Introduction

The Running Diaries

Sunday Morning

“What do you think about when you run?” If it’s not the top question I get from non-runners, it’s certainly in the top five. Along the wooded trail, a small figure was grinding along. Quickly turning over. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. For him, it was past the point of thinking and more to the point of feeling. The term “thinking” seems to imply a coherent, directed process rather than a scattering of thoughts flitting through one’s head. He came across a thought that seemed encouraging, “my form feels pretty smooth”, and he gripped tightly to the idea for as long as possible before “what’s really the difference between thirteen miles and fifteen?” shot back into the forefront. The negative thoughts always had the strongest grip. Ben made a hard left turn and shot himself into a hill. Of course, grip strength has never been a coveted attribute for distance runners.

***

I’ve always been of the opinion, you don’t find running, it finds you. I suppose there are people who consciously seek out the sport. But most of us start other places. There are more fun sports, aren’t there? I mean other sports are at least games. Sometimes Cross Country feels like a glorified cult. So you can imagine the approach Chris Cline, quarterback of the league championship football squad, took to XC practice.  His initial thought: no matter what happens, I will never wear those shorts.

***

Running is like a metaphor for life. Sure, I guess so. You struggle along, experiencing the highs and the lows, and ultimately your level of effort translates to a level of success. I get it. But sometimes, rather than being a metaphor for life, running can feel like an escape from life. It sounds crazy, but on the right run the worries and stress of the daily grind ebb away, replaced by positive endorphins (and usually a healthy dose of sweat). Mark and a few teammates came into view at the end of the parking lot, talking among each and other and laughing. Together they trotted to the circle of cars, where a few others were already standing in a circle stretching or sipping Gatorade. The varsity team still had a bit longer left to run, including Mark’s brother (and driver) Jayson. He didn’t mind. He was in no rush to leave.

***

I think a lot of runners flock to the sport because they see it as a great equalizer. Hard work, determination and perseverance matter. Isn’t there a saying like “Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard”? It’s the ideology that drives the kid who was cut from the soccer team to blast the next interval workout. The creed that helps you wake up at 6 am to get ready for a hill workout. The slogan in your captain’s pre-race speech.  But at the end of the day, you need talent. And boy, did Jimmy Springer have talent. He rolled over in bed to check the clock: 9:30 AM. Rearranging his pillow lazily, he rolled over and fell back to sleep.

GO TO CHAPTER ONE

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.

GO TO CHAPTER TWO

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Jimmy Springer, August, 2013

“Are you excited for today?” James Springer asked his son. Jimmy nodded enthusiastically from the passenger seat next to his father.

“A little nervous though,” he said smiling sheepishly. It was briefly silent. He turned away from his father to stare out the window, letting his thoughts wander. “What if ... What if I’m the worst one?” He felt silly asking, but he felt it was necessary to stop the squirming in his stomach. After a moment, he took a quick glance back at his father, who was smiling.

“In every race, somebody has to finish last. Even the Olympics.”

His son frowned. “When I become a dad, am I only going to be able to speak in cliché?” They laughed as James made the turn into the high school. A few other students were already standing at the edge of the parking lot, one looking small and nervous: exactly as Jimmy felt on the inside. He must have been another freshman.

“Do you have your physical form?”

“Yeah, it's in my shorts pocket.” He removed it as proof while his father pulled into a parking spot. With the car in park, James could finally take a moment to look down at his son. He fidgeted slightly under his father’s gaze. “Alright ... Well I’ll see you after practice?” Jimmy turned to open the door.

“Jim, don’t be scared of being the slowest. The real pressure is on whoever is the fastest.” He smiled and gave his son a wink.

“Haha ... Well luckily I don’t think I’m going to have worry about that.” And with a quick wave goodbye, he shut the door, leaving to walk nervously toward the growing group of runners gathering by the grass.

“We’ll see.”

Chris Cline, July 2016

A small rock skipped its way up the sidewalk before coming to a stop. Then a foot swung and the rock was on the move once more. Chris and a group of friends, about eight men in total, were walking along School Lane towards West Chester North High School. Two of them were casually tossing a football back and forth while, much to his chagrin, Chris’s thumbs were fiddling away on his cell phone. As soon as he managed to finish a text and store his phone away in his pocket, it would buzz and call him back into duty.

“Geez Chris, who do you keep texting? Siri?”

“It’s Melissa, dude. She’s got no damn off-switch.” He pocketed his phone again and gave his rock one last casual kick, before he could feel the buzzing again.

“What are you guys talking about that she has so much to say?”

“Dude … literally nothing.”

“Well, at least she’s hot … Yo Joey, hit me!” The football came flying into view and Chris’s friend sprinted up the lot before making a smooth overhead catch. He did a small touchdown dance before tossing the ball back in the direction it had come. “See, everybody thinks we’re so good because of Chris,” he said to the group at large, “But look who he’s throwin’ the ball to, baby.”

It was late afternoon on a Friday. The sweltering heat that had melted spirits earlier in the day was cast aside and a slight cloud cover made the conditions a couple levels above reasonable. Chris and a few of his friends were headed to the high school for another game of two-hand touch football, their last chance to play before the school’s preseason mini-camp began.

The eight boys were rising seniors, having been in the program together for three years. Growing together in anticipation of this moment when all their hard work might come to fruition. Ernie Tyrell was Chris’s trusted wide receiver and one of his best friends. And that had translated on the field as Ernie led the conference in receptions in 2015. Paul Mintz, Dennis Petrov and Reese Wallace played offensive and defensive line. Chris’s neighbor, Jacob Naughton, captained the defense in the linebacker position. He had already committed to Penn State for 2017.   

The previous season, West Chester North had made it to the Quarter Finals of the State Playoffs. It was the farthest the program had ever advanced and, considering North was one of the smallest schools in the division, an event fairly unprecedented in state history. But that wasn’t enough. After losing on a heart-breaking last second field goal against district powerhouse North Penn, Chris and his teammates were hungry to get back on the field and go further.

During the loss, Chris amassed 350 total yards and four touchdowns against one of Pennsylvania’s toughest defenses. It was the culmination of an impressive first season as the team’s starting quarterback. Slowly, he had become something of a celebrity around the township and, unexpectedly, one of the most popular students in school. Now his phone was always buzzing.

“C’mon bro, you planning to play quarterback with one hand.” Chris looked up from his phone to see a football inches from his face. He caught it easily with his left hand.

“No, actually I’m planning to be our number one receiver.” He tossed the ball back in a perfect spiral while finishing his last text. Finally. With a renewed sense of freedom, he sprinted ahead and intercepted the lackluster pass that Paul Mintz had aimed at Ernie. His momentum carried him easily through the gate to the football field.

“Hey Naught, look who it is?” The football field was empty, but a pack of four gangly, shirtless boys was traversing the track that surrounded it. Jacob smirked in response.

“Ah my best friends!” They were now within earshot of the runners who were focusing the majority of their attention on ignoring the new arrivals. In a two by two square, the pack of harriers motored swiftly down the straightaway in front of them. “Sorry, I left my shorts at home! I thought we were saving them for Monday!” Jacob called after them in a purposely flamboyant voice. A few of his fellow teammates roared with laughter. Chris forced out a small chuckle before moving onto the infield, out of the way of the runners. Here, he sat down to lace up his cleats. Pete and Reese joined him shortly thereafter, but a few others stayed along the track.

“Hey, let’s play chicken!” Paul Mintz walked to the middle of the track’s first lane and stood as the runners began to circle back in his direction. He waited patiently as they approached, unyielding, but the runners seemed determined to hold ground. At the last second, Mintz jumped aside and the runners, who had just broken formation, were swinging wide to avoid him, tripping over one another in their confusion. Again the crowd of football players went wild.

“Get after it boys,” Ernie slapped the trailing runner on the rear as he went past. It was a joke that particularly hit home with his fellow players. Dennis Petrov even fell to the ground to roll with glee at the humor.

“Alright are we gonna play football or are we just going to stand around slapping dudes’ butts?” Chris said impatiently. He was stretching his hamstrings carefully at the forty-five yard line while Reese and Pete were tossing the football back and forth. Somewhat reluctantly, the football team regrouped at midfield.

“Hey … if I choose the butt slapping, does that mean I should have joined the track team?”

“Ern, you slapped my butt twice on the way over here. I think you’re fine where you are.”        

Ben Havleck, January 2016

After Winter Break had ended, Ben returned to school for the second semester of his Junior Year. He picked up his newest schedule from the Guidance office and set off up the stairs to his first period History Class. As he climbed the stairs, his legs ached slightly from his morning run around the campus. Ben was planning to run twice on Mondays and Wednesdays, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, called “doubling”. This would allow him to increase his total mileage while maintaining the average length of each individual run.

His hair hung wet after his morning shower, slightly obscuring his face as he slipped into class and took a seat at the back of the room. He preferred to be an afterthought in the classroom. It was not that he was afraid of being called on by the teacher or that he disliked school, but rather he did not want to come across as a know-it-all. Or perhaps worse, a teacher’s pet. He was still molding his reputation among his peers and did not want a blemish like that on his record.

The first half of the day was a typical first day back. Teachers refreshed the students on what they would be studying during the second half of their courses and returned the used textbooks to students who were renting them. Therefore, as Ben walked to lunch, he lugged a backpack about the size of a six year old with an affinity for chocolates. Considering his own height was roughly equivalent to said six year old, he could imagine how silly this looked. Fortunately, his locker was only a minor detour en route to the cafeteria, so he adjusted course accordingly.

As he approached, Ben spotted his locker neighbor, P.J. Danielson, fidgeting with what appeared to be a Chemistry book and a bright blue lunchbox. P.J. and Ben met in a last year’s fifth period math class and had since got along reasonably well. They were both smart and studious, but that was about where the similarities ended.

“Hey P.J.,” Ben said as he approached, giving a small nod of recognition. P.J. looked up surprised and slightly frazzled. His glasses were slightly askew and the collar of his shirt was flipped upwards on the left side.

“Hey Ben,” he said exasperated, “Do you think we will need books in both Math and Physics today? Because I’d like to start the Chemistry reading during study hall, but I’m worried the weight of my backpack is going to-”

“I’m not taking Physics this semester actually so I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” Ben replied as he switched out his first-half-of-the-day books and zipped his now empty backpack.

“Oh, ok.” P.J. looked slightly crestfallen at the idea the two would no longer be sharing the class: they had had the exact same schedule the previous semester. “What are you taking instead?”

“Um … introductory Spanish” He said sheepishly, and added quickly, “Want to go to lunch?” The two turned and headed down the main hallway.

“You know, Ben,” P.J. began, Ben’s attempts to change the subject thwarted, “Physics is a very useful subject and extremely applicable to the world around us. Statistics show that students enrolled in Physics are twice as likely to be accepted into Ivy League institutions … Not that a foreign language doesn’t show diversity and worldliness, but at an introductory level you won’t be able to even take an AP test in the subject … Unless of course you take some summer courses, but then …” Ben let P.J. continue to air his concerns as they walked to the cafeteria, nodding or reaffirming wherever appropriate. Sometimes when P.J. really got on a roll, that was all you could do.

By most definitions, P.J. was the stereotypical television show “nerd”. If you didn’t know any better, you might think his entire appearance was simply a clever and elaborate joke: the glasses that were often slipping down his nose, the collared shirts, the pencil behind the ear. He regularly misread social cues and had trouble fitting in. Sometimes, Ben got the feeling that, despite their limited contact, he was P.J.’s closest friend.

“I’m just going to stop here for a drink,” Ben stooped at the water fountain.

“People often underestimate the importance of hydration during the winter,” he replied as Ben straightened up and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“People often underestimate the importance of hydration,” a large Senior mimicked P.J.’s voice as he passed, simultaneously miming the act of pushing imaginary glasses up on his face. His friends laughed obnoxiously and pointed, but P.J. was, impressively, unphased. Together, he and Ben found a table inside the cafeteria and pulled out their lunches.

“Doesn’t that stuff bother you? If it was me I’d have been tempted to punch that kid in the jaw.” He dumped the contents of a brown paper bag onto the table, catching his apple before it rolled off the table.

“I’ve learned to ignore it.” He responded simply. “It becomes a more amusing hobby if I react poorly.” He carefully laid out a napkin on the table and pulled out a perfectly sliced turkey and cheese sandwich. “Besides,” he said through his first bite, “The probability of you succeeding in a fight with an Offensive Lineman on the Football team is not statistically different from zero.” Slightly stung, Ben fought the urge to mime pushing glasses up his own nose.

The second half of the day began just as uneventfully as the first. In fact, in Spanish class, Mrs. Stillin let the class out five minutes early because they had finished everything they needed to cover with time to spare. As a result, Ben was the first one to his seventh period Calculus class. Picking his favorite seat in the empty room, he pulled out his notebook and began to sketch the workout he was hoping to do on Tuesday, scribbling down splits and carefully adding up times. He barely even noticed as students started to file in and fill the previously empty room, not diverted from his task until someone sat down in the seat next to him.

He assumed it was P.J., preparing to tell him about whatever riveting physics discussion he had missed an hour earlier. He looked up to check briefly, noticed a girl sitting there unpacking her books and then returned to his work. Wait, what? He did a double take, checking again to see who was willing to sit next to the new kid. Ben’s stomach did a three-sixty flip as he realized this was Nicole Christian: his secret crush since the first day he arrived at the school. After a moment, Ben realized he was staring unabashed in her direction and frantically turned to start unpacking his own books, stuffing his track notebook out of sight.

The lecture for class was essentially a haze as Ben alternated between sneaking sideways glances at his neighbor and day dreaming about the significance of this monumental event. But was it monumental? Could it not simply be coincidental? What other seats were left by the time she came in? He silently cursed his obsession with his track notebook for distracting him.

But the next day, after Ben powerwalked his way out of Spanish to get to Math Class first, she sat next to him again, even giving him a small smile before beginning to organize her desk. She was locked into that spot now, he thought. By the end of the second day, the seats you choose essentially become pseudo-assigned seats. It’s just basic classroom etiquette.

With an unprecedented amount of enthusiasm, he listened to the professor’s lecture.      

Jimmy Springer, August 2016

It was a surprisingly pleasant August afternoon. The rain earlier in the morning had cooled Union Valley and, besides the occasional puddle or muddy stretch of terrain, it was reasonable conditions for the team’s first official practice. Jimmy steered his car carefully through the parking lot, navigating around the other vehicles dropping children off for fall sports. He wheeled into a spot in the back and punched off his radio before removing his keys. A few runners had already positioned themselves on the edge of the parking lot. It was striking to Jimmy how tiny and timid they all looked. Certainly, he had not looked the same way three years earlier.

Rustling through some trash in his back seat, he pulled out his running shoes. The untied laces tapped gently against the back of his seat as he brought them up front. Jimmy sat for a moment, holding the shoes, staring through the front of his car window. You don’t have to keep going, he thought. No one will stop you if you decide to quit. Silently, he turned his left shoe over in his hand. His mother had got him a brand new pair of trainers for his 18^th birthday. There was a certain thrill about new shoes. A small excitement was brewing inside him. The desire to run hard, to run fast, to run far. A desire to make these new shoes old shoes.

Even after all the struggle, all the sacrifice, the sport was still calling him back for more. And he accepted the invitation once again.

GO TO CHAPTER THREE

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Ben Havleck, January 2016

After a disappointing race, the worst part is the wait until the next chance at redemption. For Ben, that wait was going to be nearly three months. The money he had been saving was enough for only two meet entries this winter. Half the funds were for the PTFCA Indoor State Track and Field Championships on February 28^th. But in order to even be eligible for this race, he would first have to eclipse the 9:00.23 standard in the 3000 meter run.

He had targeted the Muhlenberg Carnival on February 12^th as the meet to chase this mark, feeling that it allowed the best competition relative to his limited resources. Currently, Ben spent a few nights and weekends working at the local Barnes & Noble bookstore to pick up extra cash for his racing expenses. His parents would have gladly donated to the cause. Their primary concern had always been the happiness and well-being of their children. But Ben did not want to be a burden. He understood why they had to move in the first place and knew money was tight.

The Havleck family, consisting of Ben, his parents Beth and Paul, and his five-year-old sister Cayley, had moved out to Bloomsburg in an attempt to cut costs and find work. Paul Havleck’s role in the technology and innovation department at Merck Laboratories had been eliminated as the company was making a push to “get younger”, improving its technological understanding and embracing the cutting edge, fast moving new generation of workers. As a result, Mr. Havleck had turned to the open market, and graciously accepted a teaching position at Bloomsburg University. With two kids, one of whom burned and refueled calories at an unthinkable rate, and college tuition prices rising, the position was doubly beneficial. As long as he was employed, both children would be able to attend Bloomsburg for free: removing a looming anxiety.

But money was still a concern. Beth had returned to work for the first time since Cayley was born and the family’s usual summer trip to Sea Isle City, New Jersey was put on hold until things were better settled. Ben felt the extra stress of funding a full racing season on top of his sister’s gymnastic classes would be an unnecessary strain on the budget. Of course convincing his parents to let him take a job without letting on his reasoning had been a bit tricky.

“Why is it that you want a job Ben?” His father said to him from the head of the dinner table as he spooned a helping of Mac and Cheese onto his plate. “You made solid money at camp last summer, didn’t you?” Ben took a sip of water before responding.

“Yeah it was fine, I’m just looking to-have a bit more that I can use when I need it …” he trailed off awkwardly. His mother took the Mac and Cheese from his sister and passed it along to Ben.

“Honey,” she said sympathetically, “this doesn’t have to do with college payments does it? I think, with time, your father and I will be able to pay for whichever school you want to-”

“It’s not about that,” he cut across her more hastily than intended, “I just-well if I go out to eat or need to go to the mall, I’d like to have some extra money to pull from.” He was paying particularly close attention to spooning food on his plate, avoiding the gaze of either parent.

“You know you can always come to us if you need something.”

“Wait Beth, I think I see what’s going on …” Snapping his head up, Ben eyed his father nervously. “You have a girlfriend, don’t you son?” There was a bit of an awkward pause. This certainly was not where Ben had seen the conversation going. “Well, when you go out on a date, you need to have some money for gas or a nice meal. That’s understandable.”

Well … no I-there’s no girl I just-” he did not know how to finish his sentence. “Um … Not yet, but maybe one day …” It was at least partially true and if it got him to where he wanted to go …

He could see his mother eager to ask a multitude of questions, but thankfully, she restrained her impulse and instead chose to smile cheerfully. “Well as long as the job doesn’t interfere with your school work … And we still want our family dinners as close to intact as possible.”

“Sure, no problem,” Ben scarfed down a few more bites of garlic bread. “I have an interview tomorrow afternoon so I figure if you guys can drop me off, I’ll bring a change of clothes and then I can just run back.”

“Didn’t you just run today? And now you’re going to run tomorrow?”

“Everyday, Mom.” He smiled and turned his attention to his salad as the conversation mercifully switched to focus on his sister.

“How was your day at school today Cay? Any exciting news like your brother?”

“Well …” Cayley tapped her nose carefully while pondering her response, “Today at recess me and Tommy Finster got married by the swing set,” she said matter-of-factly. The family laughed together at the news.

“This is so sudden Cayley, we didn’t even get to meet the guy!”

“That’s ok, I saw him picking his nose at lunch time so I divorced him.” She nibbled from her meal. “Chuckie Pickering let me share his chocolate pudding so I think I’ll prolly marry him tomorrow.” As they continued to laugh, Paul glanced sideways at his son.

“We have a few puddings left in the fridge if you want to take them with you on your date. Sounds like they get results.”

Chris Cline, September 2016

He stared across the table, staring blankly, his thoughts focused internally. “Do you ever wonder …  Am I playing the wrong game?” Chris paused, thoughtfully. “Is this what I’m really meant to do?” He stroked his chin artfully in the moment. Then he drew back his free arm and launched the Ping-Pong ball in a high arc through the air. It soared across the table before splashing gently into the lone cup on the other end. “Because seriously, I might be the next Jordan.”

“Whoo yeah, that’s game baby!” Ernie and Chris exchanged a casual low five as their opponents on the other end walked away solemnly. “How many games is that now? Like six?”

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna need to take a break.” Chris wobbled slightly as he took his first step, but steadied himself quickly before sitting down on the couch. He turned to look at the clock, his vision slightly behind his head. 11:05 PM. Ernie flopped down to his right.

“You know I really enjoyed the overdramatic, existential routine you pulled back there. Nice twist on the cocky flare you usually play with.”

Chris grinned, “I prefer to think of it as confidence.”

“Liquid confidence maybe.”

They sat briefly in silence while the music from the party filled the air. As I recall I know you love to show off … But I never thought that you would take it this far …

Ernie momentarily considered his cup. He lifted it to his lips for a moment but then, thinking better of it, lowered it again.  “So what time are we going in tomorrow?”

It was officially the last night of summer. West Chester North’s first day of classes began in less than eight hours.  Well, for most of the school anyway. West Chester’s football team had been given a special reprieve from morning classes so that they could fit in an extra film session in preparation for the opening game of the season: a match up with cross-town rival Coatesville.

“I assume we still have to be there by 7, we just won’t actually have to do any school work until after lunch.” Chris looked across the room and noticed Paul Mintz slumbering peacefully in a reclining chair. “Our only job is not falling asleep during film.”

“Which is going to be harder than a typical first day most likely …” Ernie said, stifling a yawn. He fiddled absentmindedly with his sweatshirt zipper and looked around the party, eventually catching sight of something behind Chris’s head. “And that’s my cue …” And Ernie rose to his feet and exited casually through an opening to his left.

“What are you talking-” but Chris’s confusion was alleviated when a pair of hands covered his eyes from behind and a female voice came to him in his blindness.

“Guess who?!” She said in a playful tone.

“Hey Melissa,” Chris said, half-laughing, half exasperated. She removed her hands and moved into his line of sight, sharing a passionate kiss before taking up a position beside him.

“So I was just talking to Shannon and she said that her sister thinks that ….” Chris put on his best attempt at an interested face. She had been his girlfriend for a few months now so he had learned to mentally prepare himself for gossiping and fashion discussions. “…. And I was all like, well of course I’d be happy for you, but like really if she gets it instead of me I would be, like, totally outraged because she barely even, like, knows any of our cheers or anything …”

Melissa Fredricks was head cheerleader for West Chester North’s squad and easily one of the most popular girls in school. A simple look at her Facebook page would reveal over 1,000 friends (and double that in pictures). She had spent her early high school years dating older boys, including the previous quarterback of the football team. Chris’s mother would have described her as one of the “fast” girls at North: she was doing things at a “faster pace” than a typical girl was at her age. The outfit she had decided to wear to the night’s party would have supported his mom’s theory.

“I can’t believe we have to go back to school in a couple hours. And you’re not even going to be there with me for half the day!” She hugged him as she finished her sentence.

“Yeah … it’s a bummer …” Her hug had pinned his right arm to his side, allowing for only an awkward one-armed response. “Did we ever figure out how we are getting home by the way?” Chris glanced over at the clock again. His parents were likely already concerned about his lateness.  “Can your parents still come by?”

“No, I never asked. I thought we were just getting a ride with Jacob.”

“Jacob? Are you serious?” Chris stared across the room at Jacob who was laughing hysterically at something Ernie had just said. Both had their arms around each other’s shoulders. Possibly in a display of friendship, possibly out of necessity to maintain balance. “I’m not getting in a car with him.”

“It’s fine, it’s just right around the corner-”

“No way. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your house and then I’ll-I don’t know-run home or something.” He looked again across the room, his face hardening. “It’s not that far and I’d rather make sure we get back safely.” Melissa smiled slightly. She appreciated his efforts to protect her, but also looked slightly put off about the thought of walking nearly a mile.

“Ok … But can you hold my shoes?”   

Darkness. Silence. Chris felt like it probably would have been an enjoyable experience to make this jog under normal circumstances. He could immerse himself in his thoughts, undisturbed. These days, it was rare to get a few moments alone. Of course, tonight his thoughts were dominated by concerns. Would he be in trouble for being out so late? For being at the party?

Snap. He stepped on a twig as he continued to stride along through the night, causing him to look about frantically before realizing he was still alone. His feet ached as he bounded. Boat shoes were a counterproductive choice. Sweat was slowly starting to fall from his face and collect on his upper-body. The collar of his shirt was moist to the touch. Well, at least I won’t smell like the party when I get home, he thought to himself. Another two to three minutes and he would be home before midnight, able to sneak up to bed with little suspicion. Chris took a deep, calming breath and turned onto his street.

Behind him, car lights brought the street in front of him into view. Probably just Jacob on his way home. He checked back over his shoulder, trying to make out the vehicle. No luck. As he continued on, the car pulled even with him and he could take another shot. A Subaru. Definitely not Jacob’s car. But the car was slowing down. A little farther along his path, it pulled over at the side of the road, sitting, apparently waiting for him. Oh, shoot … Please don’t be a cop, please don’t be a cop …

“Hi there,” It was a friendly voice, projecting from what appeared to be a tall, skinny man with glasses. “That’s quite the stride you have there.”

“Um … thanks,” Chris mumbled. What the f- is going on?! If he says he has candy in his car, I’m bolting …

“Have you ever considered running cross country?”

“Uh … not really …” Chris looked around as if searching for someone hiding in the bushes. The situation was so bizarre, he wanted to make sure he wasn’t being punked. “Honestly, I didn’t really want to run this far, so I can’t imagine making it across the entire country …”

“No, no” The man laughed briefly, “For the Cross Country team. We compete in distance races, about three miles long, across a variety of terrains. Against all the top schools in the area. Our team will be competing throughout the fall.”

“Oh …” Chris’s mind jumped back to the runners he and his friends had encountered at various points during the summer. To the bullying and dislike from his teammates. “I play Football in the fall so I wouldn’t be able to swing it … Um … Sorry.” He finished awkwardly.

“Well, if anything changes, feel free to let us know,” the man said happily. And with that, he drove off into the darkness, leaving Chris in silence once again.

You couldn’t catch me dead in those shorts.    

   

Ben Havleck, January 2016

It was a crisp fall day at the beginning of November: stereotypical cross country weather. A long row of boys, jumping up and down to stay warm, was confined on either side by two long seas of fans and parents. A lone man in an orange vest fiddled with his starter’s gun about halfway down an empty straightaway of grass. Ben stood alone in a box nearly dead center on the course, wearing a plain, maroon cotton t-shirt, black running shorts and a pair of white gloves. Bloomsburg did not have an official team, which meant they did not have official uniforms. While the other kids wore carefully designed racing singlets, Ben fidgeted in his gym uniform top, trying to adjust the sleeves to his liking. He knew the first straightaway narrowed quickly and was deceivingly short, making the first 200 meters a dogfight for position. He looked at his competition to either side. They seemed much taller than he was. Or at least how tall he felt.

As the gunman raised his arm, a hush fell across the crowd creating an eerie moment of silence. Ben took a deep, calming breath. Then there was a shot. Then an explosion of noise. The crowd erupted into cheers and Ben sprinted as hard as he could, struggling desperately for space. Elbows were flying. Runners were collapsing down on top of him from all sides. Beginning to panic, he stepped wrong and lost his balance. He tried frantically to steady himself. He could feel his position slipping, but he managed to not fall. He was in a decent spot. Probably about 12^th. He made to go around the first turn, but as he did so, he took an elbow to the chest and again started to wobble dangerously. Behind him, jockeying had caused another runner to extend his arms out for balance. There was a push in the back and Ben’s already fragile balance crumbled away.

From the ground, a stampede of runners were beginning to go by, like a heard of scared gazelle. He reacted the best he could: dodging and rolling through traffic, shielding his face to avoid being stabbed by shoe spikes. And now there was music playing, loud blaring music, not coming from any source in particular but sounding vaguely familiar …

I tried so hard, and got so far … but in the end , it doesn’t even matter …

Ben awoke with a start and whirled through his blankets to turn off his alarm, which was loudly trumpeting “In the End” by Linkin Park. Coming to his senses, he checked the clock as it turned from 5:45 to 5:46. He lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, the scenes from his dream still lingering in front of his eyes. He reluctantly flicked his blankets away from his body and dressed for his morning run to school.

He pulled out a pair of white gloves and his knit hat from the basket by the door. After a momentary struggle, he was able to corral most of his hair beneath its surface. He gave a quick glance at his reflection in the mirror, tied his house key into his shoe and ran off into the darkness. His light breathing and his efficient stride gave a rhythm to his morning, accented by the occasional click-clack of key meeting shoe.

Circling by the school, he checked the status of his track: still covered in snow. He was getting tired of making up workouts revolving around arbitrary distances and longed for a bit more scientific approach to training. His previous workout was five repetitions of the school perimeter with ninety seconds of slow jog recovery in between each interval. Before that, he had done an out and back run to Molino Park, running conservatively the way there and as hard as he could for the three miles it took him to return home. He was able to make these tests challenging, but the imprecise nature of their design made it impossible for him to track his progress. He knew he was improving, but he wanted to know how much.

The Muhlenberg Track Carnival was only two weeks away and, although he was confident in his fitness, his goal time was light-years ahead of his personal best from the previous winter. Without any additional data to prove otherwise, he could not fight the notion that he was being foolishly over confident.    

He ran some splits through his head as he circled back through the side neighborhoods of his high school, carefully dodging a student driver rolling straight through a stop sign. 72s per lap outdoors, 36s indoors. He jogged through the parking lot, imagining himself clicking off the marks one at a time. 36, 72, 1:48, 2:24 …

With eight miles under his belt, Ben scarfed down a bagel before transitioning to some light core work in the locker room. By the time he had showered and sidled into history class, the second bell that signaled the start of 1^st Period was fading into silence. Hastily, he pulled out his notes and flipped to a fresh page. Unlike some other classes, to which he would gladly have been late, Ben immensely enjoyed his history class. It was amazing for him to learn about all the little facts and subtle circumstances that ultimately had a gargantuan effect on the shaping of society.

Currently, they were studying the 1960 presidential election between Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy. It was an interesting example of the power of public opinion and a good first impression.

“The debates were televised and Nixon seemed nervous and uncomfortable, while Kennedy was just the opposite …” His teacher paced through the rows of attentive students, “Even if you are a hardworking, dedicated student, sometimes those who are blessed with natural gifts like confidence or charisma will still get ahead … It calls us to question what we perceive or what we want to be important and what is actually important …”

Chris Cline, October 2016

“Hey! Are those new?”

“Yeah, I just got them last night.” Chris was smiling as he stepped out of his car, flaunting a pair of jet-black running shorts. They covered less than half of his impressive quad muscles.

“Well now you’re officially a cross country runner!”

“How does it feel?”

“Honestly …” Chris fidgeted a bit with the lining in his shorts. “I’m a little cold.” He hopped up and down for a second and the trail surface grinded slightly beneath his shoes. “You guys ready to run? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at 12 …” Chris trailed off as he spoke, realizing the implications of what he had said. The mood among the runners, previously upbeat and jovial suddenly became awkward and tense.

“Finally getting your cast off?” Sam asked with a forced casualness. Chris looked down at his left hand absentmindedly. 

“Yeah … Should um … make me a bit lighter …” He purposely avoided his friends’ eyes. It might not even matter. If they lose tonight, there’s no decision. “C’mon, let’s get this run in. I’m freezing in these things.”

GO TO CHAPTER FIVE

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Chris Cline, September 2016

“Now this is where I think we can exploit the defense, Tyrell we will have you … Tyrell …. TYRELL!”

Chris kicked Ernie in the leg underneath their desks. “Hey, man what-” but he stopped when he noticed the look on his Coach’s face.

“This isn’t nap time, Tyrell.” He walked through the room until he was practically nose-to-nose with his wide receiver. “You just bought you and your teammates an extra fifteen suicides to close out practice today.” There were a few disgruntled whispers and barely audible groans, but Coach Groff ignored them. He pressed on unperturbed, “Now if we want to beat Coatesville this Friday, we can’t afford ANY mistakes,” he paused to flash another menacing look in Ernie’s direction, “As I was saying …”

“Tyrell, if you fall asleep on game day, then Coatesville’s linebacker is going to use your rib cage as a home for his pet lion.” Later that afternoon, Ernie was doing an impression of his coach to the great approval of his teammates. They were roaring with laughter as Chris approached the locker room, having just said good-bye to Melissa.

“This is what we need to do to their running backs!” In the middle of a less authentic imitation of Coach Groff, Jacob Naughton reached down and grabbed a small, frightened looking freshman by his back pack and lifted him into the air. Again, the crowd of football players laughed manically in support.

“Put him down, you idiot,” Chris remarked, exasperated as he reached his teammates. “I really don’t want to have to run any more suicides today.” Reluctantly, Jacob lowered the freshman who scampered away quickly out of sight as soon as his feet made contact with the ground. Slowly, the crowd refocused their attention on changing for practice.

“You better be careful bossing me around Cline or I’ll be picking you up next.” He was talking only to Chris, but made sure to speak loud enough that the others around him could hear.

“Maybe once you start out-repping me in the weight room, I’ll take that threat a bit more seriously.” Chris smiled and grabbed his helmet from the top of his locker. “See you out there stud.” And he smacked a flabbergasted Jacob on the behind before exiting to the practice field.     

Ben Havleck, February 2016

In gym class, the Bloomsburg students were beginning to prepare for the upcoming Spring Presidential Fitness Testing. At the end of March, each student would be testing their overall ability in a series of exercises: pull-ups, push-ups, stretching and a one-mile run. As part of the “training routine”, each class began with five minutes of jogging. Or as Ben thought, five minutes of unnecessary pounding that he couldn’t even count towards mileage. Then, the period would end with some type of fitness contest in the final few minutes. It was designed to incentivize everyone to give their best effort. A difficult thing to salvage from a high school gym class.

Today’s lesson was scheduled to end with a pull-up contest. This was ideal for someone like Ben. His ratio of strength to body weight was spectacular. Spreading out to the different pull-up bars in the room, groups of students began to take their turn in the challenge. A few students took their turns before Ben. A girl from the field hockey team did five; another boy from Ben’s Spanish class did two.

Once they had cleared, he jumped up to the bar and began to bang out reps. He wanted to carefully gauge his effort. His competitive fire drove him to make sure he posted a respectable number, but he also did not want to be seen as a try-hard gym class hero. He settled on a strong, round number in 10 and then dropped to the ground, letting the next person in line step up. Although the girl originally slated to go after him refused to be the one who followed a performance like that.

Eventually, the class reconvened at center court to discuss the results and end for the day. Ben tried his best to seem passive and disinterested, but was secretly eager to learn the outcome of the challenge. He scanned around the gym, picking out a few athletes from the other clusters who could have potentially topped his mark.

“Alright, how’s everyone feeling? Anyone’s arms burning?” There was a murmur of unenthusiastic response before Miss Cross, the class’s gym teacher, resolutely pressed on. “Now I’d like you to raise your hands if you did at least five pulls ups.” A little less than half the class raised their hands, including Ben and the girl from the field hockey team who had preceded him.  “How about six?” A few hands went down, “Seven?” Quite a bit more fell, “Excellent! Did anyone get to eight?” Now there were only four left, “Nine?” Only Ben and one other boy continued to hold their arms in the air while the other two students dropped their outstretched hands, trying to hide mildly disappointed looks behind apathetic demeanors. “Wow that’s really great you two. Excellent work. How many did you do Tyler?” She spoke to the other boy, Tyler Lloyd, who was the star shooting guard on the Bloomsburg basketball team.

“I did ten, Miss C.” he replied with a slight air of cockiness.

“Very good, and Ben?” she turned her attention to him now. He paused, slightly uncomfortable with the gaze of the class focused on him.

“I also did ten.” He looked down sheepishly at his feet as he spoke.

“Well how about that, a tie! Marvelous work, gentlemen. Now for next class I’d like-”

“Wait, we aren’t going to have a tie-breaker?” It was Tyler who spoke up. Then he added in something of a mock whisper, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I think we would all like to know if this kid can repeat his magical feat.” A couple of his friends snickered by his side.

“Well … I suppose there is no good reason not to …” Miss Cross looked slightly nervous as she spoke. Clearly, she had also been wondering if Ben’s result was artificial and did not want to risk embarrassing him in front of the group at large by asking him to try again. But amidst the turmoil, Ben found himself suddenly confident.

“Sure, I’ll do it.” He stepped forward to the front of the crowd, smiling at Tyler as he spoke. It was as though this slight on his strength had awoken a slumbering beast within him. There was a slight twinge of anger, but the predominant emotion was excitement. At first, Tyler looked somewhat taken aback by the sudden surge of confidence from his opposition, but he swiftly distorted his face into a smug expression of self-assurance.

Walking up to stand beside Ben, he said, “Ladies first” and playfully bowed, extending his arms and gesturing towards the closest pull-up bar. Joking or not, it was a smart decision: going second was a decisive advantage. The first to grip the bar was competing against himself, but the second was competing against a concrete, objective standard. The same reasoning applied to running. It’s easier to lead then to follow.

But Ben did not have the natural closing speed to wait around and let others lead. He had to take hold of a race and win by crushing the spirit of his opponent. Before Tyler could find out the number he had to surpass, he would need to have already given up.

Ben hoisted himself onto the bar. The plan was to go quickly, confidently and smoothly. He sped rapidly through the first five, then through five more, all while trying to relax his body. He wanted it to appear as though his pull-ups were as effortless to him as standing there watching was to the crowd of his peers. Whispers of surprised admiration were beginning to grow behind his back, urging him on, fueling his adrenaline. As he approached 20, Ben could feel his muscles starting to fatigue and his body began to breakdown. Finally, he accepted that he was running out of gas. With concerted focus, he clung to proper form just enough so that only he knew how drained he really was.

 He banged out the 25^th rep as aggressively as possible and then dropped as casually as he could manage to the ground. Collecting his thoughts and calming his face, he turned for the first time to see a mixture of shock and awe from his classmates. He smiled and, although it was quite painful, mimicked Tyler’s earlier bow while gesturing at the bar. There were a few chuckles from the crowd, but none came from Tyler. His previously smug grin had been replaced by an ugly mixture of shock and anger. He took a tentative half step towards the bar, before pausing and then relenting.

Clearly frazzled and desperate, Tyler reached down for some shred of remaining arrogance and retorted weakly, “Yeah well … I could do all those pull ups too if I weighed sixty pounds.” And he trudged off into the locker room.

“To be fair your mass and height do likely give you a substantial advantage in body weight exercises.” P.J. and Ben were at their usual lunchroom table in the cafeteria. He had overheard of Ben’s triumph in the prior period’s Chemistry class. News was traveling quickly.

“Well maybe if he spent a bit less time doing bicep curls while staring at himself in the mirror …” Ben’s arms were aching from his efforts and the lactic acid build-up was making it hard to eat his lunch. Of course, he viewed it as a more than worthwhile sacrifice in exchange for the pride of sticking it to a schoolyard bully. He bit down into his apple and tried to avoid spraying juice all over himself. A group of girls from the basketball team was sitting across the room and he could have sworn he noticed one point at him briefly in the middle of the conversation, causing her friends to turn and stare as well.

Ben focused his attention deliberately on his fruit, trying to escape the sensation that he was being watched. He opted for a change in subject. “Did you hear they’re making another Transformers movie?”

“I did notice that. They showed a trailer last night on the Discovery channel.” The two began to pack up their things as lunchroom dismissal was beginning. “What did you think of the first films?”

“Eh, they were just really … loud. Too intense for me. I tend to leave Michael Bay movies feeling like I just got into a boxing match at a Linkin Park concert. Think I’ll withdraw from Round Two.” They funneled themselves into the mass exodus of bodies from the cafeteria. The narrow stretch of hallway usually caused a post-lunch traffic jam.

“I think writing those scripts has to be difficult. I mean, how are tiny humans supposed to have any sort of realistic impact in a battle between gigantic, super-powered monsters?”  Before Ben could respond, three hulking figures forced their way through the crowd, pushing P.J. aside into a group of freshmen as they went.

“Talking about us, Havleck? Although ‘super powered’ may not be a strong enough verb to describe how we operate.” It was Tyler Lloyd, flanked by two of his cronies from the basketball team.

“I think you may mean ‘adjective’. ‘Super powered’ is a descriptive word which-”

“Oh I’m sorry, nerd,” Tyler reached over and plucked the pencil from behind P.J.’s ear. He snapped it cleanly in half and casually tossed it over his shoulder. “How about ‘destroyed’, want to give a lesson on what part of speech that is?” His cronies laughed harshly. P.J. muttered something about it all depending on context while staring blankly at the floor, avoiding the groups gaze.

Ben stepped in between them. The hallways were starting to clear as the crowd around them evaporated. “Hey why don’t you guys back off?”

“Why don’t you guys back off,” the taller of Tyler’s two friends mimicked him shrewdly while the other laughed.

“Feeling like quite the tough guy after today, huh?” Tyler smiled maliciously. “Well don’t get too comfortable, pull-ups ain’t gonna help you in a real fight.” The hallway was empty now and the second bell for class was likely to ring at any moment. Tyler started menacingly at Ben, who stared back, unwavering.

“I saw you’re true colors today, Ty. You’re not so tough yourself, you’ll quit as soon as things get a little uncomfortable. Looks like you’re more afraid of me than I’ll ever be of you.”

“Sounds like Mr. Big Shot needs a little reminder of how things work around here.” His friends on either side cracked their fingers aggressively and moved to surround Ben and P.J., the latter of which was slowly cowering further and further into the wall behind him.

“Hey!” There was a yell from down the hall and a teacher came running down the hall. It was Ben’s history teacher, Mr. Cook. “What do you think you’re doing? Get to class! All of you! Or I’ll be writing detentions for next week!” The group scattered to their respective hallways, P.J. positively sprinting straight ahead while the heavier of Tyler’s thugs brought his thumb threateningly across his neck. Ben ignored it and coolly turned the corner for class. This isn’t over, is it? He thought to himself. And with a groan, he turned the handle and opened the door to 5^th period English.

After a fantastically ordinary afternoon, Ben slugged his way into Math class to close out the day. His arms were still bothering him and the weight of carrying an afternoon’s set of books was not easing his pain. He dropped into his usual seat and slipped off his bag, halfheartedly preparing for class. As he absentmindedly massaged his left shoulder muscle, a voice next to him snapped him back to reality.

“Still sore?” she said playfully. Ben quickly tried to think up a clever response, but his mind was blank. He settled on a noise that ended up being part-laugh, part-grunt of affirmation. Very smooth, he thought to himself. But Nicole seemed unphased and continued as if it was normal for a teenage boy to make the same sound as a dying animal. “Tyler has always been a little too cocky for his own good. It’s nice to know someone was able to put him in his place.” She flashed a beautiful toothy smile. “I’m just upset I wasn’t there to see his face when it happened.”

Ben laughed. Although it sounded nothing like his normal laugh. “Well-you know-we were just doing some pull-ups … I’m sure in the grand scheme of things he-” As he gestured with his hands, he knocked his pencil off the table. Frantically, he reached down to get it and, in his haste, nearly slipped out of his chair onto the floor. He emerged back to visibility red in the face. In an attempt to save an ounce of dignity, he responded, “I guess I have a talent for pull-ups.”

“Yeah it sounds like it. Did you really do 25? What are you some type of gymnast or something?”

“No actually, I’m a distance runner.”

Looking puzzled, she opened her mouth to respond but instead was interrupted by the second bell and the arrival of their teacher at the front of the classroom. She gave him another small grin and then returned her focus to the lesson: a lecture on the “chain rule”. Ben took careless notes for the rest of the class, the highlight being when he wrote the derivative of sin(x) was equal to “Nicole”.

Well, today could have been much worse, he reflected on the afternoon’s events while jogging to work. I could have been punched in the face by Tyler Lloyd.

On second thought; I think I might take a shot to the nose if it meant I could sit in a chair without falling …

Jimmy Springer, September 2013

“3:01 … 3:02 … 3:03 …”

“What the heck, Springer?” he spat between gasps for breath.

“I knew you were an idiot, but I didn’t think you were deaf, too.”

“Don’t be bitter because you can’t hang at five minute pace …”

“Oh wow Glenn, I thought Coach was the only one on Boy Wonder’s d-”

“C’mon let’s jog, we don’t have a lot of recovery left,” Glenn cut across his teammate as the group began a labored jog back towards the opposite end of the track. Jimmy trotted along in awkward silence. He had yet to say a word all practice.

High School is a unique time. It's a mix of 18 year old, legal man-children and 14-year-old barely teenage boys who are still fascinated by facial hair. Most of the time these entities are separated by the boundaries of grade level, but on the cross country team there was no such distinction. When you get on the course, it’s one race and the fastest man wins. No matter what your birth certificate says.

“It's about how big they are, not how much hair you got on ‘em” Glenn Fisher said in between breathes as he and his younger teammate slowly jogged around lane 6 of the track. Jimmy managed to squeeze a laugh in between his panting. “We are a good team. You make us better. Anyone who can’t accept that should get out of the way.” They reached the 200 start line and stopped, turning to wait for a trio of other runners. None of whom looked particularly happy.

“30 more seconds boys.” Coach Ames was checking his watch, looking up at the incoming stragglers. The newcomers reluctantly lined up alongside Glenn and Jimmy. “Not you, Springer,” Coach Ames pulled back his freshman stand out by the back of his t-shirt. One of the older runners looked back and smirked. Jimmy looked sullen.

“Coach I'm fine, just let me-” He tried to argue, but Ames cut across him.

“3 ... 2 ... 1 ... Hit it boys!” The quartet set off without their youngest member, leaving coach and athlete alone in tense silence. Once the runners rounded the first curve, clearing themselves from earshot, Coach Ames turned to Jimmy and gave him an understanding look. Speaking softly he said, “Jimmy, has anybody ever told you running is 90% mental?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“Well that's a myth. It’s something people who aren’t particularly talented made up so that they will believe they can beat somebody they really can’t. People who say that are either overly optimistic dreamers or untrustworthy liars.”

“But ... You told me that Coach,” Jimmy responded sheepishly. To his surprise, his Coach smiled widely.

“So which one do you think I am?” He left Jimmy blinking and confused as he shouted a lap split to the passing runners. Then he turned back to his youngest pupil. “So?”

“Um ... the dreamer?” He mumbled awkwardly. “I -well I don't think you’re a lair ...”

“So have a little faith in the plan Jimmy! You can trust me. I've got big optimistic dreams for your future.”

Jimmy rode his bike down the street, moving slowly from heavy legs. The day’s workout was beginning to set in and he was beginning to regret not taking Fisher’s stretching speech more seriously. The sun had already disappeared from the sky before he changed course to circle back toward his home.

He pedaled casually, alternating between the left and right side of the empty road. It was blissful. Alone with his thoughts, enjoying the peaceful silence. He continued down a side street, passing a dog chained to a tree. A man smoking a cigar. A teenager getting out of his car.

“Jimmy! Hey, Jimmy!” The yelling broke his serenity. He let out a deep sigh as he rotated his bike and hit the breaks. He knew the voice and he did not have much interest in talking to the man it belonged to.

“Hey Matt, what’s going on,” he said emotionlessly as the teenager approached him. The boy strode cautiously yet determinedly forward, making a concerted effort not to look away from Jimmy's eyes.

“Hey ... Um ... What are you doing out this late? Extra cross training?” Matt said awkwardly.

“No, I needed to get out of the house. My parents were fighting and I ...” He didn't feel the need to continue. He had already shared much more than he would have liked.

“Look,” Matt pressed on determinedly, disregarding the complaint. “I'm sorry about the way I’ve been acting toward you. I didn't mean to be such a jerk ... I just ... Well I don't like to get beat ... Especially to a freshman ...” He was rambling a bit, but Jimmy could tell his intentions were genuine. “But that's my issue not yours. We need you.” He finished confidently.

“Um-thanks. It’s not a big deal, really. I’m sure if it was the other way-”

“No, it is a big deal.” He reaffirmed. “I don’t want you blaming yourself for something that’s not your fault.” Together they stood in near silence, the sound of a barking dog the only reminder of their location. “We’re going to have a little party at my house for the Eagles game next week. You should come by. All the guys will be there. It can give you a chance to get to know everybody a little better.”

Jimmy gave his teammate a searching look. Am I ready to be friendly with this guy?

“Um … I’ll try to come. Assuming I don’t have too much work.”

Matt smiled and took the non-committal response in stride. “Alright, great!”

“Cool, I’ll talk to you then. I gotta get back home or my parents will freak.” And Jimmy turned his bike to pedal home, his legs a bit lighter than they had been moments before.           

Mark Miller, September 2016

Mark ran briskly through the meadow as a pair of butterflies flew carelessly across his face. It was an easy and relaxed amble. He almost felt like he was floating. Then, he was floating. Drifting upward towards the small, brick house that sat atop the hill. Gracefully, he landed among the clouds. A petite, pretty woman with long brown hair was standing by the door, apparently waiting for him. She smiled at him as he approached.

“You didn’t have to wait for me, Emma” he said, returning her radiant beam.

“It’s quite alright,” she replied, speaking with a delightful accent, “I’m finishing my book on Lancaster history. I checked it out weeks ago for a bit of light reading.” But her voice was trailing off, her image starting to blur. And someone was shaking him violently …

“Hermione?” Mark mumbled staring up at his trespasser from his position on the bed. Slowly regaining awareness of his surroundings, he noticed Jayson’s face a few feet away.

“You still down to do a long run today?”

Mark sat up to look out the window. It was almost completely dark outside. “What time is it?”

“It’s a little before six,” Jayson replied, turning to grab a pair of socks from a chest of drawers. “I wanna get this done before it gets too hot out.” Mark noticed his brother was already dressed in full running attire, including his sneakers and a bulky GPS watch.

“Seriously? Can’t we sleep in and then complain about how we should have got up early because it’s so effing hot out. You know, like a normal person.” A pair of socks hit him in the face.

“C’mon, show some hustle,” Jayson continued to throw clothes to his brother, “The sooner we start, the sooner we are done.”

“I’m going, I’m going” Mark threw his shirt on inside out and complimented the look by putting his shorts on backwards. “But just know: I gave up being married to Emma Watson for this.”

“Well then …” Jayson put his arm around his younger brother as he finished putting on his last sock. “You really need to sort out your priorities.”

Together the Millers ran along the side of the road, traversing their five-mile neighborhood loop for a second time. Today, Jayson would be going for fifteen miles while Mark would join him for the first ten. By this point, Mark’s body had finally woken up, his muscles feeling loose and warm. Too warm in fact. A drop of sweat fell from the tip of his nose. Dang it, Jayson was right. I hate it when he’s right.

The pace was still manageable, but as the duo had gained momentum, things had quickened. Once Mark finished, Jayson would likely drop the hammer for the final circle. Together they worked their way up a large hill to the east of their house, climbing towards a small park through which they would detour. Each brother daydreamed silently to himself, visions of glory dancing through each imagination. Mark was on Hershey’s final hill, distancing fictional competition and turning to face an invisible finish line at the end of the straightaway. The rush of adrenaline flooded to his lungs, causing him to increase the pace slightly alongside his brother, who matched the move. Wordlessly, they consented to a quicker effort, cruising through a gradual downhill and turning back to the main road. Here, the simple, mindless grind was interrupted.

“Hey Sam, what time is it?”

“I’m not helping you with this stupid joke.”

“That’s right … it’s Miller time!”

Sam Berkow and Ian McPearson were running towards them on the opposite side of the street. They crossed over and greeted their teammates, reversing course so that the running group doubled in size.

“Nailed it, Ian,” Mark said with a smile as they pressed on. He noticed that he and Jayson’s pace had definitely been quicker than the modified speed that they had now taken on. “What happened, I thought you didn’t run on Sundays?”

“He found out I’ve been running on Sundays,” Sam said, looking back over his shoulder. He and Jayson were leading Mark and Ian in a two by two box. “How far along are you?”

Jayson looked down at his watch for the time. “Probably pretty close to nine. How about you guys?”

“Maybe like …” Sam looked down at his watch, pausing as if he was doing some mental math, “Half a mile?” The Millers laughed.

“Well Mark is going to drop off once we circle back by our house and I’ll have a few more to get through if you want to join?”

Pacing along the street, the group continued to sweat through the heat.

“It’s brutal out, huh?” Ian complained, “We should have woke up earlier.”

Mark flashed his brother a pointed look. Striking up simple conversation kept his final mile entertaining before he reached his front yard and rolled casually to a stop. To everyone’s surprise, Ian stopped with him, already laboring despite the short distance covered.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” he said as Sam and Jayson turned to check his progress.

“You ok?”

“Yeah … just probably ate too much cereal or something,” He waved them away half-heartedly. … “Just keep going. I’ll see you back in our neighborhood.” After sparing one last confused glance, the two seniors trekked on, picking up their conversation where it had previously terminated.

Mark eyed Ian apprehensively as he sat down on the grass. “I hope you don’t think I’m gonna let you destroy my bath-”

“Calm down, dude, I’m fine.” Ian joined him on the ground, suddenly looking incredibly excited. He looked quickly around him before continuing. “I went to Siedel’s party last night.”

Mark raised his eyebrows and copied Ian’s caution by checking the surroundings. Jayson and Sam were nearly out of view. “How was it?”

“Dude, it was great,” He smiled widely, “It was amazing. One second everything is awkward and then all of a sudden, we were all best friends!”

“Alright, well there’s no need to shout,” Mark replied in a hushed tone, checking his neighbors’ yards carefully.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ian dropped his voice as well. “But Mark, you gotta come with me. The next one’s in two weeks when his mom goes out of town again.”

“I don’t know … it seems a bit risky doesn’t it? I mean if we get caught, the school will kick us off the team.”

“Don’t worry about that, he’s super chill with all the neighbors and stuff. Unless somebody narks on us, it’s like impossible to get busted.”

“To be fair you said the same thing about sneaking into an ‘R’ rated movie.” Mark stood up and brushed some stray blades of grass from his body. “Anyone else we know who was there?”

“Mostly seniors honestly, but there were a couple people I recognized. That kid Bryan from French class, that thrower named Max, the one girl from our Bio class who sits in the front row and-”

“Wait, the girl?”

Ian hopped up off the ground. “Yeah man. Tons of girls. Apparently we’ve hit the age where we hang out together.” He walked gleefully to Mark’s side and threw his arm around his shoulder. “If you come with me next time, we can wingman for each other! I’m very smooth with the ladies …” He stretched out his free hand as if he was running it across an invisible, flat surface.

“Well now I’m sold,” Mark said sarcastically, pulling himself out from under his friend’s arm. “Coming from the guy whose first kiss was with his cousin …”

“We’re step-second cousins; we’re not even related by blood-”

“Regardless, count me out on this one, stud.” He walked towards his front door, “And hey, enjoy the rest of your run.”

“What …” Ian looked confused for a brief moment and then realization dawned on him. “Oh crap.”

GO TO CHAPTER SEVEN