“No,” I said. “I don’t want to sit down.” Beware the chair, I was thinking.
The kimono guy paid no attention. “Massage!” he said.
“Who, me?” I said.
He grinned. “You bet!” He draped a towel over my shoulders and pressed his thumbs into my neck.
“Yowch!” I shouted.
“Relax,” kimono guy said.
I did. It still hurt. Then, all of a sudden, it felt great. My head rolled backward and I started to groan.
“You’re drooling, brother.”
“Sorry,” I said.
He wedged his thumb beneath my shoulder blade and pressed. Fifty thousand volts of electricity shot through my eyes. A moment later, the pain melted away, and my body glowed with a liquid warmth. “That feels good,” I said.
“Thanks!” said kimono guy.
I was starting to smell a bit rank, I noticed.
“Sorry I’m so sweaty,” I said.
“I’m used to it,” kimono guy laughed.
I have no idea why people volunteer at 100-mile races. They have to put up with some pretty disgusting stuff. For instance:
BO
Repulsive blisters
Rude and exhausted runners
Gatorade breath
Evil-smelling T-shirts and socks
Lots of talk about vomit, pee and poo
When the massage ended I thanked kimono guy (“Domo arigato!”) and floated over to the food table, feeling as loose as a jellyfish. I ate a cup of the most delicious chicken noodle soup, except that it wasn’t really soup. It was full of beans and shredded carrots and it was as thick as chili — it was more like chicken noodle chili.
A red truck pulled into the parking lot. Bruce climbed out. I charged straight over.
“Lucky Number Thirteen!” he said. “How you doing?”
“Pretty good,” I said. “But my hydration pack is toast.”
Bruce’s eyebrows popped up. “Spring a leak?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Have you got any extras?”
Bruce led me over to the supplies table. He bent down and pried open a cardboard box. “We should have something in here,” he said. “Yours holds three litres, right? Hey, look at this …”
He pulled out what looked like a plastic IV bag and tube.
“Aha,” he said, popping off the lid. “It seems clean.” He smelled the inside. “Well, clean enough.”
He filled it with water, screwed the lid shut and squeezed. There didn’t seem to be any leaks.
SAVED!
Kneecap’s phone rang. I recognized the number.
“Hey, bro,” I answered. “Where are you guys?”
Ollie didn’t answer my question. Instead, he deafened me with a “GO QUINN GO!”
“Hey, buddy!” I said. “How’s my pacer?”
“GO QUINN GO!” he yelled again.
While I’d been losing my marbles and chatting with storm clouds, Ollie had been having a very productive day. In the 10½ hours it had taken me to run 45 miles, he’d caught three frogs, helped Mom buy an antique butter box, played six games of Crazy Eights, eaten a half-dozen Nanaimo bars and made it to Level 8 on his favourite video game.
“Sounds like you’re having a great day,” I said.
“I am!” he said. “Hang on — Kneecap wants to talk to you.”
There was a moment of silence. I thanked Bruce for the bladder, and wandered down toward the lake.
Kneecap came on the line. “Yo! Q-Tip!” she said.
“Hey,” I said, “you survived your mountain-climbing adventure.”
“Yeah, and guess what? I was right about that guy with the neon socks.”
“You mean the Dirt Eater?” I said.
“He was still sitting in that lawn chair when I got back down. I bet he’s STILL sitting out there.”
A smudge of green caught my eye. A water snake was swimming across the tops of the waves.
“Where are you?” I said. “I just got to Grace Point, but I can’t wait around for you guys forever.”
“Something’s wrong with your car,” said Kneecap. “We’re stuck at the nastiest gas station in the world. Hang on — your mom wants me to give you a message. She says, Sorry about missing you … We’ll catch up to you at Ratjaw …”
I smiled. “Tell her it’s okay,” I said.
I stared at the lake while Kneecap passed on my message. The snake cut through the water like a knife through butter. I suddenly felt sad. I felt a lump in my throat. I hadn’t realized how much I was looking forward to seeing them.
“Hey, how are you doing, anyhow?” Kneecap asked.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Okay, or okay-ish?”
“Ish,” I said. “I’m slowing down. I ran the first twenty-three miles in four and a half hours, but it took more than six to run this last twenty-two.”
Kneecap snapped her gum. “Stop it,” she said. “You just ran forty-five miles. That is huge, don’t you realize that? It’s epic. Heroic.”
I sighed and said nothing.
“You’re doing great, Quinn,” she said. “So stop worrying, okay? Hang on, here’s your brother.”
The snake slid into a pile of rocks on the shore. Ollie came back on the line.
“Hey again,” he said.
“Hey again,” I said. “Can you tell me a joke?”
Ollie was silent for a moment. “A knock-knock joke, or a real joke?”
“A real one,” I said.
There was a long pause. I kept watching for the snake.
“I don’t think I know any real jokes,” Ollie said finally.
“Sure you do,” I said. “Dad used to tell them all the time.”
I wandered back to the food table with the phone pressed to my ear. I ate a chunk of banana and washed it down with ginger ale.
“I could tell you a story,” said Ollie.
“What story?”
“About the time Mom told a lie.”
“I don’t tell lies,” I heard Mom say in the background.
“Yes you do,” said Ollie. “You did once, anyway.”
He started in on the story of our family trip to New York. I remembered it perfectly, of course. It had only been two years since we’d flown there, back when Dad ran the New York City Marathon. Mom signed me up to volunteer at a water station. It was my job to hand out paper cups of water and Gatorade to the runners. My water station was near the end of the race, close to Central Park, which I knew from TV.
We got to the water station early in the morning, hours before the first runners arrived. Ollie and I climbed all over the statues in the park while Mom helped set up the stretcher tables and mix the Gatorade. Around ten o’clock, everyone started cheering. The first-place runner was coming down the road. Ollie and I scrambled to the curb and watched him sprint past. He didn’t take any water from anyone. He didn’t even smile when people yelled his name.
A bunch of other runners was right behind him. They were small, thin men — from Africa, I think — and their faces were scrunched up with what looked like concentration and pain. They’d run 23 miles in less than 2 hours. I had no idea people could run that fast.
A few minutes later a woman ran past. She didn’t stop to drink anything either.
“See her?” said Mom. “That’s Paula Radcliffe.”
“Who’s Paula Radcliffe?” asked Ollie.
“The fastest woman in the world,” said Mom.
Paula’s blond ponytail bounced back and forth as she ran. A TV truck drove beside her, filming her every step.
A few minutes later, more runners went by. They were still very fast and their faces were clenched, but some of them reached out to take a cup of water. They drank as they ran, or poured the water over their heads. It was November and all the volunteers were wearing jackets, but the runners looked like they were pretty hot.
I asked Mom when Dad was coming.
“Later,” she said, laughing. “Much later.”
<
br /> The trickle of runners became a stream, and then the stream became a river. Now all the runners wanted something to drink. The volunteers stood in a long line at the edge of the road, holding out our paper cups, yelling “Water!” or “Gatorade!” A lot of cups got dropped, and everyone got splashed. It was loud, and crazy, and the most fun I’ve ever had.
The runners were all shapes and sizes now. They were skinny, chubby, muscular, old. A woman with a metal leg ran past. She bounced like a gazelle, and everyone cheered. A guy went by, juggling three balls. A man in a pink ballerina costume. A girl dressed as a clam.
The minutes passed by, but Dad didn’t come. I started to worry, but there was no time to worry — I was too busy shoving cups at all the runners. There were zillions of them now, and most of them stopped to walk when they took their cup of water, and everyone tossed their empty cups to the curb. Volunteers swept the cups into massive plastic bags, but as fast as they worked, they couldn’t keep up with all the garbage.
“You’re almost there!” Mom yelled at the runners. “Only three miles left! You can do it!”
Some of the runners flashed a thumbs-up sign. Others frowned and stared hopelessly at the road.
The pavement was wallpapered with flattened paper cups. Lots of the runners looked pretty beat-up. They were limping and gasping for breath and their eyes looked like cracked marbles. And then, all of a sudden, there he was.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dad said.
He was sweaty, red-faced, yellow-shirted. Ollie ran up to him and hugged his white legs.
“Hey there, buddy,” said Dad. “Yowch!”
Ollie had accidentally stepped on his foot. Dad sat down on the curb and untied his shoe.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
His right sock had been replaced by a tensor bandage.
“What, this?” Dad said. “Nice fashion statement, eh?”
He tried to laugh it off, but you could see that he was hurt. He massaged his foot with his hands.
“You’re looking good,” said Mom.
“Don’t lie,” Dad said. He wasn’t smiling.
Mom looked at his foot. “So,” she said again, “what happened?”
“The usual,” he said, glancing around. “How far away did you park the car?”
Mom didn’t answer. The crowd kept cheering for the runners. “You’re quitting?” she said at last.
“Yeah, my race is over,” said Dad.
A woman came off the road and lay down on the grass. Paramedics rushed over and took her blood pressure and checked her eyes.
Dad unwrapped his foot. The bandage was the colour of milky tea.
“Does it hurt?” Mom asked.
“You bet it does,” said Dad. “Hey, Ollie, give me one of those.” Ollie had opened a pack of Fruity Juicers. Reluctantly, he handed one to Dad.
Mom said, “You know that we’re in New York, right?”
She sounded angry, which made Dad look up. “Of course I do,” he said. “Why?”
“Only because you’ve been talking about this race since the day I met you. You always said you wanted to run the New York City Marathon. You never said you wanted to run three-quarters of it.”
Dad unwrapped the Fruity Juicer and popped it into his mouth. “It’s not like I have a choice, hon,” he said. “I’m not cut out for running on pavement.”
Mom stared at him. “What do you mean, you’re not cut out?” she said. “You’ve got two legs, don’t you?”
“Yes, but —”
“And they’re not broken, are they?”
“No, but the pavement is harder than the trails back home and —”
“Don’t listen to your pain,” Mom said. “Listen to your heart. Your heart wants to finish this race.”
Dad shook his head and clicked his tongue. That was bad. He didn’t do that very often.
“It feels like I’ve got a knife in my foot,” Dad said. “You have no idea how much pain I’m in.”
“I gave birth to two ten-pound boys,” said Mom. “Do you think it’s maybe as painful as that?”
Dad glared like a rattlesnake eyeing a frog. “I said I’m quitting,” he repeated.
“Fine then.” Mom turned to Ollie and me. “Come on, kids, let’s go. You won the bet after all.”
Me and Ollie looked up at her, surprised. Mom zipped her purse and stood up.
“What bet?” said Dad.
“The kids bet me that you wouldn’t finish,” said Mom, fishing the car keys out of her pocket.
I was shocked to hear her say those words. Not only was it a lie, it was mean!
“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom said to him. “But you’re absolutely right. Twenty-six miles is a crazy distance to run on pavement. It’s a miracle anyone finishes this race at all.”
Dad looked like he’d been hit over the head with a hammer. “Come on, boys,” Mom said. “It’s a long walk to the car.”
Dad glowered at the three of us. Then he began winding the tensor bandage around his foot. “I know what you’re trying to do,” he grumbled.
“Is that so?” said Mom. She was holding Ollie by his shoulder. “What is it, exactly, that I’m trying to do?”
Dad drank a cup of water. Then he took a deep breath and pulled his shoe back on. He tied it, stood up and began walking down the road. His face was as red as Mom’s beet borscht.
“See you at the finish line!” Mom shouted. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Dad started to trot. “Have the divorce papers ready!” he shouted back. And then he was lost in the rainbow of spandex shirts.
Dad crossed the finish line an hour later. He was one of the last runners to receive his medal. He was in a lot of pain, but I’d never seen him so happy. He hoisted Ollie onto his shoulders.
“I lied,” said Mom. “The kids never really made that bet.”
* * *
“And that was the day Mom told a lie!” said Ollie.
“Yeah, but she did it for a good reason,” I said.
“Still,” said Ollie. “A lie’s a lie.”
“Give me the phone, young man,” I heard Mom say.
She came on the line a moment later. She sounded testy and tired. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” I echoed.
“I’m sorry we’re not there,” she said. “This stupid car … It’s your dad’s fault. I told him not to buy an import.”
A big wave crashed against the shore. I sat down on a rock that was shaped like a chair.
Mom said, “We’ll catch up to you at Ratjaw, I promise.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m fine on my own.”
“I know,” said Mom. “Sometimes you’re too fine on your own.”
The telephone line whistled between us. “Listen, Quinn,” she said finally, “I need to say something important.”
“Okay,” I told her.
She took a deep breath. “You know how, when you step on a wad of gum on the sidewalk, it sometimes gets stuck to the bottom of your shoe? And you can’t get it off no matter how hard you try?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“That’s what family is like,” Mom said. “It can be messy and annoying, but it’s impossible to scrape off.”
A cicada droned and then suddenly stopped. The phone bleeped, and the battery icon shrank by one bar.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“That’s it,” said Mom. “No matter what happens, you’re stuck with us.”
A snake slithered through the grass at my feet. It had different colours from the one I’d seen in the water.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” said Mom.
“I think so,” I said.
Then, because the wind was rattling the cedar branches, I asked my mom a very strange question. “Mom,” I said, “can you think of anything that doesn’t have a shadow?”
She didn’t even need to think about it. “That’s easy,” she said. “The sun.”
“Oh �
� yeah,” I said. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“Wait a minute,” said Mom. “I thought of something else.”
“What?”
“A mother’s love. Because it’s even brighter than the sun.”
“Come on, I’m being serious,” I said.
“So am I,” Mom said. “My love is brighter than a disco ball. It’s brighter than Albert Einstein covered in glitter …”
“Mom. Please. Don’t make me throw up.”
“I love you too, young man. See you at Ratjaw. Run safe!”
IN EVERY RACE THERE IS A SURPRISE
Mile 51
You’d think that after running for 12 hours, throwing up, nearly dying of thirst and hallucinating so badly I started talking to storm clouds, the worst of my troubles would be behind me.
You’d think that. But you’d be wrong.
Bigger troubles still lay ahead. For instance, I wrote my obituary at 6:10 p.m. That’s right — my obituary. My death was moments away.
QUINN SCHEURMANN, 1999–2013. Passed away suddenly during the annual running of the Shin-Kicker 100-Mile Race. Cause of death: mauled by bear. Charges of negligence are pending against race organizers …
Too bad I wouldn’t live to see it in print, I thought. Unless I could pull off a miracle in the next 3 seconds.
What was it my dad had said about bears?
If it’s black, attack!
If it’s brown, lie down!
You weren’t actually supposed to attack black bears. But if you scared them well enough, threw rocks and made noise, they were supposed to chicken out and run away.
Brown bears, on the other hand, were trickier. Most brown bears are grizzlies, and grizzlies aren’t scared of anything. The only thing grizzlies are afraid of is missing dinner. If you run into one of them, Dad advised me, then play dead.
Unfortunately, this bear wasn’t black or brown. Instead, it was a rusty shade of orange. Worse, it was as big as a fridge. It was standing on its hind legs. And yes, it was growling.
Bears are fun to see at a zoo, or at the side of a road, when you’re safe inside a car. But when you’re running through a forest, all alone, miles from civilization? Seeing a bear then is a total drag.
Crap, I thought. This totally sucks. Not only might I die at any moment, but I’d finally started making decent time. For the last hour I’d been running along the edge of a limestone ridge. The trail was hard and flat and fast. It was like running on a superhighway.
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