Chapter One

Chapter One

Jimmy Springer, November 1^st 2016

Anticipation and nervousness. Anxious more so than eager. At some level, I guess he was excited about the opportunity to race again. He had always been a fierce competitor. But certainly this was different than how he had felt when he first trekked to Hershey as a freshman. He was so much freer back then. There was no pressure. No weight of expectation.

As Jimmy walked along the course, he noticed some stares and whispers. Trying to ignore it, he made his way toward the finish line. Although there was a crowd, he was tall enough to see over top. It was a decent enough view of the small school competitors sprinting their way down the straightaway. Grimaces of pain were etched across their faces as waves of athletes raced to the line. He watched as a skinny, brown-haired boy in a purple jersey powered his way past a pack, his head rolling wildly and spit flying from his lips. As he hit the finishing mat, his legs buckled and he went flying off to the left. There, he crawled on all fours to the side of the course and vomited.

“Jimmy c’mon, let’s go!”

He snapped his gaze away from the post-race carnage and gracefully broke into stride.

Ben Havleck, December 2015

It was quiet. It was dark. At first glance, you would think the room was empty, but when your eyes adjusted to the light, you could see the silhouette of a boy. Straining your ears, you’d notice the sound of a drawer sliding open and closed. The gentle pitter-patter of shoelaces piercing the silence. Ben stood from the corner of his bed. His blue ASICS trainers made the floorboards beneath them creak slightly before he ambled down the stairs. From the closet, he pulled a neon orange zip-up jacket, a hat and a pair of gloves before stepping out into the cold.

The weather was manageable beyond the occasional piercing wind. When it picked up, it was like a cold knife, stabbing at any patches of skin that had unwittingly been left unprotected. There were still piles of snow on the ground. Patches of sidewalk were obscured where a neighbor had been apathetic about shoveling duties. The roads were empty and dimly lit by the decorations hanging from the surrounding houses. Only his breathing pieced the silence. Of course, Ben didn’t expect much to be going on. After all, it was 6:30 on Christmas Morning.

Ben Havleck was a runner. For most, this classification simply means that one of your hobbies is running. But for Ben the activity was not merely something he did, but rather something he was. So while most ordinary runners were sleeping, cuddled in the warmth of their favorite blanket, Ben was braving the elements and continuing his unyielding training.

This week his goal was sixty miles, an average of close to nine miles each run. Some days were less. But others were more, including today’s target of eleven. These longer efforts forced Ben to stretch the limits of his neighborhood, trekking down each cul-de-sac and side trail available. Sometimes he would run until he was lost and then try to find his way home. He found it an entertaining way to let the time pass.

That was the key. Time. Running is repetitive. It is mundane. And, if you are doing it right, it is painful. Couple that with the harsh reality that eleven miles of reasonably paced running will take nearly an hour and a half, and it is obvious why Ben is so unique. And unique may be the kind word for it.

The soft pitter-patter of his stride and a stream light breathing were the primary disturbances in an otherwise peaceful silence as Ben streaked along the road. He preferred to run without music, citing that it made him stronger and more focused. It also allowed him to better monitor his senses and stay in tune with his body.

He tried as hard as possible to avoid looking down at his wristwatch that displayed the time he had run for and, conversely, the time remaining on his journey. It was never satisfying, always less than he suspected it would be.

Ben traversed down Park Ave, then back through a wooded path and down around the perimeter of the high school. The elements fought him and tried to thwart his quest. He made a few turns into a brick wall of howling wind that slowed him to a crawl. Once he rounded the teacher’s parking lot, he narrowly dodged a patch of black ice. With a dry smile, Ben pressed forward.

As he ran along the east side of campus, he gazed longingly at his track, buried under roughly a foot of snow. His mind flooded back to his last race on a track at the end of the previous May. He had raced a Two Mile, running 10:10 at his league championships, and placed fifth. His best time for one mile was 5:01, but he somehow managed to run an average of 5:05 pace for two.

Ben had very limited foot speed, a fact that frustrated him often in his sport. To date, it had proven his biggest obstacle to success. As much as running was about work ethic and determination, the defining factor was often something given rather than earned. Talent.

Frustrated, he attacked the next downhill. As he changed pace, he stepped awkwardly in a stray pile of snow and his right leg tangled with his left, causing him to fall hard onto the sidewalk. His hands stung from the pain of catching himself. He could feel blood trickling from his knee and staining his tights. Begrudgingly, he pushed himself off the ground and back to his feet. He took a quick look around to make sure no one else was reveling in his embarrassment before returning to his mission. His watch only read 58:55.

And he would have to add on extra time to make up for that fall.

Mark Miller, March 2016

“Three … Two … One … STOP!” The voice echoed around the fields to a circle of runners who, on command, stopped running. A few were forcing themselves into a slow jog; others had their hands on their knees, leaned over, desperate for breath. Eventually, each forced himself to amble back in the direction of the man who just called them to a halt and his makeshift start line of water bottles and discarded warm-up pants.

A blonde haired boy, tall and long-limbed, had positioned himself at the front of the joggers. He took a quick glance at his watch before slowing to a walk. He took up slow pacing around the start line, relaxing his breathing as he went. Compared to many of the others in the pack, he seemed fresh, motivated and eager.

“Ten seconds,” The man spoke softly this time. The blonde haired boy responded by taking up a ready position, one foot in front of the other, just behind an empty Gatorade bottle. Reluctantly, the other boys filed in behind him, many holding their fingers over wrist watches as they stood perched. Waiting.

“Three … Two … One … Go!” And they streaked from the line, up a short, quick hill and towards the first goal post.

Although the weather didn’t always suggest it, the Manheim Township boys were entrenched in the Spring Track season. Commanding the troops, Coach Vanderweigh stood, twirling a stopwatch around his finger, carefully monitoring the packs emerging in front of him. The task he had assigned to his warriors today was an interval workout. Five repetitions, three minutes each, of hard running. They encircled the high school’s sports facilities, a soccer field and a pair of baseball fields, running loops just under 800m in length.

Everyone started at the same time, finished at the same time and had the same amount of rest in between, regardless of their pace. The point of the workout was not to finish a distance in a certain amount of time, but rather to finish a time with a certain amount of distance. In theory, Coach Vanderweigh wanted his runners to get a little farther each interval, with the last rep being the furthest. However, in practice, trying to get a pack of competitive teenagers to control their efforts was sometimes a lost cause.

“Come on, now don’t settle here. This is the hard one!” The blonde haired boy was powering along at the front, towing a pack of three gasping for air behind him. He rolled through the short hill once again and willed himself past a small orange cone. “Three … Two … One … STOP!” Another interval had ended. The lead runner turned, picked up the cone and moved it a few paces forward to where he had just finished. Coach Vanderweigh smiled to himself. There were, of course, exceptions.

Mark Miller jogged back towards the start line, joining a growing mass of bodies who were heading back for the start line. Only one rep remained and, although his legs were heavy and his thoughts were cloudy, there was a ray of confidence piercing the fog. As the seconds of rest continued to tick, his breathing inched closer and closer to normalcy. One more … Just one more …

“Three … Two … One … GO!” And again, the runners were in stride, stampeding up the hill and around the first turn. Mark guided his body into a rhythm, moving slightly to the outside of his teammates to ensure he had room for his legs to stretch. His body hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt. The pain was merely a reminder of his perseverance, rather than a crippling burden. He let his momentum carry him on the downhill and then forced himself to hold that pace as he approached the baseball field. There was still a little bit more in the tank, enough to unleash a finishing kick once he hit the lap marker.

Mark pushed past his coach, now gritting his teeth, sprinting towards the hill once more. Smooth and controlled was gone, his arms losing form, legs losing lift. But he focused on his target. There likely wasn’t much time left. “Three …” He was steps from his previous mark, “Two …” Digging desperately for one more gear, “One …” Nearly throwing his body forward now, “STOP!”

Letting his upper body wilt, he placed his hands on his knees, wavering slightly as he stood. He glanced sideways, looking behind him at a brown leaf that signified his farthest previous mark. A small flux of elation had arrived, helping to fight the post-workout pain. Up ahead, he noticed the blonde haired boy trotting back passed his orange cone. Slowly, the team’s fastest runner corralled his teammates, gradually prodding everyone into a cool-down jog. As they approached, Mark tucked inside the pack with a few of his friends from the Junior Varsity team.

His brother Jayson took-up his usual position at the front.

Chris Cline, June 2016

A pack of runners jogged casually alongside the road. There were four of them, each with distinct strides and brightly colored shorts. Short bursts of conversation peppered the group, but, seeing as it was early in the morning, few were awake enough to speak. “Which is why it’s a good thing we’re running,” one of the harriers muttered as the group exited a back neighborhood and sidled onto the main road next to the high school. Despite the general moodiness, there was a calm, serenity to the proceedings. Or at least there had been until the sound of a loud car horn scorched the groups’ ear drums.

“What the heck man?!” Chris Cline, who was riding in the passenger seat of the car, jerked out of his daze. The driver of the car laughed contemptuously.

“C’mon! It was those losers from the track team.” He sped through the school zone in the parking lot, using a few vulgar words to round out his opinion of the runners. Chris rubbed his eyes lazily, before yawning and stretching his arms above his head.

“Admittedly, the shorts are not dispelling any rumors.”

The car whipped around the final turn and swerved into an open parking space outside the gym. Chris and his friend exited the two-door and made to remove their back-packs from the trunk. It was the final week of classes at West Chester North and the students were in summer mode. The Seniors had graduated the previous Monday, leaving the Juniors in charge of the school for the first time. Chris hoisted his nearly empty back-pack around his right shoulder. He stood about 6 feet tall with short, buzzed hair and a muscular build.

Locking the door of his car, Cline’s friend Jacob Naughton, stood with a larger, more imposing frame. He was sporting an impressive looking beard for a 17 year old. Together, the two entered the gym, headed for the weight room. The football team was having its first team lift of the summer.

In the distance, the outline of the pack of runners was just visible.

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