“You guys are flying,” Jake said, pulling alongside us. Beside him was Laura Kline, the 2012 World Champion duathlete and U.S. National Team triathlete. As many times as I’ve seen Laura on these runs, it still came as a jolt whenever I’d spot a gang of young Amish men and find, in the middle, this ripped elite athlete in her sleek compression gear emblazoned with sponsor logos. Laura had moved to the Southern End from Baltimore a few years ago when she heard about the spectacular running trails along the Susquehanna, and she soon became a Vella Shpringa regular. Her speed speaks for itself, but it’s her O.G. work ethic that really bonds her with the Amish guys; I’ve watched Laura run for miles through unbroken snow up to her knees, and charge into the woods during a freezing winter storm that coated the rocks with ice. Laura had recently moved to New Paltz, New York, but when she heard that tonight’s Full Moon Run might feature donkeys, she had to make the four-hour drive back down to the Southern End to check it out.
“Looks like Sherman’s got some go in him,” Jake said. “Mind if I take a try?”
I opened my mouth to explain why that was a bad idea, then shut it and handed him the rope. I hated to tamper with Sherman’s sudden miraculous mojo, but the whole point of bringing the donkeys out tonight was to see what I could learn from Vella Shpringa. Jake may not have run with a donkey before, but I had to believe his lifetime of animal savvy would let him suss things out. Sure enough, Jake expertly coiled the rope in his left hand and, with the right, gave Sherman a reassuring pat on the rump. The rest of the crew formed a flying wedge with Laura setting the pace, surrounding Sherm so closely on all sides that all I could see was two long ears jutting up from a circle of bobbing heads.
“Get up there, fella,” Jake said as we rounded a curve in the road and approached a long downhill. Sherman was already at a brisk trot, but at Jake’s command, he accelerated into a canter. I dropped off the pace a little so I could get a better look at Jake’s technique. He was only a few inches from Sherman’s left haunch, keeping himself much closer than I usually did. Every few strides, Jake clucked his tongue or gave Sherm a little pat with his hand, gently reminding him that they were on the job. But Sherman showed no sign of slowing, even when the rope switched hands from Jake to Jonathan to Elam. Everyone was eager to take a turn, and they all handled Sherman with the same confidence and purpose. I’m not even sure Sherm was aware when a new runner stepped in.
As we breezed through Mile 3, eight hooves and twelve feet were pattering in unison, a single drumbeat uniting the tribe. I loved the way everyone instinctively synced their pace, adjusting their speed up or down a notch to make sure that humans and animals were all flowing comfortably. We were having such a blast, it took a good half mile before the distress signals from my legs and lungs made their way to my brain and I realized I was in trouble. Sherman and Flower were keeping up beautifully, but for me, the party was coming to an end in a matter of seconds. Even downhill, I was out of my depth with this crew, and we were now at the base of another uphill slog. No way was I tackling that beast alongside Laura Kline.
“I’m out,” I said, slowing down and peeling off from the group. Sherman and Flower could keep going, I figured, and Tanya could wait for me with Sherman at the top of the hill. Or something; going too fast was never a problem I thought I’d have to plan for. But when I dropped back, Sherman suddenly balked and U-turned, scattering the runners like bowling pins and T-boning so sharply in front of Jake that he nearly flipped over Sherman’s back.
Jake caught his balance and handed me back the rope. “Yeah, he’s had enough of me,” he said.
“ ’Bye, cuties,” Laura called, rubbing Flower’s muzzle. “See you back at the ranch.”
With that, she and the Amish guys stormed the hill and were soon out of sight. I took a sec to catch my wind, then Tanya and I started out on our own. But the sorcerer’s spell was broken: when we tried to get Sherman and Flower running again, they suddenly remembered they were donkeys. They began futzing around, veering onto the grass for snacks and taking playful nips at each other. Bit by bit, we got them up the hill, but by the time we reached the top, an evening mist had splattered the road ahead with dozens of Flower phobia triggers: damp patches. Flower minced her way to the bottom, one doubtful step at a time.
“Fun while it lasted,” Tanya said.
“Unreal,” I agreed. We’d run little more than half the short course, but we’d run it like real burro racers. “Sherman was scorching.”
“Let’s end happy and walk them in,” Tanya said. “It’s all about building a bank of goodwill. You never want to draw down too much. You want to keep adding to the reserve, one good experience after another. Someday, you’re going to ask Sherman to do something he doesn’t like, and because you’ve built up the bank, he’s going to surprise you.”
Sherman meandered nonchalantly as we hiked the two miles home, snatching bites of roadside weeds and paying no attention to the intense postgame analysis Tanya and I were conducting about what the hell just happened. Somehow we’d mixed a magic potion, but we couldn’t figure out how. Was it the Amish guys? They were great, but Sherm was already on a roll before they caught up. The night running? Maybe, but the dark didn’t stop him from futzing at the beginning or quitting in the middle. Did we blow it by pushing too hard? He wasn’t the one who punked first, Tanya reminded me; that was me. Besides, Sherm bounced right back when it came to messing around with Flower.
But for a moment, something had definitely clicked. We still hadn’t figured it out by the time we got back to the house, where some of the Vella Shpringa guys and seventy-one-year-old Steve had already arrived and taken over my hosting duties. Burgers were sizzling in the firepit, Steve was ladling out the vegan chili with Guinness Stout that I’d made in the Crock-Pot in advance for vegetarian Tanya and no-meat-athlete Laura, and I suddenly realized I was ravenous. I loaded a plate and joined the gang around the fire, and as I got caught up in the jokes and storytelling, I forgot about solving the mystery of Sherman’s miracle vanishing makeover.
But Tanya didn’t. By the time she went to bed, she had her answer.
* * *
—
The next morning, the blare of a car horn announced that Tanya had something to share. Her head popped through the driver’s window as she pulled into our driveway in her van. “Your secret weapon has arrived!” she shouted. She climbed out and stood by the rear door, her hand poised dramatically over the handle, as I pulled on muck boots and came outside.
“Matildonkey” off for a hoof-trimming with me in the minivan
“Behold!” she said, throwing open the Dodge’s back door. There, in all its tiny glory, was the mini donkey she’d rescued from the slaughterhouse.
“Matilda!” I said. “I thought you adopted her out to some family.”
“Yeah, she only lasted there a day. They had a dog that came at her. Matilda kicked it so hard its leg had to be amputated.”
“How’d you get her in the car?” From what I’d seen of burro racing, every story seemed to begin, end, or revolve around a donkey going full Hulk Smash to avoid being loaded into a trailer. And here was Matilda, a proven bonebreaker, chilling in the back of an old Dodge van like she was going out for ice cream.
“She’s up for anything,” Tanya said. “Watch this.” She gave the halter rope a gentle pull and crooned, “C’mere, ’Tilda. Come on, ’Tildonkey.” Matilda squirmed her way through the narrow gap between the front and back seats, took a look out the door, and hopped down. She paused for Tanya to rub her ears in appreciation, then sauntered over to the fence gate where Sherman had been tracking her entrance with rapt attention. We watched them get acquainted while Tanya told me about her brainstorm.
After the Full Moon Run, she’d gone home still itching with curiosity about what had inspired Sherman. She kept chewing over whether the secret ingredient was the moonlight, or the hectic driveway scene,
or some other weirdness we hadn’t noticed, until it finally hit her that the answer was “Yes.” Yes, it was the spooky darkness, and the hubbub, and the strange German voices in the dark, and everything else that combined to make the night a donkey-running thrillfest. We’d thrown a bunch of scary new stuff at Sherman all at once, and scary new stuff was exactly what Sherman wanted.
“We’re teaching Sherman his job is running, right?” Tanya said. “But his job doesn’t have to be boring.” Until last night, we’d always stuck to the same gravel road through the woods whenever we took Sherman out. We wanted to build his strength and confidence without overwhelming him, so we’d kept him close to home and as far from commotion as possible. But we forgot one thing: Donkeys love a walk on the wild side. Out on their own, they’re always on the move, constantly roving, finding places they’ve never seen before in search of food that only they can reach. Their survival depends on long-range roving, which is why they’ve developed such extraordinary endurance, sure-footedness, and risk assessment. Sherman was born with the badlands in his blood, and after six weeks of gentle progress, we weren’t protecting him anymore; we were boring the shit out of him.
“No wonder he ran like a champ last night,” Tanya said. “He was partying.” His first impulse was to bolt back to the safety of his little barn, but once he connected with Jake and realized some kind of catch-and-pursue game might be afoot—an up-tempo version of his old Donkey Tao days with Chili Dog—he couldn’t wait to get started. My plan for the Amish runners had worked, except not in the way I’d expected; I wanted Vella Shpringa to teach me about donkeys, but they taught the donkeys something about Vella Shpringa. Sherman had discovered the joy of running in community, and he loved it. So much, in fact, that when Laura and the Amish gang left us behind, as far as Sherman was concerned the adventure was over. Why keep playing when all your playmates have gone home?
Sherm needs a play buddy that will never quit, Tanya thought. He needs Matilda.
“She’s the piece to the puzzle that we’ve been missing,” Tanya explained. Sherman and Flower are ready to explore, but when things get a little spooky, they stick so close to each other they end up walking in circles. But not Matilda. Whatever Matilda had survived in her past, it had made her Sherman’s opposite: where he’s calculating and guarded, she’s curious and fearless. And despite her short legs, Matilda is also a solid runner; every once in a while, Tanya would take Matilda for jaunts alongside her horse carriage, and Matilda kept up fine.
“She’s a little badass,” Tanya said.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked. “Leave Flower and you run Matilda?”
“Oh, good God, I’d die.” Tanya couldn’t remember the last time she ran anywhere without a horse under her. If Matilda was going to join this team, this team would need another recruit. My wife, Mika, was home, but she’s a passionate African and Hawaiian dancer who never really understood why anyone would voluntarily spend an hour of their life repeating the same movement over and over in a straight line without at least a bare-chested drummer along to liven things up. Runners like to boast that “our sport is your sport’s punishment,” and Mika couldn’t agree more. But she’d do just about anything for Sherman, so I went inside to make my pitch.
Five minutes later, Mika was tying on sneakers. “What should I do?” she asked.
“Just hold on to the rope,” Tanya replied. “Matilda will take care of the rest.”
Tanya heaved her saddle onto Flower and walked her out. Mika and I followed with Sherman and Matilda, but Matilda wasn’t following anybody. She jerked in front and took position at the head of our little herd, swishing her tail menacingly at Flower to make it clear who was in charge. Sherman was already starry-eyed over this sassy little alpha girl and hurried to squeeze in beside her, bumping Flower ahead and causing Matilda to leapfrog forward again. Tanya hadn’t even given a command and already we were prancing down the road.
“Ready for some fun?” Tanya asked. “Looks like they are.”
Tanya clucked to Flower and we were off, with little Matilda jogging stubbornly in front and the other two donkeys tight behind. In no time, we were up the short hill to the gravel road and approaching the creek culvert where Flower always observed her morning ritual of a minor meltdown. It was a good opportunity to slow down and catch my wind, but Field Marshal Matilda never gave me a chance. She led her troops straight across, and for the first time, Flower never gave the creek a second look.
“ ’Tildonkey! Good girl!” Tanya cheered. “How’re you doing, Mika?”
“She’s amazing,” Mika panted, likewise struggling to handle Matilda’s no-warm-up work ethic. “But I could use a quick break.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if I can handle this much fun,” I agreed.
We reined everyone in and gave them a beat to munch grass while we sucked air. We kept it super short because we didn’t want to spoil the flow, but the flow turned out to be unspoilable. As soon as Tanya nudged Flower back into a walk, Matilda shot off to get in front, determined to keep her position at the point of the spear. We flew down the gravel road toward the waterfall, and once again, Flower 2.0 streamed past this personal nightmare so quickly, I was robbed of my usual time-out.
Fine by me, though. The farther Matilda led her little brigade, the more Mika and Tanya and I craned around to catch one another’s eyes and exchange baffled grins. There was a feeling in the air, a sense of pre-game excitement that we were on the verge of an extraordinary breakthrough. Tanya was onto something, and even the donkeys knew it.
15
Gang of Three
Everything okay? Mika texted to Tanya.
No reply.
Over Thanksgiving, we had all taken some downtime while Tanya was away with her parents. We were ready to hit it the day Tanya was due home, but early that morning she messaged to cancel. She didn’t give a reason, which was fine, but said nothing about rescheduling, which was strange.
Mika tried her that evening, and again the next morning, but there was still no word. By noon we were getting worried, so I drove over the hill to Christmas Wish Farm. The house is nearly invisible from the road, a small, Hobbity cabin tucked away in the woods behind an Amish farm and nearly swallowed by a forest that slopes down to the Susquehanna River. Every time we go, a stampede of barking dogs greets us before we’re even halfway down the gravel lane, and then Tanya and Scott will come banging through the screen door with a smile and a wave. This time, only the dogs showed up.
Really weird, I thought. I’d never had to actually knock on their door before.
I rapped, then harder. Inside, more dogs barked. If Tanya and Scott were away, wouldn’t all the dogs be either inside or out? Something wasn’t right. I hammered the door again, which made the dogs inside frantic. That’s it, I’m going in, I decided—then remembered that a few of the indoor dogs are Dobermans. Maybe better knock some more. I pounded with the side of my fist, calling Scott and Tanya’s names, until I finally heard someone shushing the dogs.
The door cracked open, and behind it was a Tanya I’d never seen before. She looked disoriented and utterly drained, as if she’d just fallen asleep after being awake for days. Which, unfortunately, she had.
“Scott’s gone,” Tanya said. “Totally done and gone.” Tanya had been out of town with her parents over Thanksgiving, and when she got back, Scott hit her with a thunderbolt: he was packed and leaving. Tanya was completely blindsided. Until that moment, she’d thought their life together was wonderful and special. Not only were they perfect for each other, they were perfect for no one else. They were a rare breed of geek, with an equal love of horror films and horsemanship. Where are you going to find another soul mate who’s just as content as you are to drive Victorian-style carriages by day and watch Evil Dead II by night? Only afterward, during those long, miserable nights that Tanya spent trying to understand where things had gone wrong,
did the Sixth Sense pattern of clues pop out at her: Scott’s eagerness to do chores at home rather than join her at horse shows, his sudden interest in running, although only at work and only during lunch with a coworker who was “just a friend”…
Now, suddenly, everything was collapsing. Tanya couldn’t live alone on the farm, caring for the animals and handling the backbreaking daily chores and earning enough to pay all the bills by herself—could she? But if not, what would happen to Flower, and Matilda, and their dogs and horses? What would happen to her? Tanya realized there was no way she could run the farm on her own…just before she resolved that there was no way in hell she’d give it up. Whatever it took, however hard she had to work, she was going to figure this out.
Terrifying as it was, at least reaching the decision allowed her to relax and close her eyes for the first time in days—which, of course, was when I came thumping on the door. Already that morning, Tanya had gone to the neighboring Amish farms to let them know that anytime they needed a driver to go anywhere, at any hour, she was for hire. She wasn’t going to abandon Sherman, Tanya promised me, but for now, she needed some time to sort out her finances and ramp up her paying jobs.
“Absolutely,” I assured her. “You worry about you. We’ll be fine until you’re ready.”
“You better,” Tanya said, with the don’t-piss-me-off tone she uses when Flower is backing away from a Burger King wrapper on the side of the road. “Because I’m going to Colorado.” Tanya knew she was about to begin the fight of her life to keep her farm afloat. She needed something to look forward to, and right now the only bright spot in the future was the hope that by next summer, she and Sherman would both be so strong that the only thing they’d have to worry about would be getting to the starting line on time for a race across the Rocky Mountains.
Running with Sherman Page 15