Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Mark Miller, November 1^st 2016

“Did they taste any better the second time around?” Mark asked as Ian lifted his head, looking up at him with a mixture of disgust and discomfort. “Wait, you got a little something on your face.” He reached out and wiped something from the corner of his friend’s mouth.

“It’s disturbing how comfortable you are with all this.” Ian’s face was pale and he still looked slightly sick, but he had managed to put on a smile. “How are you not nervous?”

Mark shrugged. “I am,” he said simply, “I just prefer to save my puking for after the race.” Slowly, the duo resumed their trek along the lower level of the course. They were the only members of the varsity squad who had not run here a year ago and Coach Vanderweigh had wanted them to preview things briefly upon arrival.

“Your parents coming down to watch?” Mark said, dodging a small mud patch. Ian simply walked straight through it.

“Are you kidding? My parents, my grandparents, maybe a few cousins I’ve never met. I haven’t done a lot of impressive things in my life.” They smiled. Mark was worried if he had laughed, butterflies would fly from his stomach. “How about you?” He gave his teammate a covert sideways glance, before refocusing his gaze on the path ahead.

“Yeah my parents are coming later to watch with Jayson …” His voice was slightly shaky as he finished. Together, they crossed a bridge and walked up yet another hill in momentary silence. As they continued to ascend, their collective breathing became louder and more strained.  

“We have to be the stupidest people on the planet …” He was panting in between sentences, catching his breath, “This hill is torture … I’m literally … voluntarily … torturing myself.” They finally crested the hill, adjusting course back to the team tent.

“And to think, racing is supposed to be the fun part.”

Jimmy Springer, May 2015

There was nothing like the feeling after a good race. The young sophomore from Union Valley had a certain swagger about him as he walked the perimeter of the track at Shippensburg. Jimmy was wearing a gray, long sleeve t-shirt with his navy blue racing shorts and carrying a lemon flavored Gatorade in his right hand. His 3200 gold medal was tucked away inside his backpack. One down, two to go.

As he continued to make his way back towards the tent, he noticed a few heads turn in his direction. A few whispers of his name. It was difficult not to let the attention flood to his head. Of course, as any sixteen year old would do, he thoroughly enjoyed his newfound fame. It fit nicely into the place in his heart that had once been filled with the comfort of family.

Coach Ames was waiting for him at the tent, a shaded space already prepared for Jimmy to stretch. “C’mon Jim, let’s get you off your feet.” He hastened his athlete under cover, removing the backpack from Jimmy’s burden. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad … Definitely better than districts,” He sat down gingerly and began to stretch his hamstrings. “It didn’t hurt that the 32 was like 10 seconds slower this time around.”

“Yes, I’d like to think we learned a lot from last week.” Coach Ames flipped through the meet program. “By the looks of it, you’ve got a little less than an hour before the 16. In a bit, we’ll have you go for a brief jog. You’re already warmed up at this point.” He watched as Jimmy switch legs. “This is just a workout where I felt extra generous on the rest.”

His athlete rolled over onto his stomach and pressed his upper body up to stretch his back. He could feel a slight tug and let out a barely audible groan. As he relaxed back to the ground, he noticed a few runners from yesterday’s trials of the 1600 jogging outside the stadium.

“What’s the plan, Coach?” He took a sip of his Gatorade before he rotated his body so he was sitting up again, facing his teacher. For comfort, he folded his shins beneath his hands.

“Well, we have a couple of guys to worry about …”

Before long, Jimmy was re-lacing his spikes on the infield. His mind wandering to and from his race plan. To his right, Brad Hull was striding powerfully towards the fifty-yard mark. Last week, he had won the District 3 Championship on this very track in 4:10.57. Hull eyed Jimmy as he made a return stride. Within his stare seemed a forced attempt at intimidation, causing Jimmy to smirk as he finished tying his left spike. Why do distance runners think that’s a good idea? I’m not going to be scared of some scrawny kid. A shot putter maybe … but not a distance runner …

He popped to his feet and took his first stride with about seventy-five percent effort. As he finished, he noticed a runner behind him sprinting quickly to his left shoulder. “Good luck out there Jim-bo.” The racer gave Jimmy a small pat on the back, before turning to walk in another direction. This was Drew Magness, the only runner to beat Jimmy over 1600 meters at the District One Championships last week. Magness had impressed with a blistering finishing kick to beat the other competitors to the line, winning with a 59-second final lap. As Jimmy watched, Drew violently shook out his arms and legs, mixing in a few light slaps to his face. Distance runners …

The wait was agonizing, time passing impossibly slow. But eventually, it was time to line up for his second race of the day. Springer and a group of eleven other runners made their way up the front straightaway. Some mixed in an extra, light stride; others were doing plyometric drills, high knees or butt-kicks. Jimmy was rather calm. His nervous energy had evaporated with his first race. His orange top clung to his chest, wet from a combination of sweat and water he had doused himself with to keep cool.

A gentle hum was projecting from the stands, now packed to the brim with spectators. Jimmy admired the mass of fans before turning his attention to the official at the starting stripe. When they lined up, it was Scott Zarniack, who also raced the 3200 meters, who was positioned directly on his inside.

“Ready to do this again?” he asked with a grin, sticking out his hand. Jimmy took it and shook.

“No,” he replied, returning the smile, “Think they would consider pushing the start back for us?”

As if in reply to his joke, the starter had taken his position on the first turn. “Runners set!” In the instants before the gun, there was complete silence. Jimmy enjoyed the momentary calm before the storm. The shot was followed promptly by an eruption of noise. The calm was gone and in its place was a frenzied jockeying of sprinting athletes. Jimmy carefully avoided the horde, moving himself to the back of the field. He, Magness and Zarniack were situated in the last three spots while Hull had assertively taken up second position, just behind a runner Jimmy did not recognize.

Hull took a brief glance over his shoulder, curious about his competition’s whereabouts. He looked uncomfortable, uncertain whether he should press the pace and take on the lead this early. The pace was moderate, but nothing herculean as Jimmy ambled through 300 meters. Despite the fact that he was trailing, his body still didn’t feel particularly comfortable. His legs seemed reluctant to turn over quickly.  

Things were still bunched together after the first lap (a 64 for the leaders, closer to 66 for Jimmy), but now Hull was beginning to get anxious at the front. Every second the pace slowed would give the kickers an advantage against him on the final lap. After another 200 yards at a manageable pace, he finally succumbed to impulse and charged to the front. The injection of speed transformed the field from pack to straight line and, sensing that he was losing touch, Drew Magness stepped outside to move his way up the pack. Without hesitation, Springer mirrored his tactic.

The field seemed to be wilting under the strain of the new pace: Zarniack was off the back in last place, clearly tired from his earlier efforts. Yet Magness still looked incredibly smooth: much smoother than Jimmy felt. Although his legs were loosening, the increase in pace was taxing to his fatigued body. He tried to forget about those feelings and focus on the small Viking insignia stitched into the back of Magness’s jersey.

At the 800 mark, Hull surged once again, cementing a gap between him and the field. Running along the far straightaway, it seemed like he might simply open up and seal the victory. Magness was still content to wait in 4^th and Jimmy, bound by strategy, was locked on his shoulder. His mind was telling him to go, although his body was perfectly happy to sit back. I can’t just settle here, he’s getting away.

On the turn, Springer looked for his coach and spotted him, leaning along the fence. What do I do Coach?! He tried to scream it with his eyes. But his concern was not matched on his coach’s face. Ames remained completely silent. He simply held up a hand, indicating to stay put. Frustrated, Jimmy rounded the turn. Coach Ames had said nothing to him the entire race. Is this some type of test? Because this feels like the wrong time …

With one lap to go, the official rang the bell and once again, Hull snuck a look over his shoulder. He had run the entire lap completely unchallenged. The surprise at his dominance was unmistakable. Magness cheated up a bit and made one more pass just before the turn, taking over 3^rd place. Yet he still was not making an honest attempt at the front. What the heck is he waiting for?

Meanwhile, Hull’s gap was widening. His stride, formerly crippled by confusion was now emboldened with confidence. One final surge along the far straight would surely clinch it. Jimmy’s body ached, but it had at least adjusted to the pace. The gradual build-up to speed had not been a significant shock to his system. Screw this, I can’t just wait here. I have to go. Although it was specifically against his Coach’s pre-race orders, he stepped to the outside, ready to go by Magness and turn on whatever speed reserves he had left to go after Hull.

Then, all of a sudden, it happened. Jimmy had been told just how absurd Drew Magness’s finishing burst had been at Districts, but watching his ability unfold right in front of his eyes was almost indescribable. In an instant, he had completely changed gears, dropping into a sprint and powering his way through the remaining straightaway into the turn. Jimmy reacted as best he could, trying furiously to latch onto the move. Now they were running in second and third, Hull still holding a lead, but his margin beginning to slip.

As they approached the final straightaway, the crowd had taken notice of the two oncoming kickers and the noise was intensifying. Magness, arms pumping, powered his way into the straightaway while Jimmy tried desperately to hang on. Drew embraced the roar from the stands, feeding off the sound and moving onto Hull’s shoulder with just 50 meters to go. Both men were dead even, Hull calling on his final ounces of fight, determine not to let his once insurmountable lead completely diminish. Each runner was completely absorbed by the finishing close of the other, unaware that a third athlete was split out to their left.

Jimmy grit his teeth, digging in, demanding his body to turn over just a bit faster. He watched as Magness broke the draw that was just ahead of him. Watched as Drew’s final push broke Hull’s spirit. He thinks he has it won. For a split second, Magness lifted his foot off the gas, easing away from his former intensity, preparing for victory.

And in that brief lapse of concentration, Jimmy made one ultimate drive to the line. Throwing his body forward into a concluding lean, his legs gave out beneath him and he tumbled forward across the finish line, falling hard to the track.

Mark Miller, August 2016   

“Just shoot him in the head, don’t try and ask him to dinner first!”

“C’mon Mark you’re literally killing us here!”

“Sorry guys, I guess I’m just a lover not a fighter.”

“It’s true, Tom. Just ask your sister.”

“My sister’s like 13 years old, man.”

“Well, this joke took a dark turn …” Mark pounded viscously on the “A” button of his XBOX controller.  “Get him, get him, geT HIM!”

“Geez, your aim is horrible. He was like two feet in front of you.”

“Yeah, for the record you’re not allowed to use my bathroom next time you come over.”

Frustrated, Mark thumped his controller against the side of his chair. “Alright, next time we’re playing FIFA.” He straightened his headset, as it had become slightly askew in his agitated state of gameplay. Once realigned, the voices of his friends were a bit louder in his ear.

“Do you wanna play now? We still have like an hour ‘til practice.”

“Nah, Jayson is gonna want to leave here within the next ten minutes or so. He’s got some extra stretches or something he has to do beforehand. I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Ok, say hi to your sister for me.”

“Dude, he doesn’t even have a sister.”

“Not your best work, Ian.”

Jayson was downstairs, reading a few pages of Running with the Buffaloes when Mark descended from his room, holding a training shoe in each hand. “You ready?” He asked without looking up from his book. Mark sat down to his brother’s right and began to unlace his sneakers.

“Define ready.”

August 1^st marked the first day of organized cross country practice for Manheim Township and the Millers were each excited to reunite with the team. The school had high hopes for 2016. They returned five members of last year’s varsity team that had placed 6^th at the State Championships. With Jayson leading the charge, Coach Vanderweigh had pushed the team to dream of leaving Hershey with state gold.

As a result, both brothers had increased their normal summer training efforts to better prepare for the season. Jayson had slowly worked his way up towards 75 miles a week, including a few days where he would run twice a day. Meanwhile, Mark was fresh off his first ever 50 mile week and feeling confident about his fitness.

After completing his last double knot, Mark popped up from his seat, his legs feeling a little extra springy thanks to his nervous energy. Bookmarking his page, Jayson matched his brother’s movement, grimacing slightly from stiffness. As the two stood side by side, Mark realized with a sudden rush of pleasure that he was almost the same height as his older sibling.

“You shrink this summer, bro?” He grinned as together they walked towards the front door, Jayson grabbing his keys from the ring hanging to his left.

“I think the extra pounding this summer may have knocked me down a few inches,” he joked, looking his brother up and down. “You know, Mom always said you would be taller than me one day, and I always refused to believe it.” The locks clicked on the car door as they approached.

“Well to be fair Mom also said any girl would be lucky to have me, so we know she’s not batting a thousand.”

“Or maybe we attend a very unlucky school,” Jayson ran a hand through his white blonde hair and smiled before getting in his side of the vehicle. As Mark took his seat, the phone in his pocket buzzed weakly.

“Ian says he’s going to be a couple minutes late.”

“How can he already know? He doesn’t have to leave for another half hour  …”

“I don’t know. It’s Ian,” He continued to stare downward as another vibration sounded, “By the way, apparently school schedules are out for next year.” In response to the news, Mark excitedly opened up his phone’s web browser and scrolled through the Manheim Township website. “You have any of these guys before? Dale, McGuire, White?”

“Yeah I had Dale and McGuire before, but never White. What does he teach?”

“English it looks like. Oh and he’s a ‘she’ actually. Miss White.” Mark pressed the home and lock buttons simultaneously on his phone, taking a picture of his schedule. “Kinda glad I don’t have Vanderweigh honestly. He’s cool and all, but he’s a brutal paper grader.”

“Last week, I told him I got a 5 on the AP Micro Exam and he responded with, ‘Wow! I’m a pretty good teacher.’”

Today’s practice was a simple distance run, followed by a few strides. They had gathered at the Green Valley trail, a ten-mile long path, marked at half-mile intervals. It was an ideal surface for a long run: soft enough to reduce pounding, but sturdy enough that no one would twist an ankle. After starting together, some runners would slowly begin to drop off the pace or turn around at their assigned distances, separating the group into tiers. Most of the sophomores and freshmen reversed direction at the two and half mark, a mix of athletes went to the three, Mark, Ian and a senior named Sam Berkow to the three and half and, finally, Jayson and a few other Seniors went for a total of eight miles, turning around at the four mile mark.

As the packs ran along, you could hear the crunching of gravel before you could see the faces. Mark enjoyed the ease at which he covered the distance, his long stride eating up terrain as he listened to the conversation between his teammates. It was amazing how much quicker the run passed when he had company.

“I’m telling you, I can do it.”

“No way, it’s impossible.”

“Nah man, I saw a video where Joey Chesnut did it in like 35 seconds.”

“But did you watch the video where he pukes afterwards?”

“It’s only a gallon of milk. It really shouldn’t be that hard. If I can eat six bowls of cereal you figure that’s like, what, a half right there?” Sam and Ian continued to banter as the run neared its end. The two were neighbors and had been competitive with one another since they were children. Recently, the rivalry had transition to cross country. With less than a mile remaining, Mark could feel the pace starting to quicken and, looking to his left, noticed that Ian had edged his way just in front of his two teammates.

“Ian, you’re doing it again.” Mark said as he begrudgingly worked to keep alongside his friend.

“C’mon you’re telling me you aren’t itching to catch those freshmen up there?” A few ambitious newcomers had bit off more than they could chew, opting for the six-mile distance and feeling the effects of the extra running. They were just visible whenever the trio hit a particularly long straightaway.

“I’m all for it,” Sam said, stepping along Ian’s other shoulder. “Besides there’s at least a 50% chance Jayson is doing the same thing to us right now.” Mark took a quick look over his shoulder. No one was in sight. Still, he had never liked the idea of being passed by anyone on a distance run. Least of all, his older brother.

Reluctantly, he murmured his agreement. “Fine … but if we break six minutes on this mile …”

“Then Ian will have a new mile PR.” Sam completed humorously.

Together, the group quickened their turnover, successfully catching and passing their prey with about two minutes to go in their run. After covering the outstanding distance, the trio briefly paused to catch their breath before jumping in with the rest of their teammates who had already begun their post-run strides. Mark stepped in next to his friend Tom who was preparing to start his third rep.

“How’d it go?” he asked as Mark joined him on the next sprint.

“With the exception of the 5:57 last mile, it was pretty good …” They slowed to a stop about 75 meters past where they had begun their hard effort.

“Hey, Ian’s PR!”

“C’mon! Why is everyone in on this joke?” Ian shouted from a few feet away. He broke into an angry sprint in the other direction, clearly straining to go as fast as possible. Mark and Tom exchanged grins before taking on another stride of their own.

“So Todd and I ran with one of the freshmen today. He’s pretty good,” Tom said as he eased off his stride. “I feel like he could have dropped me if he wanted.”

“Which one is he?” Mark asked scanning the group for faces that he didn’t recognize.

“He’s the tall one,” he extended a finger in the direction of a tall, lanky, almost goofy looking, freshman standing at the opposite end. “Fran McNally. I’m telling you the kid’s gonna be good.”

A few moments later, the pitter-patter of a new group’s shoes filled the air as Jayson was seen dragging the other members of the Varsity squad through to the finish. He stopped his watch, calmly walking over to his water bottle, while his teammates let their heads droop and their hands fall to their knees.

“You know, you boys don’t have to follow him if you can’t keep up,” a half-amused, half-frustrated Coach Vanderweigh said as he walked to meet his team. “Nothing to be ashamed of. Most people in the state can’t keep up.”

Slowly, the varsity members recovered and took their turns striding along the path while those who had completed their repetitions focused their attention on stretching, the final task of the practice. Eventually, one by one, team members started the exodus from the trail.

“Same time tomorrow, Coach?” Sam called as he walked backwards away from the group.

“Yes, but we will meet at the High School tomorrow.”

“I’m gonna head out, too,” Tom said to Mark as he twirled a set of keys around his finger. “Keep your ears open, though, I planned a little something you might enjoy.” He looked back over his shoulder at a small boy from the team exiting with the final few stragglers, before turning back to his friend. “You leaving soon?”

“Nah, I got another 10 minutes or so,” Mark replied, nodding his head in the direction of his brother who had taken up core exercises on the grass beside the path.

“Always the overachiever,” Tom shook his head. “But I guess you don’t beat Jimmy Springer by lounging around eating potato chips.”

“Yeah I think it’s the crunches that really make the difference,” He replied with a hint of cynicism, “Not, you know, the actual running.”

Tom laughed awkwardly, unsure how to respond. “Well … I gotta go, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.” In the silence that fell as Tom turned to leave, Mark could hear one of the freshmen’s voice in the distance.

“Hey, is it really true that your mile PR is only 5:57?”
   

Jimmy Springer, Cont.

“How long?” Jimmy stepped down from the podium to meet Coach Ames who had been snapping pictures of the awards ceremony.

“About 45 minutes I'd guess. Maybe less.” He replied casually, fixing the lens of his camera.

“You're kidding right?” Jimmy walked with a slight limp, his calf wrapped in a bandage. A painful abrasion stung his right hip. As he continued back towards the tent, he removed his medal from around his neck and passed it to his Coach. “I still don't get why you made me go to that awards ceremony. I would have rather been off my feet.”

Ames smiled. “You’ll thank me one day. Winning a gold medal is a fantastic achievement. You have to enjoy it while you can. Who knows when you could win another one?”

“I was thinking about 45 minutes from now. Maybe less.” He flopped down on his back and stretched out his aching limbs. Now that the adrenaline of his victory in the 1600 meters had evaporated, he could feel all the places his body had been ripped open by his fall. The most painful was his calf, which he had clipped with his right spike as he spiraled out of control. “So what’s the plan for this one?”

“Give whatever you have left and see what happens,” Ames shrugged.

“Ah, so this is why they pay you the big bucks, huh?”

“Haha how about, don't be an idiot and chase Hadrick again?”

Now it was Jimmy’s turn to laugh. He had attempted this triple last week at districts as well, taking 1^st and 2^nd before crumbling to 7^th in his final event, the 800. Lewis Hadrick of Springfield had taken the pace out in a blistering 52 seconds and, as a result, Jimmy’s legs had been blasted to pieces. After a painfully slow last 200 meters, he made it to the line less than a second ahead of 9^th place and barely secured his spot at states. Considering the effort he had put forth obtaining his gold medals thus far, he would need to go out much slower than 52 if he were to have any hopes of even finishing the race. Let alone winning it.

“At this point, the only thing you can do is relax and have fun.” Coach Ames took a seat so that he was facing his athlete. “Go out at the back, get your legs underneath you and then use whatever you have left at 300.” He gave Jimmy a long searching look before adding softly, “Live in the moment. This is your escape.”

He barely even jogged before entering the check-in zone. Aerobically, he felt strong and recovered, but physically, his body refused to cooperate. After a lackluster set of drills, he threw on his spikes and laid face down on the ground, waiting for the officials to call them together for the start. Occasionally, he picked his head up to look around. Lewis Hadrick was powerfully going through drills on the far corner of the infield. A few other runners he recognized from his preliminary runs were also dancing about, looking incredibly springy and fresh. Jimmy was unsure he would ever feel like that again in his life.

“AAA BOYS 800 METERS!” An official in a bright orange shirt was waving a white flag near the 100 meter mark, calling the competitors to assemble. Reluctantly, Springer lifted himself from the ground and slowly made his way to the gesturing man. He tucked his singlet carefully into his shorts as he walked. Most of the runners were already gathered together, eager to begin the race they had waited all day to start. A few others came flying by Jimmy as he walked, either completing a final stride or recycling a pre-race drill.

His seed for this race placed him all the way on the outside curve, meaning he would have a long, crowded way to run if he wanted to grab a spot on the rail for the first turn. Great. Because I was worried this race might be too easy, he thought to himself as he settled in next to a short, muscular runner with a black and red striped jersey. The raising of the starting pistol drew little reaction from Jimmy, who took a nearly imperceptible step forward, gingerly balancing on his left calf.

Bang!  

In an instant, the field had shot out five meters ahead of him. Getting to the inside quickly became the least of Jimmy’s problems. He ran through the turn in dead last, no hope of keeping pace with the effort Hadrick was putting on out front. I’ve got nothing, he thought hopelessly, I can’t even dream of matching this right now. He eyed the turf just to his left. It would be easy enough to drop out. He could just step off the track in an instant.

As he began to relax, he could hear 200 meter splits for the leaders up ahead. “Twenty-three … twenty-four … twenty-five …”

“Twenty-seven Jimmy!” Coach Ames was sprinting clockwise around the outer fence to get within earshot. “They won’t hold this! Stay focused!” Hadrick had set out at a suicide pace and the field had been unafraid to follow. At least a second behind the next to last athlete, Jimmy willed himself to press on, his mind pleading with his body to cooperate. They’re gonna come back. I promise they’re gonna come back. Just keep going.

A wall of wind was waiting for them as the runners made their way onto the home stretch. Jimmy put his head down and charged ahead, trying desperately to make contact with the next athlete ahead so that he could draft his way through to the bell. He could just catch sight of the clock up ahead as he finally made his first pass, quickly followed by a second. As he moved wide to go by a group of two, he glimpsed the leader cross the start line for the pen-ultimate time. Holy ….

“FORTY-NINE SECONDS AT THE BELL FOR LEWIS HADRICK!” The announcement reverberated around the stadium as Jimmy pressed on, struggling through the line at just over fifty-five. The six seconds seemed like an eternity, yet he couldn’t dwell on Hadrick. He still had to pass six more runners just to get into second place. Fortunately, the excitement of the chase was propelling him forward, distracting him from the screaming pain in his lower body.

Rounding the turn into 300 to go, he felt a surge of energy pulse through his body. With the wind now at his back, he let himself drift wide to open up his stride and pass a trio of struggling runners. Just before the 200 meter mark, he picked off one more, navigating his way back to the inside as he prepared to run his final turn. There were still three runners left to catch if he was going to earn his coveted third gold.

His legs were beginning to rig, but he knew his anguish would be nothing compared to the runners who had pressed so vigorously out front. Despite this, he could not manage to close down the gap more than a few inches. The others were simply too quick.

Hadrick was flanked on either side by his two chasers, one of which was the short runner that Jimmy had started next to, dressed in red and black. He was pinned to the inside with no room to maneuver to his right. The third member of the group, sporting a yellow jersey, was positioned perfectly on the outside, ready to strike with his finishing kick. With 100 meters to go, it became clear that Hadrick was now spent. His courageous start had been too ambitious and his pace was definitely slowing towards a crawl.

From his position, Jimmy watched it all unfold in an instant. As Hadrick wearily drifted into the outside of his lane, the runner in red and black stepped hard to his inside, in an attempt to split Lewis and the rail. However, in his fatigued state, he stepped awkwardly on the track’s metal barrier, rolling his ankle violently. He crumbled towards the ground and, as he leaned forward, he made contact with the already wobbly frame of Hadrick. Together the two collapsed to the track. The runner in yellow countered instinctively, hurdling the fallen duo, but his balance and momentum were thrown out of rhythm. Springer, on the other hand, had time to react, smoothly transitioning to the outside.

The fall had been enough to bring him within striking distance of the new leader. Enough to shift the momentum in his direction. The taste of victory was on the tips of his lips again. He grit his teeth for one final, unthinkable push and powered through the straightaway, pumping his arms dramatically, hoping their momentum would transfer to his leg turnover. In the final meters of the race, he surged triumphantly from the wreckage behind him and tore through the line first.

I did it! He screamed inwardly as he fell to his knees, desperate for breath. I did it! He looked up at the stands, scanning the faces for two people he hoped might be there. His victory solving their issues, reminding them of what once was. But they were not there. Like an ocean wave, the realization that his family was split in pieces rushed over his body. With his face in his hands, he celebrated his last gold medal with tears. 

GO TO CHAPTER SIX