The Running Dream (32 page)

“No,” I confess. “Actually, I’m worried that I’m going to let everyone down. I can do the ten miles, but the farthest I’ve pushed a hundred pounds is five. And five was
hard
.”

“You’ll be fine,” he assures me. “I’m not saying it’ll be
easy
, but race-day magic will carry you through.”

I shake my head. “Race-day magic?”

“You’ll see. And the whole team will be out at the water stations—they’ll keep you moving and get you anything you need.”

I shake out my arms. I know it’s from nervous energy, because it’s what I used to do before getting down in the blocks
for a 400-meter race. I shake them out some more. In three days I’ll be facing over sixteen
thousand
meters.

Suddenly Rigor Mortis Bend doesn’t seem so daunting.

It’s as though Kyro can read my mind. “You need to unload some of that nervous energy. Why don’t you take a lap?”

So I start down the straightaway. I’m the only runner on the track, and after the first hundred meters I find a rhythm. I don’t push, I just … glide. It’s taken some time, but I’ve gotten used to the sound from my running foot and the way it’s paired with the quieter swish of my natural foot—
whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh
. The cadence of it is pleasant to me now, and this spin around the track feels easy.

Heavenly.

I join Kyro at our unofficial start and re-enter the real world. “Watch your arms,” he says. “They’re crossing over.”

I laugh. “You are such a coach, Coach. I was just cruisin’.”

He eyes me. And it seems like he wants to say something, but he’s holding back. Finally he says, “Well, don’t forget your form. Bad habits are easy to find and hard to break.”

I scoff.

“You laugh? Okay, well, give me a real one this time.”

“You’re serious?” I ask.

“Sure.” He draws a line in the dirt with his heel. “Let me see some good form.”

He’s being silly, but he’s my coach, and since the last lap around the track felt so good, I take a few minutes to fully recover, then step up to the line. “Runners, take your mark,” I announce, doing a friendly little mock of him, “set … 
pow.
”

Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh
 … I start down the stretch,
my arms pumping.
Good form, smooth form, glide, glide
, I say inside my head.

My breathing’s easy.

My rhythm’s good.

I push.

Pump.

Focus.

Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

My peripheral vision vanishes. It’s all tunnel vision now.

Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

My hands open as I pump my arms. They slice the air. Open a channel for me. Cut me through space.

Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

I keep in form and push toward the second curve.

Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

I approach Rigor Mortis Bend and push through it. My legs burn, but there’s still power in them.

Lots of power.

Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

I sprint for the finish line, keeping my arms pumping straight and my legs in line, and just for show I cross with a little lean forward.

I wind down, then trot back to Kyro. “So?” I ask. “Any bad habits we need to break?”

His head shakes slightly from side to side, but he’s looking at me funny, and his dark skin seems pale.

“You okay?” I ask.

“You’re not even breathing hard,” he says quietly.

I notice he’s right—I’ve already largely recovered.

“Well,” I laugh, “it’s not like it was a
race
or anything.”

“Exactly,” he says. “No blocks, no competition …” He produces a stopwatch from inside his Windbreaker pocket. The Lucy bracelet is still around his wrist. Faded and frayed, but still there.

“You clocked me?”

“After that first lap, I was curious. You seemed really strong.”

“I’d better be strong,” I say with a laugh. “I’ve got to push a hundred pounds ten miles on Sunday!”

“Well, all that training has made you
really
strong.” He holds the watch out toward me, demanding that I look. “You just ran a sixty point two without even trying.”

I blink at the digits. “Wow.”

His face has its color back. And there’s a mischievous grin forming that quickly turns into a laugh.

A deep, wonderful laugh.

One I haven’t heard in ages.

One that means he’s got plans for track season.

Big plans.

I
T’S RACE DAY
.

Or more like
run
day—I don’t care about my time, I just want to finish.

The air is perfect—clear and crisp, but not too cold.

We’re all a little nervous, penned up in the holding area, but it’s a good nervous. There’s an awesome vibe in the air. Runners warming up, sipping coffee, chatting.

It’s seven in the morning, but everyone here is
awake
.

I’m anxious to get going, but we still have fifteen minutes to wait. Kyro’s plan had me not run at all for two days, and now I’m champing at the bit.

My body needs to run.

My nerves need something to
do
.

Gavin hugs me and laughs. “You’re like a filly at the starting gate!” I whinny, which makes him laugh again. He looks into my eyes and smiles. “This is the most amazing day ever, you know that? I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe
I’m
here.” He moves an arm out. “Look at all these people!”

I laugh, because he’s definitely got race-day fever.

Or maybe this is what Kyro meant by “race-day magic”—it’s just exciting to be here.

There don’t seem to be any other teens in the holding area. Some college kids, maybe, but it’s mostly adults, and some of them are gnarled and weathered seniors. Tough old birds!

“I’m a palindrome!” Rosa says about her 393 race number. She looks cozy in the wheelchair, with a turtleneck under her T-shirt, mittens on her hands, and a blanket over her lap.

I laugh and flash her my 369 race bib. “Yeah, and I’m a magical mathematical progression.”

I’ve never had a race bib before, but I like it.

I’ve also never had a timing chip strapped to my shoe, but I like it, too.

They make me feel official.

Best of all, though, I like our T-shirts. Kyro helped Fiona with them, and they came out great. They’re white, with big maroon letters that say
ROOT FOR ROSA
on the front and
TEAM ROSA
on the back.

Rosa’s is a little different—hers says
HELLO! I’M ROSA
.

Kyro informed us that all the cross-country helpers are wearing
TEAM ROSA
shirts today. “They’ll also have energy gels for you at the water stops,” he told me. “Be smart—stay hydrated and keep your fuel up.”

Fiona and the others decided against carrying signs, but they did make pendant flags for the wheelchair that say
ROOT FOR ROSA
and
THANK YOU!

Our setup looks awesome!

Plus the boys and Rosa have clappers, and Fiona’s got a horn.

We definitely look like a celebration.

“I’ll be right back,” Mario says, handing his clapper to Fiona as he heads off to wait in a Porta-Potty line.

Fiona shakes her head because it’s his fourth trip since we arrived.

“He’s nervous?” I ask, and suddenly I’m thinking I could use a trip to the bathroom myself.

But there’s a woman approaching us. She’s wearing a
TEAM ROSA
shirt, but she’s not a cross-country runner.

She’s a math teacher.

“Ms. Rucker?” Fiona and I say together.

She’s wearing running shorts and tightly laced yellow-and-black Sauconys.

And a racing bib.

Number 27.

But it’s her bare legs that are somehow shocking to see.

“Hi, girls,” she says. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

“You’re a
runner
?” Fiona asks.

Ms. Rucker gives her a little shrug. “In my private life, yes.”

“Wow,” Fiona says.

I’m noticing Ms. Rucker’s watch—it’s a serious runner’s watch. And her shorts have little pouches built in—I can see the tops of energy gels peeking out from both sides of her hips.

I wonder how she calculates her pace—with her watch or with her brain.

I wonder if she thinks in numbers the whole way.

If she counts her steps.

But despite all the indications that she’s a machine, her shirt isn’t made of that fancy sweat-wicking technical fabric that would be on par with the rest of her gear.

It’s cotton, and more than just a little too big.

“Thanks for wearing the T-shirt,” I tell her.

She smiles, first at me, then at Rosa.

It’s an amazing sight.

Warm, and a little bit shy.

“Proud to wear it,” she says, then moves away. “Run strong,” she says. “I’ll see you at the finish line.”

I watch her go.

Run strong.…

I decide right then that that’ll be my mantra for this race.

“All runners to the start!” someone announces over a portable PA. “Five minutes!”

Gavin checks his watch and says, “Maybe I should hunt down Mario?”

We crane our necks, checking the Porta-Potty lines. And after another minute of waiting, we’re getting really antsy. Everyone in the holding area is moving toward the street.

Then suddenly, there he is. “Sorry!” he says. “We ready?”

Fiona laughs. “Yea-ah.”

“Let’s go!” Gavin says, leading us toward the street.

“This is so exciting!” Rosa says as I roll her along.

I laugh, because we’re all like little windup toys, straining at the springs.

A runner calls, “Go, Rosa!” as he jogs by us.

“Thanks!” she calls back. Then she looks over her shoulder and says, “Go, Jessica!”

We position ourselves at the back of the pack, near a group of men wearing grass hats, with hula skirts over their running shorts.

“One minute!” the announcer calls.

My heart speeds up.

I feel suddenly light-headed.

And then there’s the pop of the starting gun.

It’s time.

I
T’S THE STRANGEST START
to a race I’ve ever experienced.

There’s no shooting from the blocks, no arm pumping, no push or strain. There are hundreds of runners in front of us, and we’re barely even
jogging
as we move forward. It takes nearly two minutes for us to reach the starting mat.

The mat is broad and rubbery, runs the full width of the street, and makes a chirping sound as it recognizes each runner’s timing chip.

Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp
 … It’s like hyperactive twittering of mechanical chicks.

And then we’re off.

I know, from having run the course in training, that the first two miles are slightly downhill, which makes the beginning of the run really enjoyable. People cheer for us, and Rosa waves and clacks her clappers in the air and calls, “Hi!” and “Thank you!”

I see Mom and Dad and Kaylee and Sherlock at the sidelines, and Kyro is there, too, cheering us on.

“You are doing
great
,” Gavin says at the two-mile mark. He’s checking his watch. “Nine thirty splits.”

I know this is way too fast, but I feel great and figure we’ll slow down now that the downhill is behind us. “Splits,” I snort, then grin at him. “You have become such a runner.” I lean forward a bit. “How are you doing, Rosa?”

“Great! Who knew I could run this fast!” she says with a laugh. She looks over her shoulder. “I am loving this! How are you?”

“Great!” I call back, and it’s true—I feel amazing.

The course is basically U-shaped. It starts near the River Outlets, then passes by retail shops and commercial properties before moving through newer residential developments, older houses, farmland, and then just fields.

The halfway point is the Queensland Drawbridge, which arches over the river, and then the course winds back toward the historic settlement houses and into Old Town. The finish is about half a mile past Old Town.