinnest version of herself.
Stephen considered that while was one thing to get up at a ridiculous hour before both sun and rooster, it was an entirely different level psychosis to forcefully will yourself to put on thin garments, line up in the cold weather, and proceed to run 26.2 miles for the sake of sport and the promise of clunky piece of metal to reward the finishers. Stephen could feel the sea of sardines beginning to further spread out. The sun slowly progressed above the horizon, bringing a sliver of warmth alongside the air despite temperatures procrastinating well below comfortable. The runners approached a bend in the road which, according to the race map Stephen had studied the day before, was the last turn before they exited the city streets. The bend was a gradual turn with buildings and restaurants whose owners had the good senses to stay rested. The steady scent of morning mist was abruptly interrupted by the welcome but harnessing grasp of freshly baked bread. Almost immediately, Stephen's eyes locked onto the glowing neon sign indicating a bakery was open.
His mother's favorite meal of the day had always been breakfast. Rebecca was an early riser who held a strict morning routine of coffee and a quiet reading time on her back porch. Stephen hadn't always known this person of his mother. In his childhood, he recalled a much more distant woman, one obsessed with appearances and the latest neighborhood gossip. The mother he grew up with was caring but Stephen would have hesitated to call her loving. When the days didn't revolve around her part-time work schedule, Rebecca's social calendar often got in the way. As a child, it was not uncommon for Stephen to be late for school as she refused to leave the house without "having her face on." In those days, he was nearly always the last to be picked up at the end of the day. When Stephen joined the ranks of middle school and walking to meet the bus became an option, Rebecca was rarely out of bed before he left.
Somewhere in the year or two after Stephen graduated high school and left the house, Rebecca changed. Stephen noticed it almost immediately when she started joining her husband on his frequent business trips. Before long, he realized there were subtle differences emerging; her makeup softened, her style of clothing changed and her friends were different. During infrequent visits home, Stephen was surprised and even a little alarmed to hear Rebecca stirring around the house before the sun rose. In a tender conversation between a mother and her only child one cool fall Saturday morning, Rebecca apologized for her prior habits and how it had hurt Stephen as a child. She shared with him her experiences attending a new church in the neighborhood and how her perspective had changed. Much of what she said that morning was lost on Stephen as he had heard of religious conversions before, which he knew typically got lost when old habits returned. But Stephen watched Rebecca's new habits stick.
She was cheerfully energetic and before long she started taking up new hobbies that seemed quite random to Stephen. He watched over time as Rebecca began reading more non-fiction books and enjoying photography. She visited people from her church with whom she had no history. The strangest of all was when she began making bread; lot of bread. Akin to a sweet old lady welcoming the new neighbors with cookies, Rebecca took a loaf of freshly made bread as a gift to someone nearly every time she left the house. Becoming a routine benefactor of her newfound baking, he cheekily told her the increased frequency in his visits had everything to do with the relationship between his single man's diet and her baking skills. In truth, he knew it was because he now enjoyed her company. She was genuinely different, and while Stephen was growing in his own ways, he saw his mother as someone to respect and appreciate. Stephen felt the new woman Rebecca had come to be was compassionate, relatable and above all things, loving.
When Stephen had his own family, Rebecca enjoyed treating their household by bringing artisan breads on a somewhat regular basis. On weekends when Stephen left for the weekend to attend to his monthly National Guard duties, Rebecca made it a point to bring over a fresh loaf and spend an extra couple of hours helping and being a friend to Sarah. On more than one occasion when Rebecca knew he was having a tough time with work, life or family balance, she had been known to stop by early in the morning and treat Stephen to a warm breakfast sandwich made from bread so fresh it was still solidifying after its escape from the oven.
Stephen smiled at the thought of those early morning visits from his mother and supplemented the memory by fantasizing over the street bakery's enticing aroma. With a deep breath, he took in the vivid image of a strip of maple soaked bacon, an over-easy egg and a thinly cut slice of longhorn cheddar cheese layered between two pieces of freshly baked rustic rosemary bread. The hairline slice of a knife caused the egg to flow a river of yolk along the ridges of ham and fill every crevasse of the bread.
Is that sweat or am I drooling?
Realizing that his daydream may not be best suited for the moment at hand he resolved that pulling over and taking a seat at the bakery might not be the best race strategy. He wasn't overly concerned about the pace of his run and certainly not interested to see how fast he could go. Just a finish would suffice as a personal record, or "PR", as many runners had described to him. Still, Stephen resolved to himself that a fifteen minute breakfast break might not be advisable at mile three. The commanding scent of freshly made biscotti and a steaming cup of a mocha-tinted espresso remained a tempting proposition.
Passing the bakery, Stephen saw a long stretch of people lingering along the street's curb. As the sea of jogging bodies approached, the bystanders' cheer began to rise. Stephen saw an opportunity to take a wide route in the hopes of getting out of the suffocating center. He stepped so close to the edge of the street that he had to sharply cut back in order to keep his next step from going onto the curb. He caught the eyes of a brightly dressed older woman standing on the curb and hollering while clapping her gloved hands. She had on a flannel long-sleeved shirt and thickly woven purple beanie cap. Her shoulders shrugged up as she shivered through each clap. Her encoura
ging holler from flushed cheeks released a plume of warm air as breath fogged out in front of her. Stephen thought about the absurdity of the moment and looked at the lady three feet away from him with confusion.
She is absolutely nuts for being out here this early in this cold just to yell at a bunch of people who should, frankly, have their own heads examined!
Feeling it was best to call the woman out for her lunacy, Stephen looked directly at her, opened his mouth and said, "Thank you!"
The frigid air and torrent wind was miraculously beginning to give way to a crisp, bright morning. For the first time Stephen considered the idea that frostbite may not overcome him after all. Periodically, a lagging gust of wind from the earlier system would come along and deliver cutting streaks to remind him that warmth had not yet overtaken the day. With the sun burning off the daybreak clouds, Stephen's body was now able to fend off the gusts which had threatened to change his mind about the day's plans. The wind now applied a more welcome breeze as hints of a clear day were slowly beginning to emerge.
Stephen had a steady stride going when he approached the first aid station. The path before him was checkered with random pods of teenagers handing out small cups of water to the runners as he approached a row of long white tables managed by a group of adults who filled up paper cups as quickly as possible. A handful of teenagers cheered Stephen on as he arrived at the station. He noticed several more tables set up which served energy drinks and some fruit. Slowing down to a brief pause at a table with a few spills of a purple sports drink, he graciously accepted a cup from a smiling but awkward teenage boy. He then took an orange from a petite teenage girl with an oversized smile, braces and a pleasant, outgoing personality. Stephen guessed, with a high degree of certainty, that she was the source of the boy's morning awkwardness. Even more likely, she was the rationale behind the boy's very presence on this frigid morning. As he navigated through the other runners and moved away from the table Stephen tossed his empty cup into a large trash can. The paper cup bounced off the far end, ricocheted up and dropped into the waste can. Apparently, he was the first to actually make that shot; evidenced by the fact that the asphalt around the can was the site of an intense battle in which the armies decimated one another with paper products. The entire area was covered with crumpled cups. Stephen guessed it was probably hard to see the massive blue can with the oversized silver spray painted letters marking the receptacle as T-R-A-S-H.
"Nice shot there! Banked it off the back," a friendly voice came from up ahead.
Stephen smiled back. "Thanks. That's actually what I came out here for today. I've been preparing for weeks just to make that shot. I'm done now. On my way home."
"Well, in that case," said the lean and aged man in the dark sweatshirt which made his bright-yellow beanie cap stand out even more than it normally would, "home's just about 23 miles that way. The good news is that you're going in the right direction." His cap had a cartoon runner with a black cat atop the runner's head with the word 'Maniac' stenciled above; Stephen reconciled that it was another oddity of the morning.
"That's reassuring. I was afraid I still had a long way to go." Stephen acknowledged the friendly chat as he began to pick his pace up again. He reasoned it best not to ask, stare or do anything else to bring attention to the man's cap. As he thought back to the man with clown shoes, somehow the cultural oddities of race wear just didn't stand out as all that strange anymore. Apparently, there were subcultures in the running community like these Maniacs. They had their own style and questionable levels of sanity must be part of the membership criteria.
"Hey there! You're probably gonna want one of these in a little while." Another man handed him a small gel packet marked ‘jet blackberry'.
"Yeah, thanks. Take care!"
"You're doing great. Keep up the good work." The man stepped back and began offering the gel packets to other runners.
Gel packs were not a foreign substance to Stephen. He had learned that part of the secret to completing a marathon was eating during the race. Endurance running was a calorie deficient sport and he knew how important it was to get back some of the energy he was burning. While not the best tasting meal, they were a great way to replenish electrolytes and proteins during a calorie-deficient sport like endurance running. Besides, in Stephen's mind, few items could challenge the intestinal fortitude he had developed by eating the US Army's lightweight field ration, the Meal, Ready-to Eat, or MRE. Though, his squad had generally referred to them as Meals, Rarely-Edible.
He ripped off the top of the packet and began squeezing the partially solidified, sticky blob into his mouth. He forced it down and despite being a gel, he found himself having to chew his way through the taste. It didn't go down well but he knew it was an essential need to fuel his body for the path ahead.
Just imagine it tastes like honey-ham sandwich, maple soaked bacon and a gushing over-easy egg.
The mental imagery didn't work and he burped something which tasted like a cross between an oyster and a blob of highly processed fruit.
The race continued to thin out as the faster runners increased their lead. Meanwhile, several runners mistook the aid station for a rest area of sorts during the timed event. Several people were around him, but as he left the refreshments area there was more than enough room on the road for him to become comfortable and settle into his own personal imaginary lane. Stephen saw his path forward and continued to force down the last of the gel packet. The road ahead led past an abandoned warehouse and on the other side was a long clear stretch with a gentle grade. The sun continued to press above the horizon, warming the road and eventually succeeded in repelling the frigid darts which had persisted in hitchhiking along the wind. Most runners welcomed the sun's late rise from its slumber as it heaved back heavy blankets of clouds. The long stretch of its rays met the morning and began to gradually raise the temperature. The sun's emerging heat reached out from the horizon and pressed against Stephen's back to reveal his shadow along the road. It was as if the day had woke ready to announce that this would be a bright and cloud free day after all. Sensing the foreshadowing of the magnificently clear day which lay ahead, a pit formed in Stephen's stomach as he recalled another day which began just as charming. A day which taught him that a beautifully clear day could still be the darkest of them all.
Mile 4
Even in the arid heat of the Iraqi desert, early spring was a pleasant time of year. The daytime weather was cool but without a trace of humidity. Stephen had taken time to appreciate the slightly cooler mornings. The desert area west of Baghdad was a bit windier thanks to the chilled air coming off Habbaniyah Lake. Being surrounded by a desert, there wasn't much to see. The thought of catching the tranquil glare of sunlight reflecting off of a desert lake that happened to be in a war zone was an appealing contradiction not lost on him. Given time, it might be nice to take a detour with the squad and spend a couple of hours doing recon at the lake; from the interior of the lake, of course. He knew how unlikely that would be. Thinking about the heightened sense of urgency coming from the brass in recent days, Stephen put visiting the lake on his list of things-that-are-most-likely-not-to-get-done-anytime-soon. Still, he took a moment to set aside those thoughts and simply focused on the brilliance of what was determined to become a beautifully cloudless day.
"Sarge. Hey, Sarge!" Hooper's voice from the backseat loudly interrupted the vehicle's heavy rumble. "I'm off. Your turn." Hooper reached in from his crouched perch in the humvee's open gunner mount where he had been bent over having a conversation with stateside family. He stretched out his arm to pass the borrowed satellite phone over to Chelp.
Time to call home was always at a premium when they were 'in theater'. Their benevolent Colonel had secured a few satellite phones for the unit to pass around. While not perfect, the satellite phone's signal was much better than a cell phone. But more importantly, it meant soldiers didn't have to pack roaming minutes onto their personal cells which typically ran upwards of f
ive dollars per minute. Thanks to the duty officer leaving a memo for SSG Lantz to "call home," his squad had been given the privilege of using one of the Colonel's satellite phones. Ensuring his squad members had the opportunity to use it first; it was now Stephen's turn. He placed an open palm on his shoulder to receive the phone. His eyes, cloaked behind the hardened plastic of heavily tinted sunglasses, remained fixed on the duvet of sand expanding beyond his sight.
Other than the never-ending swirl of gritty sand, the day's unchanging scenery was garnished with the olive-green backside of a troop-loaded M35 diesel truck; affectionately known as the deuce-and-a-half. The M35 was an extremely loud 15,000 pound workhorse for several armed services throughout the world. While the majority of the American units came to Iraq with light to medium tactical vehicles, Stephen's unit, like many Guard units, relied on a healthy supply of the 10-wheeled deuce-and-a-halfs. The heavy transport vehicles came coupled with those individuals who were comfortable driving and fixing them in all types of terrains, including the unending and ever-corrosive sand bed they trudged through on this day.
The goal of caravan speed, though quicker in hostile territory, was to stay a safe but consistently tight distance behind the vehicle in front of you. Maintaining a steady speed with his team's humvee was an easy task for Tomlison. He felt a comfort staring at the back half of other vehicles for long stretches of the day. It reminded the Illinois native of his life back in the states. Even if Chicago traffic wasn't the most appealing part of the Windy City, he often mentioned that he felt more secure and at ease when packed in tightly within the barriers of the concrete jungle he called home. Tomlison did, however, prefer having granulars of sand kicked into his windshield to the unpredictability of blinding rain and snow.