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 Three

Chapter Three

Ben Havleck, November 1^st 2016

“Next stop Hershey, Pennsylvania.” The announcement was barely decipherable over the bus speakers. But it didn’t matter. The bus was essentially empty and the only noise Ben could hear was the music coming from his headphones. Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll be there … With open arms and open eyes yeaah . As the bus rolled into motion again, Ben stared out of his window, letting his mind wander. Alone with his thoughts.

No one likes being lonely, but Ben was at least used to being lonely. He spent hours a day running by himself, but that did not mean he liked it. After his sophomore year, Ben’s family moved from Downingtown, in the suburbs outside Philadelphia, to Bloomsburg Area, upending the fragile dynamic of his teenage social life. He was naturally shy and often uncomfortable around those he did not know. For that reason, some of his old teammates had nicknamed him Peanut because “you had to crack the shell to discover the nut that lies within”.

However, the nickname probably stuck so well because Ben stood a modest five foot five, had carried little to no muscle and his mounds of curly black hair probably accounted for the majority of his body weight. This body type now stood out against the backdrop of strong, rugged Bloomsburg men.

So it was not particularly surprising that, through his first semester of school, Ben struggled to fit in. He had eaten many of his lunches alone, determinedly looking down at a notebook filled with splits and workout logs attempting to project that his solidarity was a choice rather than a necessity. He was also slowly losing touch with his friends from his previous home, the connection between them sustained only by his out of date cell phone’s texting capabilities. And, perhaps worst of all, Bloomsburg Area High School did not have a cross country or track and field program.

Of course, that did not stop Ben. After meeting with the Athletic Director, he managed to negotiate club status at the school, meaning this “team” would have zero dollars in funding, but could still participate in the Pennsylvania Athletic League events, including the District and State Championships. In the fall of his junior year, Ben competed at one local invitational, funded by the money from his 17^th Birthday and then the Class AA District Four Championships, where he placed 2^nd and qualified for the State Championships. His experience at these championships would come to shape the rest of his high school career.

But that wasn’t the memory he wanted to clutter his mind. Especially now.

Mark Miller, May 2016

“Come on Miller, let’s go we’re gonna be late!” A tan Honda Pilot was parked outside the Miller residence. Two boys sat in the car, listening to music, while a third scrambled wildly at the front door. After a moments struggle, Mark came sprinting down the lawn, wearing one sandal and holding the other in his hand. He pulled open the back seat of the car, tossed his drawstring bag across the seat and flung himself inside. “Sorry, I couldn’t find my watch. You guys didn’t bring running shoes did you?”

“Heck no, I haven’t run since leagues. You have to take advantage of the benefits of being slow.” Mark’s teammate, Ian McPearson, had placed 7^th in the 3200 meters at the Lancaster-Lebanon League Championship’s but missed the district qualifying standard by one second. “Can you drive a little faster Tom? We’re gonna be late.”

“Calm down dude, I’ve gotta be careful. This is my mom’s car.” The driver was Thomas Winslow, another member of Manheim’s Track and Field team. All three runners had just completed their sophomore season on the oval.

“Well you’re driving like her so I guess that makes sense … I still don’t get why I couldn’t drive.”

“Because Tom doesn’t drive straight through the center of a traffic circle,” Mark piped in from the back seat. “Yo, turn this song up.”

… Word on road is the clique about to blow, you ain’t gotta run and tell nobody they already know …

“This is sick, all Jayson ever plays in the car is country music …”

“You know I always keep the Drizzy loaded in the car, homie.” Tom and Mark shared a momentary fist bump.

“I don’t know how you two listen to this crap. Just another reason I should have driven.”

“Sorry Ian, but nobody wants to listen to ‘Bleed it Out’ on repeat.”

“Guys, seriously, I can’t race unless I listen to Bleed it Out first” Tom made his best effort to mimic Ian’ s voice while Mark laughed.

It was fantastic weather at Shippensburg. The clouds slightly obscured the morning sun. The air was almost perfectly still with the exception of an occasional cool breeze, gratefully accepted by the trio of sophomores exiting the parking lot. Even from a distance, Mark could see the bleachers were packed with family, friends and athletes.

“So I guess this meet is like a big deal or something?” Mark chuckled as Ian stepped to his left hip. He too was staring ahead at the stadium.

“It’s 9:25 now, so the small school boys are probably just about to start up. Probably got like 10 minutes until large schools.” Tom clicked the lock for his car and led the march to the entrance. At the gate, Mark and Ian chipped in for Tom’s ticket and, after their hands were stamped, they trekked around the outside of the track. The small school race was well underway, with a short, black haired boy leading the charge. A few runners were hobbling slowly off the back of the pack, unable to handle the pace.

“How fast you think those guys are running?” Ian asked Mark as they passed. “We could totally beat some of these kids if we were in this classification. What a joke.”

“ONE LAP TO GO! Havleck, Griffin, McKenzie!” The announcement came booming over the P.A. system as the front pack of runners surged by. Mark paused at the fence to watch. The curly haired boy at the front was straining to keep his lead. At the 200 meter mark on the far side, suddenly the runners in 2^nd and 3^rd sprang into action. They launched into an all out sprint, leaving the initial leader fighting through quicksand to keep pace. “It’s going to be McKenzie in 9:17! 62 seconds for the last 400 meters.”

“Wow! That was pretty fast!” Tom said as they climbed up the steps, looking for an open seat in the crowded stands. The others murmured their agreement. They walked to nearly the top of the stadium before sliding in next to another group of student-age spectators. “Aren’t your parents here somewhere, Mark?”

“Yeah, they got here way earlier. Didn’t want to be cutting it close.” He perused the section to his lower left. “I thought they said they were sitting with Lauren in the middle of the straight-”

“Wait Lauren’s here?” Tom and Ian started frantically scanning the crowd in all directions. Mark smirked, shaking his head in amused frustration. Lauren Johnson was his brother’s girlfriend and, more importantly to Mark’s friends, was very good looking.

“Dude I found her.”

“Where?”

“Right there man.” Tom looked in the direction Ian was pointing. Lauren was standing with her long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing athletic clothing displaying the Manheim Township insignia. She was talking to an older woman whose nose resembled Mark’s, but had blonde hair to match Jayson’s.

“So Mark, is everything still going well with her and your brother? Or like … is she looking for a better looking, more distinguished academic type?” Tom flexed dramatically to underscore his point. Mark stared back, eye brows raised.

“Alright I take it everything’s good, then.”  He paused as they announced the last call for the large school boys’ race. “How ‘bout your mom is everything going well with her and your dad? Or like … is she looking for a better looking, more d-”

Mark punched him hard in the arm.

Now 9:45, they began to line up the competitors for the Boys Large School 3200 Meter State Championships. The 3200 (the approximate metric equivalent for Two Miles) was an eight-lap race around the track, the longest event the PAL offered at the State Meet.  The field consisted of eighteen runners, including five from District Three, the region of the state in which Manheim Township resided. Mark recognized a few familiar faces on the starting line, including, most obviously, his brother Jayson Miller.

Jayson had won the District Three Championships a week earlier on this same track with a winning mark of 9 minutes and 7.34 seconds. His margin of victory was nearly 50 yards, most of that coming over the last lap when he really decided to put the hammer down. Here at Shippensburg, Jayson was hoping to become Manheim’s first state champion in program history. But one man stood firmly in his way.

“So which one’s Springer?” Ian asked as the runners took their marks, anticipating the gun.  Mark scanned quickly before spotting a tall figure with an orange singlet and dark blue shorts.

“That one.” As if on cue, the gun sounded and Springer sprinted forth, clearing the crowded field and taking up the lead. It was a beautiful, graceful stride, effortlessly gliding to the front. Jayson followed him, running tall and powerful, a look of determination and focus engraved on his face.

Jimmy Springer, May 2015

He sat on the edge of the bed. Outside he could hear the laughter and joy of the other athletes on the lawn. It must be nice, he thought to himself. His face became warm once again. If the tears came with another surge, he may not be able to fight them off. Blinking furiously, a few drops slipped through his defenses and splattered the sheets beneath him. It wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be the moment that would make everything right. When everyone would be happy again.

A knock came at the door and startled the boy on the bed. The palm of his hand wiped his face before turning its attention to twist a knob. Standing in the entranceway was a shorter man with glasses and wild, messy brown hair. He smiled, holding up a stack of papers. “I thought we should discuss some strategy for tomorrow.”

Jimmy Springer and Coach David Ames entered the stadium at Shippensburg early the next morning. It was already packed with reporters, fans and parents, but Jimmy wasn’t too concerned about the pressure or the “bright lights”. He had already succeeded on the big stage.

He watched the other runners as they walked in. Some looked nervous, others overwhelmed by the fans, the stadium, or the atmosphere. Springer had long passed that stage. He had even passed the sadness he felt the previous night. Now he was simply angry. If no one cared about him anymore, he would make them care. He would make history.

Together he and Coach Ames sat quietly, almost awkwardly, as time slowly ticked down. Eventually, Springer rose to his feet, throwing his jersey around his neck like a cape and grabbing his spikes. Coach Ames rose as well.

“Remember Jimmy-10 minutes is full recovery.”

The 3200 was first. He jogged carefully onto the infield, stone-faced, trying to project an air of invincibility to those around him. Stretching. Drills. Strides. All in silence and seriousness. As they lined up the competitors for the event, someone stuck out his hand.

“Good luck James” It struck him the wrong way. James. Something burned slightly within him, his eyes briefly stinging.

“My name is Jimmy” And he ignored the outstretched arm of the blonde haired boy so that he could turn his face from him. They took seeds one through six and walked them up to the top of the waterfall, pulling Jimmy and a few other athletes away from the majority of the field. He took a deep breath to calm himself, wiping a trail of sweat from underneath his eye. Or at least he pretended it was sweat.

“Runners to your marks …” He took a long step forward to the line. “Get set …” A slight look to his right revealed five nervous faces. A quiet confidence emerged inside of him. BANG! The crowd erupted and Jimmy sprinted coolly through traffic to take up a spot at the front. Around him, the field fought for position, but subconsciously everyone was defaulting to Jimmy.

There was no doubt the first 200 meters was fast. Maybe a 29 second bend. They are scared now, he thought to himself. Casually and easily, he took his foot off the gas.

Coach Ames was waiting for him near the 300 meter mark as planned. He didn’t open his mouth, instead giving a simple nod. Springer glided along at the front. The first 400 would still appear quick, but really they had gone down from four minute pace to five. He knew it. If the others do, they sure aren’t acting like it.

No one so much as challenged him down around the back stretch. Or by Coach Ames. Or again into the straightaway. The clock read 2:23 and the reality etched clearly for all to see, spelling out the dramatic change from meet record pace to state qualifying pace, kick-started the field.

Panic was setting in from all sides. Coaches were screaming for athletes to pick it up. Frantic jostling and positioning recommenced within the pack. Yet Springer was clear of it all at the front, just as planned. He had wasted no energy and stayed out of traffic.  As they made their way into the backstretch for a third time, a few runners came swinging wide. Scott Zarniack, the WPIAL champion at 3200, surged wildly to the front, pulling Owen Ward of Coatesville to his shoulder. The blistering early pace had resumed. Runner after runner seemed to be flying by on Jimmy’s outside. He was in 5^th. Then 8^th. But every time he passed the 300 mark, his coach spoke the same barely audible word: “Wait”.

Jimmy was keeping an eye on his 400 splits as he came through. He had dipped his pace evenly down over the next three laps, while the runners at the front had burned themselves out going from 76 down to 66, most already slowing back down. Just as easily as he had been passed, Springer floated back towards the front. Every runner he overtook sent a new burst of energy through his body. The adrenaline of his race was empowering, wiping clean the pain of his daily life and replacing it with the ecstasy of competition and the thrill of impending victory.

He was right on the shoulder of the leaders again, closing in on 900 meters to go.

“GO NOW JIMMY! IT’S TIME TO GO! PUSH!” For the first time, Coach Ames was positively shouting, a far cry from his silent, stoic demeanor he had maintained in the race’s early stages. Springer responded, pressing for a brief moment and breaking loose of the field with an impressive surge. A pair of Coatesville runners, Sean Williams and Owen Ward, were his only real competitors now. He could hear their strained breathing. A slight wheezing was coming from Williams. Ward’s arms were beginning to flail. But their spirit was perhaps more broken than their actual bodies.

Jimmy held the lead around the turn of the penultimate lap. I can’t believe it, he thought to himself. They bought it. He smiled to himself as he effortlessly loped down the back straightaway, Williams and Ward running doggedly in his wake. However, slowly the lead group of three was increasing in size. The chasers were making a bid to join them. Williams looked wildly over his shoulder, confused by the turn of events.

Springer’s initial burst. Ames’s wild cheering. It was all a ruse. Jimmy hadn’t gone to the front to start his kick, he’d gone there to delay it. Slowing the pace back down fit perfectly into his plans: save as much energy as possible while simultaneously guaranteeing a true kicker’s finish. Stunned by the ever increasing pack, Williams desperately surged his way to the front, going back ahead of Springer to hold the lead into the bell. Jimmy held his ground, stepping slightly sideways to avoid becoming boxed in on the inside rail. Now they were sprinting in earnest along the far straightaway, but he knew he still had gears left in reserve.

The roar of the crowd was growing as the runners rounded their final turn. Jimmy tried to remain patient, but he could feel sprinters closing in on both his inside and outside. And Williams was slowing. His push from home had come too furiously and too soon.

“GO JIMMY, YOU GOTTA GO NOW!” This time Ames’s screaming was authentic. Seizing the moment, Jimmy flipped on his switch. Slingshotting himself off the turn, Springer came flying into the straightaway, a slight breeze brushing across his face, wind whipping gently through his hair. He tried to remain smooth, to keep his face calm. 75 meters. 50 meters. 25 meters. He chanced a look to his outside. There was no one. He chanced another to his inside. All clear. The emotion of the moment hit.

With a dramatic fist pump and a scream of triumph, Jimmy Springer won the state championship at 3200 meters.

GO TO CHAPTER FOUR

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Mark Miller, November 1^st 2016

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy Springer, May 2015

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mark Miller, August 2016   

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

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

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

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

“My sister’s like 13 years old, man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok, say hi to your sister for me.”

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

“Not your best work, Ian.”

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

“Define ready.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m telling you, I can do it.”

“No way, it’s impossible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Ian’s PR!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy Springer, Cont.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bang!  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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